From: Crime and Punishment
IV
"You know, perhaps (though I've already told you this myself)," began Svidrigailov, "that I sat here in debtors' prison, for an enormous debt, and without the slightest means in sight for payment. There's no need to go into detail about how Marfa Petrovna bought me out then; do you know to what degree of intoxication a woman can sometimes fall in love? She was an honest woman, quite intelligent (though completely uneducated). Just imagine, this very same jealous and honest woman decided to condescend, after many terrible fits and reproaches, to a certain kind of contract with me, which she fulfilled throughout our entire marriage. The fact is that she was considerably older than me, and besides, she constantly kept some kind of clove in her mouth. I had enough swinishness in my soul and a certain kind of honesty to declare to her directly that I could not be completely faithful to her. This confession drove her into a frenzy, but it seems my crude frankness pleased her in a certain way: 'It means,' she said, 'he doesn't want to deceive me, since he declares it beforehand,' well, and for a jealous woman that's the main thing. After many tears, a certain kind of verbal contract was concluded between us: first, I would never leave Marfa Petrovna and would always remain her husband; second, I would not go anywhere without her permission; third, I would never keep a permanent mistress; fourth, in return for this Marfa Petrovna permitted me to cast my eye occasionally on the servant girls, but not otherwise than with her secret knowledge; fifth, God preserve me from falling in love with a woman of our class; sixth, in case, God forbid, some great and serious passion should visit me, I was obliged to reveal it to Marfa Petrovna. Regarding this last point, Marfa Petrovna was, however, quite calm throughout; she was an intelligent woman, and consequently could not look at me otherwise than as a debauchee and libertine, incapable of serious love. But an intelligent woman and a jealous woman are two different things, and that's where the trouble lay. However, to judge some people impartially, one must beforehand abandon certain preconceived views and the habitual attitude toward the people and things ordinarily surrounding us. I have more right to hope for your judgment than anyone's. Perhaps you've already heard much that is ridiculous and absurd about Marfa Petrovna. Indeed, she had some very ridiculous habits; but I'll tell you directly that I sincerely regret the countless sorrows of which I was the cause. Well, that's enough, I think, for a quite decent oraison funèbre from the tenderest husband to his tenderest wife. During our quarrels I mostly remained silent and didn't get irritated, and this gentlemanly behavior almost always achieved its purpose; it influenced her, and she even liked it; there were times when she was even proud of me. But she still couldn't bear your sister. And how on earth did it happen that she risked taking such a beauty into her house as a governess! I explain it by the fact that Marfa Petrovna was an ardent and susceptible woman and that, quite simply, she herself fell in love—literally fell in love—with your little sister. Well, and what about Avdotya Romanovna! I understood very well from the first glance that this was a bad business, and—what do you think?—I resolved not to raise my eyes to her. But Avdotya Romanovna took the first step herself—do you believe it or not? Do you also believe that Marfa Petrovna went so far that at first she was even angry with me for my constant silence about your sister, for my indifference to her incessant and loving remarks about Avdotya Romanovna? I myself don't understand what she wanted! Well, of course, Marfa Petrovna told Avdotya Romanovna everything about me down to the last detail. She had the unfortunate trait of telling absolutely everyone all our family secrets and constantly complaining about me to everyone; how could she pass up such a new and wonderful friend? I suppose they had no other conversation but about me, and undoubtedly Avdotya Romanovna became aware of all those dark, mysterious tales attributed to me... I'll bet you've already heard something of that sort too?"
"I have. Luzhin accused you of even being the cause of a child's death. Is that true?"
"Do me a favor, leave all that vulgar nonsense alone," Svidrigailov waved off with disgust and irritation. "If you absolutely insist on knowing about all that absurdity, I'll tell you about it separately sometime, but now..."
"They also spoke of some servant of yours in the country and that you were supposedly the cause of something."
"Do me a favor, enough!" Svidrigailov interrupted again with obvious impatience.
"Wasn't that the servant who came to fill your pipe after his death... you told me about it yourself?" Raskolnikov grew more and more irritated.
