Crime and Punishment by Fyodor Dostoyevsky
rned with white-hot tongs. She'd have sought this out herself, while in the fourth or fifth century she'd have retreated into the Egyptian desert for thirty years, living off roots, raptures and visions. She craves nothing else and demands to suffer some agony or other for someone or other, and if you don't give her this agony quickly she'll probably throw herself out of the window. I've heard about a certain Mr Razumikhin. A sensible sort, I'm told (as his name suggests - must be a seminarian).15 Let him take care of your sister. In short, I think I've understood her and I'm rather proud of the fact. But back then . . . well, as you know yourself, one is always a bit more frivolous at the beginning of an acquaintance, a bit more foolish, liable to get things wrong, not to see them as they really are. Why does she have to be so pretty, damn it? It's hardly my fault! In short, for me it all began with the most irrepressible surge of lust. Avdotya Romanovna is appallingly chaste - it's unheard of, unprecedented. (Note that I am telling you this simply as a fact. Your sister is almost morbidly chaste, for all her breadth of mind, and it'll do her nothing but harm.) At this point a girl turned up on the estate, Parasha, black-eyed Parasha, a housemaid newly brought in from another village. I'd never seen her before - a very pretty little thing, but incredibly stupid: she made a terrible racket with her sobbing and wailing, and ended up causing a scene. Once, after lunch, Avdotya Romanovna caught me alone on one of the paths in the garden and, eyes flashing, demanded that I leave poor Parasha alone. It was virtually our first tete-a-tete. I, needless to say, considered it an honour to satisfy her wish, tried my best to look stricken and abashed, and, in short, carried it off rather well. A relationship began: mysterious conversations, admonitions, exhortations, supplications, entreaties, even tears - can you believe it? - even tears! The things a passion for propaganda can do to a girl! I, of course, blamed everything on my fate, affected a terrible thirst for enlightenment and, finally, deployed the greatest and surest method for conquering a woman's heart, a method which never lets you down and works on absolutely everyone, without exception. The method is well known: flattery. Nothing in the world is harder than candour, and nothing easier than flattery. Candour that contains even the faintest false note results in immediate dissonance and a scene is sure to follow. Flattery, even if it contains false notes and nothing else, is always welcome and heard with pleasure; a vulgar kind of pleasure, perhaps, but pleasure nonetheless. And however crude this flattery may be, at least half of it will always seem true. This holds for all social groups, whatever their level of education. Even vestal virgins can be seduced by flattery - to say nothing of ordinary people. I can't help laughing when I recall how I once seduced a certain lady who was deeply devoted to her husband, her children and her own virtue. What fun that was - and how easily done! She really was a lady of virtue, at least in her own way. My tactics were simple enough: to appear crushed by her chastity and prostrate myself before it at every turn. I flattered her shamelessly and no sooner would I win a squeeze of her hand or even a glance than I'd immediately berate myself that I'd taken it from her by force while she'd resisted, resisted to such a degree that she would never have granted me anything had I myself not been so ridden with vice; she, in her innocence, hadn't seen it coming and had yielded without meaning to, unaware of having done so, etcetera, etcetera. In short, I had my way, while my lady remained perfectly convinced that she was blameless and chaste, that she was performing all her duties and obligations, and that her ruin had come about quite inadvertently. How very angry she was with me when I eventually told her that, in my sincere opinion, she'd been seeking pleasure no less than I had. Poor Marfa Petrovna also yielded to flattery all too easily, and had I but wanted to I could, of course, have transferred her entire estate to myself while she was still alive. (Dear me! I'm drinking and talking far too much.) I trust you won't be angry if I now mention that this method was beginning to have the same effect on Avdotya Romanovna. But I went and ruined everything through my own stupidity and impatience. Even before then (I remember one occasion