Raskolnikov looked gloomily at him.
"You are not a bear, perhaps, at all," he said. "I fancy indeed that you are
a man of very good breeding, or at least know how on occasion to behave like one."
"I am not particularly interested in any one's opinion," Svidrigailov answered,
dryly and even with a shade of haughtiness, "and therefore why not be vulgar at
times when vulgarity is such a convenient cloak for our climate… and especially
if one has a natural propensity that way," he added, laughing again.
"But I've heard you have many friends here. You are, as they say, 'not without
connections.' What can you want with me, then, unless you've some special object?"
"That's true that I have friends here," Svidrigailov admitted, not replying to
the chief point. "I've met some already. I've been lounging about for the last three
days, and I've seen them, or they've seen me. That's a matter of course. I am well
dressed and reckoned not a poor man; the emancipation of the serfs hasn't affected
me; my property consists chiefly of forests and water meadows. The revenue has not
fallen off; but… I am not going to see them, I was sick of them long ago. I've been
here three days and have called on no one…. What a town it is! How has it come into
existence among us, tell me that? A town of officials and students of all sorts.
Yes, there's a great deal I didn't notice when I was here eight years ago, kicking
up my heels…. My only hope now is in anatomy, by Jove, it is!"
"But as for these clubs, Dussauts, parades, or progress, indeed, may be– well,
all that can go on without me," he went on, again without noticing the question.
"Besides, who wants to be a card-sharper?"
"Why, have you been a card-sharper then?"
"How could I help being? There was a regular set of us, men of the best society,
eight years ago; we had a fine time. And all men of breeding, you know, poets, men
of property. And indeed as a rule in our Russian society, the best manners are found
among those who've been thrashed, have you noticed that? I've deteriorated in the
country. But I did get into prison for debt, through a low Greek who came from Nezhin.
Then Marfa Petrovna turned up; she bargained with him and bought me off for thirty
thousand silver pieces (I owed seventy thousand). We were united in lawful wedlock
and she bore me off into the country like a treasure. You know she was five years
older than I. She was very fond of me. For seven years I never left the country.
And, take note, that all my life she held a document over me, the I.O.U. for thirty
thousand roubles, so if I were to elect to be restive about anything I should be
trapped at once! And she would have done it! Women find nothing incompatible in
"If it hadn't been for that, would you have given her the slip?"
"I don't know what to say. It was scarcely the document restrained me. I didn't
want to go anywhere else. Marfa Petrovna herself invited me to go abroad, seeing
I was bored, but I've been abroad before, and always felt sick there. For no reason,
but the sunrise, the bay of Naples, the sea– you look at them and it makes you sad.
What's most revolting is that one is really sad! No, it's better at home. Here at
least one blames others for everything and excuses oneself. I should have gone perhaps
on an expedition to the North Pole, because j'ai le vin mauvais and hate drinking,
and there's nothing left but wine. I have tried it. But, I say, I've been told Berg
is going up in a great balloon next Sunday from the Yusupov Garden and will take
up passengers at a fee. Is it true?"
"Why, would you go up?"
"I… No, oh, no," muttered Svidrigailov really seeming to be deep in thought.
"What does he mean? Is he in earnest?" Raskolnikov wondered.
"No, the document didn't restrain me," Svidrigailov went on, meditatively. "It
was my own doing, not leaving the country, and nearly a year ago Marfa Petrovna
gave me back the document on my name day and made me a present of a considerable
sum of money, too. She had a fortune, you know. 'You see how I trust you, Arkady
Ivanovitch'– that was actually her expression. You don't believe she used it? But
do you know I managed the estate quite decently, they know me in the neighbourhood.
I ordered books, too. Marfa Petrovna at first approved, but afterwards she was afraid
of my over-studying."
"You seem to be missing Marfa Petrovna very much?"
"Missing her? Perhaps. Really, perhaps I am. And, by the way, do you believe
"Why, ordinary ghosts."
"Do you believe in them?"
