Crime and Punishment (81 page)

‘So that's what it is, is it? You've lost your confidence and think I'm indulging in gross flattery towards you; but have you really lived all that much? Are there really all that many things that you understand? You concocted a theory, and were then ashamed that it didn't hold water, that it turned out to be most unoriginal! And indeed, it turned out vile, there's no denying that, but even so you're not a hopeless villain. Not such a villain at all! At any rate, you haven't fooled yourself for long, you've reached the pillars of Hercules in one go. I mean, what sort of man do you suppose I think you are? I think you're one of the kind who even if his intestines were being cut out would stand looking at his torturers with a smile – as long as he'd found a God, or a faith. Well, find those, and you'll live. You ought to have had a change of air long ago – one can see that a mile off. For heaven's sake – suffering's not such a very terrible thing. Go and suffer for a bit. That Mikolka fellow may well be right in wanting to suffer. I know you don't believe it – but don't try to be too clever, either; surrender yourself directly to life, without circumspection; don't worry – it will carry you straight to the shore and put you on your feet. What shore? How should I
know? I simply believe that you still have a lot of living to do yet. I know that you're listening to my words just now as if they were some sermon learnt by rote; perhaps later on you'll remember them, perhaps they'll be useful to you some day; that's why I'm saying them. It's also a good thing that it was only an old woman you murdered. If you'd thought up another theory you might have committed some deed a hundred million times more horrible! It may be that you still ought to thank God; why, for all you know he may be preserving you for something. Be of great heart, and fear less. Are you afraid of the great discharge of duty that lies ahead of you? No, at the point you have reached, such fear is shameful. Since you have taken such a step, you must stand firm. You have reached the moment of justice. So discharge the duty that justice requires of you. I know you don't believe it, but I promise you, life will carry you through. You'll even get to like each other afterwards. What you need now, though, is simply air, air, air!’

Raskolnikov gave a terrible shudder.

‘Who are you, anyway?’ he exclaimed. ‘What sort of a prophet are you? What's this majestic tranquillity from whose heights you're uttering these wise prophecies to me?’

‘Who am I? Oh, I'm just a man who's had his day. A man who may have feelings and be capable of sympathy, who may even know a few things, but one who has quite definitely had his day. But you're a different kettle of fish: God has a life in store for you (though who knows, perhaps yours too will pass away like smoke and come to nothing). So what if you
will
end up with another class of person? You're not going to miss your creature comforts, are you? Not with a heart and feelings like yours! What does it matter that no one may see you for an awfully long time? Time's not what matters – it's you that does. Become a sun, and then everyone will see you. A sun must first and foremost be a sun. Why are you smiling again? Because I'm such a Schiller? And I bet you're thinking that I'm trying to ingratiate myself with you now! So what if I am? Tee-hee-hee! You know, Rodion Romanych, sir, I don't think you ought to believe everything I say – this is just the way I'm used to carrying on, I'll admit that; though I'd add just one thing: as to the
question of to what extent I'm a villain and to what extent I'm a decent man you may judge for yourself!’

‘When are you planning to arrest me?’

‘Oh, I may allow you to wander around for another day and a half, or possibly two. Think about it, my dear chap, and say your prayers. It will be better for you, I swear to God it will, I promise you.’

‘And what if I run away?’ Raskolnikov asked, with a strange, ironic smile.

‘No, you won't run away. A muzhik might run away, a fashionable sectarian
⁵
might run away – the lackey of other men's thoughts – because you've only to show him the tip of your finger, like Warrant Officer Dyrka,
⁶
and he'll believe anything you tell him for the rest of his life. And after all, you don't believe in your theory now – so what would you run away with? And what good would running away do you? Being on the run is an unpleasant, arduous business, and what you need above all else is to live and to be in a clearly defined situation with its own clearly defined air, and I mean, what kind of air would you find on the run? You'd run away and come back again of your own accord.
You can
'
t get along without us
. And if I lock you up in a cell – you'll stay there for a month, or two, or three, and then suddenly, remember this, you'll turn yourself in in such a way that even you will be surprised. You won't know that you're going to do it until you do. I'm even certain that you'll decide to “accept suffering”; you don't believe what I'm saying now, but you'll think it over to yourself. Because suffering, Rodion Romanych, is a great thing; don't go looking at how fat I've got, there's no need; and yet, and yet I know – don't laugh – that suffering has a purpose. Mikolka's right. No, you won't run away, Rodion Romanych.’

