Prestuplenie i nakazanie. English by Fyodor Dostoyevsky
CHAPTER VI
He spent that evening till ten o'clock going from one low haunt toanother. Katia too turned up and sang another gutter song, how a certain
"villain and tyrant,"
"began kissing Katia."
Svidrigailov treated Katia and the organ-grinder and some singers andthe waiters and two little clerks. He was particularly drawn to theseclerks by the fact that they both had crooked noses, one bent to theleft and the other to the right. They took him finally to a pleasuregarden, where he paid for their entrance. There was one lankythree-year-old pine-tree and three bushes in the garden, besides a"Vauxhall," which was in reality a drinking-bar where tea too wasserved, and there were a few green tables and chairs standing round it.A chorus of wretched singers and a drunken but exceedingly depressedGerman clown from Munich with a red nose entertained the public. Theclerks quarrelled with some other clerks and a fight seemed imminent.Svidrigailov was chosen to decide the dispute. He listened to them fora quarter of an hour, but they shouted so loud that there was nopossibility of understanding them. The only fact that seemed certain wasthat one of them had stolen something and had even succeeded inselling it on the spot to a Jew, but would not share the spoil with hiscompanion. Finally it appeared that the stolen object was a teaspoonbelonging to the Vauxhall. It was missed and the affair began to seemtroublesome. Svidrigailov paid for the spoon, got up, and walked out ofthe garden. It was about six o'clock. He had not drunk a drop of wineall this time and had ordered tea more for the sake of appearances thananything.
It was a dark and stifling evening. Threatening storm-clouds came overthe sky about ten o'clock. There was a clap of thunder, and the raincame down like a waterfall. The water fell not in drops, but beat on theearth in streams. There were flashes of lightning every minute and eachflash lasted while one could count five.
Drenched to the skin, he went home, locked himself in, opened thebureau, took out all his money and tore up two or three papers. Then,putting the money in his pocket, he was about to change his clothes,but, looking out of the window and listening to the thunder and therain, he gave up the idea, took up his hat and went out of the roomwithout locking the door. He went straight to Sonia. She was at home.
She was not alone: the four Kapernaumov children were with her. Shewas giving them tea. She received Svidrigailov in respectful silence,looking wonderingly at his soaking clothes. The children all ran away atonce in indescribable terror.
Svidrigailov sat down at the table and asked Sonia to sit beside him.She timidly prepared to listen.
"I may be going to America, Sofya Semyonovna," said Svidrigailov, "andas I am probably seeing you for the last time, I have come to make somearrangements. Well, did you see the lady to-day? I know what she said toyou, you need not tell me." (Sonia made a movement and blushed.) "Thosepeople have their own way of doing things. As to your sisters and yourbrother, they are really provided for and the money assigned to themI've put into safe keeping and have received acknowledgments. You hadbetter take charge of the receipts, in case anything happens. Here, takethem! Well now, that's settled. Here are three 5-per-cent bonds to thevalue of three thousand roubles. Take those for yourself, entirely foryourself, and let that be strictly between ourselves, so that no oneknows of it, whatever you hear. You will need the money, for to go onliving in the old way, Sofya Semyonovna, is bad, and besides there is noneed for it now."
"I am so much indebted to you, and so are the children and mystepmother," said Sonia hurriedly, "and if I've said so little... pleasedon't consider..."
"That's enough! that's enough!"
"But as for the money, Arkady Ivanovitch, I am very grateful to you,but I don't need it now. I can always earn my own living. Don't think meungrateful. If you are so charitable, that money...."
