Crime and Punishment (82 page)

‘Well, well, come up if you want; I'm in here!’ he shouted out of the window.

Raskolnikov went upstairs to the inn.

He found Svidrigailov in a very small room at the back of the establishment; the room had one window and adjoined the main saloon, where at twenty small tables, amidst the desperate shouting of the
pesenniki
,
¹
some merchants, civil servants and a large number of all kinds of townsfolk sat drinking tea. The sound of billiard balls was coming from somewhere. On Svidrigailov's table, facing him, stood an uncorked bottle of champagne and a glass that was half full. In the little room there was also a boy with a small hand-organ, and a healthy, red-cheeked girl in a tucked-up striped skirt and a Tyrolean bonnet with ribbons, a street singer of about eighteen who, in spite of the choral performance in the other room, was singing to the organ-player's accompaniment, in a rather hoarse contralto, some kind of manservants’ ditty…

‘That'll be enough,’ Svidrigailov said, breaking her off as Raskolnikov entered.

The girl immediately cut short her performance and stood still in submissive expectancy. She had also sung her rhymed and somewhat dubious manservants’ ditty
²
with a kind of earnest and submissive look on her face.

‘Hey – Filipp, a glass!’ Svidrigailov shouted.

‘I haven't come here for champagne,’ Raskolnikov said.

‘As you wish, I didn't buy it for you. Here, Katya, you have some! That's all I want for today, now off you go!’ He poured her a whole glass of the wine and placed one yellow paper rouble on the table. Katya drank the glass down in one, the way women do, that is to say in a dozen swallows, took the banknote, kissed the hand of Svidrigailov, who with the utmost gravity permitted her to do so, and left the room, the boy with the
hand-organ trailing out after her. They had both been summoned up from the street. Svidrigailov had hardly yet spent a week in St Petersburg, but already everything around him was on some sort of patriarchal footing. The inn's manservant, Filipp, was by now a ‘friend’, and grovelled in servility. The door that led through to the saloon could be bolted; in this little room Svidrigailov was quite at home, and the likelihood was that he spent whole days in it. The inn was dirty, wretched and not even of average quality.

‘I was on my way to see you, you're the very person I'm looking for,’ Raskolnikov began. ‘But why on earth did I suddenly take the turning on to — Prospect after I'd crossed the Haymarket? I never come along this way, and I never look in here. I always turn right after the Haymarket. And this street doesn't even lead to where you live. Yet I'd just turned the corner, and there you were! It's strange!’

‘Why don't you just say it's a miracle?’

‘Because it may only be an accident.’

‘Oh, what's the matter with all these people?’ Svidrigailov said, breaking into laughter. ‘They won't admit the existence of miracles, even though they secretly believe in them! I mean, you say yourself that it “may be” only an accident. You have no idea how many wretched little cowards there are in this town on the question of having one's own opinion, Rodion Romanych! I don't mean you. You have your own opinion and have not been afraid to have it. It's for that very reason that you drew my curiosity.’

‘Was that the only reason?’

‘Why, it's sufficient, isn't it?’

Svidrigailov was evidently in a stimulated condition, but only slightly so; he had drunk only half a glass of the champagne.

‘I seem to remember you came to see me before you'd found out that I was capable of having what you call my own opinion,’ Raskolnikov commented.

‘Oh, things were different then. A man's footsteps lead him to all sorts of places. But as far as the miracle's concerned I would say to you that I think you've spent the last two or three days asleep. It was I who suggested this inn, and it was no
miracle that you came straight here; I myself explained to you how to get here, told you what street it was on, and the times at which you could find me here. Remember?’

‘No, I've forgotten,’ Raskolnikov answered with some surprise.