Raskolnikov got up from where he had been sitting and took his cap. Porfiry Petrovich also got up.

‘Going out for a walk? It should be a fine evening, as long as there isn't a thunderstorm. Though actually, it might be better if we were to have one, it might clear the air…’

He also took up his cap.

‘Look here, Porfiry Petrovich,’ Raskolnikov said with grim
persistence, ‘please don't get it into your head that I've made any kind of confession to you today. You're a strange man, and I've listened to you out of sheer curiosity. I've made no kind of confession to you at all… Bear that in mind.’

‘Oh, I know, I'll bear it in mind – but I mean, look at you, you're positively trembling. Have no fear, my good chap; we shall do things your way. Go out and take a bit of a walk; only don't go too far, that's all. Oh, and just to be on the safe side, I have one little favour to ask you,’ he added, lowering his voice. ‘It's rather a tricky one, this, but important: if it should, er, possibly transpire (I personally don't believe that it will and consider you quite incapable of doing such a thing), if it should transpire – oh, just by some chance – that you should during the course of the next forty-eight hours conceive a desire to bring this business to an end in some different, imaginative way – by, for example, taking your own life (an absurd supposition, and you really must forgive me for mentioning it), then please leave a short but detailed note. You know, just a couple of lines, two lines will do, and don't forget to mention the building block: that would be the decent thing to do, sir. Well, sir, goodbye… I wish you good thoughts and happy undertakings!’

Porfiry went out looking somehow hunched, and as if he were trying to avoid looking at Raskolnikov. Raskolnikov went over to the window and waited with irritable impatience for the moment when, according to his estimate, Porfiry would emerge on to the street and proceed on his way. Then he, too, went quickly out of the room.

He was hurrying to see Svidrigailov. What he hoped to obtain from that man he himself did not know. But in that man there was concealed some hidden power that held sway over him. Having once perceived this, he had been unable to rest, and now, moreover, the time was at hand.

As he made his way along there was one question that particularly tormented him: had Svidrigailov been to see Porfiry?

So far as he could judge, he was ready to swear that he had not. Thinking about it more and more, remembering all that had happened during Porfiry's visit, he put two and two together: no, he had not, of course he had not!

But if he had not been to see Porfiry yet, would he or would he not do so eventually?

For the moment it seemed to him unlikely. Why was that? He could not have explained this either, but even if he had been able to, he would not have spent too much time worrying his head about this in particular. All of these things tormented him, yet at the same time left him somehow indifferent. The strange thing, which possibly no one would have believed, was that the question of his present, immediate destiny left him only faintly and somewhat absent-mindedly preoccupied. He was being tormented by something else, something of a far more important and ultimate nature – something that concerned himself and no one else, but that was different from all this, something essential. Furthermore, he was experiencing a sense of infinite moral weariness, even though his reason was functioning better than it had during all these recent days.

And was it really worth it now, after all that had taken place, to attempt to master all these newly arisen, trivial embarrassments? Was it, for example, really worth trying to hatch some intrigue in order to stop Svidrigailov going to see Porfiry; to study the behaviour of a man such as Svidrigailov, to make inquiries about him, waste time on him?

Oh, how tired he was of all that!

Yet here he was hurrying to see Svidrigailov; might it not be that he was hoping for something
new
from him, some hint, some way out? Like a man clutching at straws? Might it not be that fate and instinct were drawing them together? Perhaps it was merely the effect of weariness and despair; perhaps the person he needed was not Svidrigailov but someone else, and Svidrigailov merely happened to have turned up. Was it Sonya? But why would he go and see Sonya now? In order to ask for her tears again? And in any case Sonya frightened him. Sonya represented an inexorable judgement, a decision that could not be altered. Now it was either his way or hers. Particularly at
this moment he did not feel up to going to see her. No, he would rather go and put Svidrigailov to the test! What was happening to him? He could not escape the inward feeling that it was precisely Svidrigailov who had for a long time now been the person he needed for some especial purpose.

