来自：Crime and Punishment
III
He was hurrying to Svidrigailov. What he could hope for from this man—he himself did not know. But in this man there lurked some kind of power over him. Having realized this once, he could no longer be at peace, and now, besides, the time had come.
On the way one question tormented him particularly: had Svidrigailov been to see Porfiry?
As far as he could judge, and on what he would swear—no, he had not! He thought about it again and again, recalled the entire visit to Porfiry, considered: no, he had not been, of course he had not!
But if he had not been yet, would he go or not go to Porfiry?
For now it seemed to him that he would not go. Why? He could not explain that either, but even if he could explain it, he would not rack his brains over it particularly now. All this tormented him, and at the same time somehow it was not his main concern. A strange thing, perhaps no one would believe it, but about his present, immediate fate he was somehow weakly, distractedly concerned. Something else tormented him, something much more important, extraordinary—about himself and no one else, but something different, something primary. Moreover, he felt boundless moral fatigue, though his reason was working better this morning than during all these recent days.
And was it worth it now, after everything that had been, to try to overcome all these new miserable difficulties? Was it worth it, for example, to try to scheme so that Svidrigailov would not go to Porfiry; to study him, find out about him, waste time on some Svidrigailov!
Oh, how tired he was of all this!
And yet he was still hurrying to Svidrigailov; could he be expecting something new from him, some indication, a way out? And people do grasp at straws! Was it fate, or some instinct that brought them together? Perhaps it was only fatigue, despair; perhaps he needed not Svidrigailov, but someone else, and Svidrigailov just happened to turn up. Sonya? But why would he go to Sonya now? To beg her tears again? Besides, Sonya frightened him. Sonya represented an implacable sentence, an unchangeable decision. Here—either her path or his. Especially at this moment he was in no condition to see her. No, would it not be better to test Svidrigailov: what was this all about? And he could not help acknowledging inwardly that he had indeed seemed to need him for something for a long time.
Well, however, what could they have in common? Even their villainy could not be the same. This man was very unpleasant, moreover, obviously extremely depraved, certainly cunning and deceitful, perhaps very evil. Such stories circulated about him. True, he was taking trouble over Katerina Ivanovna's children; but who knows why and what it means? This man always had some intentions and projects.
Another thought had been constantly flashing through Raskolnikov's mind all these days and terribly disturbing him, though he even tried to drive it away from himself, so painful was it for him! He thought sometimes: Svidrigailov had been hovering around him, and was hovering now; Svidrigailov had learned his secret; Svidrigailov had had designs on Dunya. What if he still had them now? One could say with almost certainty, yes. And what if now, having learned his secret and thus gained power over him, he wanted to use it as a weapon against Dunya?
This thought sometimes tormented him, even in his sleep, but it appeared to him for the first time so consciously vivid as now, when he was walking to Svidrigailov. This thought alone drove him into dark rage. First of all, then everything would change, even in his own situation: he would have to reveal the secret to Dunechka immediately. Perhaps he would have to give himself up, in order to deflect Dunechka from some rash step. The letter? This morning Dunya had received some letter! From whom in Petersburg could she receive letters? (Luzhin perhaps?) True, Razumikhin was on guard there; but Razumikhin knew nothing. Perhaps he should reveal everything to Razumikhin too? Raskolnikov thought of this with revulsion.
In any case he had to see Svidrigailov as soon as possible—he decided finally to himself. Thank God, here details were not so necessary as the essence of the matter; but if, if only he was capable, if Svidrigailov was scheming anything against Dunya—then...
Raskolnikov was so exhausted from all this time, from this whole month, that he could no longer resolve such questions except with one decision: "Then I will kill him," he thought in cold despair. A heavy feeling constricted his heart; he stopped in the middle of the street and began to look around: which way was he going and where had he wandered? He was on —sky Prospect, thirty or forty paces from the Haymarket, which he had crossed. The entire second floor of the house on the left was occupied by a tavern. All the windows were wide open; the tavern, judging by the moving figures in the windows, was packed full. In the hall singers were performing, a clarinet sounded, a violin played, and a Turkish drum thundered. Women's shrieks could be heard. He was about to turn back, puzzled as to why he had turned onto —sky Prospect, when suddenly, in one of the far open windows of the tavern, he saw Svidrigailov sitting by the very window, at a tea table, with a pipe in his teeth. This struck him terribly, to the point of horror. Svidrigailov was observing and examining him silently and, which also immediately struck Raskolnikov, seemed to be about to get up, to manage to slip away quietly before being noticed. Raskolnikov immediately pretended as if he had not noticed him and was looking aside thoughtfully, but continued to observe him from the corner of his eye. His heart was beating anxiously. So it was: Svidrigailov obviously did not want to be seen. He removed the pipe from his lips and was about to hide; but having risen and pushed back his chair, he probably suddenly noticed that Raskolnikov had seen him and was observing him. Something like the scene of their first meeting at Raskolnikov's, during his sleep, occurred between them. A roguish smile appeared on Svidrigailov's face and kept widening. Both knew that each saw and was observing the other. Finally Svidrigailov burst out laughing.