"Perhaps not, pour vous plaire…. I wouldn't say no exactly."
"Do you see them, then?"
Svidrigailov looked at him rather oddly.
"Marfa Petrovna is pleased to visit me," he said, twisting his mouth into a strange
"How do you mean 'she is pleased to visit you'?"
"She has been three times. I saw her first on the very day of the funeral, an
hour after she was buried. It was the day before I left to come here. The second
time was the day before yesterday, at daybreak, on the journey at the station of
Malaya Vishera, and the third time was two hours ago in the room where I am staying.
I was alone."
"Were you awake?"
"Quite awake. I was wide awake every time. She comes, speaks to me for a minute
and goes out at the door– always at the door. I can almost hear her."
"What made me think that something of the sort must be happening to you?" Raskolnikov
At the same moment he was surprised at having said it. He was much excited.
"What! Did you think so?" Svidrigailov asked in astonishment. "Did you really?
Didn't I say that there was something in common between us, eh?"
"You never said so!" Raskolnikov cried sharply and with heat.
"I thought I did. When I came in and saw you lying with your eyes shut, pretending,
I said to myself at once 'here's the man.'"
"What do you mean by 'the man?' What are you talking about?" cried Raskolnikov.
"What do I mean? I really don't know…." Svidrigailov muttered ingenuously, as
though he, too, were puzzled.
For a minute they were silent. They stared in each other's faces.
"That's all nonsense!" Raskolnikov shouted with vexation. "What does she say
when she comes to you?"
"She! Would you believe it, she talks of the silliest trifles and– man is a strange
creature– it makes me angry. The first time she came in (I was tired you know: the
funeral service, the funeral ceremony, the lunch afterwards. At last I was left
alone in my study. I lighted a cigar and began to think), she came in at the door.
'You've been so busy to-day, Arkady Ivanovitch, you have forgotten to wind the dining
room clock,' she said. All those seven years I've wound that clock every week, and
if I forgot it she would always remind me. The next day I set off on my way here.
I got out at the station at daybreak; I'd been asleep, tired out, with my eyes half
open, I was drinking some coffee. I looked up and there was suddenly Marfa Petrovna
sitting beside me with a pack of cards in her hands. 'Shall I tell your fortune
for the journey, Arkady Ivanovitch?' She was a great hand at telling fortunes. I
shall never forgive myself for not asking her to. I ran away in a fright, and, besides,
the bell rang. I was sitting to-day, feeling very heavy after a miserable dinner
from a cookshop; I was sitting smoking, all of a sudden Marfa Petrovna again. She
came in very smart in a new green silk dress with a long train. 'Good day, Arkady
Ivanovitch! How do you like my dress? Aniska can't make like this.' (Aniska was
a dressmaker in the country, one of our former serf girls who had been trained in
Moscow, a pretty wench.) She stood turning round before me. I looked at the dress,
and then I looked carefully, very carefully, at her face. 'I wonder you trouble
to come to me about such trifles, Marfa Petrovna.' 'Good gracious, you won't let
one disturb you about anything!' To tease her I said, 'I want to get married, Marfa
Petrovna.' 'That's just like you, Arkady Ivanovitch; it does you very little credit
to come looking for a bride when you've hardly buried your wife. And if you could
make a good choice, at least, but I know it won't be for your happiness or hers,
you will only be a laughing-stock to all good people.' Then she went out and her
train seemed to rustle. Isn't it nonsense, eh?"
"But perhaps you are telling lies?" Raskolnikov put in.
"I rarely lie," answered Svidrigailov thoughtfully, apparently not noticing the
rudeness of the question.
"And in the past, have you ever seen ghosts before?"
"Y-yes, I have seen them, but only once in my life, six years ago. I had a serf,
Filka; just after his burial I called out forgetting 'Filka, my pipe!' He came in
and went to the cupboard where my pipes were. I sat still and thought 'he is doing
it out of revenge,' because we had a violent quarrel just before his death. 'How
dare you come in with a hole in your elbow,' I said. 'Go away, you scamp!' He turned
and went out, and never came again. I didn't tell Marfa Petrovna at the time. I
wanted to have a service sung for him, but I was ashamed."
