Crime and Punishment (63 page)

Dunya raised the revolver and stared at him, deathly pale, her lower lip white and trembling, her big black eyes flashing like fire, her mind made up; taking aim, she waited for his first move. Never had he seen her so beautiful. The fire that blazed from her eyes as she raised the revolver seemed to scorch him, and his heart clenched with pain. He took one step. A shot rang out. The bullet grazed his hair and struck the wall behind him. He stopped and gave a quiet laugh:

‘Stung by a wasp! Went straight for the head . . . What's this? Blood!' He took out a handkerchief to wipe away the blood trickling down his right temple; the bullet must have brushed against the skin of his skull. Dunya lowered the revolver and looked at Svidrigailov less in fear than in crazed bewilderment. She herself no longer seemed to understand what on earth she'd done or what on earth was happening!

‘Oh well, you missed! Have another go, I'm waiting,' said Svidrigailov softly, still grinning, though in a dismal sort of way. ‘Carry on like this and I'll grab you before you cock the gun!'

Dunechka shuddered and hurriedly cocked and lifted the revolver.

‘Keep away from me!' she said in despair. ‘I'll shoot again, I swear . . . I'll . . . kill you!'

‘Oh well . . . hard not to kill at three paces. And if you don't kill me . . . then . . .' His eyes flashed, and he took another two steps.

Dunecka shot – a misfire!

‘You didn't load it properly. Never mind! You've got another percussion cap there. Load it – I can wait.'

He was standing two paces away, waiting and looking at her with wild determination, with inflamed, passionate, heavy eyes. Dunya realized that he would sooner die than let her go. And . . . and, of course, she couldn't fail to kill him, not now, not at two paces!

Suddenly, she threw the revolver aside.

‘She's thrown it down!' said Svidrigailov in astonishment, drawing a deep breath. He seemed to feel a weight instantly lift from his heart, and not merely, perhaps, the burden of mortal fear – if he could sense any such thing at that moment. It was a release from some other, more sorrowful and dismal feeling, which he himself could not have named.

He came up to Dunya and gently wrapped his arm around her waist. She didn't resist but, trembling from top to toe, looked at him with imploring eyes. He was about to say something, but succeeded only in twisting his lips.

‘Let me go!' Dunya implored.

Svidrigailov shuddered: something in her tone had suddenly changed.

‘So you don't love me?' he asked quietly.

Dunya shook her head.

‘And . . . you can't? Ever?' he whispered despairingly.

‘Never!' whispered Dunya.

There followed a moment of dreadful, dumb struggle in Svidrigailov's soul. The look he gave her was indescribable. Suddenly, he withdrew his hand, turned aside, quickly walked away to the window and stood before it.

Another moment passed.

‘Here's the key!' (He took it from the left pocket of his coat and placed it on the table behind him, without looking at Dunya or turning towards her.) ‘Take it and go, now!'

He stared stubbornly out of the window.

Dunya walked up to the table to take the key.

‘Now! Now!' repeated Svidrigailov, still not moving or turning round. But there must have been something dreadful in the way he said it.

Dunya heard it, grabbed the key, rushed to the door, quickly unlocked
it and fled from the room. A minute later, half-crazed, beside herself, she was running along the Ditch in the direction of ——y Bridge.

Svidrigailov stood by the window for another three minutes or so; eventually, he turned round slowly, looked about him and passed his palm gently across his forehead. A strange smile twisted his face, a pitiful, sad, feeble smile, a smile of despair. The blood, already dry, stained his palm. He looked at it angrily. Then he wetted a towel and cleaned his temple. The gun, which Dunya had thrown aside and which had ended up by the door, suddenly entered his field of vision. He picked it up and examined it. It was a small, old-fashioned three-shot revolver. There were two charges left in it and one cap. Fine for one more shot. He thought for a moment, thrust the revolver into his pocket, took his hat and went out.

He spent that entire evening until ten o'clock going from one tavern, one den, to another. Katya turned up again, too, singing another maudlin song about how some man, ‘a wretch and a bully',

Started kissing Katya.

