Crime and Punishment (83 page)

‘And would you be able to shoot yourself?’

‘That's enough!’ Svidrigailov countered, with revulsion. ‘Please do me the favour of not talking about that,’ he added hurriedly, and without any of the bravado that had manifested
itself in all his words so far. Even his face seemed to have altered. ‘I admit it's an unforgivable weakness, but what am I to do? I'm afraid of death and I don't like it when people talk about it. Do you know that I'm a sort of mystic?’

‘Aha, the ghost of Marfa Petrovna! Well, does she still keep on coming to see you?’

‘Oh that – don't mention that either! It hasn't happened so far while I've been in St Petersburg; in any case, to the devil with it!’ he exclaimed with an air of irritation. ‘Let's rather talk about this… though actually… Hm… Damn! What a pity there's so little time, and I can't stay with you long. There's something I'd like to tell you.’

‘Who do you have to go and see, a woman?’

‘Yes, a woman, that's right, an unexpected encounter… but no, that's not what I want to tell you about.’

‘But doesn't the loathsomeness, the sheer loathsomeness of this whole environment have any effect on you? Have you lost the strength to stop?’

‘So you claim to have strength, do you? Hee-hee-hee! You surprised me just now, Rodion Romanych, even though I knew in advance it was going to be like this. You keep harping on to me about lechery and aesthetics! You're a Schiller, you're an idealist! All that, of course, is just as it should be, and one would indeed be surprised if it were any different, but I must say that even so it's a strange phenomenon when one comes across it in reality… Oh, what a pity there's so little time, because you really are a most intriguing subject! Incidentally, do you like Schiller? I think the world of him.’

‘What a show-off you are!’ Raskolnikov said with some disgust.

‘Oh, my goodness!’ Svidrigailov replied, bursting into laughter. ‘Though actually I won't argue, I may very well be one; but why shouldn't I do a bit of showing off, if it doesn't do anyone any harm? I've been living in Marfa Petrovna's country house for seven years, and so now, having greedily pounced upon as intelligent a man as yourself – not only intelligent, but in the highest degree intriguing – I'm simply glad of the chance to loosen my tongue, and there's also the fact that I've been drinking
these half-glasses of champagne and they've gone to my head a bit. No, the point is that there exists a certain circumstance which has bucked me up enormously, but about which I shall… remain silent. Where are you off to?’ he asked suddenly, in alarm.

Raskolnikov had begun to get up. He had started to experience the room as heavy and stuffy, and felt uncomfortable about having come here. His suspicions of Svidrigailov had been confirmed: he saw him as the most empty and worthless villain in all the world.

‘For heaven's sake sit down, don't go yet,’ Svidrigailov implored him. ‘Why don't you order yourself some tea? Come along, sit down, and I promise not to talk nonsense, about myself, at least. I shall tell you a story. If you'll let me, I shall tell you the story of how a woman, to use your style of language, “saved” me. It will also be a reply to your first question, as the young lady concerned is – your sister. May I tell you it? That way we shall kill time, too.’

‘Go on then, but I hope you…’

‘Oh, have no fear! What is more, even in such an unpleasant and empty character as myself, Avdotya Romanovna is capable only of implanting the most profound respect.’