"It's for you, for you, Sofya Semyonovna, and please don't waste wordsover it. I haven't time for it. You will want it. Rodion Romanovitchhas two alternatives: a bullet in the brain or Siberia." (Sonia lookedwildly at him, and started.) "Don't be uneasy, I know all about it fromhimself and I am not a gossip; I won't tell anyone. It was good advicewhen you told him to give himself up and confess. It would be muchbetter for him. Well, if it turns out to be Siberia, he will go andyou will follow him. That's so, isn't it? And if so, you'll need money.You'll need it for him, do you understand? Giving it to you is the sameas my giving it to him. Besides, you promised Amalia Ivanovna to paywhat's owing. I heard you. How can you undertake such obligations soheedlessly, Sofya Semyonovna? It was Katerina Ivanovna's debt and notyours, so you ought not to have taken any notice of the German woman.You can't get through the world like that. If you are ever questionedabout me--to-morrow or the day after you will be asked--don't sayanything about my coming to see you now and don't show the money toanyone or say a word about it. Well, now good-bye." (He got up.) "Mygreetings to Rodion Romanovitch. By the way, you'd better put the moneyfor the present in Mr. Razumihin's keeping. You know Mr. Razumihin? Ofcourse you do. He's not a bad fellow. Take it to him to-morrow or...when the time comes. And till then, hide it carefully."
Sonia too jumped up from her chair and looked in dismay at Svidrigailov.She longed to speak, to ask a question, but for the first moments shedid not dare and did not know how to begin.
"How can you... how can you be going now, in such rain?"
"Why, be starting for America, and be stopped by rain! Ha, ha! Good-bye,Sofya Semyonovna, my dear! Live and live long, you will be of use toothers. By the way... tell Mr. Razumihin I send my greetings to him.Tell him Arkady Ivanovitch Svidrigailov sends his greetings. Be sureto."
He went out, leaving Sonia in a state of wondering anxiety and vagueapprehension.
It appeared afterwards that on the same evening, at twenty past eleven,he made another very eccentric and unexpected visit. The rain stillpersisted. Drenched to the skin, he walked into the little flat wherethe parents of his betrothed lived, in Third Street in VassilyevskyIsland. He knocked some time before he was admitted, and his visitat first caused great perturbation; but Svidrigailov could bevery fascinating when he liked, so that the first, and indeed veryintelligent surmise of the sensible parents that Svidrigailov hadprobably had so much to drink that he did not know what he was doingvanished immediately. The decrepit father was wheeled in to seeSvidrigailov by the tender and sensible mother, who as usual began theconversation with various irrelevant questions. She never asked a directquestion, but began by smiling and rubbing her hands and then, if shewere obliged to ascertain something--for instance, when Svidrigailovwould like to have the wedding--she would begin by interested andalmost eager questions about Paris and the court life there, and onlyby degrees brought the conversation round to Third Street. On otheroccasions this had of course been very impressive, but this time ArkadyIvanovitch seemed particularly impatient, and insisted on seeing hisbetrothed at once, though he had been informed, to begin with, that shehad already gone to bed. The girl of course appeared.
Svidrigailov informed her at once that he was obliged by very importantaffairs to leave Petersburg for a time, and therefore brought herfifteen thousand roubles and begged her accept them as a present fromhim, as he had long been intending to make her this trifling presentbefore their wedding. The logical connection of the present with hisimmediate departure and the absolute necessity of visiting them for thatpurpose in pouring rain at midnight was not made clear. But it all wentoff very well; even the inevitable ejaculations of wonder and regret,the inevitable questions were extraordinarily few and restrained. On theother hand, the gratitude expressed was most glowing and was reinforcedby tears from the most sensible of mothers. Svidrigailov got up,laughed, kissed his betrothed, patted her cheek, declared he would sooncome back, and noticing in her eyes, together with childish curiosity, asort of earnest dumb inquiry, reflected and kissed her again, thoughhe felt sincere anger inwardly at the thought that his present would beimmediately locked up in the keeping of the most sensible of mothers. Hewent away, leaving them all in a state of extraordi
Svidrigailov meanwhile, exactly at midnight, crossed the bridge on theway back to the mainland. The rain had ceased and there was a roaringwind. He began shivering, and for one moment he gazed at the blackwaters of the Little Neva with a look of special interest, even inquiry.But he soon felt it very cold, standing by the water; he turned andwent towards Y. Prospect. He walked along that endless street for a longtime, almost half an hour, more than once stumbling in the dark on thewooden pavement, but continually looking for something on the right sideof the street. He had noticed passing through this street lately thatthere was a hotel somewhere towards the end, built of wood, but fairlylarge, and its name he remembered was something like Adrianople. He wasnot mistaken: the hotel was so conspicuous in that God-forsaken placethat he could not fail to see it even in the dark. It was a long,blackened wooden building, and in spite of the late hour there werelights in the windows and signs of life within. He went in and askeda ragged fellow who met him in the corridor for a room. The latter,scanning Svidrigailov, pulled himself together and led him at once to aclose and tiny room in the distance, at the end of the corridor, underthe stairs. There was no other, all were occupied. The ragged fellowlooked inquiringly.
