Re: Достоевский Ф. М. - Преступление и наказание в переводе на английский

"But who are you? what prophet are you? From the height of what
majestic calm do you proclaim these words of wisdom?"
  "Who am I? I am a man with nothing to hope for, that's all. A man
perhaps of feeling and sympathy, maybe of some knowledge too, but my
day is over. But you are a different matter, there is life waiting for
you. Though who knows, maybe your life, too, will pass off in smoke
and come to nothing. Come, what does it matter, that you will pass
into another class of men? It's not comfort you regret, with your
heart! What of it that perhaps no one will see you for so long? It's
not time, but yourself that will decide that. Be the sun and all
will see you. The sun has before all to be the sun. Why are you
smiling again? At my being such a Schiller? I bet you're imagining
that I am trying to get round you by flattery. Well, perhaps I am,
he-he-he! Perhaps you'd better not believe my word, perhaps you'd
better never believe it altogether,- I'm made that way, I confess
it. But let me add, you can judge for yourself, I think, how far I
am a base sort of man and how far I am honest."
  "When do you mean to arrest me?"
  "Well, I can let you walk about another day or two. Think it over,
my dear fellow, and pray to God. It's more in your interest, believe
  "And what if I run away?" asked Raskolnikov with a strange smile.
  "No, you won't run away. A peasant would run away, a fashionable
dissenter would run away, the flunkey of another man's thought, for
you've only to show him the end of your little finger and he'll be
ready to believe in anything for the rest of his life. But you've
ceased to believe in your theory already, what will you run away with?
And what would you do in hiding? It would be hateful and difficult for
you, and what you need more than anything in life is a definite
position, an atmosphere to suit you. And what sort of atmosphere would
you have? If you ran away, you'd come back to yourself. You can't
get on without us. And if I put you in prison,- say you've been
there a month, or two, or three- remember my word, you'll confess of
yourself and perhaps to your own surprise. You won't know an hour
beforehand that you are coming with a confession. I am convinced
that you will decide, 'to take your suffering.' You don't believe my
words now, but you'll come to it of yourself. For suffering, Rodion
Romanovitch, is a great thing. Never mind my having grown fat, I
know all the same. Don't laugh at it, there's an idea in suffering,
Nokolay is right. No, you won't run away, Rodion Romanovitch."
  Raskolnikov got up and took his cap. Porfiry Petrovitch also rose.
  "Are you going for a walk? The evening will be fine, if only we
don't have a storm. Though it would be a good thing to freshen the
  He too took his cap.
  "Porfiry Petrovitch, please don't take up the notion that I have
confessed to you to-day," Raskolnikov pronounced with sullen
insistence. "You're a strange man and I have listened to you from
simple curiosity. But I have admitted nothing, remember that!"
  "Oh, I know that, I'll remember. Look at him, he's trembling!
Don't be uneasy, my dear fellow, have it your own way. Walk about a
bit, you won't be able to walk too far. If anything happens, I have
one request to make of you," he added, dropping his voice. "It's an
awkward one, but important. If anything were to happen (though
indeed I don't believe in it and think you quite incapable of it), yet
in case you were taken during these forty or fifty hours with the
notion of putting an end to the business in some other way, in some
fantastic fashion- laying hands on yourself- (it's an absurd
proposition, but you must forgive me for it) do leave a brief but
precise note, only two lines and mention the stone. It will be more
generous. Come, till we meet! Good thoughts and sound decisions to
  Porfiry went out, stooping and avoiding looking at Raskolnikov.
The latter went to the window and waited with irritable impatience
till he calculated that Porfiry had reached the street and moved away.
Then he too went hurriedly out of the room.

                            Chapter Three
  HE HURRIED to Svidrigailov's. What he had to hope from that man he
did not know. But that man had some hidden power over him. Having once
recognised this, he could not rest, and now the time had come.
  On the way, one question particularly worried him: had
Svidrigailov been to Porfiry's?
  As far as he could judge, he would swear to it, that he had not.
He pondered again and again, went over Porfiry's visit; no, he
hadn't been, of course he hadn't.
  But if he had not been yet, would he go? Meanwhile, for the
present he fancied he couldn't. Why? He could not have explained,
but if he could, he would not have wasted much thought over it at
the moment. It all worried him and at the same time he could not
attend to it. Strange to say, none would have believed it perhaps, but
he only felt a faint vague anxiety about his immediate future.
Another, much more important anxiety tormented him- it concerned
himself, but in a different, more vital way. Moreover, he was
conscious of immense moral fatigue, though his mind was working better
that morning than it had done of late.
  And was it worth while, after all that had happened, to contend with
these new trivial difficulties? Was it worth while, for instance, to
manoeuvre that Svidrigailov should not go to Porfiry's? Was it worth
while to investigate, to ascertain the facts, to waste time over any
one like Svidrigailov?
  Oh how sick he was of it all!
  And yet he was hastening to Svidrigailov; could he be expecting
something new from him, information, or means of escape? Men will
catch at straws! Was it destiny or some instinct bringing them
together? Perhaps it was only fatigue, despair; perhaps it was not
Svidrigailov but some other whom he needed, and Svidrigailov had
simply presented himself by chance. Sonia? But what should he go to
Sonia for now? To beg her tears again? He was afraid of Sonia, too.
Sonia stood before him as an irrevocable sentence. He must go his
own way or hers. At that moment especially he did not feel equal to
seeing her. No, would it not be better to try Svidrigailov? And he
could not help inwardly owning that he had long felt that he must
see him for some reason.
  But what could they have in common? Their very evil-doing could
not be of the same kind. The man, moreover, was very unpleasant,
evidently depraved, undoubtedly cunning and deceitful, possibly
malignant. Such stories were told about him. It is true he was
befriending Katerina Ivanovna's children, but who could tell with what
motive and what it meant? The man always had some design, some
  There was another thought which had been continually hovering of
late about Raskolnikov's mind, and causing him great uneasiness. It
was so painful that he made distinct efforts to get rid of it. He
sometimes thought that Svidrigailov was dogging his footsteps.
Svidrigailov had found out his secret and had had designs on Dounia.
What if he had them still? Wasn't it practically certain that he
had? And what if, having learnt his secret and so having gained
power over him, he were to use it as a weapon against Dounia?
  This idea sometimes even tormented his dreams, but it had never
presented itself so vividly to him as on his way to Svidrigailov.
The very thought moved him to gloomy rage. To begin with, this would
transform everything, even his own position; he would have at once
to confess his secret to Dounia. Would he have to give himself up
perhaps to prevent Dounia from taking some rash step? The letter? This
morning Dounia had received a letter. From whom could she get
letters in Petersburg? Luzhin, perhaps? It's true Razumihin was
there to protect her, but Razumihin knew nothing of the position.
Perhaps it was his duty to tell Razumihin? He thought of it with
  In any case he must see Svidrigailov as soon as possible, he decided
finally. Thank God, the details of the interview were of little
consequence, if only he could get at the root of the matter; but if
Svidrigailov were capable... if he were intriguing against Dounia,-
  Raskolnikov was so exhausted by what he had passed through that
month that he could only decide such questions in one way; "then I
shall kill him," he thought in cold despair.
  A sudden anguish oppressed his heart, he stood still in the middle
of the street and began looking about to see where he was and which
way he was going. He found himself in X. Prospect, thirty or forty
paces from the Hay Market, through which he had come. The whole second
storey of the house on the left was used as a tavern. All the
windows were wide open; judging from the figures moving at the
windows, the rooms were full to overflowing. There were sounds of
singing, of clarionet and violin, and the boom of a Turkish drum. He
could hear women shrieking. He was about to turn back wondering why he
had come to the X. Prospect, when suddenly at one of the end windows
he saw Svidrigailov, sitting at a tea-table right in the open window
with a pipe in his mouth, Raskolnikov was dreadfully taken aback,
almost terrified. Svidrigailov was silently watching and
scrutinising him and, what struck Raskolnikov at once, seemed to be
meaning to get up and slip away unobserved. Raskolnikov at once
pretended not to have seen him, but to be looking absentmindedly away,
while he watched him out of the corner of his eye. His heart was
beating violently. Yet, it was evident that Svidrigailov did not
want to be seen. He took the pipe out of his mouth and was on the
point of concealing himself, but as he got up and moved back his
chair, he seemed to have become suddenly aware that Raskolnikov had
seen him, and was watching him. What had passed between them was
much the same as what happened at their first meeting in Raskolnikov's
room. A sly smile came into Svidrigailov's face and grew broader and
broader. Each knew that he was seen and watched by the other. At
last Svidrigailov broke into a loud laugh.
  "Well, well, come in if you want me; I am here!" he shouted from the
  Raskolnikov went up into the tavern. He found Svidrigailov in a tiny
back room, adjoining the saloon in which merchants, clerks and numbers
of people of all sorts were drinking tea at twenty little tables to
the desperate bawling of a chorus of singers. The click of billiard
balls could be heard in the distance. On the table before Svidrigailov
stood an open bottle, and a glass half full of champagne. In the
room he found also a boy with a little hand organ, a healthy-looking
red-cheeked girl of eighteen, wearing a tucked-up striped skirt, and a
Tyrolese hat with ribbons. In spite of the chorus in the other room,
she was singing some servants' hall song in a rather husky
contralto, to the accompaniment of the organ.
  "Come, that's enough," Svidrigailov stopped her at Raskolnikov's
entrance. The girl at once broke off and stood waiting respectfully.
She had sung her guttural rhymes, too, with a serious and respectful
expression in her face.
  "Hey, Philip, a glass!" shouted Svidrigailov.
  "I won't drink anything," said Raskolnikov.
  "As you like, I didn't mean it for you. Drink, Katia! I don't want
anything more to-day, you can go." He poured her out a full glass, and
laid down a yellow note.
  Katia drank off her glass of wine, as women do, without putting it
down, in twenty gulps, took the note and kissed Svidrigailov's hand,
which he allowed quite seriously. She went out of the room and the boy
trailed after her with the organ. Both had been brought in from the
street. Svidrigailov had not been a week in Petersburg, but everything
about him was already, so to speak, on a patriarchal footing; the
waiter, Philip, was by now an old friend and very obsequious.
  The door leading to the saloon had a lock on it. Svidrigailov was at
home in this room and perhaps spent whole days in it. The tavern was
dirty and wretched, not even second rate.
  "I was going to see you and looking for you," Raskolnikov began,
"but I don't know what made me turn from the Hay Market into the X.
Prospect just now. I never take this turning. I turn to the right from
the Hay Market. And this isn't the way to you. I simply turned and
here you are. It is strange!"
  "Why don't you say at once 'it's a miracle?'"
  "Because it may be only chance."
  "Oh, that's the way with all you folk," laughed Svidrigailov. "You
won't admit it, even if you do inwardly believe it a miracle! Here you
say that it may be only chance. And what cowards they all are here,
about having an opinion of their own, you can't fancy, Rodion
Romanovitch. I don't mean you, you have an opinion of your own and are
not afraid to have it. That's how it was you attracted my curiosity."
  "Nothing else?"
  "Well, that's enough, you know," Svidrigailov was obviously
exhilarated, but only slightly so, he had not had more than half a
glass of wine.
