He drew a deep breath—yet, strangely, it was as if the dream were still going on: his door was wide open, and a man completely unknown to him was standing on the threshold, studying him intently.
Raskolnikov had not yet managed to open his eyes fully, and he instantly closed them again. He lay on his back without stirring. “Is the dream still going on, or not?” he thought, and again imperceptibly parted his eyelashes a little: the stranger was standing in the same place and was still peering at him. All at once he cautiously stepped across the threshold, closed the door carefully behind him, went over to the table, waited for about a minute—not taking his eyes off him all the while—and softly, noiselessly, sat down on the chair by the sofa; he placed his hat beside him on the floor, leaned with both hands on his cane, and rested his chin on his hands. One could see that he was prepared to wait a long time. As far as could be made out through blinking eyelashes, this was a man no longer young, thickset, and with a bushy, fair, almost white beard . . .
About ten minutes went by. It was still light, but evening was approaching. There was total silence in the room. No sound came even from the stairs. Only a big fly buzzed and struggled, striking with a swoop against the window. Finally it became unbearable: Raskolnikov raised himself all at once and sat up on the sofa.
“Speak, then. What do you want?”
“Ah, I just knew you were not asleep, but only pretending,” the unknown man answered strangely, with a quiet laugh. “Allow me to introduce myself: Arkady Ivanovich Svidrigailov . . .”
Part Four
I
“Can this be a continuation of my dream?” came once again to Raskolnikov's mind. Cautiously and mistrustfully he stared at his unexpected visitor.
“Svidrigailov? What nonsense! It can't be!” he finally said aloud, in perplexity.
The visitor seemed not in the least surprised at this exclamation.
“I have come here owing to two reasons: first, I wished to meet you personally, because I have long since heard much about you from a point that is curious and advantageous for you; and, second, I dream that you will perhaps not decline to help me in a certain undertaking directly concerned with the interests of your dear sister, Avdotya Romanovna. Owing to biased opinion, she will perhaps not allow me into the yard if I come on my own, without a recommendation; well, but with your help, on the other hand, I reckon . . .”
“Poor reckoning,” Raskolnikov interrupted.
“They arrived only yesterday, if I may ask?”
Raskolnikov did not reply.
“It was yesterday, I know. I myself arrived only two days ago. Well, here is what I shall tell you in that regard, Rodion Romanovich; I consider it unnecessary to justify myself, but even so, allow me to say: what is there in all this, in the thing itself, that is so especially criminal on my part—I mean, judging soberly, and without prejudice?”
Raskolnikov went on studying him silently.
“That I pursued a defenseless girl in my own house and 'insulted her with my vile proposals'—is that it, sir? (I'm running ahead of myself!) But you need only suppose that I, too, am a man, et nihil humanum [84] ...in short, that I, too, am capable of being tempted and of falling in love (which, of course, does not happen on command), and then everything is explained in the most natural way. The whole question here is: am I a monster, or a victim myself? Well, and what if I am a victim? For in offering to elope with my object to America or Switzerland, I may have been nurturing the most respectful feelings, and hoping, besides, to arrange for our mutual happiness! ... For reason is the slave of passion; good heavens, perhaps I was ruining myself even more! ... ”
“But that is not the point at all,” Raskolnikov interrupted with loathing. “You are quite simply disgusting, whether you are right or not, and so people don't want to have anything to do with you, they chase you away—so, go! . . .”
Svidrigailov suddenly burst out laughing.
“You, however...you simply will not be thrown off!” he said, laughing in the most genuine manner. “I tried to dodge round you, but no, you went straight to the most real point!”
“But you're continuing to dodge even now.”
“What of it? What of it?” Svidrigailov repeated, laughing openheartedly. “It's bonne guerre, [85] as they call it, and the most admissible dodging! ... Anyway, you interrupted me; one way or the other, I affirm again: there would have been no trouble, if it hadn't been for that incident in the garden. Marfa Petrovna . . .”
“And they say you also took care of Marfa Petrovna?” Raskolnikov interrupted rudely.
“So you've heard about that, too? But then, how could you not. . . Well, concerning the question you've raised, I really don't know what to say, though my own conscience is entirely at rest in that regard. I mean, do not think that I feared anything of the sort: it was all performed in perfect order and with complete precision; the medical experts diagnosed apoplexy, the result of bathing after a heavy meal and almost a full bottle of wine, and they could not have discovered anything else...No, sir, I was thinking about that myself for some time, especially on my way here, sitting in the train: didn't I contribute to this whole...misfortune, somehow morally, through irritation or something like that? But I concluded that this, too, was positively impossible.”
Raskolnikov laughed.
“Not that you should worry!”
“And what is there to laugh at? Just think: I struck her only twice with a riding crop; there weren't even any marks...Please do not regard me as a cynic; I do know exactly how vile it was on my part, and so on; but I also know perfectly well that Marfa Petrovna may even have been glad of my, shall we say, enthusiasm. The story concerning your dear sister had been wrung out to the last drop. It was already the third day that Marfa Petrovna had been obliged to stay at home; she had nothing to take her to town, and besides they were all sick of her there, what with that letter of hers (you did hear about the reading of the letter?). And suddenly those two strokes fell as if from heaven! She ordered the carriage to be readied first thing! ... I won't even mention the fact that there are occasions when women find it extremely agreeable to be insulted, for all their apparent indignation. Everyone has known them, these occasions; man in general finds it extremely pleasant to be insulted—have you noticed? But it's especially so with women. One might even say it's their only provender.”
84
A misquotation of a famous line from the Roman playwright Terence (190-159 B.C.):