in particular) she'd taken a violent dislike to the expression of my eyes - can you believe that? In short, they'd begun to burn, ever more intensely and ever more recklessly, with a fire that frightened her and that she eventually came to detest. I won't go into the details; we went our separate ways. Then I committed another stupidity. I set about mocking all this propaganda and oratory in the most vulgar way imaginable. Parasha came back into the picture, and not just her. Sodom, in a nutshell. Oh, if you could but see, Rodion Romanych, at least once in your life, your dear sister's eyes flash as only they know how! Never mind that I'm drunk now and that I've had a whole glass of champagne - I'm telling the truth. I used to dream of that look, I assure you. By the end, even the rustling of her dress was too much for me. Really, I thought an epileptic fit was just around the corner. I'd never imagined reaching such a state of frenzy. In short, I needed to resign myself, but this was no longer possible. So can you imagine what I went and did then? The idiocy to which a man can be reduced by rage! Never undertake anything in a rage, Rodion Romanych. Calculating that Avdotya Romanovna was more or less a beggar (oh dear, I'm sorry, not what I meant to . . . but doesn't it all come to the same thing?), in short, that she was living by the fruits of her own labour and supporting both her mother and you (damn it, you're frowning again . . . ), I made up my mind to offer her all the money I had (even then, that came to about thirty thousand) in the hope that she would elope with me, if only to Petersburg. Naturally I'd have sworn eternal love, bliss, etcetera. Believe it or not, I was so besotted by that point that if she'd said, "Cut Marfa Petrovna's throat or poison her and marry me," I'd have done so without a second thought! But the upshot of it all was the catastrophe you already know about, and you can judge for yourself how furious I must have been on learning that Marfa Petrovna had found that scum of a clerk, Luzhin, and all but fixed up a wedding - one that, in the end, would have come to the same thing as what I was proposing. Would it not? Would it not, I say? I can't help noticing that you've started listening very attentively . . . What an interesting young man . . .'
Svidrigailov impatiently banged his fist on the table. He'd gone red in the face. Raskolnikov could see quite clearly that the glass or glass and a half of champagne which he'd been quietly sipping had affected him for the worse - and decided to take advantage. He found Svidrigailov's behaviour very suspicious.
'Well, you've left me in no doubt that my sister is the reason you've come here,' he told Svidrigailov plainly, without concealing anything, so as to irritate him all the more.
'Oh, enough of that,' said Svidrigailov, as if suddenly checking himself. 'Didn't I tell you . . . ? And anyway, your sister can't bear the sight of me.'
'I've no doubt about that either, but that's not the point.'
'You've no doubt, eh?' (Svidrigailov narrowed his eyes and smiled derisively.) 'You're right, she doesn't love me, but you should never vouch for what goes on between a husband and wife or a pair of lovers. There's always one little corner closed off to the rest of the world, known only to the two of them. Are you quite sure that Avdotya Romanovna looked at me with disgust?'
'Judging by some of the words and phrases you've been using in the course of your account, I notice that even now you have the most pressing designs on Dunya - shameful ones, needless to say.'
'Really? I came out with words and phrases like that, did I?' asked Svidrigailov with the most artless alarm, paying not the faintest attention to Raskolnikov's description of his intentions.
'You're still coming out with them now. I mean, what are you so scared of? What was it that suddenly frightened you just now?'
'Me? Scared and frightened? Frightened of you? If anything, it's you who should be scared of me, cher ami.16 Can we really not find anything better to talk about . . . ? But I must be a bit tipsy. I almost said something careless again. Damn this wine! Hey, bring me some water!'
He grabbed the bottle and unceremoniously tossed it out of the window. Filipp brought some water.
'Such nonsense,' said Svidrigailov, soaking a towel and applying it to his head. 'I can silence you with a single word and smash all your suspicions to smithereens. Are you aware, for example, that I'm getting married?'
'You've told me that before.'