  "I fancy you came to see me before you knew that I was capable of
having what you call an opinion of my own," observed Raskolnikov.
  "Oh, well, it was a different matter. Every one has his own plans.
And apropos of the miracle let me tell you that I think you have
been asleep for the last two or three days. I told you of this
tavern myself, there is no miracle in your coming straight here. I
explained the way myself, told you where it was, and the hours you
could find me here. Do you remember?"
  "I don't remember," answered Raskolnikov with surprise.
  "I believe you. I told you twice. The address has been stamped
mechanically on your memory. You turned this way mechanically and
yet precisely according to the direction, though you are not aware
of it. When I told you then, I hardly hoped you understood me. You
give yourself away too much, Rodion Romanovitch. And another thing,
I'm convinced there are lots of people in Petersburg who talk to
themselves as they walk. This is a town of crazy people. If only we
had scientific men, doctors, lawyers and philosophers might make
most valuable investigations in Petersburg each in his own line. There
are few places where there are so many gloomy, strong and queer
influences on the soul of man as in Petersburg. The mere influences of
climate mean so much. And it's the administrative centre of all Russia
and its character must be reflected on the whole country. But that
is neither here nor there now. The point is that I have several
times watched you. You walk out of your house- holding your head high-
twenty paces from home you let it sink, and fold your hands behind
your back. You look and evidently see nothing before nor beside you.
At last you begin moving your lips and talking to yourself, and
sometimes you wave one hand and declaim, and at last stand still in
the middle of the road. That's not at all the thing. Some one may be
watching you besides me, and it won't do you any good. It's nothing
really to do with me and I can't cure you, but, of course, you
understand me."
  "Do you know that I am being followed?" asked Raskolnikov, looking
inquisitively at him.
  "No, I know nothing about it," said Svidrigailov, seeming surprised.
  "Well, then, let us leave me alone," Raskolnikov muttered, frowning.
  "Very good, let us leave you alone."
  "You had better tell me, if you come here to drink, and directed
me twice to come here to you, why did you hide, and try to get away
just now when I looked at the window from the street? I saw it."
  "He-he! And why was it you lay on your sofa with closed eyes and
pretended to be asleep, though you were wide awake while I stood in
your doorway? I saw it."
  "I may have had... reasons. You know that yourself."
  "And I may have had my reasons, though you don't know them."
  Raskolnikov dropped his right elbow on the table, leaned his chin in
the fingers of his right hand, and stared intently at Svidrigailov.
For a full minute he scrutinised his face, which had impressed him
before. It was a strange face, like a mask; white and red, with bright
red lips, with a flaxen beard, and still thick flaxen hair. His eyes
were somehow too blue and their expression somehow too heavy and
fixed. There was something awfully unpleasant in that handsome face,
which looked so wonderfully young for his age. Svidrigailov was
smartly dressed in light summer clothes and was particularly dainty in
his linen. He wore a huge ring with a precious stone in it.
  "Have I got to bother myself about you too now?" said Raskolnikov
suddenly, coming with nervous impatience straight to the point.
"Even though perhaps you are the most dangerous man if you care to
injure me, I don't want to put myself out any more. I will show you at
once that I don't prize myself as you probably think I do. I've come
to tell you at once that if you keep to your former intentions with
regard to my sister and if you think to derive any benefit in that
direction from what has been discovered of late, I will kill you
before you get me locked up. You can reckon on my word. You know
that I can keep it. And in the second place if you want to tell me
anything- for I keep fancying all this time that you have something to
tell me- make haste and tell it, for time is precious and very
likely it will soon be too late."
  "Why in such haste?" asked Svidrigailov, looking at him curiously.
  "Every one has his plans," Raskolnikov answered gloomily and
  "You urged me yourself to frankness just now, and at the first
question you refuse to answer," Svidrigailov observed with a smile.
"You keep fancying that I have aims of my own and so you look at me
with suspicion. Of course it's perfectly natural in your position. But
though I should like to be friends with you, I shan't trouble myself
to convince you of the contrary. The game isn't worth the candle and I
wasn't intending to talk to you about anything special."
  "What did you want me, for, then? It was you who came hanging
about me."
  "Why, simply as an interesting subject for observation. I liked
the fantastic nature of your position- that's what it was! Besides you
are the brother of a person who greatly interested me, and from that
person I had in the past heard a very great deal about you, from which
I gathered that you had a great influence over her; isn't that enough?
Ha-ha-ha! Still I must admit that your question is rather complex, and
is difficult for me to answer. Here, you, for instance, have come to
me not only for a definite object, but for the sake of hearing
something new. Isn't that so? Isn't that so?" persisted Svidrigailov
with a sly smile. "Well, can't you fancy then that I, too, on my way
here in the train was reckoning on you, on your telling me something
new, and on my making some profit out of you! You see what rich men we
  "What profit could you make?"
  "How can I tell you? How do I know? You see in what a tavern I spend
all my time and it's my enjoyment, that's to say it's no great
enjoyment, but one must sit somewhere; that poor Katia now- you saw
her?... If only I had been a glutton now, a club gourmand, but you see
I can eat this."
  He pointed to a little table in the corner where the remnants of a
terrible looking beef-steak and potatoes lay on a tin dish.
  "Have you dined, by the way? I've had something and want nothing
more. I don't drink, for instance, at all. Except for champagne I
never touch anything, and not more than a glass of that all the
evening, and even that is enough to make my head ache. I ordered it
just now to wind myself up, for I am just going off somewhere and
you see me in a peculiar state of mind. That was why I hid myself just
now like a schoolboy, for I was afraid you would hinder me. But I
believe," he pulled out his watch, "I can spend an hour with you. It's
half-past four now. If only I'd been something, a landowner, a father,
a cavalry officer, a photographer, a journalist... I am nothing, no
specialty, and sometimes I am positively bored. I really thought you
would tell me something new."
  "But what are you, and why have you come here?"
  "What am I? You know, a gentleman, I served for two years in the
cavalry, then I knocked about here in Petersburg, then I married Marfa
Petrovna and lived in the country. There you have my biography!"
  "You are a gambler, I believe?"
  "No, a poor sort of gambler. A card-sharper- not a gambler."
  "You have been a card-sharper then?"
  "Yes, I've been a card-sharper too."
  "Didn't you get thrashed sometimes?"
  "It did happen. Why?"
  "Why, you might have challenged them... altogether it must have been
  "I won't contradict you and besides I am no hand at philosophy. I
confess that I hastened here for the sake of the women."
  "As soon as you buried Marfa Petrovna?"
  "Quite so," Svidrigailov smiled with engaging candour. "What of
it? You seem to find something wrong in my speaking like that about
  "You ask whether I find anything wrong in vice?"
  "Vice! Oh, that's what you are after! But I'll answer you in
order, first about women in general; you know I am fond of talking.
Tell me, what should I restrain myself for? Why should I give up
women, since I have a passion for them? It's an occupation, anyway."
  "So you hope for nothing here but vice?"
  "Oh, very well, for vice then. You insist on its being vice. But
anyway I like a direct question. In this vice at least there is
something permanent, founded indeed upon nature and not dependent on
fantasy, something present in the blood like an ever-burning ember,
for ever setting one on fire and maybe, not to be quickly
extinguished, even with years. You'll agree it's an occupation of a
  "That's nothing to rejoice at, it's a disease and a dangerous one."
  "Oh, that's what you think, is it? I agree, that it is a disease
like everything that exceeds moderation. And, of course, in this one
must exceed moderation. But in the first place, everybody does so in
one way or another, and in the second place, of course, one ought to
be moderate and prudent, however mean it may be, but what am I to
do? If I hadn't this, I might have to shoot myself. I am ready to
admit that a decent man ought to put up with being bored, but yet..."
  "And could you shoot yourself?"
  "Oh, come!" Svidrigailov parried with disgust. "Please don't speak
of it," he added hurriedly and with none of the bragging tone he had
shown in all the previous conversation. His face quite changed. "I
admit it's an unpardonable weakness, but I can't help it. I am
afraid of death and I dislike its being talked of. Do you know that
I am to a certain extent a mystic?"
  "Ah, the apparitions of Marfa Petrovna! Do they still go on visiting
  "Oh, don't talk of them; there have been no more in Petersburg,
confound them!" he cried with an air of irritation. "Let's rather talk
of that... though... H'm! I have not much time, and can't stay long
with you, it's a pity! I should have found plenty to tell you."
  "What's your engagement, a woman?"
  "Yes, a woman, a casual incident.... No, that's not what I want to
talk of."
  "And the hideousness, the filthiness of all your surroundings,
doesn't that affect you? Have you lost the strength to stop yourself?"
  "And do you pretend to strength, too? He-he-he! You surprised me
just now, Rodion Romanovitch, though I knew beforehand it would be so.
You preach to me about vice and aesthetics! You- a Schiller, you- an
idealist! Of course that's all as it should be and it would be
surprising if it were not so, yet it is strange in reality.... Ah,
what a pity I have no time, for you're a most interesting type! And
by-the-way, are you fond of Schiller? I am awfully fond of him."
  "But what a braggart you are," Raskolnikov said with some disgust.
  "Upon my word, I am not," answered Svidrigailov laughing.
"However, I won't dispute it, let me be a braggart, why not brag, if
it hurts no one? I spent seven years in the country with Marfa
Petrovna, so now when I come across an intelligent person like you-
intelligent and highly interesting- I am simply glad to talk and
besides, I've drunk that half-glass of champagne and it's gone to my
head a little. And besides, there's a certain fact that has wound me
up tremendously, but about that I... will keep quiet. Where are you
off to?" he asked in alarm.
  Raskolnikov had begun getting up. He felt oppressed and stifled and,
as it were, ill at ease at having come here. He felt convinced that
Svidrigailov was the most worthless scoundrel on the face of the
  "A-ach! Sit down, stay a little!" Svidrigailov begged. "Let them
bring you some tea, anyway. Stay a little, I won't talk nonsense,
about myself, I mean. I'll tell you something. If you like I'll tell
you how a woman tried 'to save' me, as you would call it? It will be
an answer to your first question indeed, for the woman was your
sister. May I tell you? It will help to spend the time."
  "Tell me, but I trust that you..."
  "Oh, don't be uneasy. Besides, even in a worthless low fellow like
me, Avdotya Romanovna can only excite the deepest respect."

                             Chapter Four
  "YOU know perhaps- yes, I told you myself," began Svidrigailov,
"that I was in the debtors' prison here, for an immense sum, and had
not any expectation of being able to pay it. There's no need to go
into particulars of how Marfa Petrovna bought me out; do you know to
what a point of insanity a woman can sometimes love? She was an honest
woman, and very sensible, although completely uneducated. Would you
believe that this honest and jealous woman, after many scenes of
hysterics and reproaches, condescended to enter into a kind of
contract with me which she kept throughout our married life? She was
considerably older than I, and besides, she always kept a clove or
something in her mouth. There was so much swinishness in my soul and
honesty too, of a sort, as to tell her straight out that I couldn't be
absolutely faithful to her. This confession drove her to frenzy, but
yet she seems in a way to have liked my brutal frankness. She
thought it showed I was unwilling to deceive her if I warned her
like this beforehand and for a jealous woman, you know, that's the
first consideration. After many tears an unwritten contract was
drawn up between us: first, that I would never leave Marfa Petrovna
and would always be her husband; secondly, that I would never absent
myself without her permission; thirdly, that I would never set up a
permanent mistress; fourthly, in return for this, Marfa Petrovna
gave me a free hand with the maid servants, but only with her secret
knowledge; fifthly, God forbid my falling in love with a woman of
our class; sixthly, in case I- which God forbid- should be visited
by a great serious passion I was bound to reveal it to Marfa Petrovna.
