From: Crime and Punishment
VI
He spent the entire evening until ten o'clock wandering through various taverns and cesspools, moving from one to another. Katya turned up somewhere and sang another lackey's song about how someone, "that scoundrel and tyrant,"
Began kissing Katya.
Svidrigailov treated Katya, and the organ-grinder, and the singers, and the lackeys, and two office clerks of some kind. He had attached himself to these clerks, actually, because they both had crooked noses: one had a nose that went crooked to the right, and the other to the left. This struck Svidrigailov. They finally dragged him to some pleasure garden, where he paid for their entrance and his own. In this garden there was one thin, three-year-old fir tree and three bushes. In addition, a "vauxhall" had been built—essentially a drinking establishment, but where one could also get tea, and beyond that there stood several green tables and chairs. A chorus of wretched singers and some drunken Munich German in the style of a clown, with a red nose but for some reason extremely melancholy, entertained the public. The clerks quarreled with some other clerks and nearly started a fight. Svidrigailov was chosen by them as judge. He had been judging them for a quarter of an hour already, but they were shouting so much that there wasn't the slightest possibility of making anything out. Most likely it was that one of them had stolen something and had even managed to sell it right then and there to some Jew who happened along; but having sold it, he didn't want to share with his comrade. It turned out finally that the object sold was a teaspoon belonging to the vauxhall. They missed it at the vauxhall, and the matter began to take on troublesome proportions. Svidrigailov paid for the spoon, stood up, and left the garden. It was about ten o'clock. During all this time he himself had not drunk a single drop of wine and had only ordered tea at the vauxhall, and even that more for form's sake. Meanwhile the evening was sultry and gloomy. By ten o'clock terrible clouds had gathered from all sides; thunder crashed, and rain poured down like a waterfall. The water fell not in drops but lashed the ground in whole streams. Lightning flashed every moment, and one could count to five during each flash. Soaked through to the skin, he reached home, locked himself in, opened his bureau, took out all his money and tore up two or three papers. Then, shoving the money into his pocket, he was about to change his clothes, but looking out the window and listening to the thunder and rain, he waved his hand, took his hat, and went out without locking the apartment. He went straight to Sonya. She was at home.
She was not alone; around her were the four small Kapernaumov children. Sofya Semyonovna was giving them tea. She met Svidrigailov silently and respectfully, looked with surprise at his soaked clothes, but said not a word. The children all immediately ran away in indescribable terror.
Svidrigailov sat down at the table and asked Sonya to sit beside him. She timidly prepared to listen.
"I may be going to America, Sofya Semyonovna," said Svidrigailov, "and since we are probably seeing each other for the last time, I have come to make certain arrangements. Well, did you see that lady today? I know what she told you, no need to repeat it." (Sonya made a movement and blushed.) "These people have a certain manner. As for your sisters and your brother, they are indeed provided for, and I have deposited the money due to each of them, under receipts, in the proper hands. You should take these receipts, just in case. Here, take them! Well then, that's finished. Here are three five-percent bonds, totaling three thousand. Take these for yourself, for yourself alone, and let this remain between us, so that no one knows, whatever you may hear. You will need them, because, Sofya Semyonovna, to live as before—that's bad, and besides, you have no further need for it now."
"I am so much obliged to you, sir, and the orphans, sir, and the deceased," Sonya hurried, "that if I have thanked you so little until now, then... do not consider..."
"Eh, enough, enough."
"But this money, Arkady Ivanovich, I am very grateful to you, but I don't need it now. I can always support myself alone, do not consider it ingratitude: if you are so beneficent, then this money, sir..."
"For you, for you, Sofya Semyonovna, and please, no special talk, because I don't even have time. And you will need it. Rodion Romanovich has two roads: either a bullet in the forehead, or the Vladimirka." (Sonya looked at him wildly and trembled.) "Don't worry, I know everything, from him himself, and I'm not a blabbermouth; I won't tell anyone. You taught him well then, that he should go himself and confess. It will be much more advantageous for him. Well, if it comes to the Vladimirka—he'll take it, and you'll follow him, won't you? Isn't that so? Isn't that so? Well, if so, then that means you'll need the money. You'll need it for him, understand? Giving it to you is the same as giving it to him. Besides, you promised to pay the debt to Amalia Ivanovna; I heard it. Why is it, Sofya Semyonovna, that you so thoughtlessly take all these contracts and obligations on yourself? It was Katerina Ivanovna who owed that German woman, not you, so you could spit on the German woman. That's no way to live in this world. Well then, if anyone ever asks you—tomorrow or the day after—about me or concerning me (and they will ask you), don't mention that I stopped by to see you now, and don't show the money or tell anyone that I gave it to you. Well, goodbye now." (He stood up from the chair.) "Give my regards to Rodion Romanych. By the way: keep the money for the time being at least with Mr. Razumikhin. You know Mr. Razumikhin? Of course you do. He's a decent enough fellow. Take it to him tomorrow or... when the time comes. And until then hide it away."