'I have? I'd forgotten. But at the time I couldn't say for sure, never having seen my fiancee. It was merely an intention. Now my fiancee is already in hand - the deal's been done - and were it not for a piece of urgent business I'd take you over there right now, as I need your advice about something. Damn it all! Only ten minutes left. See, look at the clock. But I'll still tell you this story, because it's a rather curious thing, my marriage, in its own way . . . Now where are you off to? Leaving again?'
'No, I won't be leaving now.'
'You won't be leaving at all? We'll see about that! I really will take you over there and show her to you, only not now - you'll have to go soon. You to the left, me to the right. Do you know that Resslich woman? That same Resslich I'm renting a room from - eh? Are you listening? No, what are you . . . ? I mean that woman whose little girl is said to have, you know, in the water, in winter - well, are you listening? Are you? So she's the one who cooked all this up for me. "You must be bored," she says. "Have some fun." I really am a gloomy, dull sort. You think I'm cheerful? I'm not, I'm gloomy. I just sit harmlessly in the corner and three days might pass before you get a word out of me. That Resslich's a handful, I can tell you. Can you believe it? She thinks I'll get bored, drop my wife and go away, so she'll get the wife and put her into circulation; among our class, that is - the posher the better. There's this invalid father, she says, a retired civil servant, sits in his armchair and hasn't moved his legs in three years. There's also a mother, she says, a sensible lady. The son's got a position somewhere out in the sticks - no help from him. One daughter's married and stays away, then there's two little nephews to take care of (as if they didn't have enough on their plate already), plus the girl they've taken out of school before finishing, their last daughter, just sixteen next month, which, as it happens, is also the date she can be given away. To me. So off we went. It's simply hilarious over there. I introduce myself: landowner, widower, bearer of a well-known surname, well-connected, moneyed . . . So what if I'm fifty and she's only fifteen? Who cares about that? All rather tempting, isn't it? Rather tempting, eh? Ha-ha! You should have seen me chatting away to Papa and Mama! The very sight of me would have been worth good money. Out she comes, curtseying and wearing - can you imagine? - a short little frock, like a bud still waiting to open; and blushes and lights up like the dawn (they'd told her, of course). I don't know whether women's faces do much for you, but for me, these sixteen years, these still-childish eyes, this shyness and these bashful tears - for me, that's better than any beauty, not to mention the fact that she herself is simply exquisite. That lovely fair hair of hers, done up in those sweet little lamb's curls, those chubby little lips, those little legs - just adorable! . . . Well, we were introduced. I announced I was in a hurry on account of certain domestic circumstances and the very next day - that is, the day before yesterday - we were blessed. Now, as soon as I arrive, I sit her on my knees and just keep her there . . . So there she is, lighting up like the dawn, and there am I, showering her with kisses. Mama, needless to say, keeps telling her that this is your husband and this is the done thing. In short, bliss! And actually, being a fiance, as I am now, is probably even better than being a husband! La nature et la verite,17 you might call it! Ha-ha! We've talked a couple of times and she's certainly not stupid. Sometimes she'll steal a glance at me - and it burns like fire. You know, her sweet little face is like Raphael's Madonna. The Sistine Madonna,18 after all, has a quite fantastical face, the face of a sorrowing holy fool - don't you think? Well, it's a bit like that. No sooner were we blessed than I lavished fifteen hundred roubles on her the very next day: a set of diamonds and another of pearls, as well as a silver beauty case - about this size, containing all sorts of goodies. It was enough to make even the Madonna's face glow. Yesterday, when I sat her on my knees - without so much as a by-your-leave - she flushed bright red and out spurted little tears, which she tried to hide, though she was burning inside. Everyone went out for a moment and we were left to our own devices; suddenly she threw herself on my neck (the first time she'd done so), wrapped her two little arms around me, kissed me and vowed to be an obedient, faithful and loving wife, to make me happy, to devote her whole life to me, every single minute, to sacrifice everything, everything, and in return desired my respect and nothing more. "Nothing else," she said. "No presents, nothing!" Wouldn't you agree that to hear such an intimate confession from a sixteen-year-old angel like her, wearing a little tulle dress and her hair done up in curls, blushing with girlish shame and weeping with enthusiasm - wouldn't you agree that it's all rather tempting? Not to be sneezed at, eh? So . . . so listen to me . . . Let's go and see my fiancee . . . Only not now!'