On this last score, however, Marfa Petrovna was fairly at ease. She
was a sensible woman and so she could not help looking upon me as a
dissolute profligate incapable of real love. But a sensible woman
and a jealous woman are two very different things, and that's where
the trouble came in. But to judge some people impartially we must
renounce certain preconceived opinions and our habitual attitude to
the ordinary people about us. I have reason to have faith in your
judgment rather than in any one's. Perhaps you have already heard a
great deal that was ridiculous and absurd about Marfa Petrovna. She
certainly had some very ridiculous ways, but I tell you frankly that I
feel really sorry for the innumerable woes of which I was the cause.
Well, and that's enough, I think, by way of a decorous oraison funebre
for the most tender wife of a most tender husband. When we quarrelled,
I usually held my tongue and did not irritate her and that gentlemanly
conduct rarely failed to attain its object, it influenced her, it
pleased her, indeed. These were times when she was positively proud of
me. But your sister she couldn't put up with, anyway. And however
she came to risk taking such a beautiful creature into her house as
a governess! My explanation is that Marfa Petrovna was an ardent and
impressionable woman and simply fell in love herself- literally fell
in love- with your sister. Well, little wonder- look at Avdotya
Romanovna! I saw the danger at the first glance and what do you think,
I resolved not to look at her even. But Avdotya Romanovna herself made
the first step, would you believe it? Would you believe it too that
Marfa Petrovna was positively angry with me at first for my persistent
silence about your sister, for my careless reception of her
continual adoring praises of Avdotya Romanovna. I don't know what it
was she wanted! Well, of course, Marfa Petrovna told Avdotya Romanovna
every detail about me. She had the unfortunate habit of telling
literally every one all our family secrets and continually complaining
of me; how could she fail to confide in such a delightful new
friend? I expect they talked of nothing else but me and no doubt
Avdotya Romanovna heard all those dark mysterious rumours that were
current about me.... I don't mind betting that you too have heard
something of the sort already?"
  "I have. Luzhin charged you with having caused the death of a child.
Is that true?"
  "Don't refer to those vulgar tales, I beg," said Svidrigailov with
disgust and annoyance. "If you insist on wanting to know about all
that idiocy, I will tell you one day, but now..."
  "I was told too about some footman of yours in the country whom
you treated badly."
  "I beg you to drop the subject," Svidrigailov interrupted again with
obvious impatience.
  "Was that the footman who came to you after death to fill your
pipe?... you told me about it yourself," Raskolnikov felt more and
more irritated.
  Svidrigailov looked at him attentively and Raskolnikov fancied he
caught a flash of spiteful mockery in that look. But Svidrigailov
restrained himself and answered very civilly.
  "Yes, it was. I see that you, too, are extremely interested and
shall feel it my duty to satisfy your curiosity at the first
opportunity. Upon my soul! I see that I really might pass for a
romantic figure with some people. Judge how grateful I must be to
Marfa Petrovna for having repeated to Avdotya Romanovna such
mysterious and interesting gossip about me. I dare not guess what
impression it made on her, but in any case it worked in my
interests. With all Avdotya Romanovna's natural aversion and in
spite of my invariably gloomy and repellent aspect- she did at least
feel pity for me, pity for a lost soul. And if once a girl's heart
is moved to pity, it's more dangerous than anything. She is bound to
want to 'save him,' to bring him to his senses, and lift him up and
draw him to nobler aims, and restore him to new life and
usefulness,- well, we all know how far such dreams can go. I saw at
once that the bird was flying into the cage of herself. And I too made
ready. I think you are frowning, Rodion Romanovitch? There's no
need. As you know, it all ended in smoke. (Hang it all, what a lot I
am drinking!) Do you know, I always, from the very beginning,
regretted that it wasn't your sister's fate to be born in the second
or third century A.D., as the daughter of a reigning prince or some
governor or proconsul in Asia Minor. She would undoubtedly have been
one of those who would endure martyrdom and would have smiled when
they branded her bosom with hot pincers. And she would have gone to it
of herself. And in the fourth or fifth century she would have walked
away into the Egyptian desert and would have stayed there thirty years
living on roots and ecstasies and visions. She is simply thirsting
to face some torture for some one, and if she can't get her torture,
she'll throw herself out of a window. I've heard something of a Mr.
Razumihin- he's said to be a sensible fellow; his surname suggests it,
indeed. He's probably a divinity student. Well, he'd better look after
your sister! I believe I understand her, and I am proud of it. But
at the beginning of an acquaintance, as you know, one is apt to be
more heedless and stupid. One doesn't see clearly. Hang it all, why is
she so handsome? It's not my fault. In fact, it began on my side
with a most irresistible physical desire. Avdotya Romanovna is awfully
chaste, incredibly and phenomenally so. Take note, I tell you this
about your sister as a fact. She is almost morbidly chaste, in spite
of her broad intelligence, and it will stand in her way. There
happened to be a girl in the house then, Parasha, a. black-eyed wench,
whom I had never seen before- she had just come from another
village- very pretty, but incredibly stupid: she burst into tears,
wailed so that she could be heard all over the place and caused
scandal. One day after dinner Avdotya Romanovna followed me into an
avenue in the garden and with flashing eyes insisted on my leaving
poor Parasha alone. It was almost our first conversation by ourselves.
I, of course, was only too pleased to obey her wishes, tried to appear
disconcerted, embarrassed, in fact played my part not badly. Then came
interviews, mysterious conversations, exhortations, entreaties,
supplications, even tears- would you believe it, even tears? Think
what the passion for propaganda will bring some girls to! I, of
course, threw it all on my destiny, posed as hungering and thirsting
for light, and finally resorted to the most powerful weapon in the
subjection of the female heart, a weapon which never fails one. It's
the well-known resource- flattery. Nothing in the world is harder than
speaking the truth and nothing easier than flattery. If there's the
hundredth part of a false note in speaking the truth, it leads to a
discord, and that leads to trouble. But if all, to the last note, is
false in flattery, it is just as agreeable, and is heard not without
satisfaction. It may be a coarse satisfaction, but still a
satisfaction. And however coarse the flattery, at least half will be
sure to seem true. That's so for all stages of development and classes
of society. A vestal virgin might be seduced by flattery. I can
never remember without laughter how I once seduced a lady who was
devoted to her husband, her children, and her principles. What fun
it was and how little trouble! And the lady really had principles,
of her own, anyway. All my tactics lay in simply being utterly
annihilated and prostrate before her purity. I flattered her
shamelessly, and as soon as I succeeded in getting a pressure of the
hand, even a glance from her, I would reproach myself for having
snatched it by force, and would declare that she had resisted, so that
I could never have gained anything but for my being so unprincipled. I
maintained that she was so innocent that she could not foresee my
treachery, and yielded to me unconsciously, unawares, and so on. In
fact, I triumphed, while my lady remained firmly convinced that she
was innocent, chaste, and faithful to all her duties and obligations
and had succumbed quite by accident. And how angry she was with me
when I explained to her at last that it was my sincere conviction that
she was just as eager as I. Poor Marfa Petrovna was awfully weak on
the side of flattery, and if I had only cared to, I might have had all
her property settled on me during her lifetime. (I am drinking an
awful lot of wine now and talking too much.) I hope you won't be angry
if I mention now that I was beginning to produce the same effect on
Avdotya Romanovna. But I was stupid and impatient and spoiled it
all. Avdotya Romanovna had several times- and one time in
particular- been greatly displeased by the expression of my eyes,
would you believe it? There was sometimes a light in them which
frightened her and grew stronger and stronger and more unguarded
till it was hateful to her. No need to go into detail, but we
parted. There I acted stupidly again. I fell to jeering in the
coarsest way at all such propaganda and efforts to convert me; Parasha
came on to the scene again, and not she alone; in fact there was a
tremendous to-do. Ah, Rodion Romanovitch, if you could only see how
your sister's eyes can flash sometimes! Never mind my being drunk at
this moment and having had a whole glass of wine. I am speaking the
truth. I assure you that this glance has haunted my dreams; the very
rustle of her dress was more than I could stand at last. I really
began to think that I might become epileptic. I could never have
believed that I could be moved to such a frenzy. It was essential,
indeed, to be reconciled, but by then it was impossible. And imagine
what I did then! To what a pitch of stupidity a man can be brought
by frenzy! Never undertake anything in a frenzy, Rodion Romanovitch. I
reflected that Avdotya Romanovna was after all a beggar (ach, excuse
me, that's not the word... but does it matter if it expresses the
meaning?), that she lived by her work, that she had her mother and,
you to keep (ach, hang it, you are frowning again), and I resolved
to offer her all my money- thirty thousand roubles I could have
realised then- if she would run away with me here, to Petersburg. Of
course I should have vowed eternal love, rapture, and so on. Do you
know, I was so wild about her at that time that if she had told me
to poison Marfa Petrovna or to cut her throat and to marry herself, it
would have been done at once! But it ended in the catastrophe of which
you know already. You can fancy how frantic I was when I heard that
Marfa Petrovna had got hold of that scoundrelly attorney, Luzhin,
and had almost made a match between them- which would really have been
just the same thing as I was proposing. Wouldn't it? Wouldn't it? I
notice that you've begun to be very attentive... you interesting young


Re: Достоевский Ф. М. - Преступление и наказание в переводе на английский

Svidrigailov struck the table with his fist impatiently. He was
flushed. Raskolnikov saw clearly that the glass or glass and a half of
champagne that he had sipped almost unconsciously was affecting him-
and he resolved to take advantage of the opportunity. He felt very
suspicious of Svidrigailov.
  "Well, after what you have said, I am fully convinced that you
have come to Petersburg with designs on my sister," he said directly
to Svidrigailov, in order to irritate him further.
  "Oh, nonsense," said Svidrigailov, seeming to rouse himself. "Why, I
told you... besides your sister can't endure me."
  "Yes, I am certain that she can't, but that's not the point."
  "Are you so sure that she can't?" Svidrigailov screwed up his eyes
and smiled mockingly. "You are right, she doesn't love me, but you can
never be sure of what has passed between husband and wife or lover and
mistress. There's always a little corner which remains a secret to the
world and is only known to those two. Will you answer for it that
Avdotya Romanovna regarded me with aversion?"
  "From some words you've dropped, I notice that you still have
designs- and of course evil ones- on Dounia and mean to carry them out
  "What, have I dropped words like that?" Svidrigailov asked in
naive dismay, taking not the slightest notice of the epithet
bestowed on his designs.
  "Why, you are dropping them even now. Why are you so frightened?
What are you so afraid of now?"
  "Me- afraid? Afraid of you? You have rather to be afraid of me, cher
ami. But what nonsense.... I've drunk too much though, I see that. I
was almost saying too much again. Damn the wine! Hi! there, water!"