Sonya also jumped up from her chair and looked at him in fright. She very much wanted to say something, to ask something, but in the first moments she didn't dare, and didn't know how to begin.
"How can you... how can you, sir, go out now in such rain?"
"Well, setting off for America and being afraid of rain, heh-heh! Farewell, dear Sofya Semyonovna! Live and live long, you will be useful to others. By the way... tell Mr. Razumikhin that I sent my regards. Tell him just like that: Arkady, they say, Ivanovich Svidrigailov sends his regards. Without fail."
He went out, leaving Sonya in amazement, in fright, and in some vague and heavy suspicion.
It turned out later that on that same evening, at about midnight, he made yet another very eccentric and unexpected visit. The rain still had not stopped. Completely wet, he entered at twenty minutes past eleven into the cramped apartment of his fiancée's parents, on Vasilyevsky Island, on Third Line, on Maly Prospekt. He had difficulty getting them to open the door and at first caused great consternation; but Arkady Ivanovich, when he wished, was a man with very charming manners, so that the initial (though, incidentally, quite shrewd) guess of the prudent parents of the fiancée, that Arkady Ivanovich had probably gotten so drunk somewhere that he no longer remembered himself—immediately fell away of its own accord. The soft-hearted and prudent mother of the fiancée wheeled the infirm father in a wheelchair to Arkady Ivanovich and, according to her custom, immediately proceeded to certain roundabout questions. (This woman never asked direct questions, but always first employed smiles and hand-rubbing, and then, if she needed to find out something absolutely and certainly, for example: when would Arkady Ivanovich be pleased to set the wedding date, she would begin with the most curious and almost greedy questions about Paris and about court life there, and only then would she work her way by degrees to Third Line on Vasilyevsky Island.) At other times, of course, all this inspired much respect, but on this occasion Arkady Ivanovich proved somehow particularly impatient and flatly desired to see his fiancée, although he had already been informed at the very beginning that the fiancée had already gone to bed. Naturally, the fiancée appeared. Arkady Ivanovich informed her directly that he had to leave Petersburg for a time due to a very important circumstance, and therefore had brought her fifteen thousand rubles in silver, in various notes, asking her to accept them from him as a gift, since he had long been intending to present her with this trifle before the wedding. The particular logical connection of the gift with his immediate departure and the absolute necessity of coming for this purpose in the rain and at midnight was not, of course, in the least clarified by these explanations, but the matter nevertheless went off very smoothly. Even the necessary oh's and ah's, questions and exclamations somehow suddenly became extraordinarily moderate and restrained; but the most ardent gratitude was expressed and even reinforced by the tears of the most prudent of mothers. Arkady Ivanovich stood up, laughed, kissed his fiancée, patted her cheek, confirmed that he would come soon, and noticing in her eyes not only childish curiosity but also a certain very serious, silent question, thought for a moment, kissed her a second time, and at that moment sincerely regretted in his soul that the gift would immediately go into safekeeping under lock and key with the most prudent of mothers. He went out, leaving everyone in an extraordinarily excited state. But the tender-hearted mama immediately, in a half-whisper and rapidly, resolved certain most important perplexities, namely, that Arkady Ivanovich was a great man, a man with affairs and connections, a rich man—God knows what's in his head, he took it into his head to leave, he took it into his head to give money, and therefore there's nothing to wonder at. Of course, it's strange that he's completely wet, but the English, for example, are even more eccentric than that, and besides, all these people of high society don't care what people say about them and don't stand on ceremony. Perhaps he even deliberately goes about like that, to show that he fears no one. And most importantly, not a word about this to anyone, because God knows what will come of it yet, and the money should be put under lock and key as soon as possible, and, of course, the best thing in all this is that Fedosya sat in the kitchen, and most importantly, by no means, by no means, by no means should anything be communicated to that swindler Resslich, and so on and so forth. They sat and whispered until two o'clock. The fiancée, however, went to bed much earlier, surprised and a little sad.
