“Stop! Enough of your vile, nasty anecdotes, depraved vile, sensual man!”
“Schiller, you are a regular Schiller! /O la vertu va-t-elle se nicher?/ But you know I shall tell you these things on purpose, for the pleasure of hearing your outcries!”
“I dare say. I can see I am ridiculous myself,” muttered Raskolnikov angrily.
Svidrigailov laughed heartily; finally he called Philip, paid his bill, and began getting up.
“I say, but I am drunk, /assez cause/,” he said. “It’s been a pleasure.”
“I should rather think it must be a pleasure!” cried Raskolnikov, getting up. “No doubt it is a pleasure for a worn-out profligate to describe such adventures with a monstrous project of the same sort in his mind–especially under such circumstances and to such a man as me. . . . It’s stimulating!”
“Well, if you come to that,” Svidrigailov answered, scrutinising Raskolnikov with some surprise, “if you come to that, you are a thorough cynic yourself. You’ve plenty to make you so, anyway. You can understand a great deal . . . and you can do a great deal too. But enough. I sincerely regret not having had more talk with you, but I shan’t lose sight of you. . . . Only wait a bit.”
Svidrigailov walked out of the restaurant. Raskolnikov walked out after him. Svidrigailov was not however very drunk, the wine had affected him for a moment, but it was passing off every minute. He was preoccupied with something of importance and was frowning. He was apparently excited and uneasy in anticipation of something. His manner to Raskolnikov had changed during the last few minutes, and he was ruder and more sneering every moment. Raskolnikov noticed all this, and he too was uneasy. He became very suspicious of Svidrigailov and resolved to follow him.
They came out on to the pavement.
“You go to the right, and I to the left, or if you like, the other way. Only /adieu, mon plaisir/, may we meet again.”
And he walked to the right towards the Hay Market.
CHAPTER V
Raskolnikov walked after him.
“What’s this?” cried Svidrigailov turning round, “I thought I said . . .”
“It means that I am not going to lose sight of you now.”
“What?”
Both stood still and gazed at one another, as though measuring their strength.
“From all your half tipsy stories,” Raskolnikov observed harshly, “I am /positive/ that you have not given up your designs on my sister, but are pursuing them more actively than ever. I have learnt that my sister received a letter this morning. You have hardly been able to sit still all this time. . . . You may have unearthed a wife on the way, but that means nothing. I should like to make certain myself.”
Raskolnikov could hardly have said himself what he wanted and of what he wished to make certain.
“Upon my word! I’ll call the police!”
“Call away!”
Again they stood for a minute facing each other. At last Svidrigailov’s face changed. Having satisfied himself that Raskolnikov was not frightened at his threat, he assumed a mirthful and friendly air.
“What a fellow! I purposely refrained from referring to your affair, though I am devoured by curiosity. It’s a fantastic affair. I’ve put it off till another time, but you’re enough to rouse the dead. . . . Well, let us go, only I warn you beforehand I am only going home for a moment, to get some money; then I shall lock up the flat, take a cab and go to spend the evening at the Islands. Now, now are you going to follow me?”
“I’m coming to your lodgings, not to see you but Sofya Semyonovna, to say I’m sorry not to have been at the funeral.”
“That’s as you like, but Sofya Semyonovna is not at home. She has taken the three children to an old lady of high rank, the patroness of some orphan asylums, whom I used to know years ago. I charmed the old lady by depositing a sum of money with her to provide for the three children of Katerina Ivanovna and subscribing to the institution as well. I told her too the story of Sofya Semyonovna in full detail, suppressing nothing. It produced an indescribable effect on her. That’s why Sofya Semyonovna has been invited to call to-day at the X. Hotel where the lady is staying for the time.”
“No matter, I’ll come all the same.”
“As you like, it’s nothing to me, but I won’t come with you; here we are at home. By the way, I am convinced that you regard me with suspicion just because I have shown such delicacy and have not so far troubled you with questions . . . you understand? It struck you as extraordinary; I don’t mind betting it’s that. Well, it teaches one to show delicacy!”
“And to listen at doors!”
“Ah, that’s it, is it?” laughed Svidrigailov. “Yes, I should have been surprised if you had let that pass after all that has happened. Ha-ha! Though I did understand something of the pranks you had been up to and were telling Sofya Semyonovna about, what was the meaning of it? Perhaps I am quite behind the times and can’t understand. For goodness’ sake, explain it, my dear boy. Expound the latest theories!”
“You couldn’t have heard anything. You’re making it all up!”
“But I’m not talking about that (though I did hear something). No, I’m talking of the way you keep sighing and groaning now. The Schiller in you is in revolt every moment, and now you tell me not to listen at doors. If that’s how you feel, go and inform the police that you had this mischance: you made a little mistake in your theory. But if you are convinced that one mustn’t listen at doors, but one may murder old women at one’s pleasure, you’d better be off to America and make haste. Run, young man! There may still be time. I’m speaking sincerely. Haven’t you the money? I’ll give you the fare.”
“I’m not thinking of that at all,” Raskolnikov interrupted with disgust.
“I understand (but don’t put yourself out, don’t discuss it if you don’t want to). I understand the questions you are worrying over– moral ones, aren’t they? Duties of citizen and man? Lay them all aside. They are nothing to you now, ha-ha! You’ll say you are still a man and a citizen. If so you ought not to have got into this coil. It’s no use taking up a job you are not fit for. Well, you’d better shoot yourself, or don’t you want to?”
“You seem trying to enrage me, to make me leave you.”
“What a queer fellow! But here we are. Welcome to the staircase. You see, that’s the way to Sofya Semyonovna. Look, there is no one at home. Don’t you believe me? Ask Kapernaumov. She leaves the key with him. Here is Madame de Kapernaumov herself. Hey, what? She is rather deaf. Has she gone out? Where? Did you hear? She is not in and won’t be till late in the evening probably. Well, come to my room; you wanted to come and see me, didn’t you? Here we are. Madame Resslich’s not at home. She is a woman who is always busy, an excellent woman I assure you. . . . She might have been of use to you if you had been a little more sensible. Now, see! I take this five-per-cent bond out of the bureau–see what a lot I’ve got of them still–this one will be turned into cash to-day. I mustn’t waste any more time. The bureau is locked, the flat is locked, and here we are again on the stairs. Shall we take a cab? I’m going to the Islands. Would you like a lift? I’ll take this carriage. Ah, you refuse? You are tired of it! Come for a drive! I believe it will come on to rain. Never mind, we’ll put down the hood. . . .”
Svidrigailov was already in the carriage. Raskolnikov decided that his suspicions were at least for that moment unjust. Without answering a word he turned and walked back towards the Hay Market. If he had only turned round on his way he might have seen Svidrigailov get out not a hundred paces off, dismiss the cab and walk along the pavement. But he had turned the corner and could see nothing. Intense disgust drew him away from Svidrigailov.
“To think that I could for one instant have looked for help from that coarse brute, that depraved sensualist and blackguard!” he cried.
Raskolnikov’s judgment was uttered too lightly and hastily: there was something about Svidrigailov which gave him a certain original, even a mysterious character. As concerned his sister, Raskolnikov was convinced that Svidrigailov would not leave her in peace. But it was too tiresome and unbearable to go on thinking and thinking about this.