  He snatched up the champagne bottle and flung it without ceremony
out of the window. Philip brought the water.
  "That's all nonsense!" said Svidrigailov, wetting a towel and
putting it to his head. "But I can answer you in one word and
annihilate all your suspicions. Do you know that I am going to get
  "You told me so before."
  "Did I? I've forgotten. But I couldn't have told you so for
certain for I had not even seen my betrothed; I only meant to. But now
I really have a betrothed and it's a settled thing, and if it
weren't that I have business that can't be put off, I would have taken
you to see them at once, for I should like to ask your advice. Ach,
hang it, only ten minutes left! See, look at the watch. But I must
tell you, for it's an interesting story, my marriage, in its own
way. Where are you off to? Going again?"
  "No, I'm not going away now."
  "Not at all? We shall see. I'll take you there, I'll show you my
betrothed, only not now. For you'll soon have to be off. You have to
go to the right and I to the left. Do you know that Madame Resslich,
the woman I am lodging with now, eh? I know what you're thinking, that
she's the woman whose girl they say drowned herself in the winter.
Come, are you listening? She arranged it all for me. You're bored, she
said, you want something to fill up your time. For, you know, I am a
gloomy, depressed person. Do you think I'm light-hearted? No, I'm
gloomy. I do no harm, but sit in a corner without speaking a word
for three days at a time. And that Resslich is a sly hussy, I tell
you. I know what she has got in her mind; she thinks I shall get
sick of it, abandon my wife and depart, and she'll get hold of her and
make a profit out of her- in our class, of course, or higher. She told
me the father was a broken-down retired official, who has been sitting
in a chair for the last three years with his legs paralysed. The
mamma, she said, was a sensible woman. There is a son serving in the
provinces, but he doesn't help; there is a daughter, who is married,
but she doesn't visit them. And they've two little nephews on their
hands, as though their own children were not enough, and they've taken
from school their youngest daughter, a girl who'll be sixteen in
another month, so that then she can be married. She was for me. We
went there. How funny it was! I present myself- a landowner, a
widower, of a well-known name, with connections, with a fortune.
What if I am fifty and she is not sixteen? Who thinks of that? But
it's fascinating, isn't it? It is fascinating, ha-ha! You should
have seen how I talked to the papa and mamma. It was worth paying to
have seen me at that moment. She comes in, curtseys, you can fancy,
still in a short frock- an unopened bud! Flushing like a sunset- she
had been told, no doubt. I don't know how you feel about female faces,
but to my mind these sixteen years, these childish eyes, shyness and
tears of bashfulness are better than beauty; and she is a perfect
little picture, too. Fair hair in little curls, like a lamb's, full
little rosy lips, tiny feet, a charmer!... Well, we made friends. I
told them I was in a hurry owing to domestic circumstances, and the
next day, that is the day before yesterday, we were betrothed. When
I go now I take her on my knee at once and keep her there.... Well,
she flushes like a sunset and I kiss her every minute. Her mamma of
course impresses on her that this is her husband and that this must be
so. It's simply delicious! The present betrothed condition is
perhaps better than marriage. Here you have what is called la nature
et la verite, ha-ha! I've talked to her twice, she is far from a fool.
Sometimes she steals a look at me that positively scorches me. Her
face is like Raphael's Madonna. You know, the Sistine Madonna's face
has something fantastic in it, the face of mournful religious ecstasy.
Haven't you noticed it? Well, she's something in that line. The day
after we'd been betrothed, I bought her presents to the value of
fifteen hundred roubles- a set of diamonds and another of pearls and a
silver dressing-case as large as this, with all sorts of things in it,
so that even my Madonna's face glowed. I sat her on my knee,
yesterday, and I suppose rather too unceremoniously- she flushed
crimson and the tears started, but she didn't want to show it. We were
left alone, she suddenly flung herself on my neck (for the first
time of her own accord), put her little arms round me, kissed me,
and vowed that she would be an obedient, faithful, and good wife,
would make me happy, would devote all her life, every minute of her
life, would sacrifice everything, everything, and that all she asks in
return is my respect, and that she wants 'nothing, nothing more from
me, no presents.' You'll admit that to hear such a confession,
alone, from an angel of sixteen in a muslin frock, with little
curls, with a flush of maiden shyness in her cheeks and tears of
enthusiasm in her eyes is rather fascinating! Isn't it fascinating?
It's worth paying for, isn't it? Well... listen, we'll go to see my
betrothed, only not just now!"
  "The fact is this monstrous difference in age and development
excites your sensuality! Will you really make such a marriage?"
  "Why, of course. Every one thinks of himself, and he lives most
gaily who knows best how to deceive himself. Ha-ha! But why are you so
keen about virtue? Have mercy on me, my good friend. I am a sinful
man. Ha-ha-ha!"
  "But you have provided for the children of Katerina Ivanovna.
Though... though you had your own reasons.... I understand it all
  "I am always fond of children, very fond of them," laughed
Svidrigailov. "I can tell you one curious instance of it. The first
day I came here I visited various haunts, after seven years I simply
rushed at them. You probably notice that I am not in a hurry to
renew acquaintance with my old friends. I shall do without them as
long as I can. Do you know, when I was with Marfa Petrovna in the
country, I was haunted by the thought of these places where any one
who knows his way about can find a great deal. Yes, upon my soul!
The peasants have vodka, the educated young people, shut out from
activity, waste themselves in impossible dreams and visions and are
crippled by theories; Jews have sprung up and are amassing money,
and all the rest give themselves up to debauchery. From the first hour
the town reeked of its familiar odours. I chanced to be in a frightful
den- I like my dens dirty- it was a dance, so called, and there was
a cancan such as I never saw in my day. Yes, there you have
progress. All of a sudden I saw a little girl of thirteen, nicely
dressed, dancing with a specialist in that line, with another one
vis-a-vis. Her mother was sitting on a chair by the wall. You can't
fancy what a cancan that was! The girl was ashamed, blushed, at last
felt insulted, and began to cry. Her partner seized her and began
whirling her round and performing before her; every one laughed and- I
like your public, even the cancan public- they laughed and shouted,
'Serves her right- serves her right! Shouldn't bring children!'
Well, it's not my business whether that consoling reflection was
logical or not. I at once fixed on my plan, sat down by the mother,
and began by saying that I too was a stranger and that people here
were ill-bred and that they couldn't distinguish decent folks and
treat them with respect, gave her to understand that I had plenty of
money, offered to take them home in my carriage. I took them home
and got to know them. They were lodging in a miserable little hole and
had only just arrived from the country. She told me that she and her
daughter could only regard my acquaintance as an honour. I found out
that they had nothing of their own and had come to town upon some
legal business. I proffered my services and money. I learnt that
they had gone to the dancing saloon by mistake, believing that it
was a genuine dancing class. I offered to assist in the young girl's
education in French and dancing. My offer was accepted with enthusiasm
as an honour- and we are still friendly.... If you like, we'll go
and see them, only not just now."
  "Stop! Enough of your vile, nasty anecdotes, depraved vile,
sensual man!"
  "Schiller, you are a regular Schiller! O la vertu va-t-elle se
nicher? But you know I shall tell you these things on purpose, for the
pleasure of hearing your outcries!"
  "I dare say. I can see I am ridiculous myself," muttered Raskolnikov
  Svidrigailov laughed heartily; finally he called Philip, paid his
bill, and began getting up.
  "I say, but I am drunk, assez cause," he said. "It's been a
  "I should rather think it must be a pleasure!" cried Raskolnikov,
getting up. "No doubt it is a pleasure for a worn-out profligate to
describe such adventures with a monstrous project of the same sort
in his mind- especially under such circumstances and to such a man
as me.... It's stimulating!"
  "Well, if you come to that," Svidrigailov answered, scrutinising
Raskolnikov with some surprise, "if you come to that, you are a
thorough cynic yourself. You've plenty to make you so, anyway. You can
understand a great deal... and you can do a great deal too. But
enough. I sincerely regret not having had more talk with you, but I
shan't lose sight of you.... Only wait a bit."
  Svidrigailov walked out of the restaurant. Raskolnikov walked out
after him. Svidrigailov was not however very drunk, the wine had
affected him for a moment, but it was passing off every minute. He was
preoccupied with something of importance and was frowning. He was
apparently excited and uneasy in anticipation of something. His manner
to Raskolnikov had changed during the last few minutes, and he was
ruder and more sneering every moment. Raskolnikov noticed all this,
and he too was uneasy. He became very suspicious of Svidrigailov and
resolved to follow him.
  They came out on to the pavement.
  "You go to the right, and I to the left, or if you like, the other
way. Only adieu, mon plaisir, may we meet again."
  And he walked to the right towards the Hay Market.

                             Chapter Five
  RASKOLNIKOV walked after him.
  "What's this?" cried Svidrigailov turning round, "I thought I
  "It means that I am not going to lose sight of you now."
  Both stood still and gazed at one another, as though measuring their
  "From all your half tipsy stories," Raskolnikov observed harshly, "I
am positive that you have not given up your designs on my sister,
but are pursuing them more actively than ever. I have learnt that my
sister received a letter this morning. You have hardly been able to
sit still all this time.... You may have unearthed a wife on the
way, but that means nothing. I should like to make certain myself."
  Raskolnikov could hardly have said himself what he wanted and of
what he wished to make certain.
  "Upon my word! I'll call the police!"
  "Call away!"
  Again they stood for a minute facing each other. At last
Svidrigailov's face changed. Having satisfied himself that Raskolnikov
was not frightened at his threat, he assumed a mirthful and friendly
  "What a fellow! I purposely refrained from referring to your affair,
though I am devoured by curiosity. It's a fantastic affair. I've put
it off till another time, but you're enough to rouse the dead....
Well, let us go, only I warn you beforehand I am only going home for a
moment, to get some money; then I shall lock up the flat, take a cab
and go to spend the evening at the Islands. Now, now are you going
to follow me?"
  "I'm coming to your lodgings, not to see you but Sofya Semyonovna,
to say I'm sorry not to have been at the funeral."
  "That's as you like, but Sofya Semyonovna is not at home. She has
taken the three children to an old lady of high rank, the patroness of
some orphan asylums, whom I used to know years ago. I charmed the
old lady by depositing a sum of money with her to provide for the
three children of Katerina Ivanovna and subscribing to the institution
as well. I told her too the story of Sofya Semyonovna in full
detail, suppressing nothing. It produced an indescribable effect on
her. That's why Sofya Semyonovna has been invited to call to-day at
the X. Hotel where the lady is staying for the time."
  "No matter, I'll come all the same."
  "As you like, it's nothing to me, but I won't come with you; here we
are at home. By the way, I am convinced that you regard me with
suspicion just because I have shown such delicacy and have not so
far troubled you with questions... you understand? It struck you as
extraordinary; I don't mind betting it's that. Well, it teaches one to
show delicacy!"
  "And to listen at doors!"
  "Ah, that's it, is it?" laughed Svidrigailov. "Yes, I should have
been surprised if you had let that pass after all that has happened.