Meanwhile, at exactly midnight, Svidrigailov was crossing the —kov Bridge in the direction of Petersburg Side. The rain had stopped, but the wind was howling. He began to shiver and for one moment looked with some particular curiosity and even with a question at the black water of the Little Neva. But soon it seemed very cold to him standing over the water; he turned and walked onto — Prospekt. He walked along the endless — Prospekt for a very long time already, almost half an hour, stumbling more than once in the darkness on the wooden pavement, but never ceasing to search with curiosity for something on the right side of the prospekt. Somewhere here, near the end of the prospekt, he had noticed, when passing by recently, a wooden but extensive hotel, and its name, as far as he remembered, was something like Adrianople. He was not mistaken in his calculations: this hotel in such a remote area was such a conspicuous point that it was impossible not to find it, even in the darkness. It was a long wooden blackened building in which, despite the late hour, lights were still burning and some animation was noticeable. He entered and asked a ragged fellow he met in the corridor for a room. The ragged fellow, having looked Svidrigailov over, pulled himself together and immediately led him to a remote room, stuffy and cramped, somewhere at the very end of the corridor, in a corner, under the stairs. But there was no other; all were occupied. The ragged fellow looked questioningly.
"Is there tea?" asked Svidrigailov.
"There can be, sir."
"What else is there?"
"Veal, sir, vodka, sir, appetizers, sir."
"Bring veal and tea."
"And nothing else required?" asked the ragged fellow even with some perplexity.
"Nothing, nothing!"
The ragged fellow departed, completely disappointed.
"It must be a fine place," thought Svidrigailov, "how is it I didn't know. I, too, probably look like someone returning from a café-chantant but who has already had an adventure on the way. But it's curious, however, who stops here and spends the night?"
He lit a candle and examined the room in detail. It was a cubbyhole, so small that it was almost not even tall enough for Svidrigailov, with one window; a very dirty bed, a plain painted table and chair occupied almost all the space. The walls looked as if they were knocked together from boards with shabby wallpaper, so dusty and torn already that the color (yellow) could still be guessed, but the pattern could no longer be made out at all. One part of the wall and ceiling was cut away at an angle, as is usual in mansards, but here above this angle ran a staircase. Svidrigailov set down the candle, sat on the bed, and became thoughtful. But a strange and incessant whispering, sometimes rising almost to a shout, in the neighboring cubbyhole, finally drew his attention. This whispering had not ceased since the moment he entered. He listened: someone was scolding and almost tearfully reproaching another, but only one voice was audible. Svidrigailov stood up, shielded the candle with his hand, and a crack immediately gleamed in the wall; he approached and began to look. In the room, somewhat larger than his own, were two visitors. One of them, without a frock coat, with an extremely curly head and a red, inflamed face, stood in an oratorical pose, legs spread apart to maintain balance, and, striking himself on the chest with his hand, pathetically reproached the other for being a beggar and not even having rank, that he had pulled him out of the dirt and that when he wanted he could throw him out, and that all this was seen only by the finger of the Almighty. The reproached friend sat on a chair and had the look of a man who extremely wanted to sneeze but could not manage it. He occasionally, with a sheep-like and dull gaze, looked at the orator, but obviously had no idea what was being discussed and probably didn't even hear anything. On the table a candle was burning down, there stood an almost empty decanter of vodka, glasses, bread, tumblers, cucumbers, and dishes with long-drunk tea. Having examined this picture attentively, Svidrigailov indifferently moved away from the crack and sat on the bed.
The ragged fellow, returning with tea and veal, could not restrain himself from asking once more: "don't you need anything else?", and, hearing again the negative answer, departed definitively. Svidrigailov threw himself on the tea to warm up, and drank a glass, but could not eat a single piece, having completely lost his appetite. A fever was evidently beginning in him. He took off his coat and jacket, wrapped himself in the blanket, and lay down on the bed. He was annoyed: "it would be better to be healthy on this occasion," he thought and chuckled. The room was stuffy, the candle burned dimly, outside the wind was howling, somewhere in a corner a mouse was scratching, and indeed the whole room somehow smelled of mice and something leather. He lay there as if dreaming: thought followed thought, it seemed he very much wanted to fasten his imagination onto something in particular. "There must be some sort of garden under the window," he thought, "the trees are rustling; how I dislike the sound of trees at night, in a storm and in darkness, a nasty sensation!" And he remembered how, passing by Petrovsky Park a while ago, he even thought of it with revulsion. This also reminded him of —kov Bridge and the Little Neva, and again he felt cold, as he had earlier when standing over the water. "Never in my life have I loved water, even in landscapes," he thought again and suddenly chuckled at a strange thought: "well now, it seems I should be indifferent to all this aesthetics and comfort, but here I've become so particular, exactly like an animal that absolutely must choose its place... in a similar case. I really should have turned into Petrovsky! No doubt it seemed dark, cold, heh-heh! As if I needed pleasant sensations!... By the way, why don't I put out the candle?" (He blew it out.) "The neighbors have settled down," he thought, not seeing light in the old crack. "Well now, Marfa Petrovna, now would be the time for you to visit, it's dark, and the place is suitable, and the moment is original. But now, precisely now, you won't come..."
