His hair was soaked with sweat, his quivering lips were parched, his eyes were
fixed on the ceiling.
"Mother, sister– how I loved them! Why do I hate them now? Yes, I hate them,
I feel a physical hatred for them, I can't bear them near me…. I went up to my mother
and kissed her, I remember…. To embrace her and think if she only knew… shall I
tell her then? That's just what I might do…. She must be the same as I am," he added,
straining himself to think, as it were struggling with delirium. "Ah, how I hate
the old woman now! I feel I should kill her again if she came to life! Poor Lizaveta!
Why did she come in?… It's strange though, why is it I scarcely ever think of her,
as though I hadn't killed her! Lizaveta! Sonia! Poor gentle things, with gentle
eyes…. Dear women! Why don't they weep? Why don't they moan? They give up everything…
their eyes are soft and gentle…. Sonia, Sonia! Gentle Sonia!"
He lost consciousness; it seemed strange to him that he didn't remember how he
got into the street. It was late evening. The twilight had fallen and the full moon
was shining more and more brightly; but there was a peculiar breathlessness in the
air. There were crowds of people in the street; workmen and business people were
making their way home; other people had come out for a walk; there was a smell of
mortar, dust and stagnant water. Raskolnikov walked along, mournful and anxious;
he was distinctly aware of having come out with a purpose, of having to do something
in a hurry, but what it was he had forgotten. Suddenly he stood still and saw a
man standing on the other side of the street, beckoning to him. He crossed over
to him, but at once the man turned and walked away with his head hanging, as though
he had made no sign to him. "Stay, did he really beckon?" Raskolnikov wondered,
but he tried to overtake him. When he was within ten paces he recognised him and
was frightened; it was the same man with stooping shoulders in the long coat. Raskolnikov
followed him at a distance; his heart was beating; they went down a turning; the
man still did not look round. "Does he know I am following him?" thought Raskolnikov.
The man went into the gateway of a big house. Raskolnikov hastened to the gate and
looked in to see whether he would look round and sign to him. In the courtyard the
man did turn round and again seemed to beckon him. Raskolnikov at once followed
him into the yard, but the man was gone. He must have gone up the first staircase.
Raskolnikov rushed after him. He heard slow measured steps two flights above. The
staircase seemed strangely familiar. He reached the window on the first floor; the
moon shone through the panes with a melancholy and mysterious light; then he reached
the second floor. Bah! this is the flat where the painters were at work… but how
was it he did not recognise it at once? The steps of the man above had died away.
"So he must have stopped or hidden somewhere." He reached the third storey, should
he go on? There was a stillness that was dreadful…. But he went on. The sound of
his own footsteps scared and frightened him. How dark it was! The man must be hiding
in some corner here. Ah! the flat was standing wide open, he hesitated and went
in. It was very dark and empty in the passage, as though everything had been removed;
he crept on tiptoe into the parlour which was flooded with moonlight. Everything
there was as before, the chairs, the looking-glass, the yellow sofa and the pictures
in the frames. A huge, round, copper-red moon looked in at the windows. "It's the
moon that makes it so still, weaving some mystery," thought Raskolnikov. He stood
and waited, waited a long while, and the more silent the moonlight, the more violently
his heart beat, till it was painful. And still the same hush. Suddenly he heard
a momentary sharp crack like the snapping of a splinter and all was still again.
A fly flew up suddenly and struck the window pane with a plaintive buzz. At that
moment he noticed in the corner between the window and the little cupboard something
like a cloak hanging on the wall. "Why is that cloak here?" he thought, "it wasn't
there before…." He went up to it quietly and felt that there was some one hiding
behind it. He cautiously moved the cloak and saw, sitting on a chair in the corner,
the old woman bent double so that he couldn't see her face; but it was she. He stood
over her. "She is afraid," he thought. He stealthily took the axe from the noose
and struck her one blow, then another on the skull. But strange to say she did not
stir, as though she were made of wood. He was frightened, bent down nearer and tried
to look at her; but she, too, bent her head lower. He bent right down to the ground
and peeped up into her face from below, he peeped and turned cold with horror: the
old woman was sitting and laughing, shaking with noiseless laughter, doing her utmost
that he should not hear it. Suddenly he fancied that the door from the bedroom was
opened a little and that there was laughter and whispering within. He was overcome
with frenzy and he began hitting the old woman on the head with all his force, but
at every blow of the axe the laughter and whispering from the bedroom grew louder
and the old woman was simply shaking with mirth. He was rushing away, but the passage
was full of people, the doors of the flats stood open and on the landing, on the
stairs and everywhere below there were people, rows of heads, all looking, but huddled
together in silence and expectation. Something gripped his heart, his legs were
rooted to the spot, they would not move…. He tried to scream and woke up.