"Is there tea?" asked Svidrigailov.
"Yes, sir."
"What else is there?"
"Veal, vodka, savouries."
"Bring me tea and veal."
"And you want nothing else?" he asked with apparent surprise.
"Nothing, nothing."
The ragged man went away, completely disillusioned.
"It must be a nice place," thought Svidrigailov. "How was it I didn'tknow it? I expect I look as if I came from a cafe chantant and havehad some adventure on the way. It would be interesting to know who stayedhere?"
He lighted the candle and looked at the room more carefully. It was aroom so low-pitched that Svidrigailov could only just stand up in it;it had one window; the bed, which was very dirty, and the plain-stainedchair and table almost filled it up. The walls looked as though theywere made of planks, covered with shabby paper, so torn and dustythat the pattern was indistinguishable, though the generalcolour--yellow--could still be made out. One of the walls was cut shortby the sloping ceiling, though the room was not an attic but just underthe stairs.
Svidrigailov set down the candle, sat down on the bed and sank intothought. But a strange persistent murmur which sometimes rose to a shoutin the next room attracted his attention. The murmur had not ceased fromthe moment he entered the room. He listened: someone was upbraiding andalmost tearfully scolding, but he heard only one voice.
Svidrigailov got up, shaded the light with his hand and at once he sawlight through a crack in the wall; he went up and peeped through. Theroom, which was somewhat larger than his, had two occupants. One ofthem, a very curly-headed man with a red inflamed face, was standingin the pose of an orator, without his coat, with his legs wide apart topreserve his balance, and smiting himself on the breast. He reproachedthe other with being a beggar, with having no standing whatever. Hedeclared that he had taken the other out of the gutter and he could turnhim out when he liked, and that only the finger of Providence sees itall. The object of his reproaches was sitting in a chair, and had theair of a man who wants dreadfully to sneeze, but can't. He sometimesturned sheepish and befogged eyes on the speaker, but obviously had notthe slightest idea what he was talking about and scarcely heard it. Acandle was burning down on the table; there were wine-glasses, a nearlyempty bottle of vodka, bread and cucumber, and glasses with the dregsof stale tea. After gazing attentively at this, Svidrigailov turned awayindifferently and sat down on the bed.
The ragged attendant, returning with the tea, could not resist askinghim again whether he didn't want anything more, and again receiving anegative reply, finally withdrew. Svidrigailov made haste to drink aglass of tea to warm himself, but could not eat anything. He beganto feel feverish. He took off his coat and, wrapping himself in theblanket, lay down on the bed. He was annoyed. "It would have been betterto be well for the occasion," he thought with a smile. The room wasclose, the candle burnt dimly, the wind was roaring outside, he hearda mouse scratching in the corner and the room smelt of mice and ofleather. He lay in a sort of reverie: one thought followed another. Hefelt a longing to fix his imagination on something. "It must be a gardenunder the window," he thought. "There's a sound of trees. How I dislikethe sound of trees on a stormy night, in the dark! They give one ahorrid feeling." He remembered how he had disliked it when he passedPetrovsky Park just now. This reminded him of the bridge over the LittleNeva and he felt cold again as he had when standing there. "I never haveliked water," he thought, "even in a landscape," and he suddenly smiledagain at a strange idea: "Surely now all these questions of taste andcomfort ought not to matter, but I've become more particular, like ananimal that picks out a special place... for such an occasion. I oughtto have gone into the Petrovsky Park! I suppose it seemed dark, cold,ha-ha! As though I were seeking pleasant sensations!... By the way, whyhaven't I put out the candle?" he blew it out. "They've gone to bed nextdoor," he thought, not seeing the light at the crack. "Well, now, MarfaPetrovna, now is the time for you to turn up; it's dark, and the verytime and place for you. But now you won't come!"