"You should go to a doctor."
"I know I am not well, without your telling me, though I don't know what's wrong;
I believe I am five times as strong as you are. I didn't ask you whether you believe
that ghosts are seen, but whether you believe that they exist."
"No, I won't believe it!" Raskolnikov cried, with positive anger.
"What do people generally say?" muttered Svidrigailov, as though speaking to
himself, looking aside and bowing his head: "They say, 'You are ill, so what appears
to you is only unreal fantasy.' But that's not strictly logical. I agree that ghosts
only appear to the sick, but that only proves that they are unable to appear except
to the sick, not that they don't exist."
"Nothing of the sort," Raskolnikov insisted irritably.
"No? You don't think so?" Svidrigailov went on, looking at him deliberately.
"But what do you say to this argument (help me with it): ghosts are as it were shreds
and fragments of other worlds, the beginning of them. A man in health has, of course,
no reason to see them, because he is above all a man of this earth and is bound
for the sake of completeness and order to live only in this life. But as soon as
one is ill, as soon as the normal earthly order of the organism is broken, one begins
to realise the possibility of another world; and the more seriously ill one is,
the closer becomes one's contact with that other world, so that as soon as the man
dies he steps straight into that world. I thought of that long ago. If you believe
in a future life, you could believe in that, too."
"I don't believe in a future life," said Raskolnikov.
Svidrigailov sat lost in thought.
"And what if there are only spiders there, or something of that sort," he said
"He is a madman," thought Raskolnikov.
"We always imagine eternity as something beyond our conception, something vast,
vast! But why must it be vast? Instead of all that, what if it's one little room,
like a bathhouse in the country, black and grimy and spiders in every corner, and
that's all eternity is? I sometimes fancy it like that."
"Can it be you can imagine nothing juster and more comforting than that?" Raskolnikov
cried, with a feeling of anguish.
"Juster? And how can we tell, perhaps that is just, and do you know it's what
I would certainly have made it," answered Svidrigailov, with a vague smile.
This horrible answer sent a cold chill through Raskolnikov. Svidrigailov raised
his head, looked at him, and suddenly began laughing.
"Only think," he cried, "half an hour ago we had never seen each other, we regarded
each other as enemies; there is a matter unsettled between us; we've thrown it aside,
and away we've gone into the abstract! Wasn't I right in saying that we were birds
of a feather?"
"Kindly allow me," Raskolnikov went on irritably, "to ask you to explain why
you have honoured me with your visit… and… and I am in a hurry, I have no time to
waste. I want to go out."
"By all means, by all means. Your sister, Avdotya Romanovna, is going to be married
to Mr. Luzhin, Pyotr Petrovitch?"
"Can you refrain from any question about my sister and from mentioning her name?
I can't understand how you dare utter her name in my presence, if you really are
"Why, but I've come here to speak about her; how can I avoid mentioning her?"
"Very good, speak, but make haste."
"I am sure that you must have formed your own opinion of this Mr. Luzhin, who
is a connection of mine through my wife, if you have only seen him for half an hour,
or heard any facts about him. He is no match for Avdotya Romanovna. I believe Avdotya
Romanovna is sacrificing herself generously and imprudently for the sake of… for
the sake of her family. I fancied from all I had heard of you that you would be
very glad if the match could be broken off without the sacrifice of worldly advantages.
Now I know you personally, I am convinced of it."
"All this is very naive… excuse me, I should have said impudent on your part,"
"You mean to say that I am seeking my own ends. Don't be uneasy, Rodion Romanovitch,
if I were working for my own advantage, I would not have spoken out so directly.
I am not quite a fool. I will confess something psychologically curious about that:
just now, defending my love for Avdotya Romanovna, I said I was myself the victim.
Well, let me tell you that I've no feeling of love now, not the slightest, so that
I wonder myself indeed, for I really did feel something…"