Ha-ha! Though I did understand something of the pranks you had been up
to and were telling Sofya Semyonovna about, what was the meaning of
it? Perhaps I am quite behind the times and can't understand. For
goodness' sake, explain it, my dear boy. Expound the latest theories!"
  "You couldn't have heard anything. You're making it all up!"
  "But I'm not talking about that (though I did hear something). No,
I'm talking of the way you keep sighing and groaning now. The Schiller
in you is in revolt every moment, and now you tell me not to listen at
doors. If that's how you feel, go and inform the police that you had
this mischance; you made a little mistake in your theory. But if you
are convinced that one mustn't listen at doors, but one may murder old
women at one's pleasure, you'd better be off to America and make
haste. Run, young man! There may still be time. I'm speaking
sincerely. Haven't you the money? I'll give you the fare."
  "I'm not thinking of that at all," Raskolnikov interrupted with
  "I understand (but don't put yourself out, don't discuss it if you
don't want to). I understand the questions you are worrying over-
moral ones, aren't they? Duties of citizen and man? Lay them all
aside. They are nothing to you now, ha-ha! You'll say you are still
a man and a citizen. If so you ought not to have got into this coil.
It's no use taking up a job you are not fit for. Well, you'd better
shoot yourself, or don't you want to?"
  "You seem trying to enrage me, to make me leave you."
  "What a queer fellow! But here we are. Welcome to the staircase. You
see, that's the way to Sofya Semyonovna. Look, there is no one at
home. Don't you believe me? Ask Kapernaumov. She leaves the key with
him. Here is Madame de Kapernaumov herself. Hey, what? She is rather
deaf. Has she gone out? Where? Did you hear? She is not in and won't
be till late in the evening probably. Well, come to my room; you
wanted to come and see me, didn't you? Here we are. Madame
Resslich's not at home. She is a woman who is always busy, an
excellent woman I assure you.... She might have been of use to you
if you had been a little more sensible. Now, see! I take this five per
cent. bond out of the bureau- see what a lot I've got of them still-
this one will be turned into cash to-day. I mustn't waste any more
time. The bureau is locked, the flat is locked, and here we are
again on the stairs. Shall we take a cab? I'm going to the Islands.
Would you like a lift? I'll take this carriage. Ah, you refuse? You
are tired of it! Come for a drive! I believe it will come on to
rain. Never mind, we'll put down the hood...."
  Svidrigailov was already in the carriage. Raskolnikov decided that
his suspicions were at least for that moment unjust. Without answering
a word he turned and walked back towards the Hay Market. If he had
only turned round on his way he might have seen Svidrigailov get out
not a hundred paces off, dismiss the cab and walk along the
pavement. But he had turned the corner and could see nothing.
Intense disgust drew him away from Svidrigailov.
  "To think that I could for one instant have looked for help from
that coarse brute, that depraved sensualist and blackguard!" he cried.
  Raskolnikov's judgment was uttered too lightly and hastily: there
was something about Svidrigailov which gave him a certain original,
even a mysterious character. As concerned his sister, Raskolnikov
was convinced that Svidrigailov would not leave her in peace. But it
was too tiresome and unbearable to go on thinking and thinking about
  When he was alone, he had not gone twenty paces before he sank, as
usual, into deep thought. On the bridge he stood by the railing and
began gazing at the water. And his sister was standing close by him.
  He met her at the entrance to the bridge, but passed by without
seeing her. Dounia had never met him like this in the street before
and was struck with dismay. She stood still and did not know whether
to call to him or not. Suddenly she saw Svidrigailov coming quickly
from the direction of the Hay Market.
  He seemed to be approaching cautiously. He did not go on to the
bridge, but stood aside on the pavement, doing all he could to avoid
Raskolnikov's seeing him. He had observed Dounia for some time and had
been making signs to her. She fancied he was signalling to beg her not
to speak to her brother, but to come to him.
  That was what Dounia did. She stole by her brother and went up to
  "Let us make haste away," Svidrigailov whispered to her, "I don't
want Rodion Romanovitch to know of our meeting. I must tell you I've
been sitting with him in the restaurant close by, where he looked me
up and I had great difficulty in getting rid of him. He has somehow
heard of my letter to you and suspects something. It wasn't you who
told him, of course, but if not you, who then?"
  "Well, we've turned the corner now," Dounia interrupted, "and my
brother won't see us. I have to tell you that I am going no further
with you. Speak to me here. You can tell it all in the street."
  "In the first place, I can't say it in the street; secondly, you
must hear Sofya Semyonovna too; and, thirdly, I will show you some
papers.... Oh well, if you won't agree to come with me, I shall refuse
to give any explanation and go away at once. But I beg you not to
forget that a very curious secret of your beloved brother's is
entirely in my keeping."
  Dounia stood still, hesitating, and looked at Svidrigailov with
searching eyes.
  "What are you afraid of?" he observed quietly. "The town is not
the country. And even in the country you did me more harm than I did
  "Have you prepared Sofya Semyonovna?"
  "No, I have not said a word to her and am not quite certain
whether she is at home now. But most likely she is. She has buried her
stepmother to-day: she is not likely to go visiting on such a day. For
the time I don't want to speak to any one about it and I half regret
having spoken to you. The slightest indiscretion is as bad as betrayal
in a thing like this. I live there in that house, we are coming to it.
That's the porter of our house- he knows me very well; you see, he's
bowing; he sees I'm coming with a lady and no doubt he has noticed
your face already and you will be glad of that if you are afraid of me
and suspicious. Excuse my putting things so coarsely. I haven't a flat
to myself; Sofya Semyonovna's room is next to mine- she lodges in
the next flat. The whole floor is let out in lodgings. Why are you
frightened like a child? Am I really so terrible?"
  Svidrigailov's lips were twisted in a condescending smile; but he
was in no smiling mood. His heart was throbbing and he could
scarcely breathe. He spoke rather loud to cover his growing
excitement. But Dounia did not notice this peculiar excitement, she
was so irritated by his remark that she was frightened of him like a
child and that he was so terrible to her.
  "Though I know that you are not a man... of honour, I am not in
the least afraid of you. Lead the way," she said with apparent
composure, but her face was very pale.
  Svidrigailov stopped at Sonia's room.
  "Allow me to inquire whether she is at home.... She is not. How
unfortunate! But I know she may come quite soon. If she's gone out, it
can only be to see a lady about the orphans. Their mother is
dead.... I've been meddling and making arrangements for them. If Sofya
Semyonovna does not come back in ten minutes, I will send her to
you, to-day if you like. This is my flat. These are my two rooms.
Madame Resslich, my landlady, has the next room. Now, look this way. I
will show you my chief piece of evidence: this door from my bedroom
leads into two perfectly empty rooms, which are to let. Here they
are... You must look into them with some attention."
  Svidrigailov occupied two fairly large furnished rooms. Dounia was
looking about her mistrustfully, but saw nothing special in the
furniture or position of the rooms. Yet there was something to
observe, for instance, that Svidrigailov's flat was exactly between
two sets of almost uninhabited apartments. His rooms were not
entered directly from the passage, but through the landlady's two
almost empty rooms. Unlocking a door leading out of his bedroom,
Svidrigailov showed Dounia the two empty rooms that were to let.
Dounia stopped in the doorway, not knowing what she was called to look
upon, but Svidrigailov hastened to explain.
  "Look here, at this second large room. Notice that door, it's
locked. By the door stands a chair, the only one in the two rooms. I
brought it from my rooms so as to listen more conveniently. Just the
other side of the door is Sofya Semyonovna's table; she sat there
talking to Rodion Romanovitch. And I sat here listening on two
successive evenings, for two hours each time- and of course I was able
to learn something, what do you think?"
  "You listened?"
  "Yes, I did. Now come back to my room; we can't sit down here."
  He brought Avdotya Romanovna back into his sitting-room and
offered her a chair. He sat down at the opposite side of the table, at
least seven feet from her, but probably there was the same glow in his
eyes which had once frightened Dounia so much. She shuddered and
once more looked about her distrustfully. It was an involuntary
gesture; she evidently did not wish to betray her uneasiness. But
the secluded position of Svidrigailov's lodging had suddenly struck
her. She wanted to ask whether his landlady at least were at home, but
pride kept her from asking. Moreover, she had another trouble in her
heart incomparably greater than fear for herself. She was in great
  "Here is your letter," she said, laying it on the table. "Can it
be true what you write? You hint at a crime committed, you say, by
my brother. You hint at it too clearly; you daren't deny it now. I
must tell you that I'd heard of this stupid story before you wrote and
don't believe a word of it. It's a disgusting and ridiculous
suspicion. I know the story and why and how it was invented. You can
have no proofs. You promised to prove it. Speak! But let me warn you
that I don't believe you! I don't believe you!"
  Dounia said this, speaking hurriedly, and for an instant the
colour rushed to her face.
  "If you didn't believe it, how could you risk coming alone to my
rooms? Why have you come? Simply from curiosity?"
  "Don't torment me. Speak, speak!"
  "There's no denying that you are a brave girl. Upon my word, I
thought you would have asked Mr. Razumihin to escort you here. But
he was not with you nor anywhere near. I was on the look-out. It's
spirited of you, it proves you wanted to spare Rodion Romanovitch. But
everything is divine in you.... About your brother, what am I to say
to you? You've just seen him yourself. What did you think of him?"
  "Surely that's not the only thing you are building on?"
  "No, not on that, but on his own words. He came here on two
successive evenings to see Sofya Semyonovna. I've shown you where they
sat. He made a full confession to her. He is a murderer. He killed
an old woman, a pawnbroker, with whom he had pawned things himself. He
killed her sister too, a pedlar woman called Lizaveta, who happened to
come in while he was murdering her sister. He killed them with an
axe he brought with him. He murdered them to rob them and he did rob
them. He took money and various things.... He told all this, word
for word, to Sofya Semyonovna, the only person who knows his secret.
But she has had no share by word or deed in the murder; she was as
horrified at it as you are now. Don't be anxious, she won't betray
  "It cannot be," muttered Dounia, with white lips. She gasped for
breath. "It cannot be. There was not the slightest cause, no sort of
ground.... It's a lie, a lie!"
  "He robbed her, that was the cause, he took money and things. It's
true that by his own admission he made no use of the money or
things, but hid them under a stone, where they are now. But that was
because he dared not make use of them."
  "But how could he steal, rob? How could he dream of it?" cried
Dounia, and she jumped up from the chair. "Why, you know him, and
you've seen him, can he be a thief?"
  She seemed to be imploring Svidrigailov; she had entirely
forgotten her fear.
  "There are thousands and millions of combinations and possibilities,
Avdotya Romanovna. A thief steals and knows he is a scoundrel, but
I've heard of a gentleman who broke open the mail. Who knows, very
likely he thought he was doing a gentlemanly thing! Of course I should
not have believed it myself if I'd been told of it as you have, but
I believe my own ears. He explained all the causes of it to Sofya
Semyonovna too, but she did not believe her ears at first, yet she
believed her own eyes at last."
  "What... were the causes?"
