“In short, it's this monstrous difference in age and development that arouses your sensuality! Can you really get married like that?”
“And why not? Of course. Every man looks out for himself, and he has the happiest life who manages to hoodwink himself best of all. Ha, ha! But who are you to go running full tilt into virtue? Spare me, my dear, I'm a sinful man. Heh, heh, heh!”
“Nevertheless, you provided for Katerina Ivanovna's children. However...however, you had your own reasons for that...I understand it all now.”
“I like children generally; like them very much,” Svidrigailov guffawed. “In this connection I can even tell you about a most curious episode, which is still going on. On the very day of my arrival, I went to look at all these various cesspools—well, after seven years I really leaped at them! You've probably noticed that I've been in no rush to get together with my bunch, I mean my former friends and acquaintances. And I'll do without them for as long as possible. You know, on Marfa Petrovna's estate I was tormented to death by the memory of all these mysterious places, these little corners where, if you know, you can find quite a lot. Devil take it! The people are drinking, the educated youth are burning themselves up in idleness, in unrealizable dreams and fancies, crippling themselves with theories; Yids come flocking from somewhere, hiding the money away, and the rest of it falls into depravity. This city breathed its familiar breath on me from the first hours. I wound up at a so-called dance hall—a terrible cesspool (but I like my cesspools precisely with a bit of filth)—well, there was a cancan, the like of which is not and never was in my time. Yes, sir, there's progress there. Suddenly I see a girl of about thirteen, in a lovely dress, dancing with a virtuoso, and with another one vis-à-vis.And her mother is sitting on a chair by the wall. Well, you can imagine what the cancan is! The girl gets embarrassed, blushes, finally feels offended and begins to cry. The virtuoso picks her up and begins twirling her around and performing in front of her; everyone is roaring with laughter and—I love our public, even a cancan public, at such moments—they laugh and shout: 'That's the way, serves them right! Shouldn't bring children here!' Well, I spit on it, it's none of my business whether they console themselves logically or not! I immediately picked out my place, sat down next to the mother, and started telling her that I, too, was a visitor, and, oh, what boors they all were here, that they couldn't recognize true virtue or feel any rightly deserved respect; made it known to her that I had a lot of money; offered to take them home in my carriage; brought them home, became acquainted (they'd just arrived, were subletting some closet from tenants). It was announced to me that she and her daughter could not regard my acquaintance as anything but an honor; I discovered that they had neither stick nor stone, and had come to petition for something in some office; I offered help, money; I discovered that they had gone to the dance hall by mistake, thinking it was a place where they actually taught dancing; I, for my part, offered to contribute to the young lady's education—French language and dancing lessons. They accepted with delight, considered it an honor, and I've kept up the acquaintance...If you like, we can go there—only not now.”
“Stop, stop your mean, vile anecdotes, you depraved, mean, sensual man!”
“Look at our Schiller, what a Schiller, just look at him! Vù va-t-elle la vertu se nicher? [142] And you know, I'll go on telling you such things on purpose, just to hear your little outcries. Delightful!”
“Isn't it! And do you think I don't seem ludicrous to myself right now?” Raskolnikov muttered spitefully.
Svidrigailov was roaring with laughter; finally he called for Filipp, paid, and began getting up. “Oh, am I drunk! Assez causé!” [143] he said. “Delightful!”
“What else but delightful,” Raskolnikov exclaimed, also getting up. “Of course it's delightful for a played-out profligate to tell about such adventures—with some monstrous intention of the same sort in mind—and under such circumstances besides, and to such a man as me...Quite arousing.”
“Well, in that case,” Svidrigailov replied, even with some surprise, scrutinizing Raskolnikov, “in that case, you're rather a cynic yourself. Anyway, you've got enormous material in you. You can understand a lot, quite a lot. . . well, and you can also do a lot. Well, but enough. I sincerely regret having talked so little with you, but you won't get away from me...Just wait . . .”
Svidrigailov left the tavern. Raskolnikov walked out after him. Svidrigailov was not very drunk, however; it had gone to his head only momentarily, and the drunkenness was passing off every minute. He was very preoccupied with something, something very important, and was frowning. Some prospect obviously worried and troubled him. In the past few minutes he had also somehow suddenly changed towards Raskolnikov, had become more rude and mocking. Raskolnikov noticed all this and was also alarmed. Svidrigailov became very suspicious to him; he decided to follow him.
They went down to the sidewalk.
“You go right, and I'll go left, or perhaps vice versa, only— adieu, mon plaisir, [144] see you—gladly—soon!”
142
"Where is virtue going to build her nest?" (French). The playwright Molière (1622-73) is said to have asked this of a beggar who thought he had made a mistake in giving him a gold piece.