Crime and Punishment (62 page)

‘If you didn't believe it, would you really ever risk coming here alone? Then why have you come? Out of mere curiosity?'

‘Don't torment me – just speak!'

‘You're gutsy, no doubt about that. Honest to God, I thought you'd ask Mr Razumikhin to accompany you here. But I couldn't see him anywhere near you. How brave! Means you wanted to spare Rodion Romanych. Although everything about you is divine . . . As for your brother, well, what can I say? You've just seen him yourself. How did he seem?'

‘And is that all you have to go on?'

‘No, I have his own words to go on. This is where he came two evenings in a row to see Sofya Semyonovna. I showed you where they sat. He confessed everything to her. He's a murderer. He murdered a civil servant's old widow, a moneylender he used to pawn things with. He killed her sister, too, a clothes-dealer, Lizaveta by name, who
happened to walk in during her sister's murder. He murdered them both with an axe he brought with him. He murdered them in order to rob them, and rob them he did; he took the money and some items . . . He said this in so many words to Sofya Semyonovna, who alone knows the secret, though she had no part in the murder in word or deed – on the contrary, she was as appalled as you are now. Don't worry: she won't betray him.'

‘It can't be true!' mumbled Dunechka through pale, numb lips; she was gasping. ‘It can't. There's not the slightest reason, not the slightest cause . . . Lies! Lies!'

‘Robbery – that's the whole reason. He took the money and the items. True, by his own account he made no use of the money or the things and buried them under a stone somewhere – they're still there now. But that's because he didn't dare to.'

‘Is that likely? That he stole, robbed? That he could even have such an idea?' cried Dunya, leaping from her chair. ‘You know him. You've seen him. How could he ever be a thief?'

She was almost imploring Svidrigailov; her fear was quite forgotten.

‘The combinations and possibilities here are endless, Avdotya Romanovna. A thief goes thieving but knows in his own mind he's a scoundrel. I've even heard of one fine gentleman who robbed a mail coach.
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Who knows? He probably thought it was a perfectly respectable thing to do! Needless to say, I wouldn't have believed it either, just like you, if I'd heard it at second hand. But I believed my own ears. He even gave all his reasons to Sofya Semyonovna. She wouldn't believe her own ears at first, but eventually she believed her own eyes. After all, he was telling her himself.'

‘Reasons . . . ? What reasons?'

‘It's a long story, Avdotya Romanovna. What we have here is – how can I put it? – a kind of theory, the kind of business where I might decide, for example, that a single wicked deed can be permitted if the overall aim is good. One evil deed for a hundred good ones! Not to mention, of course, that it's rather galling for a gifted young man with an exceptionally high opinion of himself to know that three thousand roubles or so would be enough to change the direction of his entire career, his entire future and purpose in life – only he hasn't got these three thousand roubles. Add to this the irritation caused by hunger, cramped lodgings, rags and tatters, a vivid awareness of his social
status, in all its beauty, and that of his mother and sister. And above all, vanity, pride and vanity, although, who's to say there aren't some good traits mixed in as well . . . ? So please don't think I'm blaming him. It's none of my business anyway. There was also a theory at work – nothing special, as theories go – according to which people may be divided – don't you know? – into human material and those who are somehow exceptional; that's to say, people who, on account of their lofty status, are outside the law, and not only that, who themselves write the law for the others – for the material, I mean . . . the rubbish. Nothing special, as mini-theories go;
une théorie comme une
autre
.
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Napoleon really turned his head; or rather, the fact that a great many men of genius have turned a blind eye to isolated acts of evil, stepping right over them without a second thought. He seems to have fancied that he, too, is a man of genius – or at least, he was sure of it for a time. He was greatly pained – and still is – by the thought that he may have managed to come up with a theory, but as for taking that step without a second thought – that was beyond him. So how can he be a man of genius? What could be more demeaning for a young man with a high opinion of himself, especially in our day and age . . . ?'

‘And the voice of conscience? Are you denying him all moral sense? Is he really like that?'