  "It's a long story, Avdotya Romanovna. Here's... how shall I tell
you?- A theory of a sort, the same one by which I for instance
consider that a single misdeed is permissible if the principal aim
is right, a solitary wrongdoing and hundreds of good deeds! It's
galling too, of course, for a young man of gifts and overweening pride
to know that if he had, for instance, a paltry three thousand, his
whole career, his whole future would be differently shaped and yet not
to have that three thousand. Add to that, nervous irritability from
hunger, from lodging in a hole, from rags, from a vivid sense of the
charm of his social position and his sister's and mother's position
too. Above all, vanity, pride and vanity, though goodness knows he may
have good qualities too.... I am not blaming him, please don't think
it; besides, it's not my business. A special little theory came in
too- a theory of a sort- dividing mankind, you see, into material
and superior persons, that is persons to whom the law does not apply
owing to their superiority, who make laws for the rest of mankind, the
material, that is. It's all right as a theory, une theorie comme une
autre. Napoleon attracted him tremendously, that is, what affected him
was that a great many men of genius have not hesitated at
wrongdoing, but have overstepped the law without thinking about it. He
seems to have fancied that he was a genius too- that is, he was
convinced of it for a time. He has suffered a great deal and is
still suffering from the idea that he could make a theory, but was
incapable of boldly overstepping the law, and so he is not a man of
genius. And that's humiliating for a young man of any pride, in our
day especially...."
  "But remorse? You deny him any moral feeling then? Is he like that?"
  "Ah, Avdotya Romanovna, everything is in a muddle now; not that it
was ever in very good order. Russians in general are broad in their
ideas, Avdotya Romanovna, broad like their land and exceedingly
disposed to the fantastic, the chaotic. But it's a misfortune to be
broad without a special genius. Do you remember what a lot of talk
we had together on this subject, sitting in the evenings on the
terrace after supper? Why, you used to reproach me with breadth! Who
knows, perhaps we were talking at the very time when he was lying here
thinking over his plan. There are no sacred traditions amongst us,
especially in the educated class, Avdotya Romanovna. At the best
some one will make them up somehow for himself out of books or from
some old chronicle. But those are for the most part the learned and
all old fogeys, so that it would be almost ill-bred in a man of
society. You know my opinions in general, though. I never blame any
one. I do nothing at all, I persevere in that. But we've talked of
this more than once before. I was so happy indeed as to interest you
in my opinions.... You are very pale, Avdotya Romanovna."
  "I know his theory. I read that article of his about men to whom all
is permitted. Razumihin brought it to me."
  "Mr. Razumihin? Your brother's article? In a magazine? Is there such
an article? I didn't know. It must be interesting. But where are you
going, Avdotya Romanovna?"
  "I want to see Sofya Semyonovna," Dounia articulated faintly. "How
do I go to her? She has come in, perhaps. I must see her at once.
Perhaps she..."
  Avdotya Romanovna could not finish. Her breath literally failed her.
  "Sofya Semyonovna will not be back till night, at least I believe
not. She was to have been back at once, but if not, then she will
not be in till quite late."
  "Ah, then you are lying! I see... you were lying... lying all the
time.... I don't believe you! I don't believe you!" cried Dounia,
completely losing her head.
  Almost fainting, she sank on to a chair which Svidrigailov made
haste to give her.
  "Avdotya Romanovna, what is it? Control yourself! Here is some
water. Drink a little...."
  He sprinkled some water over her. Dounia shuddered and came to
  "It has acted violently," Svidrigailov muttered to himself,
frowning. "Avdotya Romanovna, calm yourself! Believe me, he has
friends. We will save him. Would you like me to take him abroad? I
have money, I can get a ticket in three days. And as for the murder,
he will do all sorts of good deeds yet, to atone for it. Calm
yourself. He may become a great man yet. Well, how are you? How do you
  "Cruel man! To be able to jeer at it! Let me go..."
  "Where are you going?"
  "To him. Where is he? Do you know? Why is this door locked? We
came in at that door and now it is locked. When did you manage to lock
  "We couldn't be shouting all over the flat on such a subject. I am
far from jeering; it's simply that I'm sick of talking like this.
But how can you go in such a state? Do you want to betray him? You
will drive him to fury, and he will give himself up. Let me tell
you, he is already being watched; they are already on his track. You
will simply be giving him away. Wait a little: I saw him and was
talking to him just now. He can still be saved. Wait a bit, sit
down; let us think it over together. I asked you to come in order to
discuss it alone with you and to consider it thoroughly. But do sit
  "How can you save him? Can he really be saved?"
  Dounia sat down. Svidrigailov sat down beside her.
  "It all depends on you, on you, on you alone," he begin with glowing
eyes, almost in a whisper and hardly able to utter the words for
  Dounia drew back from him in alarm. He too was trembling all over.
  "You... one word from you, and he is saved. I.... I'll save him. I
have money and friends. I'll send him away at once. I'll get a
passport, two passports, one for him and one for me. I have friends...
capable people.... If you like, I'll take a passport for you... for
your mother.... What do you want with Razumihin? I love you too....
I love you beyond everything.... Let me kiss the hem of your dress,
let me, let me.... The very rustle of it is too much for me. Tell
me, 'do that,' and I'll do it. I'll do everything. I will do the
impossible. What you believe, I will believe. I'll do anything-
anything! Don't, don't look at me like that. Do you know that you
are killing me?..."
  He was almost beginning to rave.... Something seemed suddenly to
go to his head. Dounia jumped up and rushed to the door.
  "Open it! Open it!" she called, shaking the door. "Open it! Is there
no one there?"
  Svidrigailov got up and came to himself. His still trembling lips
slowly broke into an angry mocking smile.
  "There is no one at home," he said quietly and emphatically. "The
landlady has gone out, and it's waste of time to shout like that.
You are only exciting yourself uselessly."
  "Where is the key? Open the door at once, at once, base man!"
  "I have lost the key and cannot find it."
  "This is an outrage," cried Dounia, turning pale as death. She
rushed to the furthest corner, where she made haste to barricade
herself with a little table.
  She did not scream, but she fixed her eyes on her tormentor and
watched every movement he made.
  Svidrigailov remained standing at the other end of the room facing
her. He was positively composed, at least in appearance, but his
face was pale as before. The mocking smile did not leave his face.
  "You spoke of outrage just now, Avdotya Romanovna. In that case
you may be sure I've taken measures. Sofya Semyonovna is not at
home. The Kapernaumovs are far away- there are five locked rooms
between. I am at least twice as strong as you are and I have nothing
to fear, besides. For you could not complain afterwards. You surely
would not be willing actually to betray your brother? Besides, no
one would believe you. How should a girl have come alone to visit a
solitary man in his lodgings? So that even if you do sacrifice your
brother, you could prove nothing. It is very difficult to prove an
assault, Avdotya Romanovna."
  "Scoundrel!" whispered Dounia indignantly.
  "As you like, but observe I was only speaking by way of a general
proposition. It's my personal conviction that you are perfectly right-
violence is hateful. I only spoke to show you that you need have no
remorse even if... you were willing to save your brother of your own
accord, as I suggest to you. You would be simply submitting to
circumstances, to violence, in fact, if we must use that word. Think
about it. Your brother's and your mother's fate are in your hands. I
will be your slave... all my life... I will wait here."
  Svidrigailov sat down on the sofa about eight steps from Dounia. She
had not the slightest doubt now of his unbending determination.
Besides, she knew him. Suddenly she pulled out of her pocket a
revolver, cocked it and laid it in her hand on the table. Svidrigailov
jumped up.
  "Aha! So that's it, is it?" he cried, surprised but smiling
maliciously. "Well, that completely alters the aspect of affairs.
You've made things wonderfully easier for me, Avdotya Romanovna. But
where did you get the revolver? Was it Mr. Razumihin? Why, it's my
revolver, an old friend! And how I've hunted for it! The shooting
lessons I've given you in the country have not been thrown away."
  "It's not your revolver, it belonged to Marfa Petrovna, whom you
killed, wretch! There was nothing of yours in her house. I took it
when I began to suspect what you were capable of. If you dare to
advance one step, I swear I'll kill you." She was frantic.
  "But your brother? I ask from curiosity," said Svidrigailov, still
standing where he was.
  "Inform, if you want to! Don't stir! Don't come nearer! I'll
shoot! You poisoned your wife, I know; you are a murderer yourself!"
She held the revolver ready.
  "Are you so positive I poisoned Marfa Petrovna?"
  "You did! You hinted it yourself! you talked to me of poison.... I
know you went to get it... you had it in readiness.... It was your
doing.... It must have been your doing.... Scoundrel!"
  "Even if that were true, it would have been for your sake... you
would have been the cause."
  "You are lying! I hated you always, always...."
  "Oho, Avdotya Romanovna! You seem to have forgotten how you softened
to me in the heat of propaganda. I saw it in your eyes. Do you
remember that moonlight night, when the nightingale was singing?"
  "That's a lie," there was a flash of fury in Dounia's eyes,
"that's a lie and a libel!"


Re: Достоевский Ф. М. - Преступление и наказание в переводе на английский

"A lie? Well, if you like, it's a lie. I made it up. Women ought not
to be reminded of such things," he smiled. "I know you will shoot, you
pretty wild creature. Well, shoot away!"
  Dounia raised the revolver, and deadly pale, gazed at him, measuring
the distance and awaiting the first movement on his part. Her lower
lip was white and quivering and her big black eyes flashed like
fire. He had never seen her so handsome. The fire glowing in her
eyes at the moment she raised the revolver seemed to kindle him and
there was a pang of anguish in his heart. He took a step forward and a
shot rang out. The bullet grazed his hair and flew into the wall
behind. He stood still and laughed softly.
  "The wasp has stung me. She aimed straight at my head. What's
this? Blood?" he pulled out his handkerchief to wipe the blood,
which flowed in a thin stream down his right temple. The bullet seemed
to have just grazed the skin.
  Dounia lowered the revolver and looked at Svidrigailov not so much
in terror as in a sort of wild amazement. She seemed not to understand
what she was doing and what was going on.
  "Well, you missed! Fire again, I'll wait," said Svidrigailov softly,
still smiling, but gloomily. "If you go on like that, I shall have
time to seize you before you cock again."
  Dounia started, quickly cocked the pistol and again raised it.
  "Let me be," she cried in despair. "I swear I'll shoot again. I...
I'll kill you."
  "Well... at three paces you can hardly help it. But if you
don't... then." His eyes flashed and he took two steps forward. Dounia
shot again: it missed fire.
  "You haven't loaded it properly. Never mind, you have another charge
there. Get it ready, I'll wait."
  He stood facing her, two paces away, waiting and gazing at her
with wild determination, with feverishly passionate, stubborn, set
eyes. Dounia saw that he would sooner die than let her go. "And...
now, of course she would kill him, at two paces!" Suddenly she flung
away the revolver.
  "She's dropped it!" said Svidrigailov with surprise, and he drew a
deep breath. A weight seemed to have rolled from his heart- perhaps
not only the fear of death; indeed he may scarcely have felt it at
that moment. It was the deliverance from another feeling, darker and
more bitter, which he could not himself have defined.
  He went to Dounia and gently put his arm round her waist. She did
not resist, but, trembling like a leaf, looked at him with suppliant
eyes. He tried to say something, but his lips moved without being able
to utter a sound.
  "Let me go," Dounia implored. Svidrigailov shuddered. Her voice
now was quite different.