"Well, well! Come in if you want; I'm here!" he shouted from the window.
Raskolnikov went up to the tavern.
He found him in a very small back room, with one window, adjoining the large hall where merchants, clerks, and a multitude of all sorts of people were drinking tea at twenty small tables, to the shouts of a desperate chorus of singers. The click of billiard balls came from somewhere. On the table before Svidrigailov stood an opened bottle of champagne and a glass half full of wine. Also in the room were a boy organ-grinder with a small hand organ, and a healthy, rosy-cheeked girl in a tucked-up striped skirt and a Tyrolean hat with ribbons, a singer about eighteen years old, who, despite the choral singing in the other room, was singing to the accompaniment of the organ-grinder in a rather hoarse contralto some lackey's song...
"Well, that's enough!" Svidrigailov interrupted her as Raskolnikov entered.
The girl immediately broke off and stopped in respectful expectation. She had sung her rhymed lackey nonsense also with some serious and respectful shade in her face.
"Hey, Philip, a glass!" shouted Svidrigailov.
"I won't drink wine," said Raskolnikov.
"As you wish, it's not for you. Drink, Katya! Nothing more needed today, you may go!" He poured her a full glass of wine and laid out a yellow banknote. Katya drank the glass at once, as women drink wine, that is, without pausing, in twenty gulps, took the note, kissed Svidrigailov's hand, which he quite seriously allowed her to kiss, and left the room, followed by the boy with the organ. Both had been brought in from the street. Svidrigailov had not been living in Petersburg even a week, and already everything around him was on some patriarchal footing. The tavern servant, Philip, was already an "acquaintance" and fawned upon him. The door to the hall locked; Svidrigailov in this room was as if at home and spent in it, perhaps, whole days. The tavern was dirty, wretched, and not even second-rate.
"I was going to you and looking for you," began Raskolnikov, "but why did I suddenly turn onto —sky Prospect from the Haymarket! I never turn here and never come. I turn from the Haymarket to the right. And this is not the way to you at all. I just turned, and there you are! It's strange!"
"Why don't you just say: it's a miracle!"
"Because it's perhaps only chance."
"But what a way all these people have!" laughed Svidrigailov. "They won't admit it, even if inwardly they believe in miracles! After all, you yourself say that it's 'perhaps' only chance. And what cowards they all are here about their own opinions, you cannot imagine, Rodion Romanych! I'm not speaking about you. You have your own opinion and were not afraid to have it. That's what attracted my curiosity."
"Nothing more?"
"Well, that's quite enough."
Svidrigailov was obviously in an excited state, but only the tiniest bit; he had drunk only half a glass of wine.
"I think you came to me before you learned that I was capable of having what you call my own opinion," remarked Raskolnikov.
"Well, it was different then. Everyone has their own steps. And about the miracle I'll tell you that you seem to have been sleeping these last two or three days. I myself designated this tavern to you and there was no miracle at all in your coming straight here; I explained the whole way myself, told you where it stood, and the hours at which you could find me here. Remember?"
"I forgot," answered Raskolnikov with surprise.
"I believe it. I told you twice. The address imprinted itself in your memory mechanically. You turned here mechanically, yet strictly according to the address, without knowing it yourself. Even when I was speaking to you then, I didn't hope you understood me. You give yourself away too much, Rodion Romanych. And here's another thing: I'm convinced that in Petersburg many people walk about talking to themselves. It's a city of half-mad people. If we had sciences, doctors, lawyers and philosophers could make the most valuable investigations in Petersburg, each in his specialty. Rarely will you find so many dark, harsh and strange influences on the soul of man as in Petersburg. The climatic influences alone are worth something! Meanwhile it's the administrative center of all Russia, and its character must be reflected in everything. But that's not the point now, but the fact that I've already observed you several times from the side. You leave the house—you still hold your head straight. After twenty paces you already lower it, fold your hands behind your back. You look and obviously see nothing either before you or to the sides anymore. Finally you begin to move your lips and talk to yourself, and sometimes you free one hand and declaim, and finally you stop in the middle of the road for a long time. This is very bad, sir. Perhaps someone besides me notices you, and that's disadvantageous. To me, in essence, it's all the same, and I won't cure you, but you, of course, understand me."
