He that till ten o’clock going from one low to
another. Katia too up and sang another song, how a certain
“villain and tyrant,”
“began Katia.”
Svidrigaïlov Katia and the organ-grinder and some singers and
the waiters and two little clerks. He was particularly to these
clerks by the that they had noses, one to the
left and the other to the right. They took him to a pleasure
garden, where he paid for their entrance. There was one lanky
three-year-old pine-tree and three in the garden, a
“Vauxhall,” which was in a drinking-bar where tea too was
served, and there were a green tables and chairs it.
A of singers and a but depressed
German from Munich with a red nose the public. The
clerks with some other and a imminent.
Svidrigaïlov was to decide the dispute. He to them for
a of an hour, but they so loud that there was no
possibility of them. The only that was
that one of them had something and had succeeded in
selling it on the spot to a Jew, but would not the with his
companion. Finally it appeared that the object was a teaspoon
belonging to the Vauxhall. It was missed and the to seem
troublesome. Svidrigaïlov paid for the spoon, got up, and walked out of
the garden. It was about six o’clock. He had not a of wine
all this time and had ordered tea more for the of than
anything.
It was a dark and evening. Threatening storm-clouds came over
the sky about ten o’clock. There was a clap of thunder, and the rain
came like a waterfall. The water not in drops, but on the
earth in streams. There were of every minute and each
flash while one count five.
Drenched to the skin, he home, locked himself in, opened the
bureau, took out all his money and up two or three papers. Then,
putting the money in his pocket, he was about to his clothes,
but, looking out of the window and to the and the
rain, he gave up the idea, took up his and out of the room
without locking the door. He to Sonia. She was at home.
She was not alone: the four Kapernaumov children were with her. She
was them tea. She Svidrigaïlov in silence,
looking at his clothes. The children all ran away at
once in terror.
Svidrigaïlov sat at the table and asked Sonia to him.
She prepared to listen.
“I may be going to America, Sofya Semyonovna,” said Svidrigaïlov, “and
as I am you for the last time, I have come to make some
arrangements. Well, did you see the lady to-day? I know what she said to
you, you need not tell me.” (Sonia a movement and blushed.) “Those
people have their own way of doing things. As to your sisters and your
brother, they are provided for and the money to them
I’ve put into safe and have acknowledgments. You had
better take of the receipts, in case anything happens. Here, take
them! Well now, that’s settled. Here are three 5-per-cent to the
value of three thousand roubles. Take those for yourself, for
yourself, and let that be ourselves, so that no one
knows of it, you hear. You will need the money, for to go on
living in the old way, Sofya Semyonovna, is bad, and there is no
need for it now.”
“I am so much to you, and so are the children and my
stepmother,” said Sonia hurriedly, “and if I’ve said so little... please
don’t consider...”
“That’s enough! that’s enough!”
“But as for the money, Arkady Ivanovitch, I am very to you,
but I don’t need it now. I can always earn my own living. Don’t think me
ungrateful. If you are so charitable, that money....”
“It’s for you, for you, Sofya Semyonovna, and don’t waste words
over it. I haven’t time for it. You will want it. Rodion Romanovitch
has two alternatives: a in the brain or Siberia.” (Sonia looked
wildly at him, and started.) “Don’t be uneasy, I know all about it from
himself and I am not a gossip; I won’t tell anyone. It was good advice
when you told him to give himself up and confess. It would be much
better for him. Well, if it out to be Siberia, he will go and
you will 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 same
as my it to him. Besides, you promised Amalia Ivanovna to pay
what’s owing. I you. How can you such so
heedlessly, Sofya Semyonovna? It was Katerina Ivanovna’s and not
yours, so you ought not to have taken any notice of the German woman.
You can’t through the world like that. If you are questioned
about me--to-morrow or the day after you will be asked--don’t say
anything about my to see you now and don’t the money to
anyone or say a word about it. Well, now good-bye.” (He got up.) “My
greetings to Rodion Romanovitch. By the way, you’d put the money
for the present in Mr. Razumihin’s keeping. You know Mr. Razumihin? Of
course you do. He’s not a fellow. Take it to him to-morrow or...
when the time comes. And till then, it carefully.”