He suddenly, for some reason, remembered how, earlier, an hour before executing his design on Dunechka, he had recommended to Raskolnikov entrusting her to Razumikhin's protection. "Actually, I probably said that then more for my own irritation, as Raskolnikov guessed. What a scoundrel, though, this Raskolnikov is! He's borne a lot. He may be a great scoundrel in time, when the nonsense jumps out of him, but now he wants too much to live! Regarding this point these people are scoundrels. Well, to hell with him, let him do what he wants, what's it to me."
He still could not sleep. Gradually the former image of Dunechka began to arise before him, and suddenly a shudder passed through his body. "No, I must drop this now," he thought, coming to himself, "must think of something else. Strange and funny: I never had great hatred toward anyone, never particularly wanted revenge, and that's a bad sign, a bad sign! Didn't like to argue either or get heated up—also a bad sign! And how much I promised her earlier—phew, the devil! But, perhaps, she would have remade me somehow..." He fell silent again and clenched his teeth: again the image of Dunechka appeared before him exactly as she had been when, having fired the first time, she was terribly frightened, lowered the revolver and, deathly pale, looked at him, so that he could have seized her twice, and she wouldn't even have raised her hand in defense if he himself hadn't reminded her. He remembered how at that moment he felt sorry for her, as if his heart had been squeezed... "Eh! To hell with it! These thoughts again, all this must be dropped, dropped!..."
He was already dozing off; the feverish trembling was subsiding, when suddenly something seemed to run under the blanket along his arm and leg. He started: "Phew, the devil, it's probably a mouse!" he thought, "it's because I left the veal on the table..." He terribly did not want to unwrap himself, get up, freeze, but suddenly something unpleasantly brushed against his leg again; he tore off the blanket and lit the candle. Trembling from feverish cold, he bent down to examine the bed—there was nothing; he shook the blanket, and suddenly a mouse jumped out onto the sheet. He rushed to catch it; but the mouse didn't run off the bed, instead darted in zigzags in all directions, slipped from under his fingers, ran across his hand, and suddenly scurried under the pillow; he threw off the pillow, but in one instant felt something jump into his bosom, brush against his body, and was already behind his back, under his shirt. He trembled nervously and woke up. The room was dark, he lay on the bed, wrapped as before in the blanket, the wind howled under the window. "How disgusting!" he thought with annoyance.
He got up and sat on the edge of the bed, his back to the window. "Better not to sleep at all," he decided. From the window, however, it was cold and damp; without getting up from his place, he pulled the blanket over himself and wrapped himself in it. He did not light the candle. He thought of nothing, and did not want to think; but reveries arose one after another, fragments of thoughts flickered, without beginning or end or connection. As if he were falling into a half-doze. The cold, or the darkness, or the dampness, or the wind howling under the window and swaying the trees, called up in him some stubborn fantastic inclination and desire—but he kept seeing flowers. He imagined a delightful landscape; a bright, almost hot day, a holiday, Trinity Sunday. A rich, luxurious country cottage, in the English style, all overgrown with fragrant flower beds, planted around with rows going all around the house; a porch entwined with climbing plants, set with rows of roses; a bright, cool staircase, covered with a luxurious carpet, lined with rare flowers in Chinese jars. He particularly noticed in jars of water, on the windows, bouquets of white and delicate narcissi, bending on their bright green, thick and long stems with a strong aromatic smell. He did not even want to leave them, but he went up the stairs and entered a large, high hall, and again here too everywhere, by the windows, around the open doors onto the terrace, on the terrace itself, everywhere were flowers. The floors were strewn with freshly mown fragrant grass, the windows were open, fresh, light, cool air penetrated the room, birds chirped under the windows, and in the middle of the hall, on tables covered with white satin shrouds, stood a coffin. This coffin was upholstered in white gros de Naples and trimmed with thick white ruching. Garlands of flowers wreathed it from all sides. All in flowers lay in it a girl, in a white tulle dress, with folded arms pressed to her breast, carved as if from marble. But the loose hair, the hair of a light blonde, was wet; a wreath of roses encircled her head. The stern and already rigid profile of her face was also as if carved from marble, but the smile on her pale lips was full of some non-childish, boundless sorrow and great complaint. Svidrigailov knew this girl; there was no icon, no lighted candles by this coffin, and no prayers were heard. This girl was a suicide—a drowned girl. She was only fourteen years old, but it was already a broken heart, and it had destroyed itself, offended by an insult that horrified and amazed this young, childish consciousness, flooded her angelically pure soul with undeserved shame, and tore out a last cry of despair, unheard but insolently violated in the dark night, in the darkness, in the cold, in the damp thaw, when the wind howled...