  "Then you don't love me?" he asked softly. Dounia shook her head.
  "And... and you can't? Never?" he whispered in despair.
  There followed a moment of terrible, dumb struggle in the heart of
Svidrigailov. He looked at her with an indescribable gaze. Suddenly he
withdrew his arm, turned quickly to the window and stood facing it.
Another moment passed.
  "Here's the key."
  He took it out of the left pocket of his coat and laid it on the
table behind him, without turning or looking at Dounia.
  "Take it! Make haste!"
  He looked stubbornly out of the window. Dounia went up to the
table to take the key.
  "Make haste! Make haste!" repeated Svidrigailov, still without
turning or moving. But there seemed a terrible significance in the
tone of that "make haste."
  Dounia understood it, snatched up the key, flew to the door,
unlocked it quickly and rushed out of the room. A minute later, beside
herself, she ran out on to the canal bank in the direction of X.
  Svidrigailov remained three minutes standing at the window. At
last he slowly turned, looked about him and passed his hand over his
forehead. A strange smile contorted his face, a pitiful, sad, weak
smile, a smile of despair. The blood, which was already getting dry,
smeared his hand. He looked angrily at it, then wetted a towel and
washed his temple. The revolver which Dounia had flung away lay near
the door and suddenly caught his eye. He picked it up and examined it.
It was a little pocket three-barrel revolver of old-fashioned
construction. There were still two charges and one capsule left in it.
It could be fired again. He thought a little, put the revolver in
his pocket, took his hat and went out.

                             Chapter Six
  HE SPENT that evening till ten o'clock, going from one low haunt
to another. Katia too turned up and sang another gutter song, how a
certain "villain and tyrant"
                        "began kissing Katia."
  Svidrigailov treated Katia and the organ-grinder and some singers
and the waiters and two little clerks. He was particularly drawn to
these clerks by the fact that they both had crooked noses, one bent to
the left and the other to the right. They took him finally to a
pleasure garden, where he paid for their entrance. There was one lanky
three-year-old pine tree and three bushes in the garden, besides a
"Vauxhall," which was in reality a drinking-bar where tea too was
served, and there were a few green tables and chairs standing round
it. A chorus of wretched singers and a drunken, but exceedingly
depressed German clown from Munich with a red nose entertained the
public. The clerks quarreled with some other clerks and a fight seemed
imminent. Svidrigailov was chosen to decide the dispute. He listened
to them for a quarter of an hour, but they shouted so loud that
there was no possibility of understanding them. The only fact that
seemed certain was that one of them had stolen something and had
even succeeded in selling it on the spot to a Jew, but would not share
the spoil with his companion. Finally it appeared that the stolen
object was a teaspoon belonging to the Vauxhall. It was missed and the
affair began to seem troublesome. Svidrigailov paid for the spoon, got
up, and walked out of the garden. It was about six o'clock. He had not
drunk a drop of wine all this time and had ordered tea more for the
sake of appearances than anything.
  It was a dark and stifling evening. Threatening storm-clouds came
over the sky about ten o'clock. There was a clap of thunder, and the
rain came down like a waterfall. The water fell not in drops, but beat
on the earth in streams. There were flashes of lightning every
minute and each flash lasted while one could count five.
  Drenched to the skin, he went home, locked himself in, opened the
bureau, took out all his money and tore up two or three papers.
Then, putting the money in his pocket, he was about to change his
clothes, but, looking out of the window and listening to the thunder
and the rain, he gave up the idea, took up his hat and went out of the
room without locking the door. He went straight to Sonia. She was at
  She was not alone: the four Kapernaumov children were with her.
She was giving them tea. She received Svidrigailov in respectful
silence, looking wonderingly at his soaking clothes. The children
all ran away at once in indescribable terror.
  Svidrigailov sat down at the table and asked Sonia to sit beside
him. She timidly prepared to listen.
  "I may be going to America, Sofya Semyonovna," said Svidrigailov,
"and as I am probably seeing you for the last time, I have come to
make some arrangements. Well, did you see the lady to-day? I know what
she said to you, you need not tell me." (Sonia made a movement and
blushed.) "Those people have their own way of doing things. As to your
sisters and your brother, they are really provided for and the money
assigned to them I've put into safe keeping and have received
acknowledgments. You had better take charge of the receipts, in case
anything happens. Here, take them! Well, now that's settled. Here
are three 5 per cent. bonds to the value of three thousand roubles.
Take those for yourself, entirely for yourself, and let that be
strictly between ourselves, so that no one knows of it, whatever you
hear. You will need the money, for to go on living in the old way,
Sofya Semyonovna, is bad, and besides there is no need for it now."
  "I am so much indebted to you, and so are the children and my
stepmother," said Sonia hurriedly, "and if I've said so little...
please don't consider..."
  "That's enough! that's enough!"
  "But as for the money, Arkady Ivanovitch, I am very grateful to you,
but I don't need it now. I can always earn my own living. Don't
think me ungrateful. If you are so charitable, that money...."
  "It's for you, for you, Sofya Semyonovna, and please don't waste
words over it. I haven't time for it. You will want it. Rodion
Romanovitch has two alternatives: a bullet in the brain or Siberia."
(Sonia looked wildly at him, and started.) "Don't be uneasy, I know
all about it from himself and I am not a gossip; I won't tell any one.
It was good advice when you told him to give himself up and confess.
It would be much better for him. Well, if it turns out to be
Siberia, he will go and you will follow him. That's so, isn't it?
And if so, you'll need money. You'll need it for him, do you
understand? Giving it to you is the same as my giving it to him.
Besides, you promised Amalia Ivanovna to pay what's owing. I heard
you. How can you undertake such obligations so heedlessly, Sofya
Semyonovna? It was Katerina Ivanovna's debt and not yours, so you
ought not to have taken any notice of the German woman. You can't
get through the world like that. If you are ever questioned about
me- to-morrow or the day after you will be asked- don't say anything
about my coming to see you now and don't show the money to any one
or say a word about it. Well, now good-bye." (He got up.) "My
greetings to Rodion Romanovitch. By the way, you'd better put the
money for the present in Mr. Razumihin's keeping. You know Mr.
Razumihin? Of course you do. He's not a bad fellow. Take it to him
to-morrow or... when the time comes. And till then, hide it
  Sonia too jumped up from her chair and looked in dismay at
Svidrigailov. She longed to speak, to ask a question, but for the
first moments she did not dare and did not know how to begin.
  "How can you... how can you be going now, in such rain?"
  "Why, be starting for America, and be stopped by rain! Ha, ha!
Good-bye, Sofya Semyonovna, my dear! Live and live long, you will be
of use to others. By the way... tell Mr. Razumihin I send my greetings
to him. Tell him Arkady Ivanovitch Svidrigailov sends his greetings.
Be sure to."
  He went out, leaving Sonia in a state of wondering anxiety and vague
  It appeared afterwards that on the same evening, at twenty past
eleven, he made another very eccentric and unexpected visit. The
rain still persisted. Drenched to the skin, he walked into the
little flat where the parents of his betrothed lived, in Third
Street in Vassilyevsky Island. He knocked some time before he was
admitted, and his visit at first caused great perturbation; but
Svidrigailov could be very fascinating when he liked, so that the
first, and indeed very intelligent surmise of the sensible parents
that Svidrigailov had probably had so much to drink that he did not
know what he was doing vanished immediately. The decrepit father was
wheeled in to see Svidrigailov by the tender and sensible mother,
who as usual began the conversation with various irrelevant questions.
She never asked a direct question, but began by smiling and rubbing
her hands and then, if she were obliged to ascertain something- for
instance, when Svidrigailov would like to have the wedding- she
would begin by interested and almost eager questions about Paris and
the court life there, and only by degrees brought the conversation
round to Third Street. On other occasions this had of course been very
impressive, but this time Arkady Ivanovitch seemed particularly
impatient, and insisted on seeing his betrothed at once, though he had
been informed to begin with that she had already gone to bed. The girl
of course appeared.
  Svidrigailov informed her at once that he was obliged by very
important affairs to leave Petersburg for a time, and therefore
brought her fifteen thousand roubles and begged her accept them as a
present from him, as he had long been intending to make her this
trifling present before their wedding. The logical connection of the
present with his immediate departure and the absolute necessity of
visiting them for that purpose in pouring rain at midnight was not
made clear. But it all went off very well; even the inevitable
ejaculations of wonder and regret, the inevitable questions were
extraordinarily few and restrained. On the other hand, the gratitude
expressed was most glowing and was reinforced by tears from the most
sensible of mothers. Svidrigailov got up, laughed, kissed his
betrothed, patted her cheek, declared he would soon come back, and
noticing in her eyes, together with childish curiosity, a sort of
earnest dumb inquiry, reflected and kissed her again, though he felt
sincere anger inwardly at the thought that his present would be
immediately locked up in the keeping of the most sensible of
mothers. He went away, leaving them all in a state of extraordinary
excitement, but the tender mamma, speaking quietly in a half
whisper, settled some of the most important of their doubts,
concluding that Svidrigailov was a great man, a man of great affairs
and connections and of great wealth- there was no knowing what he
had in his mind. He would start off on a journey and give away money
just as the fancy took him, so that there was nothing surprising about
it. Of course it was strange that he was wet through, but
Englishmen, for instance, are even more eccentric, and all these
people of high society didn't think of what was said of them and
didn't stand on ceremony. Possibly, indeed, he came like that on
purpose to show that he was not afraid of any one. Above all, not a
word should be said about it, for God knows what might come of it, and
the money must be locked up, and it was most fortunate that Fedosya,
the cook, had not left the kitchen. And above all not a word must be
said to that old cat, Madame Resslich, and so on and so on. They sat
up whispering till two o'clock, but the girl went to bed much earlier,
amazed and rather sorrowful.
  Svidrigailov meanwhile, exactly at midnight, crossed the bridge on
the way back to the mainland. The rain had ceased and there was a
roaring wind. He began shivering, and for one moment he gazed at the
black waters of the Little Neva with a look of special interest,
even inquiry. But he soon felt it very cold, standing by the water; he
turned and went towards Y. Prospect. He walked along that endless
street for a long time, almost half an hour, more than once
stumbling in the dark on the wooden pavement, but continually
looking for something on the right side of the street. He had
noticed passing through this street lately that there was a hotel
somewhere towards the end, built of wood, but fairly large. and its
name he remembered was something like Adrianople. He was not mistaken:
the hotel was so conspicuous in that God-forsaken place that he
could not fail to see it even in the dark. It was a long, blackened
wooden building, and in spite of the late hour there were lights in
the windows and signs of life within. He went in and asked a ragged
fellow who met him in the corridor for a room. The latter, scanning
Svidrigailov, pulled himself together and led him at once to a close
and tiny room in the distance, at the end of the corridor, under the
stairs. There was no other, all were occupied. The ragged fellow
looked inquiringly.
  "Is there tea?" asked Svidrigailov.
  "Yes, sir."
  "What else is there?"
  "Veal, vodka, savouries."
  "Bring me tea and veal."
  "And you want nothing else?" he asked with apparent surprise.
  "Nothing, nothing."
  The ragged man went away, completely disillusioned.