Svidrigailov looked attentively at Raskolnikov, and it seemed to him that a malicious smirk flashed momentarily in that look, like lightning, but Svidrigailov restrained himself and answered very politely:
"That's the very one. I see that all this interests you exceedingly too, and I shall consider it my duty, at the first convenient opportunity, to satisfy your curiosity on all points. Damn it! I see that I really can appear to some as a romantic figure. Judge then how much I'm obliged to thank the late Marfa Petrovna for having told your sister so much mysterious and curious information about me. I dare not judge what impression it made; but in any case, it was advantageous for me. Despite all Avdotya Romanovna's natural revulsion toward me, and in spite of my constantly gloomy and repulsive appearance—she finally began to pity me, to pity a lost man. And when a girl's heart begins to pity, that's of course most dangerous for her. She'll inevitably want to 'save,' and bring to reason, and resurrect, and summon to more noble aims, and regenerate to a new life and activity—well, it's well known what one can dream up in that vein. I immediately guessed that the bird was flying into the net of its own accord, and in my turn I prepared myself. You seem to be frowning, Rodion Romanovich. It's nothing, sir, the matter came to nothing, as you know. (Damn it, how much wine I'm drinking!) You know, from the very beginning I always regretted that fate didn't allow your sister to be born in the second or third century of our era, somewhere as the daughter of a ruling prince or some governor or proconsul in Asia Minor. She would undoubtedly have been one of those who suffered martyrdom, and would certainly have smiled when they burned her breast with red-hot pincers. She would have gone to it deliberately herself, and in the fourth and fifth centuries she would have gone into the Egyptian desert and lived there thirty years, feeding on roots, ecstasies and visions. She herself thirsts for that alone, and demands that she quickly accept some torment for someone, and if you don't give her this torment, she might just jump out the window. I heard something about some Mr. Razumikhin. He's a sensible fellow, they say (which his surname shows, he must be a seminarian), well, let him look after your sister then. In short, I think I understand her, and I consider that an honor. But then, that is, at the beginning of our acquaintance, you know yourself, one is always somehow more frivolous and stupider, one looks mistakenly, sees the wrong thing. Damn it, why is she so beautiful? It's not my fault! In short, it began for me with the most irresistible voluptuous impulse. Avdotya Romanovna is terribly, unheard-of and unprecedented chaste. (Note this, I'm telling you this about your sister as a fact. She is chaste, perhaps to the point of illness, despite all her broad mind, and it will harm her.) A girl happened to come to us then, Parasha, a dark-eyed Parasha, who had just been brought from another village, a servant girl, whom I had never seen before—very pretty, but stupid beyond belief: burst into tears, raised a howl all over the yard, and a scandal resulted. Once, after dinner, Avdotya Romanovna deliberately sought me out alone in the garden alley and with flashing eyes demanded that I leave poor Parasha alone. This was almost our first conversation alone together. I, naturally, considered it an honor to satisfy her wish, tried to appear stricken, embarrassed, well, in short, played my role rather well. Relations began, mysterious conversations, sermons, teachings, entreaties, supplications, even tears—believe it or not, even tears! That's how strong the passion for propaganda reaches in some girls! I, of course, blamed everything on my fate, pretended to be hungering and thirsting for light, and finally employed the greatest and most unshakeable means of conquering the female heart, a means which never deceives anyone and which works decidedly on everyone without exception. This means is well known—flattery. Nothing in the world is harder than candor, and nothing is easier than flattery. If there's even a hundredth of a false note in candor, it immediately produces dissonance, and then—scandal. But if everything to the last note is false in flattery, even then it's pleasant and is heard not without pleasure; albeit with crude pleasure, but still with pleasure. And however crude the flattery may be, at least half of it invariably seems true. And this applies to all levels of development and layers of society. Even a vestal virgin can be seduced with flattery. And as for ordinary people, there's nothing to say. I can't recall without laughter how I once seduced a lady devoted to her husband, her children and her virtues. How merry it was and how little work it required! And the lady really was virtuous, at least in her own way. My whole tactic consisted of simply being crushed every minute and falling prostrate before her chastity. I flattered shamelessly, and as soon as I obtained a handshake, even a glance, I would reproach myself that I had wrested it from her by force, that she had resisted, that she had resisted so much that I would certainly never have obtained anything if I hadn't been so depraved; that she, in her innocence, had not foreseen the treachery and yielded unintentionally, without knowing it herself, unwittingly, and so on and so forth. In short, I achieved everything, while my lady remained in the highest degree convinced that she was innocent and chaste and fulfilled all her duties and obligations, and had perished quite accidentally. And how angry she was with me when I finally declared to her that, in my sincere conviction, she had sought pleasure just as much as I had. Poor Marfa Petrovna also yielded terribly to flattery, and if only I had wanted to, I could certainly have transferred all her estate to myself during her lifetime. (However, I'm drinking terribly much wine and talking too much.) I hope you won't be angry if I mention now that the same effect began to come about with Avdotya Romanovna too. But I was stupid and impatient myself and ruined the whole affair. Several times before (and one time especially) Avdotya Romanovna was terribly displeased with the expression of my eyes—do you believe that? In short, a certain fire increasingly and incautiously flashed in them, which frightened her and finally became hateful to her. There's no need to go into details, but we parted. Then I acted stupidly again. I began to mock in the crudest way all these propagandas and conversions; Parasha came onto the scene again, and not she alone—in short, a Sodom began. Oh, if you had seen even once in your life, Rodion Romanovich, the eyes of your little sister as they sometimes know how to flash! It doesn't matter that I'm drunk now and have already drunk a whole glass of wine, I'm telling the truth; I assure you that this look appeared in my dreams; I finally couldn't bear even the rustle of her dress. Really, I thought I would have an epileptic fit; I never imagined I could reach such a frenzy. In short, it was essential to reconcile; but that was already impossible. And imagine what I did then! To what degree of stupefaction fury can bring a man! Never undertake anything in fury, Rodion Romanovich. Calculating that Avdotya Romanovna was, essentially, a pauper (ah, excuse me, I didn't mean that... but isn't it all the same if the same concept is expressed?), in short, lives by the work of her hands, that she has her mother and you to support (ah, damn it, you're frowning again...), I decided to offer her all my money (up to thirty thousand I could have realized even then) on condition that she run away with me at least here, to Petersburg. Of course, I would have sworn eternal love, bliss and so on and so forth there. Believe it or not, I was so infatuated then that if she had told me: murder or poison Marfa Petrovna and marry me—it would have been done immediately! But it all ended with the catastrophe already known to you, and you can judge yourself what fury I must have reached when I learned that Marfa Petrovna had procured that most vile attorney, Luzhin, and had almost arranged a wedding—which, essentially, would have been the same as what I had proposed. Right? Right? Isn't that so? I notice you've begun to listen very attentively... an interesting young man..."