He drew a deep breath– but his dream seemed strangely to persist: his door was
flung open and a man whom he had never seen stood in the doorway watching him intently.
Raskolnikov had hardly opened his eyes and he instantly closed them again. He
lay on his back without stirring.
"Is it still a dream?" he wondered and again raised his eyelids hardly perceptibly;
the stranger was standing in the same place, still watching him.
He stepped cautiously into the room, carefully closing the door after him, went
up to the table, paused a moment, still keeping his eyes on Raskolnikov and noiselessly
seated himself on the chair by the sofa; he put his hat on the floor beside him
and leaned his hands on his cane and his chin on his hands. It was evident that
he was prepared to wait indefinitely. As far as Raskolnikov could make out from
his stolen glances, he was a man no longer young, stout, with a full, fair, almost
Ten minutes passed. It was still light, but beginning to get dusk. There was
complete stillness in the room. Not a sound came from the stairs. Only a big fly
buzzed and fluttered against the window pane. It was unbearable at last. Raskolnikov
suddenly got up and sat on the sofa.
"Come, tell me what you want."
"I knew you were not asleep, but only pretending," the stranger answered oddly,
laughing calmly. "Arkady Ivanovitch Svidrigailov, allow me to introduce myself…."
CHAPTERONE PART FOUR
Chapter One –
"CAN this be still a dream?" Raskolnikov thought once more.
He looked carefully and suspiciously at the unexpected visitor.
"Svidrigailov! What nonsense! It can't be!" he said at last aloud in bewilderment.
His visitor did not seem at all surprised at this exclamation.
"I've come to you for two reasons. In the first place, I wanted to make your
personal acquaintance, as I have already heard a great deal about you that is interesting
and flattering; secondly, I cherish the hope that you may not refuse to assist me
in a matter directly concerning the welfare of your sister, Avdotya Romanovna. For
without your support she might not let me come near her now, for she is prejudiced
against me, but with your assistance I reckon on…"
"You reckon wrongly," interrupted Raskolnikov.
"They only arrived yesterday, may I ask you?"
Raskolnikov made no reply.
"It was yesterday, I know. I only arrived myself the day before. Well, let me
tell you this, Rodion Romanovitch, I don't consider it necessary to justify myself,
but kindly tell me what was there particularly criminal on my part in all this business,
speaking without prejudice, with common sense?"
Raskolnikov continued to look at him in silence.
"That in my own house I persecuted a defenceless girl and 'insulted her with
my infamous proposals'– is that it? (I am anticipating you.) But you've only to
assume that I, too, am a man et nihil humanum… in a word, that I am capable of being
attracted and falling in love (which does not depend on our will), then everything
can be explained in the most natural manner. The question is, am I a monster, or
am I myself a victim? And what if I am a victim? In proposing to the object of my
passion to elope with me to America or Switzerland, I may have cherished the deepest
respect for her, and may have thought that I was promoting our mutual happiness!
Reason is the slave of passion, you know; why, probably, I was doing more harm to
myself than any one!"
"But that's not the point," Raskolnikov interrupted with disgust. "It's simply
that whether you are right or wrong, we dislike you. We don't want to have anything
to do with you. We show you the door. Go out!"
Svidrigailov broke into a sudden laugh.
"But you're… but there's no getting round you," he said, laughing in the frankest
way. "I hoped to get round you, but you took up the right line at once!"
"But you are trying to get round me still!"