Svidrigailov saw to it that Katya and the organ-grinder and the chorus singers and the waiters, as well as a pair of clerks, all had plenty to drink. He'd got mixed up with the clerks for no better reason than their crooked noses: one man's curved to the right, the other's to the left. This made a great impression on Svidrigailov. Eventually, they dragged him off to a pleasure garden, where he paid for their admission and drinks. The garden contained a slender, three-year-old fir tree and three little bushes. In addition a ‘Vauxhall'
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had been set up – essentially a drinking den, though it served tea as well, and there were also several green tables and chairs. A chorus of atrocious singers and a German drunk from Munich – a kind of clown, with a red nose, though for some reason utterly miserable – were entertaining the public. The clerks got into an argument with some other clerks and were about to start a fight. They'd chosen Svidrigailov to arbitrate. He'd been doing so for about a quarter of an hour already, but there was so much shouting that it was impossible to make head or tail of it all. The likeliest thing was that one of them had stolen something and had
even managed to palm it off on one of the Jews knocking around; but, having sold it, was in no hurry to share the spoils with his friend. The stolen object, it transpired, was a teaspoon belonging to the Vauxhall. Its absence was noticed and the whole business was rapidly getting out of hand. Svidrigailov paid for the spoon, got up and left the garden. It was around ten. He hadn't touched a drop all this time and had only ordered tea, for the sake of form more than anything. It was a stifling, gloomy evening. By ten o'clock terrible storm clouds had gathered from all sides; there was a clap of thunder and the rain gushed forth like a waterfall. It fell not in drops but in jets, lashing the ground. One flash of lightning followed another and you could count to five before the afterglows faded. Soaked to the skin, he arrived home, locked the door, opened his bureau, took out all his money and ripped up two or three sheets of paper. Then, having pocketed the money, he was on the point of changing his clothes, but, after looking out of the window and bending an ear to the thunder and rain, he dismissed the idea, took his hat and walked out, leaving the apartment unlocked. He went straight over to Sonya's. She was at home.

Sonya wasn't alone; all around her were Kapernaumov's four little children. She'd made them tea. She welcomed Svidrigailov in respectful silence, looking in astonishment at his dripping clothes, but not saying a word. The children fled the room in complete horror.

Svidrigailov sat down at the table and asked Sonya to sit next to him. Timidly, she prepared to listen.

‘You know, Sofya Semyonovna, I may be leaving for America,' said Svidrigailov, ‘and as this is probably the last time we'll see each other I've come to make one or two arrangements. You saw that lady today, didn't you? I know what she said to you. No need to repeat it.' (Sonya almost reacted, then blushed.) ‘There's more to people like that than meets the eye. As far as your little sisters and brother are concerned, their future really is settled and I've given the money due to each of them to the appropriate person for safe keeping. But I'll give you the receipts in any case. There you go! Well, that's that dealt with. Here are three five per cent bonds, worth three thousand all told. They're for you, for you and no one else, and do let's keep it between ourselves, whatever anyone else may say to you. You'll need them, Sofya Semyonovna. You can't carry on with that sordid life, and anyway, you no longer have to.'

‘You're my benefactor, sir, and I'm so very indebted to you, as are
the orphans, and the deceased,' Sonya hastily put in, ‘and if I have not yet thanked you enough, then . . . don't think me . . .'

‘That'll do, that'll do.'

‘And as for this money, Arkady Ivanovich, I'm very grateful to you, but really, I've no need of it now. Don't think me ungrateful, but I will always be able to support myself. If you are so very kind, sir, this money . . .'

