Текст книги "Crime and Punishment"

Автор книги: Fyodor Dostoevsky

Соавторы: Fyodor Dostoevsky
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His hair was damp with sweat, his trembling lips were parched, his fixed eyes were turned up to the ceiling.

“My mother, my sister, how I loved them! Why do I hate them now? Yes, I hate them, hate them physically, I cannot bear having them near me...I went over and kissed mother this morning, I remember...To embrace her and think that if she found out, she...should I tell her, then? That would be just like me...Hm! Shemust be the same as I am,” he added, making an effort to think, as though struggling against the delirium that was taking hold of him. “Oh, how I hate that little old crone now! If she recovered, I think I'd kill her again! Poor Lizaveta! Why did she have to turn up there! ... Strange, though; why is it that I almost never think of her, as if I hadn't killed her?...Lizaveta! Sonya! Poor, meek ones, with meek eyes...Dear ones! ... Why don't they weep? Why don't they moan?...They give everything...their eyes are meek and gentle...Sonya, Sonya! Gentle Sonya! . . .”

He became oblivious; it seemed strange to him that he did not remember how he could have ended up in the street. It was already late evening. The twilight was thickening, the full moon shone brighter and brighter, but the air was somehow especially stifling. People moved in crowds along the street; artisans and office workers were going home, others were out for a stroll; there was a smell of lime, dust, stagnant water. Raskolnikov walked along sad and preoccupied; he remembered very well that he had left the house with some purpose, that he had to do something, and quickly, but precisely what—he had forgotten. Suddenly he stopped and noticed that a man standing on the sidewalk across the street was waving to him with his hand. He started across the street towards him, but the man suddenly turned and went on as though nothing had happened, with his head down, not looking back or showing any sign that he had called him. “But did he call me, really?” Raskolnikov thought, and nevertheless started after him. When he was about ten steps away, he suddenly recognized the man– and was frightened: it was today's tradesman, in the same smock, hunched over as before. Raskolnikov stayed some distance behind him; his heart was pounding; they turned down a side street—he still refused to look back. “Does he know I'm following him?” thought Raskolnikov. The tradesman walked through the gates of a big house. Raskolnikov hastened up to the gates and looked in to see if he would turn and call him. Indeed, having passed under the gateway and on into the courtyard, he suddenly turned around and again seemed to wave to him. Raskolnikov immediately went through the gateway, but the tradesman was no longer in the courtyard. That meant he had gone straight up the first stairway. Raskolnikov rushed after him. He could indeed hear someone's steady, unhurried steps two flights above. Strangely, the stairway seemed familiar! Here was the first-floor window; moonlight shone sadly and mysteriously through the glass; here was the second floor. Hah! It was the same apartment where the painters had been working...How had he not recognized it at once? The steps of the man ahead of him faded away: “that means he has stopped or is hiding somewhere.” Here was the third floor; should he go any farther? How silent it was, even frightening...But he went on. The sound of his own steps scared and alarmed him. God, how dark! The tradesman was probably lurking somewhere here in a corner. Ah! The apartment door was standing wide open; he thought a moment and went in. The entryway was very dark and empty, not a soul, as though everything had been taken out; quietly, on tiptoe, he moved on into the living room: the whole room was brightly flooded with moonlight; everything here was as it had been: the chairs, the mirror, the yellow sofa, the pictures in their frames. A huge, round, copper-red moon was looking straight in the window. “It's because of the moon that it's so silent,” thought Raskolnikov, “asking some riddle, no doubt.” He stood and waited, waited a long time, and the more silent the moon was, the harder his heart pounded—it was even becoming painful. And still the same silence. Suddenly there came a brief, dry crack like the snapping of a twig; then everything was still again. An awakened fly suddenly swooped and struck against the window, buzzing plaintively. At the same moment he made out what seemed to be a woman's wrap hanging in the corner between a small cupboard and the window. “Why is that wrap here?” he thought, “it wasn't here before...” He approached quietly and realized that someone seemed to be hiding there behind the wrap. He cautiously moved the wrap aside with his hand and saw a chair standing there, and on the chair, in the corner, sat the little old crone, all hunched up, with her head bent down so that there was no way he could see her face—but it was she. He stood over her. “Afraid!” he thought, and he quietly freed the axe from its loop and struck the old woman on the crown of the head, once and then again. But, strangely, she did not even stir under his blows, as though she were made of wood. He became frightened, bent closer, and began looking at her, but she also bent her head still lower. Then he bent down all the way to the floor and peeked into her face from below, peeked and went dead: the little old crone was sitting there laughing—simply dissolving in soft, inaudible laughter, trying her best not to let him hear her. He suddenly fancied that the door to the bedroom had opened a little, and there also seemed to be laughter and whispering there. Rage overcame him: he began hitting the old woman on the head with all his strength, but at every blow of the axe the laughing and whispering from the bedroom grew stronger and louder, and the little crone heaved all over with laughter. He wanted to run away, but now the whole entryway is full of people, all the doors to the stairs are wide open, and on the landings, on the stairway, farther down there are people, head to head, all looking—but all hushed and waiting, silent... His heart shrank, his feet became rooted and refused to move...He tried to cry out—and woke up.