‘Ah, Avdotya Romanovna, nowadays all the waters are muddied; although, come to think of it, things were never terribly orderly. Russians are a broad people, Avdotya Romanovna, as broad as their land, and they have an exceptional propensity for the fantastical and the disorderly; but breadth without genius is a recipe for disaster. Do you remember how often the two of us talked like this, on this very subject, out on the terrace in the evenings, after dinner? In fact, it was precisely this breadth you reproached me with. Who knows, while we were talking he may have been lying on his bed here, thinking his thoughts. After all, Avdotya Romanovna, our educated society has no truly sacred traditions to call its own: not unless someone cobbles something together from books . . . or digs something out of the Chronicles.
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But that's just scholars, fools in their own way, and it's all rather embarrassing for a man of society. But anyway, you know my views. I've no intention of accusing anyone. I prefer to keep my hands clean. But we've discussed this more than once. I even had the good fortune of interesting you in my opinions . . . You're very pale, Avdotya Romanovna!'

‘I know this theory of his. I read his article in the journal about people to whom all is permitted . . . Razumikhin brought it to me . . .'

‘Mr Razumikhin? An article by your brother? In a journal? Such an article exists? I didn't know. Well, well, that must be interesting! But where are you off to, Avdotya Romanovna?'

‘I want to see Sofya Semyonovna,' said Dunechka faintly. ‘Which way to her room? She may be back already. I just have to see her now. Maybe she can . . .'

Avdotya Romanovna couldn't finish; she literally ran out of breath.

‘Sofya Semyonovna won't be back before dark. That's my guess. She should have come by now, or else not until very late . . .'

‘Ah, so you're a liar, a fibber! Damn you! You were lying all along! I don't believe you! I don't! I don't!' shouted Dunechka hysterically, losing all self-control.

She dropped almost unconscious into the chair hurriedly provided by Svidrigailov.

‘Avdotya Romanovna, whatever's the matter? Wake up! Here's some water. Take a sip at least . . .'

He splashed her with water. Dunechka started and came round.

‘Well that shook her up!' Svidrigailov muttered to himself with a frown. ‘Avdotya Romanovna, you mustn't worry! He has friends, you know. We'll save him. We'll rescue him. Shall I take him abroad? I have money and I can get a passport certificate within three days. And as for his murder, well, there's plenty of time for him to make amends and smooth everything over. You mustn't worry. He may still turn out a great man. But what's the matter? How are you feeling now?'

‘You wicked man! And you even have the nerve to laugh at me. Let me go . . .'

‘But where are you off to?'

‘To see him. Where is he? Do you know? Why's this door locked? We came in by this door and now it's locked. When did you manage to lock it?'

‘I couldn't let the entire floor hear what we were saying. I'm not laughing at you in the slightest. I'm just sick of talking like this. Where will you go in such a state? Or do you want to give him up? You'll work him up into a rage, then he'll do it himself. He's being followed, you know; they're already onto him. You'll merely end up betraying
him. Just have patience. I saw him and spoke to him only moments ago. He can still be saved. Have a seat and we'll think it through. That's why I brought you here – to talk this over in private and think it through. Just sit down, I say!'

‘How on earth can you save him? How can he be saved?'

Dunya sat down. Svidrigailov sat next to her.

‘That all depends on you, on you alone,' he began, eyes flashing, almost in a whisper, stuttering and even swallowing some of his words in his emotion.

Dunya shrank back in alarm. He, too, was shaking all over.

‘You . . . One word from you and he is saved! I . . . I will save him. I have money and friends. I'll pack him off right away and I myself will get a passport, two passports. One for him, one for me. I have friends, people who can get things done . . . Well? I'll get you a passport, too . . . and one for your mother . . . What do you need Razumikhin for? I love you just as much . . . I love you boundlessly. Let me kiss the hem of your dress! Please! Please! I can't bear to hear it rustle. Say “Do that” and I'll do it! I'll do everything. I'll do what can't be done. Whatever you believe in, I'll believe in. I'll do everything, everything! Just don't look at me like that, don't! You're killing me, do you know that . . . ?'