"Do you know that I'm being followed?" asked Raskolnikov, looking at him searchingly.
"No, I know nothing," answered Svidrigailov, as if with surprise.
"Well then, leave me in peace," muttered Raskolnikov, frowning.
"Very well, leave you in peace."
"Better tell me, if you come here to drink and you yourself designated twice that I should come to you here, then why did you just now, when I was looking in the window from the street, hide and want to leave? I noticed it very well."
"Heh-heh! And why did you, when I was standing at your doorway that time, lie on your sofa with closed eyes and pretend to be asleep, when you weren't asleep at all? I noticed it very well."
"I could have had... reasons... you know that yourself."
"And I could have had my own reasons, though you won't learn them."
Raskolnikov rested his right elbow on the table, propped his chin from below with the fingers of his right hand, and stared intently at Svidrigailov. He examined his face for a minute, which had always struck him before. It was a somehow strange face, like a mask as it were: white, ruddy, with ruddy, crimson lips, with a light blond beard and with still rather thick blond hair. The eyes were somehow too blue, and their gaze somehow too heavy and motionless. There was something terribly unpleasant in this handsome and extremely youthful face, judging by his years. Svidrigailov's clothes were dandyish, summery, light, he was particularly dandyish about his linen. On his finger was an enormous ring with an expensive stone.
"Must I really fuss with you as well now," said Raskolnikov suddenly, coming out with convulsive impatience straight into the open, "although you may perhaps be the most dangerous man if you want to do harm, but I don't want to torment myself anymore. I'll show you right now that I don't value myself as much as you probably think. Know that I came to tell you straight out that if you maintain your former intention regarding my sister and if for this you think to make use of anything that has been revealed recently, then I will kill you before you put me in prison. My word is true: you know that I can keep it. Secondly, if you want to tell me something—because all this time it has seemed to me that you seem to want to say something to me—then speak quickly, because time is precious and it may very soon be too late."
"Where are you in such a hurry?" asked Svidrigailov, examining him curiously.
"Everyone has their own steps," said Raskolnikov gloomily and impatiently.
"You yourself just called for frankness, and at the very first question you refuse to answer," remarked Svidrigailov with a smile. "You keep imagining that I have some purposes, and so you look at me suspiciously. Well, that's completely understandable in your position. But however much I might wish to get along with you, I still won't take upon myself the trouble of convincing you otherwise. By God, the game isn't worth the candle, and I didn't intend to speak with you about anything so special."
"Then why did you need me so much? After all, you were hanging around me?"
"Simply as a curious subject for observation. The fantastic quality of your position appealed to me—that's what! Besides, you're the brother of a person who interested me very much, and finally, from that very person in her time I heard terribly much and often about you, from which I concluded that you have great influence over her; isn't that enough? Heh-heh-heh! However, I confess, your question is very complex for me, and it's difficult for me to answer it. Well, for example, after all, you came to me now not only on business, but for something new? Isn't that so? Isn't that so?" insisted Svidrigailov with a roguish smile, "well, imagine then that I myself, while still traveling here in the railway car, was counting on you, that you too would tell me something new and that I would manage to borrow something from you! That's what rich men we are!"
"Borrow what?"
"How can I tell you? Do I know what? You see what kind of wretched tavern I spend all my time in, and it's a pleasure for me, that is, not exactly a pleasure, but one has to sit somewhere. Well, take this poor Katya—did you see her?... Well, if I were, for example, at least a glutton, a club gourmet, but here's what I can eat!" (He pointed his finger to the corner, where on a small table, on a tin saucer, stood the remains of a terrible beefsteak with potatoes.) "By the way, have you dined? I had a bite and don't want any more. Wine, for example, I don't drink at all. Except for champagne, none at all, and even of champagne only one glass the whole evening, and even that gives me a headache. I ordered this now to brace myself, because I'm going somewhere, and you see me in a particular frame of mind. That's why I hid earlier, like a schoolboy, because I thought you would hinder me; but it seems (he took out his watch) I can spend an hour with you; it's half past four now. Believe me, if only I were something; well, a landowner, well, a father, well, a uhlan, a photographer, a journalist... n-nothing, no specialty! Sometimes it's even boring. Really, I thought you'd tell me something new."