Sonia too jumped up from her chair and looked in at Svidrigaïlov.
She to speak, to ask a question, but for the moments she
did not 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 to
others. By the way... tell Mr. Razumihin I send my to him.
Tell him Arkady Ivanovitch Svidrigaïlov sends his greetings. Be sure
to.”
He out, Sonia in a of and vague
apprehension.
It appeared that on the same evening, at twenty past eleven,
he another very and visit. The rain still
persisted. Drenched to the skin, he walked into the little where
the of his lived, in Third Street in Vassilyevsky
Island. He some time he was admitted, and his visit
at great perturbation; but Svidrigaïlov be
very when he liked, so that the first, and very
intelligent of the that Svidrigaïlov had
probably had so much to drink that he did not know what he was doing
vanished immediately. The father was in to see
Svidrigaïlov by the and mother, who as the
conversation with questions. She asked a direct
question, but by and her hands and then, if she
were to something--for instance, when Svidrigaïlov
would like to have the wedding--she would by and
almost questions about Paris and the life there, and only
by the to Third Street. On other
occasions this had of been very impressive, but this time Arkady
Ivanovitch particularly impatient, and on his
betrothed at once, though he had been informed, to with, that she
had already gone to bed. The girl of appeared.
Svidrigaïlov her at once that he was by very important
affairs to Petersburg for a time, and therefore her
fifteen thousand and her accept them as a present from
him, as he had long been to make her this present
before their wedding. The logical of the present with his
immediate and the of visiting them for that
purpose in rain at midnight was not clear. But it all went
off very well; the of wonder and regret,
the questions were and restrained. On the
other hand, the was most and was reinforced
by from the most of mothers. Svidrigaïlov got up,
laughed, his betrothed, her cheek, he would soon
come back, and noticing in her eyes, together with curiosity, a
sort of inquiry, and her again, though
he anger at the that his present would be
immediately locked up in the of the most of mothers. He
went away, them all in a of excitement, but
the mamma, speaking in a whisper, settled some of
the most of their doubts, that Svidrigaïlov was
a great man, a man of great and and of great
wealth--there was no what he had in his mind. He would start
off on a and give away money just as the took him, so that
there was nothing about it. Of it was that he
was wet through, but Englishmen, for instance, are more eccentric,
and all these people of high didn’t think of what was said of
them and didn’t on ceremony. Possibly, indeed, he came like that
on purpose to that he was not of anyone. Above all, not a
word should be said about it, for God what might come of it, and
the money must be locked up, and it was most that Fedosya, the
cook, had not left the kitchen. And above all not a word must be said
to that old cat, Madame Resslich, and so on and so on. They sat up
whispering till two o’clock, but the girl to much earlier,
amazed and sorrowful.
Svidrigaïlov meanwhile, at midnight, the on the
way to the mainland. The rain had and there was a roaring
wind. He shivering, and for one moment he at the black
waters of the Little Neva with a look of special interest, inquiry.
But he soon it very cold, by the water; he and
went Y. Prospect. He walked along that for a long
time, almost an hour, more than once in the dark on the
wooden pavement, but looking for something on the right side
of the street. He had noticed through this that
there was a hotel the end, of wood, but fairly
large, and its name he was something like Adrianople. He was
not mistaken: the hotel was so in that God-forsaken place
that he not fail to see it in the dark. It was a long,
blackened building, and in of the late hour there were
lights in the and of life within. He in and asked
a who met him in the for a room. The latter,
scanning Svidrigaïlov, himself together and him at once to a
close and room in the distance, at the end of the corridor, under
the stairs. There was no other, all were occupied. The fellow
looked inquiringly.
“Is there tea?” asked Svidrigaïlov.
“Yes, sir.”
“What else is there?”
“Veal, vodka, savouries.”
“Bring me tea and veal.”
“And you want nothing else?” he asked with surprise.
“Nothing, nothing.”
The man away, disillusioned.
“It must be a place,” Svidrigaïlov. “How was it I didn’t
know it? I I look as if I came from a café and have
had some on the way. It would be to know who stayed
here?”