‘I can believe it. Twice I told you. The address must have imprinted itself on your memory automatically. You also took the turning along here automatically, and you went straight to the right address without being conscious of it. Even as I was telling you I didn't have much faith that you'd taken it in. You certainly give yourself away, Rodion Romanych. And there's another thing: I'm convinced that there are many people in St Petersburg who talk to themselves as they go about. This is a town of semi-lunatics. If we had any seats of learning in this place, the medical men, the jurists and the philosophers would be able to conduct the most valuable investigations into St Petersburg, each according to their speciality. There aren't many places where there are as many gloomy, harsh and strange influences on the soul of man as there are in St Petersburg. Think what the climatic influences alone are worth! Yet this is the administrative centre of all Russia, and its character must have an effect on everything. But that's not what matters now; what matters now is that on several past occasions I've watched you from the wings. You come out of that building of yours – still holding your head up straight. By the time you've gone twenty paces you've begun to lower it and you're folding your hands behind your back. You look, but you evidently no longer see anyone either in front of you or to either side. Finally you begin to move your lips and talk to yourself, and sometimes you free one of your hands and declaim something out loud, and then you stand still for a long time in the middle of the road. That's very bad, sir. Someone apart from myself might see you, and it wouldn't do you much good. It's all really much of a muchness to me, and I'm not going to try to cure you, but I think you know what I mean.’

‘So you know I'm being followed?’ Raskolnikov asked, studying him keenly.

‘No, I know nothing of the kind,’ Svidrigailov replied in astonishment.

‘Well then, let's leave the subject of me alone,’ Raskolnikov muttered, frowning.

‘Very well, let's do that.’

‘I'd rather you told me, if it's true that you come here drinking regularly and told me to meet you here twice, why it was that when I looked up at this window from the street you hid and tried to slip away? I saw that very plainly.’

‘Hee-hee! And why that day, when I stood on your threshold, did you go on lying on your sofa with your eyes closed pretending to be asleep, when you weren't asleep at all? I saw
that
very plainly.’

‘I might have had… reasons… you know that yourself.’

‘And I, too, might have had reasons, even though you're not going to find out what they were.’

Raskolnikov lowered his right elbow on to the table, supported his chin from below with the fingers of his right hand and stared fixedly at Svidrigailov. For about a minute he studied Svidrigailov's face, which even on earlier occasions he had always found startling. It was a strange face, and almost resembled a mask: white and rubicund, with rubicund, scarlet lips, a light-blond beard and blond hair that was still quite thick. His eyes were somehow excessively blue, their gaze excessively heavy and immobile. There was something terribly unpleasant about this handsome and extremely youthful – if years were anything to go by – face. Svidrigailov's clothes were fashionable, summer-styled and lightweight, his shirt and cuffs particularly smart. On one finger he wore an enormous ring studded with an expensive precious stone.

‘Do I really have to waste time playing with you as well?’ Raskolnikov said suddenly, coming straight to the point with a kind of convulsive impatience. ‘Even though you may be the most dangerous man if you take it into your head to harm anyone, I personally don't intend to fool about any longer. I'll demonstrate to you now that I don't attach as much importance to myself as you no doubt think I do. You may as well know: I've come to tell you that if you maintain your former designs on my sister and if towards that end you plan to take advantage in any way of the things that have been revealed of late, then I
will kill you before you put me in gaol. My word is my bond: you know that I am able to keep it. The second point is this: if there is anything you want to tell me – because during all this time I've had a feeling that there is – then tell me it quickly, because time is short and it may very well soon be too late.’

‘I say, what's all the hurry?’ Svidrigailov asked, studying him inquisitively.

‘A man's footsteps lead him to all sorts of places,’ Raskolnikov said, in black impatience.

‘Only just now you were challenging me to be open with you, yet at the first question I put to you you refuse to answer,’ Svidrigailov commented with a smile. ‘You still think I have some kind of purpose up my sleeve, and so you view me with suspicion. Oh well, that's perfectly understandable on your part. But however much I'd like to be on closer terms with you, I shan't make the effort to persuade you that the contrary is true. Quite honestly, the game's not worth the candle, and in any case I had no plans to talk to you about anything in particular.’

‘Then why was I so important to you the other day? I mean, you were looking after me, weren't you?’