'In short, it's the monstrous difference in age and education that excites your lust! Are you really going ahead with this marriage?'
'Why on earth not? Most definitely. Every man must look after himself and no one has more fun than the man who deceives himself best. Ha-ha! What are you doing charging at virtue with a battering ram? Be merciful, father. I'm just a sinner. Heh-heh-heh!'
'And yet, you've taken care of Katerina Ivanovna's children. Although . . . although, you had your own reasons for doing so . . . It all makes sense now.'
'I've always been fond of children, very fond of them,' Svidrigailov laughed. 'In fact, I can tell you a particularly interesting story on precisely this topic, one still unfolding now. On the very first day after my arrival I did a tour of the local dives - after waiting a whole seven years I just plunged straight in. I expect you've noticed that I'm in no hurry to take up with my usual crowd - my old friends and acquaintances. In fact, I'll get by without them for as long as I can. In the country, you know, at Marfa Petrovna's, it was sheer agony remembering all these mysterious nooks and crannies where you can find whatever you want if you know your way around. Damn it all! The masses get drunk; the educated youth, having nothing to do, burns itself out with unfeasible dreams and fantasies, and deforms itself with theories; the Yids have poured in from God knows where and are hiding the money; and the rest is debauchery. From the moment I arrived the city breathed all over me with its familiar smell. One evening I went along to a so-called dance - a quite disgusting dive (for me, the filthier the better) - and there was cancan dancing, of course, like nothing I'd ever seen; in my day it didn't even exist. Progress, I suppose. Suddenly, I see a young girl, thirteen or so, in the prettiest outfit, dancing with a virtuoso, face to face. And her mother's right there, sitting on a chair by the wall. Just imagine the kind of cancan they do there! The girl's embarrassed, blushes, eventually takes offence and starts crying. The virtuoso sweeps her up and starts spinning her about and posing in front of her. All around people are laughing loudly - I love our public at such moments, even the cancan sort - laughing and shouting, "Good on you! That's the way! It's no place for a child!" Well, what do I care whether their attempts to put their own minds at rest make the least bit of sense? I immediately chose my spot, sat down near the mother and began going on about how I'm not from here either and what boors people are in this town: not a clue how to distinguish true qualities and nurture respect where respect is due. I let it be known that I have plenty of money, offered them a lift in my carriage, took them home and became acquainted (they're sub-renting a tiny room somewhere - they've only just arrived). I was solemnly informed that both she and her daughter could consider it nothing but an honour to count me their acquaintance; learned they hadn't two roubles to rub together and had come to petition for something in some department; offered my services and my money; learned they'd gone to that dive under the misapprehension that they really did teach dancing there; offered, for my part, to assist with the young maiden's upbringing, with learning French and dancing. They were overjoyed, considered it an honour, and we're still on friendly terms now . . . Let's go if you like . . . Only not now.'
'Enough! Enough of your vile anecdotes, you depraved, lecherous man!'
'What a Schiller we have here - our very own Schiller! Ou va-t-elle la vertu se nicher?19 You know, I'm going to have to tell you more stories like this, just to hear you squeal. Such fun!'
'I'm sure. Don't you think I find myself ridiculous at this moment?' muttered Raskolnikov spitefully.
Svidrigailov roared with laughter. Eventually, he called Filipp, paid and began getting up.
'Drunk, that's what I am. Well, assez cause!'20 he said. 'What fun!'
'I'm sure - for you of all people,' shrieked Raskolnikov, also getting up. 'Who if not a clapped-out lecher like you would enjoy relating such adventures, while intending to do something equally monstrous - especially in circumstances like these and speaking to a man like me . . . ? Stirs the blood.'