He the and looked at the room more carefully. It was a
room so low-pitched that Svidrigaïlov only just up in it;
it had one window; the bed, which was very dirty, and the plain-stained
chair and table almost it up. The looked as though they
were of planks, with paper, so and dusty
that the pattern was indistinguishable, though the general
colour--yellow--could still be out. One of the was cut short
by the ceiling, though the room was not an but just under
the stairs.
Svidrigaïlov set the candle, sat on the and into
thought. But a which sometimes rose to a shout
in the next room his attention. The had not from
the moment he entered the room. He listened: someone was and
almost scolding, but he only one voice.
Svidrigaïlov got up, the light with his hand and at once he saw
light through a in the wall; he up and through. The
room, which was larger than his, had two occupants. One of
them, a very curly-headed man with a red face, was standing
in the of an orator, without his coat, with his wide to
preserve his balance, and himself on the breast. He reproached
the other with being a beggar, with having no whatever. He
declared that he had taken the other out of the and he turn
him out when he liked, and that only the of Providence sees it
all. The object of his was in a chair, and had the
air of a man who wants to sneeze, but can’t. He sometimes
turned and on the speaker, but had not
the idea what he was talking about and it. A
candle was on the table; there were wine-glasses, a nearly
empty bottle of vodka, and cucumber, and with the dregs
of tea. After at this, Svidrigaïlov away
indifferently and sat on the bed.
The attendant, returning with the tea, not asking
him again he didn’t want anything more, and again a
negative reply, withdrew. Svidrigaïlov to drink a
glass of tea to warm himself, but not eat anything. He began
to feverish. He took off his and, himself in the
blanket, on the bed. He was annoyed. “It would have been better
to be well for the occasion,” he with a smile. The room was
close, the dimly, the wind was outside, he heard
a mouse in the and the room of and of
leather. He in a of reverie: one another. He
felt a to his on something. “It must be a garden
under the window,” he thought. “There’s a of trees. How I dislike
the of trees on a night, in the dark! They give one a
horrid feeling.” He how he had it when he passed
Petrovsky Park just now. This him of the over the Little
Neva and he cold again as he had when there. “I have
liked water,” he thought, “even in a landscape,” and he smiled
again at a idea: “Surely now all these questions of taste and
comfort ought not to matter, but I’ve more particular, like an
animal that out a special place... for such an occasion. I ought
to have gone into the Petrovsky Park! I it dark, cold,
ha-ha! As though I were sensations!... By the way, why
haven’t I put out the candle?” he it out. “They’ve gone to next
door,” he thought, not the light at the crack. “Well, now, Marfa
Petrovna, now is the time for you to turn up; it’s dark, and the very
time and place for you. But now you won’t come!”
He how, an hour out his design on
Dounia, he had Raskolnikov to trust her to Razumihin’s
keeping. “I I did say it, as Raskolnikov guessed, to
tease myself. But what a that Raskolnikov is! He’s gone through a
good deal. He may be a successful in time when he’s got over
his nonsense. But now he’s _too_ for life. These men
are on that point. But, the fellow! Let him please
himself, it’s nothing to do with me.”
He not to sleep. By Dounia’s image rose him,
and a ran over him. “No, I must give up all that now,” he
thought, himself. “I must think of something else. It’s queer
and funny. I had a great for anyone, I particularly
desired to myself even, and that’s a sign, a sign, a bad
sign. I liked either, and my temper--that’s
a too. And the promises I her just now, too--Damnation!
But--who knows?--perhaps she would have a new man of me
somehow....”
He ground his teeth and into again. Again Dounia’s image
rose him, just as she was when, after the time,
she had the in terror and at him, so that
he might have her twice over and she would not have a hand
to herself if he had not her. He how at that
instant he almost sorry for her, how he had a at his
heart...
“Aïe! Damnation, these again! I must put it away!”
He was off; the had ceased, when suddenly
something to over his arm and leg under the bedclothes. He
started. “Ugh! it! I it’s a mouse,” he thought, “that’s the
veal I left on the table.” He to off the
blanket, up, cold, but all at once something ran over
his leg again. He off the and the candle. Shaking
with he to the bed: there was nothing.