‘You may perhaps know (actually, I've already told you about it),’ Svidrigailov began, ‘that I was locked up in the debtors’ prison here, owing a tremendous sum of money, and without the slightest means in prospect for paying it. There's no point in going into all the details of how Marfa Petrovna bought me out when she did; have you any idea of the degree of moral insensibility to which a woman is sometimes capable of loving? She was a decent woman, not at all unintelligent (though completely lacking in education). Can you imagine? This same decent and jealously possessive woman took the step of condescending, after the most horrible scenes of frenzy and reproach, to a form of contract with me, one to which she
adhered throughout the entire period of our marriage! The fact is that she was considerably older than me, and she constantly went around with some kind of clove in her mouth. I had enough brutishness in my soul and enough of my own form of decency to tell her right from the word go that it was quite out of the question for me to be faithful to her. That confession sent her into another frenzy, but I think that my crude candour actually appealed to her in a strange kind of way. It was as if she said to herself: “He mustn't really want to deceive me, if he's telling me about it in advance” – well, and to a possessive woman that's the thing that counts most of all. After lengthy bouts of tears a kind of verbal contract came into being between us; its stipulations were that firstly, I would never leave Marfa Petrovna and would always remain her husband; secondly, I would never absent myself without her permission; thirdly, that I would never retain a permanent mistress; fourthly, that in return for this Marfa Petrovna would occasionally allow me to cast an eye in the direction of the servant girls, but only with her confidential knowledge; fifthly, that woe betide me if I were ever to fall in love with a woman of our own social class; and sixthly, that in the event (which God forbid) of my ever being visited by some grand and serious passion, I must confide everything to Marfa Petrovna. As a matter of fact, with regard to this last point Marfa Petrovna was not particularly anxious; she was an intelligent woman, and consequently she was unable to look on me as other than a lecher and a libertine, for whom a serious love affair was an impossibility. But an intelligent woman and a possessive woman are two different things, and that was the trouble. Actually, if one is to form a dispassionate judgement about certain people, one must first of all jettison certain prejudices one may have, and also one's customary manner of dealing with the persons and objects that surround us. I think, therefore, that I am justified in relying on your judgement more than anyone's. You may already have heard many absurd and ridiculous things about Marfa Petrovna. It's true that she really did have certain utterly ridiculous habits; but I will tell you straight out that I sincerely regret the innumerable unhappinesses of which I was the cause. Well, I think that will do by way of a
thoroughly proper
oraison funèbre
delivered by a loving husband over his loving wife. On the occasions when we quarrelled I would, for the most part, say nothing and refuse to be provoked, and as a rule this gentlemanly behaviour paid its own dividends: it had its effect on her, and she even found it appealing; there were times when she was even proud of me. But all the same she couldn't stand your sister. And how on earth did she ever come to take the risky step of employing a raging beauty like that as a governess in her own home? I can only explain it by the fact that Marfa Petrovna was a passionate and susceptible woman and that she had quite simply fallen in love – literally fallen in love – with your sister. Well, and so there was Avdotya Romanovna! I realized perfectly well, right from the first glance, that this was a bad business and I determined – what do you suppose? – not even to look at her. But Avdotya Romanovna herself took the first step – can you believe it? Can you believe, moreover, that Marfa Petrovna even went so far as to lose her temper with me for my constant silence on the topic of your sister, and for being so unmoved by her ceaseless and enamoured outpourings about Avdotya Romanovna? I really still have no idea what it was she wanted! Well, and of course Marfa Petrovna told Avdotya Romanovna all about me, right down to the last detail. She had an unfortunate character trait that drove her to tell every single person our family secrets and she used to complain to them incessantly about me; so why should she make any exception of her new and beautiful friend? I assume that they talked of nothing but myself, and there can be no doubt that Avdotya Romanovna became acquainted with all those murky and mysterious legendary deeds that are ascribed to me… I would venture to bet that you have also heard certain things of that kind?’

‘Yes, I have. Luzhin was accusing you of having caused the death of a child. Is that true?’

‘Please do me the favour of leaving those banal little stories alone,’ Svidrigailov said, turning away peevishly and with disgust. ‘If you really must know about all that nonsense, I shall tell you about it separately sometime, but now…’

‘People have also told me things about some manservant you
had on your estate and said that you were the cause of that, too.’

‘
If
you don't mind – that's enough!’ Svidrigailov broke in again with manifest impatience.

‘Was that the same manservant who used to come and fill your pipe after he'd died… the one you told me about yourself?’ Raskolnikov asked, growing more and more irritated.