He suddenly recalled how, an hour before carrying out his design onDounia, he had recommended Raskolnikov to trust her to Razumihin'skeeping. "I suppose I really did say it, as Raskolnikov guessed, totease myself. But what a rogue that Raskolnikov is! He's gone through agood deal. He may be a successful rogue in time when he's got overhis nonsense. But now he's _too_ eager for life. These young menare contemptible on that point. But, hang the fellow! Let him pleasehimself, it's nothing to do with me."
He could not get to sleep. By degrees Dounia's image rose before him,and a shudder ran over him. "No, I must give up all that now," hethought, rousing himself. "I must think of something else. It's queerand funny. I never had a great hatred for anyone, I never particularlydesired to avenge myself even, and that's a bad sign, a bad sign, a badsign. I never liked quarrelling either, and never lost my temper--that'sa bad sign too. And the promises I made her just now, too--Damnation!But--who knows?--perhaps she would have made a new man of mesomehow...."
He ground his teeth and sank into silence again. Again Dounia's imagerose before him, just as she was when, after shooting the first time,she had lowered the revolver in terror and gazed blankly at him, so thathe might have seized her twice over and she would not have lifted a handto defend herself if he had not reminded her. He recalled how at thatinstant he felt almost sorry for her, how he had felt a pang at hisheart...
"Aie! Damnation, these thoughts again! I must put it away!"
He was dozing off; the feverish shiver had ceased, when suddenlysomething seemed to run over his arm and leg under the bedclothes. Hestarted. "Ugh! hang it! I believe it's a mouse," he thought, "that's theveal I left on the table." He felt fearfully disinclined to pull off theblanket, get up, get cold, but all at once something unpleasant ran overhis leg again. He pulle
The room was dark. He was lying on the bed and wrapped up in the blanketas before. The wind was howling under the window. "How disgusting," hethought with annoyance.
He got up and sat on the edge of the bedstead with his back to thewindow. "It's better not to sleep at all," he decided. There was a colddamp draught from the window, however; without getting up he drew theblanket over him and wrapped himself in it. He was not thinking ofanything and did not want to think. But one image rose after another,incoherent scraps of thought without beginning or end passed through hismind. He sank into drowsiness. Perhaps the cold, or the dampness, orthe dark, or the wind that howled under the window and tossed the treesroused a sort of persistent craving for the fantastic. He kept dwellingon images of flowers, he fancied a charming flower garden, a bright,warm, almost hot day, a holiday--Trinity day. A fine, sumptuous countrycottage in the English taste overgrown with fragrant flowers, withflower beds going round the house; the porch, wreathed in climbers, wassurrounded with beds of roses. A light, cool staircase, carpeted withrich rugs, was decorated with rare plants in china pots. He noticedparticularly in the windows nosegays of tender, white, heavily fragrantnarcissus bending over their bright, green, thick long stalks. He wasreluctant to move away from them, but he went up the stairs and cameinto a large, high drawing-room and again everywhere--at the windows,the doors on to the balcony, and on the balcony itself--were flowers.The floors were strewn with freshly-cut fragrant hay, the windowswere open, a fresh, cool, light air came into the room. The birds werechirruping under the window, and in the middle of the room, on a tablecovered with a white satin shroud, stood a coffin. The coffin wascovered with white silk and edged with a thick white frill; wreaths offlowers surrounded it on all sides. Among the flowers lay a girl in awhite muslin dress, with her arms crossed and pressed on her bosom, asthough carved out of marble. But her loose fair hair was wet; there wasa wreath of roses on her head. The stern and already rigid profile ofher face looked as though chiselled of marble too, and the smile on herpale lips was full of an immense unchildish misery and sorrowful appeal.Svidrigailov knew that girl; there was no holy image, no burning candlebeside the coffin; no sound of prayers: the girl had drowned herself.She was only fourteen, but her heart was broken. And she had destroyedherself, crushed by an insult that had appalled and amazed that childishsoul, had smirched that angel purity with unmerited disgrace and tornfrom her a last scream of despair, unheeded and brutally disregarded, ona dark night in the cold and wet while the wind howled....