He'd even started raving. Something had suddenly come over him, like a rush to the head. Dunya leapt to her feet and ran to the door.

‘Open up! Open up!' she shouted through the door, calling out to anyone who would hear and shaking the door. ‘Open up! There must be someone!'

Svidrigailov got to his feet and pulled himself together. His still-quivering lips slowly forced out a malicious, mocking smile.

‘There's no one at home,' he said softly and slowly. ‘The landlady's gone out and you're wasting your breath, getting worked up for no reason.'

‘Where's the key? Open the door. Open it now, you vile man.'

‘I've lost it and can't find it anywhere.'

‘Ha! So this is assault!' cried Dunya, turning pale as death and running over to a corner, where she shielded herself with a little table lying close by. She didn't shout, but she fastened her eyes on her tormentor and followed his every move. Svidrigailov also stood motionless, facing her from the other end of the room. He'd even managed to regain his self-control, or so at least it seemed. But his face was as pale as before. The mocking smile had not left it.

‘You said “assault” just now, Avdotya Romanovna. If it's assault, then you can see for yourself that I've taken precautions. Sofya Semyonovna's out; the Kapernaumovs are far away – five locked rooms between us. Lastly, I'm at least twice as strong as you, and besides, I've nothing to fear, because you can hardly go and complain about it later. You wouldn't really want to betray your brother, would you? No one would believe you anyway: what was she doing visiting a man who lives on his own? So even if you do sacrifice your brother you won't prove a thing: assault is very hard to prove, Avdotya Romanovna.'

‘Scoundrel!' whispered Dunya indignantly.

‘As you please, but note that everything I've said was purely hypothetical. My personal conviction is that you are absolutely right: assault is a loathsome thing. All I was trying to say was that you would have nothing at all on your conscience, even if . . . even if you felt like saving your brother of your own free will, in the way I'm suggesting. It would simply mean that you had yielded to circumstance, or, I suppose, to force, if we really have to use such words. Think about it: the fate of your brother and mother is in your hands. I'll be your slave . . . my whole life long . . . I'll be waiting right here . . .'

Svidrigailov sat down on the couch, about eight paces away. Dunya no longer had the slightest doubt: he was utterly determined. Besides, she knew him . . .

Suddenly, she took a revolver from her pocket, cocked it and rested her hand with the revolver on the little table. Svidrigailov leapt to his feet.

‘Aha! I see!' he cried in astonishment, but grinning with malice. ‘Well, that changes everything! You're making this a great deal easier for me, Avdotya Romanovna! And where did you find the revolver? Don't tell me it's from Mr Razumikhin? Ha! That revolver's mine! An old friend! I was looking high and low for it! Our shooting lessons in the country, which I was so honoured to give you, weren't wasted after all.'

‘The revolver doesn't belong to you – it belonged to Marfa Petrovna, the woman you murdered, you wicked man! There was nothing you could call your own in her house. I took it when I began to suspect what you're capable of. Take one step towards me and I'll kill you, I swear!'

Dunya was in a frenzy. She held the revolver at the ready.

‘And your brother? I'm just curious,' asked Svidrigailov, still motionless.

‘Report him if you want! Stay right there! Don't move! I'll shoot! You poisoned your wife, I know you did. You're a murderer yourself!'

‘Are you quite sure I poisoned Marfa Petrovna?'

‘It was you! You hinted as much yourself. You told me about the poison . . . I know you made a trip to get it . . . You had it ready . . . It must have been you . . . you wretch!'

‘Even if this were true, then only because of you . . . You would have been the cause in any case.'

‘Liar! I've always hated you, always . . .'

‘Now now, Avdotya Romanovna! You must have forgotten how, in the midst of all your lecturing, you were already bending and softening . . . I could tell by your eyes. Don't you remember, that evening, that moon, the piping of the nightingale?'

‘Liar!' (Fury flashed in Dunya's eyes.) ‘Liar, slanderer!'

‘I'm lying? Well, perhaps I am. Or I did. Women aren't to be reminded of this sort of thing.' (He grinned.) ‘You'll shoot, I know it, my pretty little beast! So shoot!'