Svidrigailov gave Raskolnikov a close look, and to Raskolnikov it seemed for a moment as though in that look there flashed, like lightning, a malicious smile; but Svidrigailov restrained himself and answered with the utmost politeness:

‘The very one. I perceive that all this is of extreme interest to you, and I shall consider it my duty to satisfy your inquisitiveness on all these points at the earliest convenient opportunity. The devil take it! I see that it really is possible for me to appear as a romantic personage to certain people. Well then, I think you can judge for yourself the degree to which I am obliged to my deceased Marfa Petrovna for having told your sister so many mysterious and interesting things about me. I do not presume to know what impression it all made on her; but at any rate it did me no harm. For all Avdotya Romanovna's natural aversion towards me, and in spite of my perpetually gloomy and off-putting air, she ended up feeling sorry for me – sorry for a hopeless case. And when a girl's heart starts to feel
sorry
, that is, of course, the most dangerous thing that can happen to her. She immediately wants to “rescue” him, bring him to reason, reanimate him, exhort him to more noble aims, and breathe into him new life and new activity – well, you know the sort of dreams they have along that line. I at once realized that the bird was going to fly into the net of its own accord, and I, in my turn, made myself ready. You seem to be frowning, Rodion Romanych? Never fear, sir – the whole business ended in nonsense. (The devil confound it, what a lot I seem to be drinking!) You know, I always regretted the fact that destiny had not seen fit to bring your sister into the world in the second or third century
AD
, as the daughter of some small-time sovereign prince somewhere, or some ruler or proconsul in Asia Minor. She would, without any doubt, have been one of those who suffered
martyrdom, and she would of course have smiled as her bosom was seared by the red-hot pincers. She would have walked into it all on purpose, and in the fourth or fifth century she'd have gone off to the Egyptian desert and lived there for thirty years, nourishing herself on roots, visions and ecstasies. All that she's thirsting for, all that she demands is to accept torment for someone else's sake as quickly as possible, and if she doesn't get it, she'll probably jump out of the window. I've heard various things about a certain Mr Razumikhin. They say he's a soberminded fellow (something his name suggests, he must be a seminarist); well, let him look after your sister. In a word, I think I've understood her, something I consider to my credit. But back then, back at the beginning of our acquaintance… you know how it is, one's always more stupid and frivolous, one sees things the wrong way, not as they really are. The devil take it, why is she so good-looking? It's not my fault! In a word, I got into all this because of a most uncontrollable surge of physical desire. Avdotya Romanovna is quite horribly, incredibly, unimaginably chaste. (Please observe that I tell you this about your sister as a matter of fact. She is chaste to a point where it may be considered an illness, in spite of all her lofty intellect, and it will harm her.) At the time there happened to be a girl with us, called Parasha, “dark-eyed Parasha”,
¹
who had just been brought in from another village, a serving-maid, and one whom I'd never set eyes on before – very pretty, but unbelievably stupid: she burst into tears, raised a howl that could be heard all over the estate, and there was a scandal. One afternoon, Avdotya Romanovna came specially to see me when I was on my own in an avenue of the orchard and, her eyes flashing,
demanded
that I leave poor Parasha alone. This was almost the first time we had ever spoken to each other
tête-à-tête
. I naturally considered it an honour to satisfy her wish, did my best to pretend shock and embarrassment, and in actual fact played the role rather well. There began to-ings and fro-ings, mysterious conversations, moral admonitions, beggings, beseechings, even tears – can you believe it, even tears! That's how intense the passion for propaganda gets in some of these girls! Well, of course, I blamed the whole thing on my unhappy