  "It must be a nice place," thought Svidrigailov. "How was it I
didn't know it? I expect I look as if I came from a cafe chantant
and have had some adventure on the way. It would be interesting to
know who stayed here."
  He lighted the candle and looked at the room more carefully. It
was a room so low-pitched that Svidrigailov could not only just
stand up in it; it had one window; the bed, which was very dirty,
and the plain stained chair and table almost filled it up. The walls
looked as though they were made of planks, covered with shabby
paper, so torn and dusty that the pattern was indistinguishable,
though the general colour- yellow- could still be made out. One of the
walls was cut short by the sloping ceiling, though the room was not an
attic, but just under the stairs.
  Svidrigailov set down the candle, sat down on the bed and sank
into thought. But a strange persistent murmur which sometimes rose
to a shout in the next room attracted his attention. The murmur had
not ceased from the moment he entered the room. He listened: some
one was upbraiding and almost tearfully scolding, but he heard only
one voice.
  Svidrigailov got up, shaded the light with his hand and at once he
saw light through a crack in the wall; he went up and peeped
through. The room, which was somewhat larger than his, had two
occupants. One of them, a very curly-headed man with a red inflamed
face, was standing in the pose of an orator, without his coat, with
his legs wide apart to preserve his balance, and smiting himself on
the breast. He reproached the other with being a beggar, with having
no standing whatever. He declared that he had taken the other out of
the gutter and he could turn him out when he liked, and that only
the finger of Providence sees it all. The object of his reproaches was
sitting in a chair, and had the air of a man who wants dreadfully to
sneeze, but can't. He sometimes turned sheepish and befogged eyes on
the speaker, but obviously had not the slightest idea what he was
talking about and scarcely heard it. A candle was burning down on
the table; there were wine glasses, a nearly empty bottle of vodka,
bread and cucumber, and glasses with the dregs of stale tea. After
gazing attentively at this, Svidrigailov turned away indifferently and
sat down on the bed.
  The ragged attendant, returning with the tea, could not resist
asking him again whether he didn't want anything more, and again
receiving a negative reply, finally withdrew. Svidrigailov made
haste to drink a glass of tea to warm himself, but could not eat
anything. He began to feel feverish. He took off his coat and,
wrapping himself in the blanket, lay down on the bed. He was
annoyed. "It would have been better to be well for the occasion," he
thought with a smile. The room was close, the candle burnt dimly,
the wind was roaring outside, he heard a mouse scratching in the
corner and the room smelt of mice and of leather. He lay in a sort
of reverie: one thought followed another. He felt a longing to fix his
imagination on something. "It must be a garden under the window," he
thought. "There's a sound of trees. How I dislike the sound of trees
on a stormy night, in the dark! They give one a horrid feeling." He
remembered how he had disliked it when he passed Petrovsky Park just
now. This reminded him of the bridge over the Little Neva and he
felt cold again as he had when standing there. "I never have liked
water," he thought, "even in a landscape," and he suddenly smiled
again at a strange idea: "Surely now all these questions of taste
and comfort ought not to matter, but I've become more particular, like
an animal that picks out a special place... for such an occasion. I
ought to have gone into the Petrovsky Park! I suppose it seemed
dark, cold, ha-ha! As though I were seeking pleasant sensations!... By
the way, why haven't I put out the candle?" he blew it out. "They've
gone to bed next door," he thought, not seeing the light at the crack.
"Well, now, Marfa Petrovna, now is the time for you to turn up; it's
dark, and the very time and place for you. But now you won't come!"
  He suddenly recalled how, an hour before carrying out his design
on Dounia, he had recommended Raskolnikov to trust her to
Razumihin's keeping. "I suppose I really did say it, as Raskolnikov
guessed, to tease myself. But what a rogue that Raskolnikov is! He's
gone through a good deal. He may be a successful rogue in time when
he's got over his nonsense. But now he's too eager for life. These
young men 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 any one, I never
particularly desired to revenge 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 any one 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 great coat 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
  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
  "Nothing, brother, good morning," answered Svidrigailov.
  "This isn't the place."
  "I am going to foreign parts, brother."
  "To foreign parts?"
  "To 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 Seven
  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
  "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 an 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
  "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 every
one, 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
  "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 fulness 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 any one, 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?"
  "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?"
  "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
  "Not for ever, it's not yet for ever? You'll come, you'll come
  "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 any one till then.
Going up the stairs he noticed that Nastasya rushed from the samovar
to watch him intently. "Can any one 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 once for all, and several times I walked by the Neva, I
remember that I wanted to end it all there, but... I couldn't make
up my mind," he whispered, looking at her mistrustfully again.
  "Thank God! That was just what we were afraid of, Sofya Semyonovna
and I. Then you still have faith in life? Thank God, thank God!"
  Raskolnikov smiled bitterly.
  "I haven't faith, but I have just been weeping in mother's arms; I
haven't faith, but I have just asked her to pray for me. I don't
know how it is, Dounia, I don't understand it."
  "Have you been at mother's? Have you told her?" cried Dounia,
horror-stricken. "Surely you haven't done that?"
  "No, I didn't tell her... in words; but she understood a great deal.
She heard you talking in your sleep. I am sure she half understands it
already. Perhaps I did wrong in going to see her. I don't know why I
did go. I am a contemptible person, Dounia."
  "A contemptible person, but ready to face suffering! You are, aren't
  "Yes, I am going. At once. Yes, to escape the disgrace I thought
of drowning myself, Dounia, but as I looked into the water, I
thought that if I had considered myself strong till now I'd better not
be afraid of disgrace," he said, hurrying on. "It's pride, Dounia."
  "Pride, Rodya."
  There was a gleam of fire in his lustreless eyes; he seemed to be
glad to think that he was still proud.
  "You don't think, sister, that I was simply afraid of the water?" he
asked, looking into her face with a sinister smile.
  "Oh, Rodya, hush!" cried Dounia bitterly. Silence lasted for two
minutes. He sat with his eyes fixed on the floor; Dounia stood at
the other end of the table and looked at him with anguish. Suddenly he
got up.
  "It's late, it's time to go! I am going at once to give myself up.
But I don't know why I am going to give myself up."
  Big tears fell down her cheeks.
  "You are crying, sister, but can you hold out your hand to me?"
  "You doubted it?"
  She threw her arms round him.
  "Aren't you half expiating your crime by facing the suffering!"
she cried, holding him close and kissing him.
  "Crime? What crime?" he cried in sudden fury. "That I killed a
vile noxious insect, an old pawnbroker woman, of use to no one!...
Killing her was atonement for forty sins. She was sucking the life out
of poor people. Was that a crime? I am not thinking of it and I am not
thinking of expiating it, and why are you all rubbing it in on all
sides? 'A crime! a crime!' Only now I see clearly the imbecility of my
cowardice, now that I have decided to face this superfluous
disgrace. It's simply because I am contemptible and have nothing in me
that I have decided to, perhaps too for my advantage, as that...
Porfiry... suggested!"
  "Brother, brother, what are you saying! Why, you have shed blood!"
cried Dounia in despair.
  "Which all men shed," he put in almost frantically, "which flows and
has always flowed in streams, which is spilt like champagne, and for
which men are crowned in the Capitol and are called afterwards
benefactors of mankind. Look into it more carefully and understand it!
I too wanted to do good to men and would have done hundreds, thousands
of good deeds to make up for that one piece of stupidity, not
stupidity even, simply clumsiness, for the idea was by no means so
stupid as it seems now that it has failed.... (Everything seems stupid
when it fails.) By that stupidity I only wanted to put myself into
an independent position, to take the first step, to obtain means,
and then everything would have been smoothed over by benefits
immeasurable in comparison.... But I... I couldn't carry out even
the first step, because I am contemptible, that's what's the matter!
And yet I won't look at it as you do. If I had succeeded I should have
been crowned with glory, but now I'm trapped."
  "But that's not so, not so! Brother, what are you saying."
  "Ah, it's not picturesque, not aesthetically attractive! I fail to
understand why bombarding people by regular siege is more
honourable. The fear of appearances is the first symptom of impotence.
I've never, never recognised this more clearly than now, and I am
further than ever from seeing that what I did was a crime. I've never,
never been stronger and more convinced than now."
  The colour had rushed into his pale exhausted face, but as he
uttered his last explanation, he happened to meet Dounia's eyes and he
saw such anguish in them that he could not help being checked. He felt
that he had any way made these two poor women miserable, that he was
any way the cause...
  "Dounia darling, if I am guilty forgive me (though I cannot be
forgiven if I am guilty). Good-bye! We won't dispute. It's time,
high time to go. Don't follow me, I beseech you, I have somewhere else
to go.... But you go at once and sit with mother. I entreat you to!
It's my last request of you. Don't leave her at all; I left her in a
state of anxiety, that she is not fit to bear; she will die or go
out of her mind. Be with her! Razumihin will be with you. I've been
talking to him.... Don't cry about me: I'll try to be honest and manly
all my life, even if I am a murderer. Perhaps I shall some day make
a name. I won't disgrace you, you will see; I'll still show.... Now
good-bye for the present," he concluded hurriedly, noticing again a
strange expression in Dounia's eyes at his last words and promises.
"Why are you crying? Don't cry, don't cry: we are not parting for
ever! Ah, yes! Wait a minute, I'd forgotten!"
  He went to the table, took up a thick dusty book, opened it and took
from between the pages a little water-colour portrait on ivory. It was
the portrait of his landlady's daughter, who had died of fever, that
strange girl who had wanted to be a nun. For a minute he gazed at
the delicate expressive face of his betrothed, kissed the portrait and
gave it to Dounia.
  "I used to talk a great deal about it to her, only to her," he said
thoughtfully. "To her heart I confided much of what has since been so
hideously realised. Don't be uneasy," he returned to Dounia, "she was
as much opposed to it as you, and I am glad that she is gone. The
great point is that everything now is going to be different, is going
to be broken in two," he cried, suddenly returning to his dejection.
"Everything, everything, and am I prepared for it? Do I want it
myself? They say it is necessary for me to suffer! What's the object
of these senseless sufferings? shall I know any better what they are
for, when I am crushed by hardships and idiocy, and weak as an old
man after twenty years' penal servitude? And what shall I have to
live for then? Why am I consenting to that life now? Oh, I knew I was
contemptible when I stood looking at the Neva at daybreak to-day!"
  At last they both went out. It was hard for Dounia, but she loved
him. She walked away, but after going fifty paces she turned round
to look at him again. He was still in sight. At the corner he too
turned and for the last time their eyes met; but noticing that she was
looking at him, he motioned her away with impatience and even
vexation, and turned the corner abruptly.
  "I am wicked, I see that," he thought to himself, feeling ashamed
a moment later of his angry gesture to Dounia. "But why are they so
fond of me if I don't deserve it? Oh, if only I were alone and no
one loved me and I too had never loved any one! Nothing of all this
would have happened. But I wonder shall I in those fifteen or twenty
years grow so meek that I shall humble myself before people and
whimper at every word that I am a criminal. Yes, that's it, that's it,
that's what they are sending me there for, that's what they want. Look
at them running to and fro about the streets, every one of them a
scoundrel and a criminal at heart and, worse still, an idiot. But
try to get me off and they'd be wild with righteous indignation. Oh,
how I hate them all!"