'Well, if that's the case,' Svidrigailov replied, examining Raskolnikov with a certain astonishment, 'if that's the case, then you yourself are a cynic to reckon with. Your potential, at any rate, is immense. You may apprehend a great deal . . . and do a great deal, for that matter. Well, there we are. I'm truly sorry not to have had a longer chat with you, though you won't get away from me . . . Just wait a little . . .'
Svidrigailov left the tavern. Raskolnikov followed. Svidrigailov wasn't actually all that tipsy; it had gone to his head for no more than an instant, and the effects were fading by the minute. He was very worried about something, something terribly important, and he was frowning. The anticipation of something was clearly troubling and disturbing him. In the last few minutes his behaviour towards Raskolnikov had suddenly changed, and with every moment that passed he became ruder and more derisive. Raskolnikov noted all this and also became anxious. He'd begun to find Svidrigailov very suspicious and decided to follow him.
They stepped out onto the
Svidrigailov impatiently banged his fist on the table. He'd gone red in the face. Raskolnikov could see quite clearly that the glass or glass and a half of champagne which he'd been quietly sipping had affected him for the worse - and decided to take advantage. He found Svidrigailov's behaviour very suspicious.
'Well, you've left me in no doubt that my sister is the reason you've come here,' he told Svidrigailov plainly, without concealing anything, so as to irritate him all the more.
'Oh, enough of that,' said Svidrigailov, as if suddenly checking himself. 'Didn't I tell you . . . ? And anyway, your sister can't bear the sight of me.'
'I've no doubt about that either, but that's not the point.'
'You've no doubt, eh?' (Svidrigailov narrowed his eyes and smiled derisively.) 'You're right, she doesn't love me, but you should never vouch for what goes on between a husband and wife or a pair of lovers. There's always one little corner closed off to the rest of the world, known only to the two of them. Are you quite sure that Avdotya Romanovna looked at me with disgust?'
'Judging by some of the words and phrases you've been using in the course of your account, I notice that even now you have the most pressing designs on Dunya - shameful ones, needless to say.'
'Really? I came out with words and phrases like that, did I?' asked Svidrigailov with the most artless alarm, paying not the faintest attention to Raskolnikov's description of his intentions.
'You're still coming out with them now. I mean, what are you so scared of? What was it that suddenly frightened you just now?'
'Me? Scared and frightened? Frightened of you? If anything, it's you who should be scared of me, cher ami.16 Can we really not find anything better to talk about . . . ? But I must be a bit tipsy. I almost said something careless again. Damn this wine! Hey, bring me some water!'
He grabbed the bottle and unceremoniously tossed it out of the window. Filipp brought some water.
'Such nonsense,' said Svidrigailov, soaking a towel and applying it to his head. 'I can silence you with a single word and smash all your suspicions to smithereens. Are you aware, for example, that I'm getting married?'
'You've told me that before.'
'I have? I'd forgotten. But at the time I couldn't say for sure, never having seen my fiancee. It was merely an intention. Now my fiancee is already in hand - the deal's been done - and were it not for a piece of urgent business I'd take you over there right now, as I need your advice about something. Damn it all! Only ten minutes left. See, look at the clock. But I'll still tell you this story, because it's a rather curious thing, my marriage, in its own way . . . Now where are you off to? Leaving again?'
'No, I won't be leaving now.'