lot, pretended to be avid and thirsting for the light and finally set in motion the principal and most unshakeable technique there exists for the subjugation of the female heart, a technique that has never yet failed any man and has the desired effect on every single woman without exception. This technique is the familiar one of flattery. There is nothing in the world more difficult than plain speaking, and nothing easier than flattery. If when a man is trying to speak plainly one-hundredth part of a false note creeps into what he is saying, the result is an instant dissonance, and following it – a scandal. In the case of flattery, however, even if everything in it, right down to the very last note, is false, it sounds agreeable and is received not without pleasure; even though it's a crude sort of pleasure, it's pleasure nevertheless. And no matter how crude the flattery may be, at least half of it always seems genuine. And that's how it is with people of all levels of education and from all layers of society. Even a vestal virgin could be seduced with flattery. And where ordinary people are concerned it's a positive walkover. I can never remember without laughing the time when I seduced a certain lady who was devoted to her husband, her children and her virtue. How enjoyable it was, and how little work it involved! The lady really was virtuous – in her own way, at any rate. My entire tactical method consisted simply in being perpetually overwhelmed by her chastity and in abasing myself before it. I flattered her outrageously, and no sooner had I obtained so much as a squeeze of her hand or even just a look from her than I would reproach myself for having wrenched it from her by force, for the fact that she had resisted me, resisted so violently that I would very likely never have obtained anything at all if I weren't so depraved; that she, in her innocence, had not foreseen the insidious nature of my tactics and had submitted inadvertently, without even knowing it or being aware of it, and so on, and so forth. In a word, I got what I was after, and my lady remained in the highest degree certain that she was innocent and chaste, had fulfilled all her duties and obligations, and had only suffered this lapse quite by accident. Oh, how angry she was with me when I finally told her that, in my own sincere conviction, she had been just as much in search of pleasure as I!
Poor Marfa Petrovna was also horribly susceptible to flattery, and if I had felt so inclined I could have had her whole estate transferred to my name while she was still alive. (I say, I really am drinking far too much and talking my head off.) I hope you won't lose your temper if I mention now that the same effect had begun to make itself felt on Avdotya Romanovna. But I was stupid and impatient and I spoiled the whole affair. On several previous occasions (and on one of them quite decidedly) Avdotya Romanovna had told me that she thoroughly abominated the look in my eyes – can you believe it? She said, in so many words, that they contained a light that flared up ever more powerfully and recklessly, that frightened her and had at last become hateful to her. There's no need to go into all the details – the fact is that we parted. At that point I did another stupid thing. I launched myself into the crudest, most jeering tirade against all that propaganda and those attempts to convert me; Parasha reappeared on the scene, and not only her – in a word, there was chaos. Oh, Rodion Romanych, if only once in your life you could see the way your sister's eyes are sometimes capable of flashing! Never mind that I'm drunk now and have just downed a whole glass of wine – I'm telling you the truth; I swear to you that I dreamt about those eyes; in the end I couldn't even stand the rustle of her dress. I really thought I was going to have an attack of epilepsy; I'd never imagined that I might end up in such a frenzy. In a word, what I needed to do was to make it up with your sister; but that was out of the question. And just fancy – what do you think I did then? The degree of stupefaction to which rage can drive a man! Never undertake anything when you're in a state of rage, Rodion Romanych. Reckoning that Avdotya Romanovna was after all not much more than a pauper (oh, please forgive me, I didn't mean to… but I mean, one word is as good as another, isn't it, as long as it gets the sense across?), that, in a word, she lived by the toil of her hands, that she had both your mother and yourself to maintain (oh, damn, you're frowning again…), I decided to offer her all my money (at the time I could realize up to thirty thousand) so that she'd run away with me, preferably here, to St Petersburg. It goes without saying that I'd have instantly
sworn eternal love to her, bliss and all the rest of it. Can you believe it, I was so smitten that if she'd said to me: “Cut Marfa Petrovna's throat or poison her and marry me” – I'd have done it like a flash! But it all ended in the disaster you are already familiar with, and you can judge for yourself the pitch my rage attained when I learned that Marfa Petrovna had got hold of that scoundrelly scribe Luzhin and had practically arranged the wedding, which was, in essence, the same thing I would have proposed. Have I got it right? Have I? Eh? I notice you've started to listen to me very attentively… interesting young man…’