Svidrigailov came to himself, got up from the bed, and stepped to the window. He felt for the latch and opened the window. The wind rushed violently into his cramped closet and as if with frosty rime covered his face and his chest, covered only by a shirt. Under the window there must indeed have been something like a garden and, apparently, also a pleasure garden; probably during the day singers sang here and tea was served on tables. Now spray flew from the trees and bushes into the window, it was dark as in a cellar, so that one could barely distinguish only some dark spots indicating objects. Svidrigailov, bending down and leaning his elbows on the windowsill, looked for five minutes already, without tearing himself away, into this gloom. Through the darkness and night a cannon shot rang out, then another.
"Ah, the signal! The water is rising," he thought, "by morning it will rush, there where the place is lower, into the streets, will flood basements and cellars, the basement rats will float up, and amid the rain and wind people will begin, cursing, wet, to drag their rubbish to the upper floors... And what time is it now?" And as soon as he thought this, somewhere close by, ticking and as if hurrying with all its might, a wall clock struck three. "Aha, in an hour it will already be light! Why wait? I'll go out now, go straight to Petrovsky: I'll choose some big bush there, all drenched with rain, so that just barely touching it with my shoulder millions of drops will shower my whole head..." He moved away from the window, closed it, lit the candle, pulled on his vest and coat, put on his hat, and went out with the candle into the corridor to find somewhere the ragged fellow sleeping in a closet among all sorts of rubbish and candle ends, to pay him for the room and leave the hotel. "The very best moment, couldn't choose better!"
He walked for a long time along the whole long and narrow corridor, finding no one, and was about to call out loudly when suddenly in a dark corner, between an old cupboard and a door, he made out some strange object, something seemingly alive. He bent down with the candle and saw a child—a girl about five years old, no more, in a dress soaked like a floor rag, shivering and crying. She seemed not to be frightened of Svidrigailov, but looked at him with dull surprise with her big black little eyes and occasionally sobbed, like children who have cried for a long time but have already stopped and even been comforted, but nevertheless, now and then, suddenly sob again. The girl's little face was pale and exhausted; she was stiff from cold, but "how did she get here? It means she hid here and didn't sleep all night." He began questioning her. The girl suddenly became animated and rapidly-rapidly babbled something to him in her childish language. There was something about "mama" and that "mama will beat," about some cup that she had "boken" (broken). The girl spoke without stopping; somehow it was possible to guess from all these stories that this was an unloved child whose mother, some perpetually drunk cook, probably from this very hotel, had beaten and frightened; that the girl had broken her mama's cup and was so frightened that she ran away just that evening; probably hid for a long time somewhere in the yard, in the rain, finally made her way here, hid behind the cupboard, and sat here in the corner all night, crying, shivering from dampness, from darkness, and from fear that she would now be badly beaten for all this. He picked her up, went to his room, sat her on the bed, and began to undress her. The torn little shoes on her bare feet were so wet as if they had lain in a puddle all night. Having undressed her, he laid her on the bed, covered her and wrapped her completely, even with her head, in the blanket. She immediately fell asleep. Having finished everything, he again fell into gloomy thought.