‘Oh, simply because you were an interesting subject for observation. The unreality of your situation appealed to me – that's all! That, and the fact that you happen to be the brother of a certain young lady who interested me greatly, that on frequent occasions I had heard a great deal about you from that very same young lady, and that consequently I decided you must have a great influence on her; that's not too little by way of explanation, is it? Hee-hee-hee! Though actually, I will admit that I find your question rather complicated, and it's hard for me to answer it. I mean, take just now, for example – I don't mind betting that you haven't come just to see me about that matter but about something new as well? I'm right, am I not? Yes?’ Svidrigailov insisted with a crafty smile. ‘Well, that being said, will you believe it if I tell you that even as I was on my way here in the train I was counting on the prospect of you also telling me something
new
and on my being able to borrow something from you! That's the kind of wealthy men we are!’

‘What do you mean, borrow something from me?’

‘Oh, how can I explain it to you? Do I myself really know? You see the sort of miserable little inn I spend all my days sitting in, and I quite enjoy it, actually, or rather it's not so much that I enjoy it as that one must have somewhere to sit. I mean, take that poor Katya girl – did you see her?… I mean, I wish I were a gourmand or a club gastronomer, but, well, you see the sort of meals I get!’ (He jabbed a finger into the corner, where on a little table a small tin plate contained the remnants of a horrible dish of beefsteak and potatoes.) ‘Incidentally, have you had anything to eat? I've had a bite or two and I don't want any more. I don't touch alcohol at all, hardly. Except for champagne – I only have one glass to last me the whole evening, and even then it gives me a headache. I asked them to bring me a bottle to set me up, because I'm about to go somewhere and you behold me in a singular frame of mind. That was why I attempted to hide just now like a schoolboy, thinking you'd slow me up; but it seems (he took out his watch) I can be with you for an hour; it's half past four now. You know, I sometimes wish I
were
something – oh, a landowner, or a father, or an Uhlan, a photographer, a journalist… but I'm nothing, I have no specialism! Sometimes I get very bored. Actually, I really did think you might have something new to tell me.’

‘What sort of man are you? Why have you come to town?’

‘What sort of man am I? You know the story: a member of the gentry, served two years in the cavalry, then loafed around here in St Petersburg for another two, then got married to Marfa Petrovna and went to live in the country. That's my biography!’

‘They say you're a gambler.’

‘No, what sort of gambler am I? I cheat at cards – I don't gamble.’

‘So you were a cardsharper when you lived here before?’

‘Yes, that's right.’

‘Well, did you get horsewhipped?’

‘It happened. Why?’

‘Well, in that case you must have had the opportunity of challenging people to duels… as a rule that makes one's life more interesting.’

‘I shan't contradict you, but I'm afraid I'm not given to
philosophizing. To be perfectly honest with you, I came here more on account of the women.’

‘Even though you've only just buried Marfa Petrovna?’

‘That's right,’ Svidrigailov smiled with disarming candour. ‘So what? You seem to think there's something wrong about my mentioning women in that way!’

‘You mean, do I or don't I think there's anything wrong about lechery?’

‘Lechery? So that's where you're leading! Well, actually, for the sake of order I shall begin by answering your question about women in general terms; you see, I have a weakness for idle chatter. Tell me, why should I restrain myself? Why should I give up women, since at least they're something I care about? It's a pastime, at any rate.’

‘So the only thing you're sure of finding here is lechery!’

‘So what if it is? I think you've got lechery on the brain. Though I must admit I do like a straightforward question. In lechery there is at least something permanent, something that is truly founded upon nature and is not subject to the imagination, something that is present like a constantly live coal in the blood, forever setting one on fire, a coal it will take a long time, possibly into one's old age, to put out. I think you will agree that it's an occupation of a sort?’

‘What are you so glad about? It's an illness, and a dangerous one.’

‘Ah, so that's where you're leading! I agree that it's an illness, like everything that passes the bounds of moderation – and here it's essential to pass the bounds of moderation – but I mean, in the first place, it takes one man this way and another man that way, and in the second place, of course, one ought to observe moderation, prudence, even of a villainous kind, in all things, but you see, what am I to do? If I didn't have that, I'd probably just have to shoot myself. I agree that a man with any decency ought to put up with the frustration, but you see, I just…’