He drew a deep breath—yet, strangely, it was as if the dream were still going on: his door was wide open, and a man completely unknown to him was standing on the threshold, studying him intently.

Raskolnikov had not yet managed to open his eyes fully, and he instantly closed them again. He lay on his back without stirring. “Is the dream still going on, or not?” he thought, and again imperceptibly parted his eyelashes a little: the stranger was standing in the same place and was still peering at him. All at once he cautiously stepped across the threshold, closed the door carefully behind him, went over to the table, waited for about a minute—not taking his eyes off him all the while—and softly, noiselessly, sat down on the chair by the sofa; he placed his hat beside him on the floor, leaned with both hands on his cane, and rested his chin on his hands. One could see that he was prepared to wait a long time. As far as could be made out through blinking eyelashes, this was a man no longer young, thickset, and with a bushy, fair, almost white beard . . .

About ten minutes went by. It was still light, but evening was approaching. There was total silence in the room. No sound came even from the stairs. Only a big fly buzzed and struggled, striking with a swoop against the window. Finally it became unbearable: Raskolnikov raised himself all at once and sat up on the sofa.

“Speak, then. What do you want?”

“Ah, I just knew you were not asleep, but only pretending,” the unknown man answered strangely, with a quiet laugh. “Allow me to introduce myself: Arkady Ivanovich Svidrigailov . . .”

Part Four

I

“Can this be a continuation of my dream?” came once again to Raskolnikov's mind. Cautiously and mistrustfully he stared at his unexpected visitor.

“Svidrigailov? What nonsense! It can't be!” he finally said aloud, in perplexity.

The visitor seemed not in the least surprised at this exclamation.

“I have come here owing to two reasons: first, I wished to meet you personally, because I have long since heard much about you from a point that is curious and advantageous for you; and, second, I dream that you will perhaps not decline to help me in a certain undertaking directly concerned with the interests of your dear sister, Avdotya Romanovna. Owing to biased opinion, she will perhaps not allow me into the yard if I come on my own, without a recommendation; well, but with your help, on the other hand, I reckon . . .”

“Poor reckoning,” Raskolnikov interrupted.

“They arrived only yesterday, if I may ask?”

Raskolnikov did not reply.

“It was yesterday, I know. I myself arrived only two days ago. Well, here is what I shall tell you in that regard, Rodion Romanovich; I consider it unnecessary to justify myself, but even so, allow me to say: what is there in all this, in the thing itself, that is so especially criminal on my part—I mean, judging soberly, and without prejudice?”

Raskolnikov went on studying him silently.

“That I pursued a defenseless girl in my own house and 'insulted her with my vile proposals'—is that it, sir? (I'm running ahead of myself!) But you need only suppose that I, too, am a man, et nihil humanum <sup>[84]84
  A misquotation of a famous line from the Roman playwright Terence (190-159 B.C.): homo sum, bumani nihil a me alienum puto("I am a man, nothing human is alien to me"). Svidrigailov's error is a common one (repeated by the devil in The Brothers Karamazov).