‘It's for you, for you, Sofya Semyonovna, and please, the less said the better – I've no time. You'll need it. There are two paths open to Rodion Romanovich: a bullet to the head or the Vladimirka
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to Siberia.' (Sonya gave him a wild look and started shaking.) ‘Don't worry, I know everything – I heard it all from him – and I'm the soul of discretion. I won't tell anyone. That was good advice you gave him to go and give himself up. He'll be much better off that way. And if it's the Vladimirka – you'll follow him, I suppose? Won't you? Won't you? Well in that case you'll be needing this money. You'll need it for him, understand? Giving it to you is the same as giving it to him. Besides, haven't you just promised Amalia Ivanovna to pay off the debt? I heard you. What on earth are you doing, Sofya Semyonovna, taking on all these contracts and obligations without a moment's thought? After all, it was Katerina Ivanovna who owed that German, not you, so why should you care? You won't last long if you carry on like that. Well, miss, if anyone asks you – tomorrow, say, or the day after – anything at all about me (and I'm sure they will), don't mention this visit of mine and, whatever you do, don't show the money to anyone or say I gave it to you. Well, goodbye.' (He got up from his chair.) ‘My compliments to Rodion Romanych. By the way, why not give that money to Mr Razumikhin for the time being? Do you know Mr Razumikhin? Of course you do. He's all right, that boy. Take it over to him tomorrow or . . . whenever the time comes. Until then, keep it well out of sight.'

Sonya also jumped up from her chair and looked at him in alarm. She was desperate to say something, to ask something, but for the first few minutes she didn't dare, and anyway, she didn't know how to begin.

‘But sir . . . it's pouring. How can you go anywhere now, sir?'

‘Well that would be a fine thing: leaving for America and being scared of the rain! Heh-heh! Goodbye, Sofya Semyonovna, dear girl!
Live and live long. There'll be others who need you. By the way . . . tell Mr Razumikhin I bow to him. Use those exact words: “Arkady Ivanovich Svidrigailov bows to you.” Just so.'

He went out, leaving Sonya astonished, alarmed and filled with obscure, oppressive misgivings.

It later transpired that on that same evening, not long before midnight, he paid one more highly eccentric and unexpected visit. It was still pouring. At twenty past eleven, drenched to the skin, he entered the cramped apartment of his fiancée's parents, on Maly Prospect, Third Line, Vasilyevsky Island. He had to knock a long time before they opened and at first his appearance caused considerable embarrassment; but Arkady Ivanovich could be very charming when the mood took him, so the initial (and extremely perspicacious) conclusion drawn by his fiancée's prudent parents, that Arkady Ivanovich must have got so drunk somewhere that he could no longer think straight, was instantly dismissed. The invalid father was wheeled out in a chair by the tender-hearted and prudent mother, who began, in her usual fashion, with some very far-fetched questions. (This woman never asked anything directly, preferring to limber up with smiles and much rubbing of hands, after which, if concrete information was urgently required, such as “When would Arkady Ivanovich care to hold the wedding?”, she would begin by asking, with the keenest curiosity, about Paris and life at the Parisian court, and only then, if at all, turn to life on the Third Line of Vasilyevsky Island.) On another day, all this would no doubt have inspired the greatest respect, but on this particular occasion Arkady Ivanovich was unusually impatient and adamant that he wanted to see his fiancée at all costs, despite having been informed right away that she was already in bed. Needless to say, the fiancée appeared. Arkady Ivanovich told her straight out that he had to leave Petersburg for a while on a matter of the gravest importance, which was why he'd brought her fifteen thousand roubles in silver, in various denominations, asking her to accept these notes as a gift, seeing as it had long been his intention to give her this trifle before their wedding. A logical connection between the gift, his imminent departure and his urgent need to come visiting in the rain, at midnight, did not thereby emerge, but nonetheless it all went off without a hitch. Even the inevitable oohs and aahs, interrogations and interjections suddenly became unusually moderate and restrained; instead,
there followed expressions of the most ardent gratitude, reinforced by the tears of a prudent mother. Arkady Ivanovich got up, laughed, kissed his fiancée, patted her cheek, confirmed he would soon be back and, glimpsing in her eyes a mute, serious question that exceeded purely childish curiosity, thought for a moment, kissed her again and inwardly cursed the fact that his gift would immediately be stowed away under lock and key by this most prudent of mothers. He departed, leaving everyone in a state of extraordinary excitement. But tender-hearted mama, pattering away in a whisper, immediately resolved some of the most pressing uncertainties: ‘Arkady Ivanovich, you see, is an important man, much in demand and well connected, a man of means – who's to say what goes through his mind or why he should suddenly up and leave and part with his money? So there's really no cause for wonder. It is rather odd to see him soaking wet, but the English, for example, are even more eccentric, and actually all these sophisticated types are quite indifferent to other people's opinions and they never stand on ceremony. Perhaps he goes about like that on purpose, to show that no one can scare him. But the main thing is, don't breathe a word about this to anyone, because God knows where it'll all end, and do let's put that money away, and thank goodness Feodosya was in the kitchen – isn't that a relief? – and the main thing is, not a word about this, any of it, to that scheming Resslich woman,' and so on and so forth. They sat up whispering until two o'clock. The fiancée, though, went to sleep much earlier, surprised and a little saddened.