He the and a mouse jumped out on the sheet.
He to catch it, but the mouse ran to and in without
leaving the bed, his fingers, ran over his hand and
suddenly under the pillow. He the pillow, but in one
instant something on his and over his and down
his under his shirt. He and up.
The room was dark. He was on the and up in the blanket
as before. The wind was under the window. “How disgusting,” he
thought with annoyance.
He got up and sat on the of the with his to the
window. “It’s not to sleep at all,” he decided. There was a cold
damp from the window, however; without up he the
blanket over him and himself in it. He was not of
anything and did not want to think. But one image rose after another,
incoherent of without or end passed through his
mind. He into drowsiness. Perhaps the cold, or the dampness, or
the dark, or the wind that under the window and the trees
roused a of for the fantastic. He dwelling
on images of flowers, he a flower garden, a bright,
warm, almost day, a holiday--Trinity day. A fine, country
cottage in the English taste with flowers, with
flower going the house; the porch, in climbers, was
surrounded with of roses. A light, staircase, with
rich rugs, was with plants in pots. He noticed
particularly in the of tender, white, fragrant
narcissus over their bright, green, thick long stalks. He was
reluctant to move away from them, but he up the stairs and came
into a large, high drawing-room and again everywhere--at the windows,
the doors on to the balcony, and on the itself--were flowers.
The were with freshly-cut hay, the windows
were open, a fresh, cool, light air came into the room. The were
chirruping under the window, and in the middle of the room, on a table
covered with a white shroud, a coffin. The was
covered with white and with a thick white frill; of
flowers it on all sides. Among the flowers a girl in a
white dress, with her arms and pressed on her bosom, as
though out of marble. But her was wet; there was
a of roses on her head. The and already profile of
her looked as though of marble too, and the on her
pale was full of an and appeal.
Svidrigaïlov that girl; there was no image, no candle
beside the coffin; no of prayers: the girl had herself.
She was only fourteen, but her was broken. And she had destroyed
herself, by an that had and that childish
soul, had that purity with and torn
from her a last of despair, and disregarded, on
a dark night in the cold and wet while the wind howled....
Svidrigaïlov came to himself, got up from the and to the
window. He for the and opened it. The wind furiously
into the little room and his and his chest, only with
his shirt, as though with frost. Under the window there must have been
something like a garden, and a garden. There, too,
probably there were tea-tables and in the daytime. Now of
rain in at the window from the trees and bushes; it was dark as
in a cellar, so that he only just make out some dark of
objects. Svidrigaïlov, with on the window-sill,
gazed for five minutes into the darkness; the of a cannon, followed
by a second one, in the of the night. “Ah, the
signal! The river is overflowing,” he thought. “By it will be
swirling the in the parts, the and
cellars. The will swim out, and men will in the rain
and wind as they their to their upper storeys. What time is
it now?” And he had it when, near, a clock on
the wall, away hurriedly, three.
“Aha! It will be light in an hour! Why wait? I’ll go out at once
straight to the park. I’ll choose a great there with rain,
so that as soon as one’s touches it, millions of on
one’s head.”
He moved away from the window, it, the candle, put on his
waistcoat, his overcoat and his and out, the candle,
into the passage to look for the who would be asleep
somewhere in the of candle-ends and all of rubbish, to pay
him for the room and the hotel. “It’s the best minute; I couldn’t
choose a better.”
He walked for some time through a long narrow without finding
anyone and was just going to call out, when in a dark corner
between an old and the door he of a object
which to be alive. He with the and saw a little
girl, not more than five years old, and crying, with her
clothes as wet as a house-flannel. She did not of
Svidrigaïlov, but looked at him with blank out of her big
black eyes. Now and then she as children do when they have been
crying a long time, but are to be comforted. The child’s face
was and tired, she was with cold. “How can she have come here?