'You won't be leaving at all? We'll see about that! I really will take you over there and show her to you, only not now - you'll have to go soon. You to the left, me to the right. Do you know that Resslich woman? That same Resslich I'm renting a room from - eh? Are you listening? No, what are you . . . ? I mean that woman whose little girl is said to have, you know, in the water, in winter - well, are you listening? Are you? So she's the one who cooked all this up for me. "You must be bored," she says. "Have some fun." I really am a gloomy, dull sort. You think I'm cheerful? I'm not, I'm gloomy. I just sit harmlessly in the corner and three days might pass before you get a word out of me. That Resslich's a handful, I can tell you. Can you believe it? She thinks I'll get bored, drop my wife and go away, so she'll get the wife and put her into circulation; among our class, that is - the posher the better. There's this invalid father, she says, a retired civil servant, sits in his armchair and hasn't moved his legs in three years. There's also a mother, she says, a sensible lady. The son's got a position somewhere out in the sticks - no help from him. One daughter's married and stays away, then there's two little nephews to take care of (as if they didn't have enough on their plate already), plus the girl they've taken out of school before finishing, their last daughter, just sixteen next month, which, as it happens, is also the date she can be given away. To me. So off we went. It's simply hilarious over there. I introduce myself: landowner, widower, bearer of a well-known surname, well-connected, moneyed . . . So what if I'm fifty and she's only fifteen? Who cares about that? All rather tempting, isn't it? Rather tempting, eh? Ha-ha! You should have seen me chatting away to Papa and Mama! The very sight of me would have been worth good money. Out she comes, curtseying and wearing - can you imagine? - a short little frock, like a bud still waiting to open; and blushes and lights up like the dawn (they'd told her, of course). I don't know whether women's faces do much for you, but for me, these sixteen years, these still-childish eyes, this shyness and these bashful tears - for me, that's better than any beauty, not to mention the fact that she herself is simply exquisite. That lovely fair hair of hers, done up in those sweet little lamb's curls, those chubby little lips, those little legs - just adorable! . . . Well, we were introduced. I announced I was in a hurry on account of certain domestic circumstances and the very next day - that is, the day before yesterday - we were blessed. Now, as soon as I arrive, I sit her on my knees and just keep her there . . . So there she is, lighting up like the dawn, and there am I, showering her with kisses. Mama, needless to say, keeps telling her that this is your husband and this is the done thing. In short, bliss! And actually, being a fiance, as I am now, is probably even better than being a husband! La nature et la verite,17 you might call it! Ha-ha! We've talked a couple of times and she's certainly not stupid. Sometimes she'll steal a glance at me - and it burns like fire. You know, her sweet little face is like Raphael's Madonna. The Sistine Madonna,18 after all, has a quite fantastical face, the face of a sorrowing holy fool - don't you think? Well, it's a bit like that. No sooner were we blessed than I lavished fifteen hundred roubles on her the very next day: a set of diamonds and another of pearls, as well as a silver beauty case - about this size, containing all sorts of goodies. It was enough to make even the Madonna's face glow. Yesterday, when I sat her on my knees - without so much as a by-your-leave - she flushed bright red and out spurted little tears, which she tried to hide, though she was burning inside. Everyone went out for a moment and we were left to our own devices; suddenly she threw herself on my neck (the first time she'd done so), wrapped her two little arms around me, kissed me and vowed to be an obedient, faithful and loving wife, to make me happy, to devote her whole life to me, every single minute, to sacrifice everything, everything, and in return desired my respect and nothing more. "Nothing else," she said. "No presents, nothing!" Wouldn't you agree that to hear such an intimate confession from a sixteen-year-old angel like her, wearing a little tulle dress and her hair done up in curls, blushing with girlish shame and weeping with enthusiasm - wouldn't you agree that it's all rather tempting? Not to be sneezed at, eh? So . . . so listen to me . . . Let's go and see my fiancee . . . Only not now!'
'In short, it's the monstrous difference in age and education that excites your lust! Are you really going ahead with this marriage?'
'Why on earth not? Most definitely. Every man must look after himself and no one has more fun than the man who deceives himself best. Ha-ha! What are you doing charging at virtue with a battering ram? Be merciful, father. I'm just a sinner. Heh-heh-heh!'
'And yet, you've taken care of Katerina Ivanovna's children. Although . . . although, you had your own reasons for doing so . . . It all makes sense now.'