Meanwhile, on the dot of midnight, Svidrigailov was crossing ——kov Bridge
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onto Petersburg Side. The rain had stopped, but the wind was gusting. He started to shiver, and for a minute or so he looked with particular curiosity – almost questioningly – at the black water of the Lesser Neva. But he quickly began to feel very cold standing there above the water; he turned and set off down ——oy Prospect.
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He'd been walking along that dark, endless street for ages, almost half an hour, and had lost his footing more than once on the wooden pavement, but he still carried on looking for something on the right side of street. It was somewhere here, near the end of the street, that he'd recently noticed, while travelling past one day, a wooden, yet very sizeable hotel, and its name, as far as he could remember, was Adrianopolis
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or something of the kind. He wasn't mistaken: in this
back of beyond the hotel stood out so prominently that it couldn't be missed, even in the dark. It was a long, blackened building in which, despite the late hour, windows were still lit and there were still signs of life. He went in and asked a ragamuffin he met in the corridor for a room. After a quick glance at Svidrigailov, the ragamuffin perked up and immediately showed him to a distant room, stuffy and cramped, right at the very end of the corridor, in a corner, beneath the stairs. It was the only one still going. The ragamuffin looked at him inquiringly.

‘Any tea?' asked Svidrigailov.

‘That there is, sir.'

‘What else?'

‘Veal, sir. Vodka, sir. Snacks.'

‘Bring me some veal and tea.'

‘Sir won't be wanting anything else, then?' the ragamuffin asked with a kind of bewilderment.

‘No, nothing!'

The ragamuffin went off, deeply disappointed.

‘A fine place this must be,' thought Svidrigailov. ‘Amazed I never knew about it before. I suppose I must also look like a man who's just back from some
café-chantant
or other,
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having had an adventure along the way. Wonder what kind of person spends the night here?'

He lit a candle and inspected the room more closely. It was a cell so small that Svidrigailov almost had to bow his head, with just one window; a filthy bed, a simple painted table and a chair took up nearly all the space. The walls looked as if they had been knocked together from planks, and the wallpaper was so dusty and frayed that only its colour (yellow) could still be discerned: the pattern was utterly obscured. One part of the wall and ceiling were cut at a slant, as in a loft, to make room for the staircase. Svidrigailov put down the candle, sat on the bed and sank into thought. But the strange, continuous whispers from the adjoining cell – at times, they were more like shouts – eventually captured his attention. The whispering hadn't ceased from the moment he entered. He listened in closely: a man, almost in tears, was cursing and reproaching another, but only one voice could be heard. Svidrigailov got up, shielded the candle with his hand, and immediately saw a glint in the wall; he went over and began looking through the gap. In a room slightly larger than his own were two guests. One, with unusually curly
hair and a red, swollen face, had struck a declamatory pose, his frock coat off and his feet wide apart so as to keep his balance. Beating his chest, he was reproaching the other in histrionic fashion for being a beggar with no rank at all; having plucked him from the gutter, he could throw him out at a moment's notice, and the only witness to it all would be the finger of the Almighty. His friend sat in a chair, with the look of a man who desperately wanted to sneeze but couldn't. Every now and then he turned his dull, sheep-like gaze on the orator, but it was clear that he hadn't the faintest idea what he was talking about and probably wasn't even listening. A candle was guttering out on the table, where there was a flask of vodka, now almost empty, shot glasses, bread, tumblers, slices of pickled cucumber, and glasses from which the tea had long been drunk. After giving this scene his careful attention, Svidrigailov stepped back, unmoved, and sat back down on the bed.