"But who are you and why have you come here?"
"Who am I? You know: a nobleman, served two years in the cavalry, then loafed about here in Petersburg, then married Marfa Petrovna and lived in the country. That's my biography!"
"You're a gambler, I think?"
"No, what kind of gambler am I. A card sharp—not a gambler."
"And you were a card sharp?"
"Yes, I was a card sharp."
"What, did they beat you?"
"It happened. So what?"
"Well, that means you could be challenged to a duel... and in general, it's enlivening."
"I won't contradict you, and besides I'm no master at philosophizing. I confess to you, I came here more quickly on account of women."
"Just after burying Marfa Petrovna?"
"Well yes," smiled Svidrigailov with conquering frankness. "So what? You seem to find something wrong in my talking about women this way?"
"That is, do I or don't I find debauchery wrong?"
"Debauchery! So that's where you're going! But anyway, I'll answer you in order first about women in general; you know, I'm inclined to chatter. Tell me, why should I restrain myself? Why should I give up women, if I'm at least fond of them? It's an occupation, at least."
"So you're only hoping for debauchery here?"
"Well, so what, well, for debauchery too! They're so obsessed with debauchery. But I at least like a direct question. In this debauchery, at least, there is something constant, based even on nature and not subject to fantasy, something that remains always as a glowing coal in the blood, forever igniting, which even for a long time, and with years, perhaps, you won't extinguish so quickly. Agree yourself, isn't it an occupation of sorts?"
"What's there to rejoice about? It's a disease, and dangerous."
"Ah, so that's where you're going! I agree that it's a disease, like everything that exceeds measure—and here one must necessarily exceed measure—but first of all, it's one way with one person, another way with another, and secondly, of course, one must keep measure in everything, calculation, even if base, but what's to be done? Without it, one might have to shoot oneself, perhaps. I agree that a decent man is obliged to be bored, but still..."
"And could you shoot yourself?"
"Well now!" parried Svidrigailov with disgust. "Do me a favor, don't speak of that," he added hastily and even without any fanfaronade that had been displayed in all his previous words. Even his face seemed to change. "I confess to an unforgivable weakness, but what can I do: I fear death and don't like it when they speak of it. Do you know that I'm something of a mystic?"
"Ah! Marfa Petrovna's ghosts! Well, do they continue to come?"
"Oh, damn them, don't mention them; there haven't been any in Petersburg yet; and to hell with them!" he cried with a somewhat irritated look. "No, we'd better talk about that... but however... Hm! Eh, there's little time, I can't stay with you long, what a pity! I'd have something to tell."
"What is it, a woman?"
"Yes, a woman, just some accidental case... no, I'm not talking about that."
"Well, and the squalor of all this environment no longer affects you? You've already lost the strength to stop?"
"And do you aspire to strength too? Heh-heh-heh! You did surprise me just now, Rodion Romanych, though I knew beforehand that it would be so. You talk to me about debauchery and aesthetics! You're Schiller, you're an idealist! All this, of course, is as it should be and one ought to be surprised if it were otherwise, but still it's somehow strange in reality... Ah, it's a pity there's little time, because you're a most curious subject yourself! And by the way, do you love Schiller? I'm terribly fond of him."
"But what a braggart you are, though!" said Raskolnikov with some disgust.
"Well, by God, I'm not!" answered Svidrigailov, laughing, "but anyway, I won't argue, let me be a braggart; but why not brag when it's harmless. I lived seven years in the country with Marfa Petrovna, and so, having fallen now upon an intelligent man like you—intelligent and in the highest degree curious—I'm simply glad to chatter, and besides I've drunk this half glass of wine and it's already gone to my head a little. And mainly, there exists a certain circumstance which has wound me up very much, but about which I... will be silent. Where are you going?" suddenly asked Svidrigailov with alarm.
Raskolnikov was beginning to get up. He felt heavy, and stifled, and somehow awkward that he had come here. He had convinced himself that Svidrigailov was the most empty and worthless villain in the world.
"Eh-eh! Sit down, stay," pleaded Svidrigailov, "at least have them bring you some tea. Well, sit down, well, I won't talk nonsense, about myself that is. I'll tell you something. Well, do you want me to tell you how a woman, in your parlance, 'saved' me? It will even be an answer to your first question, because that person is your sister. May I tell it? Yes, and it will kill time."
"Tell it, but I hope that you..."
"Oh, don't worry! Besides, Avdotya Romanovna, even in such a nasty and worthless man as I, can inspire only the deepest respect."