'I've always been fond of children, very fond of them,' Svidrigailov laughed. 'In fact, I can tell you a particularly interesting story on precisely this topic, one still unfolding now. On the very first day after my arrival I did a tour of the local dives - after waiting a whole seven years I just plunged straight in. I expect you've noticed that I'm in no hurry to take up with my usual crowd - my old friends and acquaintances. In fact, I'll get by without them for as long as I can. In the country, you know, at Marfa Petrovna's, it was sheer agony remembering all these mysterious nooks and crannies where you can find whatever you want if you know your way around. Damn it all! The masses get drunk; the educated youth, having nothing to do, burns itself out with unfeasible dreams and fantasies, and deforms itself with theories; the Yids have poured in from God knows where and are hiding the money; and the rest is debauchery. From the moment I arrived the city breathed all over me with its familiar smell. One evening I went along to a so-called dance - a quite disgusting dive (for me, the filthier the better) - and there was cancan dancing, of course, like nothing I'd ever seen; in my day it didn't even exist. Progress, I suppose. Suddenly, I see a young girl, thirteen or so, in the prettiest outfit, dancing with a virtuoso, face to face. And her mother's right there, sitting on a chair by the wall. Just imagine the kind of cancan they do there! The girl's embarrassed, blushes, eventually takes offence and starts crying. The virtuoso sweeps her up and starts spinning her about and posing in front of her. All around people are laughing loudly - I love our public at such moments, even the cancan sort - laughing and shouting, "Good on you! That's the way! It's no place for a child!" Well, what do I care whether their attempts to put their own minds at rest make the least bit of sense? I immediately chose my spot, sat down near the mother and began going on about how I'm not from here either and what boors people are in this town: not a clue how to distinguish true qualities and nurture respect where respect is due. I let it be known that I have plenty of money, offered them a lift in my carriage, took them home and became acquainted (they're sub-renting a tiny room somewhere - they've only just arrived). I was solemnly informed that both she and her daughter could consider it nothing but an honour to count me their acquaintance; learned they hadn't two roubles to rub together and had come to petition for something in some department; offered my services and my money; learned they'd gone to that dive under the misapprehension that they really did teach dancing there; offered, for my part, to assist with the young maiden's upbringing, with learning French and dancing. They were overjoyed, considered it an honour, and we're still on friendly terms now . . . Let's go if you like . . . Only not now.'
'Enough! Enough of your vile anecdotes, you depraved, lecherous man!'
'What a Schiller we have here - our very own Schiller! Ou va-t-elle la vertu se nicher?19 You know, I'm going to have to tell you more stories like this, just to hear you squeal. Such fun!'
'I'm sure. Don't you think I find myself ridiculous at this moment?' muttered Raskolnikov spitefully.
Svidrigailov roared with laughter. Eventually, he called Filipp, paid and began getting up.
'Drunk, that's what I am. Well, assez cause!'20 he said. 'What fun!'
'I'm sure - for you of all people,' shrieked Raskolnikov, also getting up. 'Who if not a clapped-out lecher like you would enjoy relating such adventures, while intending to do something equally monstrous - especially in circumstances like these and speaking to a man like me . . . ? Stirs the blood.'
'Well, if that's the case,' Svidrigailov replied, examining Raskolnikov with a certain astonishment, 'if that's the case, then you yourself are a cynic to reckon with. Your potential, at any rate, is immense. You may apprehend a great deal . . . and do a great deal, for that matter. Well, there we are. I'm truly sorry not to have had a longer chat with you, though you won't get away from me . . . Just wait a little . . .'
Svidrigailov left the tavern. Raskolnikov followed. Svidrigailov wasn't actually all that tipsy; it had gone to his head for no more than an instant, and the effects were fading by the minute. He was very worried about something, something terribly important, and he was frowning. The anticipation of something was clearly troubling and disturbing him. In the last few minutes his behaviour towards Raskolnikov had suddenly changed, and with every moment that passed he became ruder and more derisive. Raskolnikov noted all this and also became anxious. He'd begun to find Svidrigailov very suspicious and decided to follow him.
They stepped out onto the