[Закрыть] ...</sup>in short, that I, too, am capable of being tempted and of falling in love (which, of course, does not happen on command), and then everything is explained in the most natural way. The whole question here is: am I a monster, or a victim myself? Well, and what if I am a victim? For in offering to elope with my object to America or Switzerland, I may have been nurturing the most respectful feelings, and hoping, besides, to arrange for our mutual happiness! ... For reason is the slave of passion; good heavens, perhaps I was ruining myself even more! ... ”

“But that is not the point at all,” Raskolnikov interrupted with loathing. “You are quite simply disgusting, whether you are right or not, and so people don't want to have anything to do with you, they chase you away—so, go! . . .”

Svidrigailov suddenly burst out laughing.

“You, however...you simply will not be thrown off!” he said, laughing in the most genuine manner. “I tried to dodge round you, but no, you went straight to the most real point!”

“But you're continuing to dodge even now.”

“What of it? What of it?” Svidrigailov repeated, laughing openheartedly. “It's bonne guerre, <sup>[85]85
  "It's honest warfare" (French).


[Закрыть]</sup> as they call it, and the most admissible dodging! ... Anyway, you interrupted me; one way or the other, I affirm again: there would have been no trouble, if it hadn't been for that incident in the garden. Marfa Petrovna . . .”

“And they say you also took care of Marfa Petrovna?” Raskolnikov interrupted rudely.

“So you've heard about that, too? But then, how could you not. . . Well, concerning the question you've raised, I really don't know what to say, though my own conscience is entirely at rest in that regard. I mean, do not think that I feared anything of the sort: it was all performed in perfect order and with complete precision; the medical experts diagnosed apoplexy, the result of bathing after a heavy meal and almost a full bottle of wine, and they could not have discovered anything else...No, sir, I was thinking about that myself for some time, especially on my way here, sitting in the train: didn't I contribute to this whole...misfortune, somehow morally, through irritation or something like that? But I concluded that this, too, was positively impossible.”

Raskolnikov laughed.

“Not that you should worry!”

“And what is there to laugh at? Just think: I struck her only twice with a riding crop; there weren't even any marks...Please do not regard me as a cynic; I do know exactly how vile it was on my part, and so on; but I also know perfectly well that Marfa Petrovna may even have been glad of my, shall we say, enthusiasm. The story concerning your dear sister had been wrung out to the last drop. It was already the third day that Marfa Petrovna had been obliged to stay at home; she had nothing to take her to town, and besides they were all sick of her there, what with that letter of hers (you did hear about the reading of the letter?). And suddenly those two strokes fell as if from heaven! She ordered the carriage to be readied first thing! ... I won't even mention the fact that there are occasions when women find it extremely agreeable to be insulted, for all their apparent indignation. Everyone has known them, these occasions; man in general finds it extremely pleasant to be insulted—have you noticed? But it's especially so with women. One might even say it's their only provender.”

At one point Raskolnikov had wanted to get up and leave, thereby putting an end to the meeting. But a certain curiosity and even calculation, as it were, kept him for the moment.

“Do you enjoy fighting?” he asked distractedly.