"So I've gotten myself involved!" he decided suddenly with a heavy and angry feeling. "What nonsense!" In annoyance he took the candle to go and find the ragged fellow at all costs and leave as soon as possible. "Eh, the little girl!" he thought with a curse, already opening the door, but he returned once more to look at the girl, whether she was sleeping and how she was sleeping. He carefully lifted the blanket. The girl was sleeping soundly and blissfully. She had warmed up under the blanket, and color had already spread over her pale cheeks. But strangely: this color showed brighter and stronger than an ordinary child's blush could be. "This is feverish flush," thought Svidrigailov, it's exactly like the flush from wine, exactly as if she had been given a whole glass to drink. Her scarlet lips seemed to burn, to glow; but what's this? It suddenly seemed to him that her long black eyelashes seemed to quiver and blink, as if lifting, and from under them peeked out a sly, sharp, somehow non-childishly winking eye, as if the girl were not sleeping and were pretending. Yes, that's it: her lips were parting in a smile; the corners of her lips quivered, as if still restraining themselves. But now she had stopped restraining herself completely; this was already laughter, open laughter; something brazen, inviting shone in this completely non-childish face; this was depravity, this was the face of a courtesan, the brazen face of a mercenary courtesan, a French one. Now, no longer hiding at all, both eyes opened: they swept over him with a fiery and shameless gaze, they called him, laughed... There was something infinitely hideous and offensive in this laughter, in these eyes, in all this filth in a child's face. "What! A five-year-old!" whispered Svidrigailov in real horror, "this... what is this?" But now she was already turning toward him completely with her flaming little face, stretching out her arms... "Ah, cursed one!" cried Svidrigailov in horror, raising his hand over her... But at that same moment he woke up.
He was on the same bed, wrapped the same way in the blanket; the candle was not lit, and already full daylight showed white in the windows.
"Nightmares all night long!" He rose angrily, feeling completely broken; his bones ached. Outside was completely thick fog and nothing could be made out. It was past five o'clock; he had overslept! He got up and put on his jacket and coat, still damp. Feeling the revolver in his pocket, he took it out and adjusted the cap; then he sat down, took a notebook from his pocket, and on the title page, the most conspicuous sheet, wrote in large letters several lines. Having reread them, he became thoughtful, leaning his elbows on the table. The revolver and notebook lay right there, by his elbow. Awakened flies stuck to the untouched portion of veal standing there on the table. He looked at them for a long time and finally with his free right hand began trying to catch one fly. He exhausted himself for a long time in efforts but could not catch it at all. Finally, catching himself at this interesting occupation, he came to himself, shuddered, got up, and resolutely went out of the room. A minute later he was on the street.
A milky, thick fog lay over the city. Svidrigailov walked along the slippery, dirty wooden pavement, toward the Little Neva. He imagined the Little Neva, risen high during the night, Petrovsky Island, the wet paths, the wet grass, the wet trees and bushes and, finally, that very bush... With annoyance he began examining houses, to think of something else. Not a single passerby or cabman was encountered on the prospekt. The bright yellow wooden houses with closed shutters looked desolate and dirty. The cold and dampness penetrated his whole body, and he began to shiver. Occasionally he came upon shop and vegetable signs and carefully read each one. Here the wooden pavement had already ended. He was already level with a large stone house. A dirty, shivering little dog, with its tail tucked in, ran across his path. Some dead-drunk man in a greatcoat, face down, lay across the sidewalk. He glanced at him and walked on. A tall watchtower flashed on his left. "Bah!" he thought, "here's a place, why go to Petrovsky! At least there'll be an official witness..." He almost smiled at this new thought and turned into —skaya Street. Here stood the large house with the watchtower. At the locked big gates of the house stood, leaning his shoulder against them, a small man wrapped in a gray soldier's overcoat and wearing a copper Achilles helmet. With a drowsy gaze he coldly glanced sideways at the approaching Svidrigailov. On his face was visible that age-old peevish sorrow which has so sourly imprinted itself on all without exception faces of the Jewish tribe. Both of them, Svidrigailov and Achilles, examined each other in silence for some time. Finally it seemed irregular to Achilles that a man was not drunk but stood before him three paces away, staring directly at him and saying nothing.
"Vot, vot you vant here?" he said, still not moving and not changing his position.
"Nothing, brother, hello!" answered Svidrigailov.
"Dis is not place."
"I, brother, am going to foreign lands."
"To foreign lands?"
"To America."
"To America?"
Svidrigailov took out the revolver and cocked it. Achilles raised his eyebrows.
"Vot, vot, dese jokes not place here!"
"Why wouldn't it be a place?"
"Because not place."
"Well, brother, it's all the same. It's a good place; if they start asking you, just answer that he went, they say, to America."
He put the revolver to his right temple.
"Vot, here you can't, here not place!" Achilles stirred, opening his pupils wider and wider.
Svidrigailov pulled the trigger.