"What of it? What of it?" cried Svidrigailov, laughing openly. "But this is what
the French call bonne guerre, and the most innocent form of deception!… But still
you have interrupted me; one way or another, I repeat again: there would never have
been any unpleasantness except for what happened in the garden. Marfa Petrovna…"
"You have got rid of Marfa Petrovna, too, so they say?" Raskolnikov interrupted
"Oh, you've heard that, too, then? You'd be sure to, though…. But as for your
question, I really don't know what to say, though my own conscience is quite at
rest on that score. Don't suppose that I am in any apprehension about it. All was
regular and in order; the medical inquiry diagnosed apoplexy due to bathing immediately
after a heavy dinner and a bottle of wine, and indeed it could have proved nothing
else. But I'll tell you what I have been thinking to myself of late, on my way here
in the train, especially: didn't I contribute to all that… calamity, morally, in
a way, by irritation or something of the sort. But I came to the conclusion that
that, too, was quite out of the question."
"I wonder you trouble yourself about it!"
"But what are you laughing at? Only consider, I struck her just twice with a
switch– there were no marks even… don't regard me as a cynic, please; I am perfectly
aware how atrocious it was of me and all that; but I know for certain, too, that
Marfa Petrovna was very likely pleased at my, so to say, warmth. The story of your
sister had been wrung out to the last drop; for the last three days Marfa Petrovna
had been forced to sit at home; she had nothing to show herself with in the town.
Besides, she had bored them so with that letter (you heard about her reading the
letter). And all of a sudden those two switches fell from heaven! Her first act
was to order the carriage to be got out…. Not to speak of the fact that there are
cases when women are very, very glad to be insulted in spite of all their show of
indignation. There are instances of it with every one; human beings in general,
indeed, greatly love to be insulted, have you noticed that? But it's particularly
so with women. One might even say it's their only amusement."
At one time Raskolnikov thought of getting up and walking out and so finishing
the interview. But some curiosity and even a sort of prudence made him linger for
"You are fond of fighting?" he asked carelessly.
"No, not very," Svidrigailov answered, calmly. "And Marfa Petrovna and I scarcely
ever fought. We lived very harmoniously, and she was always pleased with me. I only
used the whip twice in all our seven years (not counting a third occasion of a very
ambiguous character). The first time, two months after our marriage, immediately
after we arrived in the country, and the last time was that of which we are speaking.
Did you suppose I was such a monster, such a reactionary, such a slave driver? Ha,
ha! By the way, do you remember, Rodion Romanovitch, how a few years ago, in those
days of beneficent publicity, a nobleman, I've forgotten his name, was put to shame
everywhere, in all the papers, for having thrashed a German woman in the railway
train. You remember? It was in those days, that very year I believe, the 'disgraceful
action of the Age' took place (you know, 'The Egyptian Nights,' that public reading,
you remember? The dark eyes, you know! Ah, the golden days of our youth, where are
they?). Well, as for the gentleman who thrashed the German, I feel no sympathy with
him, because after all what need is there for sympathy? But I must say that there
are sometimes such provoking 'Germans' that I don't believe there is a progressive
who could quite answer for himself. No one looked at the subject from that point
of view then, but that's the truly humane point of view, I assure you."
After saying this, Svidrigailov broke into a sudden laugh again. Raskolnikov
saw clearly that this was a man with a firm purpose in his mind and able to keep
it to himself.
"I expect you've not talked to any one for some days?" he asked.
"Scarcely any one. I suppose you are wondering at my being such an adaptable
"No, I am only wondering at your being too adaptable a man."
"Because I am not offended at the rudeness of your questions? Is that it? But
why take offence? As you asked, so I answered," he replied, with a surprising expression
of simplicity. "You know, there's hardly anything I take interest in," he went on,
as it were dreamily, "especially now, I've nothing to do…. You are quite at liberty
to imagine though that I am making up to you with a motive, particularly as I told
you I want to see your sister about something. But I'll confess frankly, I am very
much bored. The last three days especially, so I am delighted to see you…. Don't
be angry, Rodion Romanovitch, but you seem to be somehow awfully strange yourself.
Say what you like, there's something wrong with you, and now, too… not this very
minute, I mean, but now, generally…. Well, well, I won't, I won't, don't scowl!
I am not such a bear, you know, as you think."