“No, not really,” Svidrigailov answered calmly. “And Marfa Petrovna and I hardly ever fought. Our life was quite harmonious, and she always remained pleased with me. In all those seven years I used the whip only twice (unless one counts a third rather ambiguous occasion): the first time was two months after our marriage, just after we came to the estate; and then in this last instance. And you were thinking I was such a monster, a retrograde, a serf-owner? Heh, heh...By the way, you must remember, Rodion Romanovich, how a few years ago, still in the days of beneficent freedom of expression, one of our noblemen was disgraced nationwide and presswide—I've forgotten his name!—he gave a whipping to a German woman on a train, remember? It was then, too, in that same year, I think, that the 'Outrageous Act of The Age' occurred (I mean the Egyptian Nights,the public reading, remember? Those dark eyes! Oh, where have you gone, golden days of our youth!). <sup>[86]86
  "Freedom of expression" in Svidrigailov's ironic phrase is glasnostin the original. The whipping of the German woman, an event that took place in 1860, was widely commented on in the newspapers. The "Outrageous Act of The Age"refers to the title of a polemical article published in the St. Petersburg Gazette(3 March 1861) protesting against an attack on the movement for women's emancipation in the weekly magazine The Age.The article in The Agehad denounced an event at which a woman gave a public reading from Pushkin's Egyptian Nights:the reading of Cleopatra's challenge to 7men (to spend a night with her in exchange for their lives) was considered an immoral act revealing the true aims of the proponents of women's emancipation. "Those dark eyes" refers to the description of the lady as she was reading.


[Закрыть]</sup> So, sir, here is my opinion: I feel no deep sympathy for the gentleman who gave a whipping to the German woman, because it's really...well, what is there to sympathize with? But all the same I cannot help declaring that one sometimes runs across such provoking 'German women' that I don't think there's a single progressivist who could vouch for himself entirely. At the time no one looked at the subject from that point, and yet that point is the truly humane one, it really is, sir!”

Having said this, Svidrigailov suddenly laughed again. It was clear to Raskolnikov that this was a man who was firmly set on something, and who kept his own counsel.

“You must not have talked with anyone for several days?” he asked.

“Almost right. And so? You're no doubt surprised that I'm such a congenial man?”

“No, I'm surprised that you're a much too congenial man.”

“Because I was not offended by the rudeness of your questions? Is that it? But...why be offended? As I was asked, so I answered,” he added, with a surprisingly simple-hearted expression. “You see, there's not much that interests me especially, by God!” he went on, somehow pensively. “Especially now, nothing really occupies me...However, you may be permitted to think that I am ingratiating myself with you for some purpose, all the more so in that I have business with your dear sister, as I myself have declared. But I'll tell you frankly: I'm very bored! These last three days especially, so that I was even glad to see you...Don't be angry, Rodion Romanovich, but you yourself seem terribly strange to me for some reason. Like it or not, there's something in you; and precisely now—that is, not this very minute, but now generally...Well, well, I'll stop, I'll stop, don't scowl! I'm really not such a bear as you think.”

Raskolnikov looked at him glumly.

“Perhaps you're not a bear at all,” he said. “It even seems to me that you're of very good society, or can at least be a decent man on occasion.”

“In fact, I'm not particularly interested in anyone's opinion,” Svidrigailov answered dryly and even as if with a shade of haughtiness, “and therefore why not be a vulgar fellow for a while—the attire is so well suited to our climate, and...and especially if that is also one's natural inclination,” he added, laughing again.

“I've heard, however, that you have many acquaintances here. You're what's known as 'not without connections.' In that case what do you need me for, if not for some purpose?”

“It's true, as you say, that I have acquaintances,” Svidrigailov picked up, without responding to the main point. “I've met some already; this is the third day I've been hanging about; I recognize people, and seem to be recognized as well. I'm decently dressed, of course, and am not reckoned a poor man; even the peasant reform didn't touch us: it's all forests and water-meadows, so there was no loss of income, <sup>[87]87
  After the emancipation of the serfs in 1861, peasants were allotted arable land, which was taken from the landowners; forests and water meadows were not included in such allotments.


[Закрыть]</sup> but...I won't go to them; I was sick of it even before: I've been walking around for three days without telling anyone...And then there's this city! I mean, tell me, how did we ever come up with it! A city of functionaries and all sorts of seminarians! Really, there's much that I never noticed before, when I was lolling about here some eight years ago...I now place all my hopes in anatomy, by God!”

“Anatomy?”

“And as for these clubs, these Dussots, these pointesof yours, <sup>[88]88
  Dussot owned a famous restaurant in Petersburg frequented by high society. Pointes(French for points or spits of land) here refers to a pleasure garden on Yelagin Island.