Svidrigailov came to himself, got up from the bed and went to thewindow. He felt for the latch and opened it. The wind lashed furiouslyinto the little room and stung his face and his chest, only covered withhis shirt, as though with frost. Under the window there must have beensomething like a garden, and apparently a pleasure garden. There, too,probably there were tea-tables and singing in the daytime. Now drops ofrain flew in at the window from the trees and bushes; it was dark asin a cellar, so that he could only just make out some dark blurs ofobjects. Svidrigailov, bending down with elbows on the window-sill,gazed for five minutes into the darkness; the boom of a cannon, followedby a second one, resounded in the darkness of the night. "Ah, thesignal! The river is overflowing," he thought. "By morning it will beswirling down the street in the lower parts, flooding the basements andcellars. The cellar rats will swim out, and men will curse in the rainand wind as they drag their rubbish to their upper storeys. What time isit now?" And he had hardly thought it when, somewhere near, a clock onthe wall, ticking away hurriedly, struck three.
"Aha! It will be light in an hour! Why wait? I'll go out at oncestraight to the park. I'll choose a great bush there drenched with rain,so that as soon as one's shoulder touches it, millions of drops drip onone's head."
He moved away from the window, shut it, lighted the candle, put on hiswaistcoat, his overcoat and his hat and went out, carrying the candle,into the passage to look for the ragged attendant who would be asleepsomewhere in the midst of candle-ends and all sorts of rubbish, to payhim for the room and leave the hotel. "It's the best minute; I couldn'tchoose a better."
He walked for some time through a long narrow corridor without findinganyone and was just going to call out, when suddenly in a dark cornerbetween an old cupboard and the door he caught sight of a strange objectwhich seemed to be alive. He bent down with the candle and saw a littlegirl, not more than five years old, shivering and crying, with herclothes as wet as a soaking house-flannel. She did not seem afraid ofSvidrigailov, but looked at him with blank amazement out of her bigblack eyes. Now and then she sobbed as children do when they have beencrying a long time, but are beginning to be comforted. The child's facewas pale and tired, she was numb with cold. "How can she have come here?She must have hidden here and not slept all night." He began questioningher. The child suddenly becoming animated, chattered away in her babylanguage, something about "mammy" and that "mammy would beat her," andabout some cup that she had "bwoken." The child chattered on withoutstopping. He could only guess from what she said that she was aneglected child, whose mother, probably a drunken cook, in the serviceof the hotel, whipped and frightened her; that the child had brokena cup of her mother's and was so frightened that she had run away theevening before, had hidden for a long while somewhere outside in therain, at last had made her way in here, hidden behind the cupboard andspent the night there, crying and trembling from the damp, the darknessand the fear that she would be badly beaten for it. He took her in hisarms, went back to his room, sat her on the bed, and began undressingher. The torn shoes which she had on her stockingless feet were aswet as if they had been standing in a puddle all night. When he hadundressed her, he put her on the bed, covered her up and wrapped her inthe blanket from her head downwards. She fell asleep at once. Then hesank into dreary musing again.