That was all very well, but what could they possibly have in common? Even the wrongdoing each had committed could not be viewed on an equal level. Furthermore, this man was highly unpleasant, obviously a lecher, sly and deceitful beyond all doubt, and probably quite vicious. The stories about him tended to confirm that. He had, it was true, gone to some trouble for the sake of Katerina Ivanovna's children; but who could tell for what purpose, and in what lay the significance of his concern? This man was forever engaged in plans and projects of various kinds.

During all these days there was another thought that had kept constantly flickering through Raskolnikov's mind, causing him abominable torment, though he had made the most persistent efforts to banish it, so painful was it to him. He had sometimes fancied that Svidrigailov had been spying on him, was indeed doing so even now; that Svidrigailov had found out his secret; that Svidrigailov had designs on Dunya. What if he had them even now? The answer to this question was almost certainly that
he had
. And what if now, having learned his secret and thus gained power over him, he were to decide to use it as a weapon against Dunya?

This notion had sometimes tormented him even in his sleep, but only now, as he made his way to Svidrigailov's lodgings, did it appear to him with conscious vividness. This thought reduced him to black fury. For one thing, if it were true, then everything would be altered, even his own situation: he would have to disclose his secret to Dunya immediately. He would perhaps have to betray himself in order to prevent Dunya from taking some incautious step. What about the letter? That morning Dunya had received some letter or other! From whom in St Petersburg could she have had a letter? (Not Luzhin, surely?) It was true that Razumikhin was on guard there; but Razumikhin did not know anything. Perhaps he ought to tell it all to
Razumikhin? Raskolnikov considered this prospect with loathing.

Whatever happened, he must see Svidrigailov as soon as possible, he decided to himself, conclusively. The important thing now, thank God, was not so much the details as the essence of the matter; but if, if he was capable of it, if Svidrigailov was pursuing some intrigue against Dunya, then…

So tired had Raskolnikov become after all this time, this long month, that he was by now unable to resolve such questions other than by one simple decision: ‘Then I shall kill him,’ he thought in cold despair. A feeling of heaviness constricted his heart; he came to a standstill in the middle of the street and began to look around him: which way was he going, and where had he reached? He was on — Prospect, some thirty or forty yards from the Haymarket, which he had just crossed. The whole of the second floor of the building on his left was taken up by an inn and eating-house. All the windows were wide open; the inn, to judge by the moving figures at the windows, was packed full of people. The saloon was overflowing with the sound of choral singing, the rasp of a clarinet and a violin, and the loud beat of a Turkish drum. Female shrieks could be heard. He was on the point of going back, puzzled as to why he had turned on to — Prospect, when suddenly, in one of the open windows at the far end, sitting right by the sill, at a tea-table, pipe in mouth, he caught sight of Svidrigailov. This gave him a terrible shock, amounting almost to terror. Svidrigailov was watching him and studying him in silence; what also caused Raskolnikov an instantaneous shock was the fact that Svidrigailov seemed to be on the point of getting up in order to slip away while still unnoticed. Raskolnikov immediately tried to make it look as though he had not spotted him, gazing reflectively to one side while all the time continuing to observe him out of the corner of his eye. His heart was beating anxiously. It was true: Svidrigailov evidently did not want anyone to see him. He had taken his pipe out of his mouth and had been about to move off with the intention of making himself scarce; having stood up and moved the table away, however, he had no doubt suddenly noticed that Raskolnikov had seen him and was watching him.
Between them there now took place something that resembled the scene of their first meeting at Raskolnikov's lodgings, when he had been asleep. A crafty smile appeared on Svidrigailov's face, and began to spread and spread. Both men knew that they had seen and had been watching each other. At last Svidrigailov broke into a loud laugh.