[Закрыть]</sup> this progress, if you like—well, it can all do without us,” he went on, again ignoring the question. “Besides, who wants to be a sharper?”

“So you were a sharper, too?”

“What else? There was a whole group of us, a most respectable one, about eight years ago; we whiled the time away; all well-mannered people, you know, poets, capitalists. Generally, in our Russian society, the best-mannered people are those who have been beaten—did you ever notice that? It was on the estate that I started going to seed. Anyway, they put me in prison then, for debt—a little Greek, from Nezhin. And then Marfa Petrovna turned up, bargained a bit, and bought me off for thirty thousand pieces of silver. (I owed seventy thousand all told.) I entered into lawful marriage with her, and she immediately took me home to her estate, like some treasure. She was five years older than I, you see. She loved me very much. For seven years I never left the estate. And, mark this, all her life she kept a document against me, in somebody else's name, for the thirty thousand, so that if I ever decided to rebel at anything—there'd be a trap right there! And she'd have done it! Women can keep all these things together.”

“And if it weren't for the document, you'd have skipped out?”

“I don't know what to say. The document was almost no hindrance to me. I didn't want to go anywhere, though Marfa Petrovna herself even suggested twice that I go abroad, seeing that I was bored. But what for? I used to go abroad, and I always felt sick at heart. Nothing special, really—here's the dawn coming up, here's the Bay of Naples, the sea—you look, and it's somehow sad. The most disgusting thing is that you're always sad about something! No, the fatherland's better; here at least you can blame it all on everyone else and justify yourself. I might go on an expedition to the North Pole now, because j'ai le vin mauvais, <sup>[89]89
  "Wine doesn't agree with me" (French).


[Закрыть]</sup> drinking disgusts me, and wine is the only thing I have left. I've tried. Listen, they say Berg is going to fly in a huge balloon from the Yusupov Garden on Sunday, and is inviting people to go with him for a certain fee—is it true?” <sup>[90]90
  Berg was the owner of amusement attractions in Petersburg. Known as "thefamous Petersburg aeronaut," he was often mentioned in newspapers during the mid-1860s.


[Закрыть]</sup>

“Why, would you go and fly?”

“Me? No...I just. . .” Svidrigailov muttered, as if he were indeed reflecting.

“What is he...really...or something?” Raskolnikov thought.

“No, the document was no hindrance to me,” Svidrigailov went on reflectively. “I myself wouldn't leave the estate. And a year ago, on my name-day, Marfa Petrovna handed the document over to me, and gave me a significant sum on top of it. She had a fortune, you know. 'See how I trust you, Arkady Ivanovich'—really, that's what she said. You don't believe she said it? And you know, I got to be quite a manager on the estate; the whole neighborhood knows me. I ordered books. Marfa Petrovna approved at first, but then kept being afraid I'd overstudy.”

“You seem to miss Marfa Petrovna very much?”

“Me? Perhaps. Perhaps, indeed. By the way, do you believe in ghosts?”

“What ghosts?”

“Ordinary ghosts. What do you mean, what ghosts?”

“Do you?”

“Well, perhaps not, pour vous plaire <sup>[91]91
  "So as to please you" (French).


[Закрыть]</sup> ...that is, not really not. . .”

“What, do they come to you?”

Svidrigailov gave him a somehow strange look.

“Marfa Petrovna has been so kind as to visit me,” he said, twisting his mouth into a strange sort of smile.

“How do you mean, so kind as to visit you?”

“She's already come three times. I saw her first on the very day of the funeral, an hour after the cemetery. It was the day before I left to come here. The second time was two days ago, on the way, at dawn, in the Malaya Vishera station; and the third time was two hours ago, in the apartment where I'm staying, in my room; I was alone.”

“And awake?”

“Wide awake. I was awake all three times. She comes, talks for a moment, and leaves by the door, always by the door. One even seems to hear it.”

“Why did I think that something like that must be going on with you?” Raskolnikov said suddenly, and was at once surprised that he had said it. He was greatly excited.