"What folly to trouble myself," he decided suddenly with an oppressivefeeling of annoyance. "What idiocy!" In vexation he took up the candleto go and look for the ragged attendant again and make haste to go away."Damn the child!" he thought as he opened the door, but he turned againto see whether the child was asleep. He raised the blanket carefully.The child was sleeping soundly, she had got warm under the blanket,and her pale cheeks were flushed. But strange to say that flush seemedbrighter and coarser than the rosy cheeks of childhood. "It's a flushof fever," thought Svidrigailov. It was like the flush from drinking, asthough she had been given a full glass to drink. Her crimson lips werehot and glowing; but what was this? He suddenly fancied that her longblack eyelashes were quivering, as though the lids were opening and asly crafty eye peeped out with an unchildlike wink, as though the littlegirl were not asleep, but pretending. Yes, it was so. Her lips parted ina smile. The corners of her mouth quivered, as though she were trying tocontrol them. But now she quite gave up all effort, now it was a grin,a broad grin; there was something shameless, provocative in that quiteunchildish face; it was depravity, it was the face of a harlot, theshameless face of a French harlot. Now both eyes opened wide; theyturned a glowing, shameless glance upon him; they laughed, invitedhim.... There was something infinitely hideous and shocking in thatlaugh, in those eyes, in such nastiness in the face of a child. "What,at five years old?" Svidrigailov muttered in genuine horror. "What doesit mean?" And now she turned to him, her little face all aglow, holdingout her arms.... "Accursed child!" Svidrigailov cried, raising his handto strike her, but at that moment he woke up.
He was in the same bed, still wrapped in the blanket. The candle had notbeen lighted, and daylight wa
"I've had nightmare all night!" He got up angrily, feeling utterlyshattered; his bones ached. There was a thick mist outside and he couldsee nothing. It was nearly five. He had overslept himself! He got up,put on his still damp jacket and overcoat. Feeling the revolver in hispocket, he took it out and then he sat down, took a notebook out of hispocket and in the most conspicuous place on the title page wrote a fewlines in large letters. Reading them over, he sank into thought with hiselbows on the table. The revolver and the notebook lay beside him. Someflies woke up and settled on the untouched veal, which was still onthe table. He stared at them and at last with his free right hand begantrying to catch one. He tried till he was tired, but could not catch it.At last, realising that he was engaged in this interesting pursuit, hestarted, got up and walked resolutely out of the room. A minute later hewas in the street.
A thick milky mist hung over the town. Svidrigailov walked along theslippery dirty wooden pavement towards the Little Neva. He was picturingthe waters of the Little Neva swollen in the night, Petrovsky Island,the wet paths, the wet grass, the wet trees and bushes and at last thebush.... He began ill-humouredly staring at the houses, trying to thinkof something else. There was not a cabman or a passer-by in the street.The bright yellow, wooden, little houses looked dirty and dejected withtheir closed shutters. The cold and damp penetrated his whole body andhe began to shiver. From time to time he came across shop signs and readeach carefully. At last he reached the end of the wooden pavement andcame to a big stone house. A dirty, shivering dog crossed his path withits tail between its legs. A man in a greatcoat lay face downwards; deaddrunk, across the pavement. He looked at him and went on. A high towerstood up on the left. "Bah!" he shouted, "here is a place. Why shouldit be Petrovsky? It will be in the presence of an official witnessanyway...."
He almost smiled at this new thought and turned into the street wherethere was the big house with the tower. At the great closed gates ofthe house, a little man stood with his shoulder leaning against them,wrapped in a grey soldier's coat, with a copper Achilles helmet on hishead. He cast a drowsy and indifferent glance at Svidrigailov. Hisface wore that perpetual look of peevish dejection, which is so sourlyprinted on all faces of Jewish race without exception. They both,Svidrigailov and Achilles, stared at each other for a few minuteswithout speaking. At last it struck Achilles as irregular for a mannot drunk to be standing three steps from him, staring and not saying aword.
"What do you want here?" he said, without moving or changing hisposition.
"Nothing, brother, good morning," answered Svidrigailov.
"This isn't the place."
"I am going to foreign parts, brother."
"To foreign parts?"
"To America."
"America."
Svidrigailov took out the revolver and cocked it. Achilles raised hiseyebrows.
"I say, this is not the place for such jokes!"
"Why shouldn't it be the place?"
"Because it isn't."
"Well, brother, I don't mind that. It's a good place. When you areasked, you just say he was going, he said, to America."
He put the revolver to his right temple.
"You can't do it here, it's not the place," cried Achilles, rousinghimself, his eyes growing bigger and bigger.
Svidrigailov pulled the trigger.