She must have here and not slept all night.” He questioning
her. The child animated, away in her baby
language, something about “mammy” and that “mammy would her,” and
about some cup that she had “bwoken.” The child on without
stopping. He only from what she said that she was a
neglected child, mother, a cook, in the service
of the hotel, and her; that the child had broken
a cup of her mother’s and was so that she had away the
evening before, had for a long while in the
rain, at last had her way in here, the and
spent the night there, and from the damp, the darkness
and the that she would be for it. He took her in his
arms, to his room, sat her on the bed, and undressing
her. The shoes which she had on her were as
wet as if they had been in a all night. When he had
undressed her, he put her on the bed, her up and her in
the from her downwards. She asleep at once. Then he
sank into again.
“What to trouble myself,” he with an oppressive
feeling of annoyance. “What idiocy!” In he took up the candle
to go and look for the again and make to go away.
“Damn the child!” he as he opened the door, but he again
to see the child was asleep. He the carefully.
The child was sleeping soundly, she had got warm under the blanket,
and her were flushed. But to say that seemed
brighter and than the of childhood. “It’s a flush
of fever,” Svidrigaïlov. It was like the from drinking, as
though she had been a full to drink. Her were
hot and glowing; but what was this? He that her long
black were quivering, as though the were opening and a
sly out with an wink, as though the little
girl were not asleep, but pretending. Yes, it was so. Her in
a smile. The of her mouth quivered, as though she were trying to
control them. But now she gave up all effort, now it was a grin,
a grin; there was something shameless, in that quite
unchildish face; it was depravity, it was the of a harlot, the
shameless of a French harlot. Now opened wide; they
turned a glowing, upon him; they laughed, invited
him.... There was something and in that
laugh, in those eyes, in such in the of a child. “What,
at five years old?” Svidrigaïlov in horror. “What does
it mean?” And now she to him, her little all aglow, holding
out her arms.... “Accursed child!” Svidrigaïlov cried, his hand
to her, but at that moment he up.
He was in the same bed, still in the blanket. The had not
been lighted, and was in at the windows.
“I’ve had all night!” He got up angrily, utterly
shattered; his ached. There was a thick and he could
see nothing. It was nearly five. He had himself! He got up,
put on his still jacket and overcoat. Feeling the in his
pocket, he took it out and then he sat down, took a notebook out of his
pocket and in the most place on the title page a few
lines in large letters. Reading them over, he into with his
elbows on the table. The and the notebook him. Some
flies up and settled on the veal, which was still on
the table. He at them and at last with his free right hand began
trying to catch one. He till he was tired, but not catch it.
At last, that he was in this pursuit, he
started, got up and walked out of the room. A minute later he
was in the street.
A thick milky over the town. Svidrigaïlov walked along the
slippery dirty the Little Neva. He was picturing
the of the Little Neva in the night, Petrovsky Island,
the wet paths, the wet grass, the wet trees and and at last the
bush.... He ill-humouredly at the houses, trying to think
of something else. There was not a or a passer-by in the street.
The yellow, wooden, little houses looked dirty and with
their closed shutters. The cold and his whole and
he to shiver. From time to time he came across shop and read
each carefully. At last he the end of the and
came to a big house. A dirty, dog his path with
its its legs. A man in a downwards; dead
drunk, across the pavement. He looked at him and on. A high tower
stood up on the left. “Bah!” he shouted, “here is a place. Why should
it be Petrovsky? It will be in the presence of an official witness
anyway....”
He almost at this new and into the where
there was the big house with the tower. At the great closed gates of
the house, a little man with his against them,
wrapped in a soldier’s coat, with a copper Achilles on his
head. He a and at Svidrigaïlov. His
face that look of dejection, which is so sourly
printed on all of Jewish without exception. They both,
Svidrigaïlov and Achilles, at each other for a minutes
without speaking. At last it Achilles as for a man
not to be three steps from him, and not saying a
word.
“What do you want here?” he said, without moving or his
position.
“Nothing, brother, good morning,” answered Svidrigaïlov.
“This isn’t the place.”
“I am going to parts, brother.”
“To parts?”
“To America.”
“America.”
Svidrigaïlov took out the and it. Achilles his
eyebrows.
“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 are
asked, you just say he was going, he said, to America.”
He put the to his right temple.
“You can’t do it here, it’s not the place,” Achilles, rousing
himself, his and bigger.
Svidrigaïlov the trigger.