“So-o-o? You thought that?” Svidrigailov asked in surprise. “Can it be? Now, didn't I tell you there was a common point between us, eh?”

“You never said that!” Raskolnikov replied sharply and with passion.

“Didn't I?”

“No!”

“I thought I did. Earlier, when I came in and saw that you were lying there with your eyes closed, pretending, I said to myself at once: 'This is the very man!’”

“What do you mean, the very man? What is this about?” Raskolnikov cried out.

“What is it about? I really don't know what . . .” Svidrigailov muttered frankly, becoming somehow confused.

For a moment they were silent. They were staring wide-eyed at each other.

“That's all nonsense!” Raskolnikov cried in vexation. “What does she say when she comes?”

“She? Imagine, she talks about the most worthless trifles, and—man is amazing!—that's just what makes me angry. The first time she came (I was tired, you know: the funeral service, 'Give rest with thy saints,' then the blessings, the food <sup>[92]92
  "(Jive rest with thy saints, C) Christ, to the soul of thy servant . . ." is the first phrase of a hymn (kontakion)from the Orthodox funeral service. "The food" refers to the traditional manorial meal following a funeral.


[Закрыть]</sup> —finally I was left alone in the study, lit myself a cigar, and began thinking), she came in the door: 'What with all this fuss, Arkady Ivanovich,' she said, 'you've forgotten to wind the clock in the dining room.' And indeed I had been winding that clock every week for seven years, and whenever I forgot, she would always remind me. The next day I was on my way here. I walked into the stationhouse at dawn – I'd been dozing during the night, all broken up, eyes still sleepy – had some coffee; I looked up—Marfa Petrovna suddenly sat down next to me, holding a deck of cards: 'Shall I tell your fortune, Arkady Ivanovich, for the road?' She used to be good at reading cards. Well, I'll never forgive myself for not asking her! I got scared and ran away; true, they were also ringing the bell. Then, today, I was sitting with a heavy stomach after a perfectly rotten meal in a cook-shop—sitting and smoking, when Marfa Petrovna suddenly came in again, all dressed up in a new green silk gown with a very long train: 'Good afternoon, Arkady Ivanovich! How do you like my gown? Aniska will never sew like this.' (Aniska is our village dressmaker, from a former serf family, went to Moscow for lessons—a pretty wench.) She was standing in front of me and turning around. I looked the gown over, then looked attentively in her face: 'Marfa Petrovna,' I said, 'why on earth do you trouble yourself coming to me with such trifles?' 'Good heavens, my dear, can't I bother you a little?' 'I'm going to get married, Marfa Petrovna,' I said, in order to tease her. 'That's just like you, Arkady Ivanovich; it does you little credit, after you've just buried your wife, to go and get married at once. And if only you'd choose well, but I know you—it won't be right for her or for you, you'll only make good people laugh.' Then she up and left, and I thought I could hear the rustling of her train. What nonsense, eh?”

“Or maybe it's all lies?” Raskolnikov responded.

“I rarely lie,” Svidrigailov answered thoughtfully, as if he had not even noticed the rudeness of the question.

“And did you ever see ghosts before this?”

“Y-yes, I did, once before in my life, about six years ago. I had a household serf named Filka; we had just buried him, and I forgot and called out: 'Filka, my pipe!' He came in and went straight to the cabinet where I kept my pipes. I sat there thinking: 'It's his revenge on me,' because we had quarreled badly just before his death. 'How dare you come to me with a torn elbow,' I said. 'Get out, scoundrel!' He turned around, walked out, and never came back. I didn't tell Marfa Petrovna. I wanted to order a memorial service for him, but I was ashamed.”

“You should see a doctor.”

“I don't need you to tell me I'm not well, though I don't really know what's wrong with me; I think I'm five times healthier than you are.

I didn't ask whether you believe that people see ghosts. I asked if you believe that there are ghosts.”

“No, I wouldn't believe it for anything!” Raskolnikov cried out, even somewhat spitefully.

“What is it they usually say?” Svidrigailov muttered as if to himself, turning aside and inclining his head slightly. “They say, 'You're sick, and therefore what you imagine is all just nonexistent raving.' But there's no strict logic here. I agree that ghosts come only to sick people; but that only proves that ghosts cannot appear to anyone but sick people, not that they themselves do not exist.”

“Of course they don't!” Raskolnikov insisted irritably.

“No? You think not?” Svidrigailov went on, slowly raising his eyes to him. “And what if one reasons like this (come, help me now): 'Ghosts are, so to speak, bits and pieces of other worlds, their beginnings. The healthy man, naturally, has no call to see them, because the healthy man is the most earthly of men, and therefore he ought to live according to life here, for the sake of completeness and order. Well, but as soon as a man gets sick, as soon as the normal earthly order of his organism is disrupted, the possibility of another world at once begins to make itself known, and the sicker one is, the greater the contact with this other world, so that when a man dies altogether, he goes to the other world directly.' I've been reasoning it out for a long time. If one believes in a future life, one can believe in this reasoning.”

“I do not believe in a future life,” said Raskolnikov.

Svidrigailov sat thinking.

“And what if there are only spiders there, or something of the sort,” he said suddenly.

“He's a madman,” thought Raskolnikov.

“We keep imagining eternity as an idea that cannot be grasped, something vast, vast! But why must it be vast? Instead of all that, imagine suddenly that there will be one little room there, something like a village bathhouse, covered with soot, with spiders in all the corners, and that's the whole of eternity. I sometimes fancy something of the sort.”

“But surely, surely you can imagine something more just and comforting than that!” Raskolnikov cried out with painful feeling.

“More just? Who knows, perhaps that is just—and, you know, if I had my way, it's certainly how I would do it!” Svidrigailov answered, smiling vaguely.

A sort of chill came over Raskolnikov at this hideous answer. Svidrigailov raised his head, looked at him intently, and suddenly burst out laughing.

“No, but realize,” he cried, “that half an hour ago we had never even seen each other, we're supposed to be enemies, there's unfinished business between us; so we've dropped the business, and look what literature we've gone sailing into! Well, wasn't it true when I said we were apples from the same tree?”

“Do me a favor,” Raskolnikov continued irritably, “allow me to ask you for a quick explanation of why you deem me worthy to be honored by your visit...and...and...I'm in a hurry, I have no time, I must go out . . .”

“By all means, by all means. Your dear sister, Avdotya Romanovna, is going to marry Mr. Luzhin, Pyotr Petrovich?”

“Could you not somehow avoid asking any questions about my sister or mentioning her name? I don't understand how you even dare to utter her name in my presence, if you are indeed Svidrigailov.”

“But it's her that I came to speak about; how can I not mention her?”

“Very well; speak, but be quick!”

“I'm sure you've already formed an opinion of this Mr. Luzhin, to whom I am related through my wife, if you've spent as much as half an hour with him, or merely heard something true and accurate about him. He is no match for Avdotya Romanovna. In my opinion, Avdotya Romanovna is quite magnanimously and improvidently sacrificing herself in this affair for...for her family. It seemed to me, from all I had heard about you, that you, for your part, would be very pleased if this marriage could be broken off without harming anyone's interests. Now that I've met you in person, I'm even certain of it.”

“This is all very naive on your part—excuse me, I was going to say insolent,” Raskolnikov said.

“What you mean, I take it, is that I'm trying to grease my own skids. Don't worry, Rodion Romanovich, if I were going to bother about my own advantage, I would not speak so directly—I'm not a complete fool yet. In this regard, I shall reveal to you a psychological anomaly. Earlier, in justifying my love for Avdotya Romanovna, I said I was a victim myself. Well, let it be known to you that I no longer feel any love, none at all, which even seems strange to me now, because I did indeed feel something...”

“From idleness and depravity,” Raskolnikov interrupted.

“I am indeed a depraved and idle person. Nevertheless, your dear sister possesses so many advantages that I could not help succumbing somewhat to the impression. But that is all nonsense, as I now see myself.”