Svidrigailov struck the table impatiently with his fist. He had flushed. Raskolnikov saw clearly that the glass or glass and a half of champagne he had drunk, sipping imperceptibly in little gulps, had affected him unhealthily—and he decided to take advantage of the opportunity. Svidrigailov was very suspicious to him.
"Well, after this I'm fully convinced that you came here too with my sister in mind," he said to Svidrigailov directly and without hiding it, to provoke him even more.
"Oh, come now," Svidrigailov seemed to suddenly catch himself, "I told you... and besides, your sister can't stand me."
"Yes, I'm convinced of that too, that she can't, but that's not the point now."
"Are you convinced she can't? (Svidrigailov squinted and smiled mockingly.) You're right, she doesn't love me; but never vouch for matters that have passed between husband and wife or lover and mistress. There's always one corner that remains unknown to the whole world and is known only to the two of them. Will you vouch that Avdotya Romanovna looked at me with revulsion?"
"From certain words and expressions of yours during your story, I notice that you have your designs even now, and the most urgent intentions toward Dunya, base ones of course."
"What! Such words and expressions escaped me?" Svidrigailov was suddenly quite naively frightened, paying not the slightest attention to the epithet attached to his intentions.
"Yes, they're escaping even now. Well, what are you so afraid of, for example? Why did you suddenly become frightened now?"
"I'm afraid and frightened? Frightened of you? You should rather be afraid of me, cher ami. And what nonsense, however... But I've gotten drunk, I see that; I almost said too much again. To hell with wine! Hey, water!"
He grabbed the bottle and unceremoniously threw it out the window. Filipp brought water.
"That's all nonsense," said Svidrigailov, wetting a towel and applying it to his head, "and I can silence you with one word and destroy all your suspicions to dust. Do you know, for example, that I'm getting married?"
"You told me that before too."
"I did? I forgot. But then I couldn't speak definitively, because I hadn't even seen my bride yet; I was only intending to. Well, but now I already have a bride, and the matter is done, and if it weren't for some urgent business, I would certainly take you there right now—because I want to ask your advice. Oh, damn it! Only ten minutes left. Look, see the watch; but still, I'll tell you about it, because it's an interesting thing, this marriage of mine, that is, in its own way—where are you going? Leaving again?"
"No, I won't leave now."
"Won't leave at all? We'll see! I'll take you there, it's true, I'll show you my bride, but not now, now you'll soon have to go. You go right, I go left. Do you know this Resslich? This very Resslich I'm living with now—eh? Are you listening? No, what do you think, she's the very one they talk about, about that girl, in the water, in winter—well, are you listening? Are you listening? Well, so she cooked all this up for me; you're so bored, she says, find some distraction. But I'm a gloomy person, boring. You think I'm cheerful? No, gloomy: I do no harm, but I sit in a corner; sometimes they won't talk to me for three days. And this Resslich is a scoundrel, I tell you, this is what she has in mind: I'll get bored, leave my wife and go away, and the wife will come to her, and she'll put her into circulation; in our circle, that is, and higher. There's, she says, one such invalid father, a retired clerk, sits in an armchair and hasn't moved his legs for three years. There's, she says, also a mother, a sensible lady, this mama. The son serves somewhere in a province, doesn't help. A daughter married and doesn't visit, and they have two small nephews on their hands (their own aren't enough), and they took their last daughter, not having finished her course, from the gymnasium, in a month she'll just turn sixteen, meaning in a month she can be married off. To me. We went; how funny it was at their place; I introduce myself: landowner, widower, of a well-known family, with such-and-such connections, with capital—well, what does it matter that I'm fifty and she's not yet sixteen? Who looks at that? But it's tempting, isn't it? It's tempting, ha-ha! You should have seen how I conversed with papa and mama! It would be worth paying just to look at me at that time. She comes out, curtsies, well, you can imagine, still in a short little dress, an unopened bud, blushes, flushes like dawn (they'd told her, of course). I don't know how you feel about female faces, but in my opinion, these sixteen years, these still childish eyes, this timidity and little tears of modesty—in my opinion, this is better than beauty, and she's also a picture in herself. Little fair hair fluffed up in small curls like a lamb, plump little lips, scarlet, little feet—a delight!... Well, we got acquainted, I announced that I was in a hurry due to domestic circumstances, and the very next day, that is the day before yesterday, we were blessed. Since then, whenever I come, I immediately take her on my lap and don't let her down... Well, she flushes like dawn, and I kiss her every minute; mama, of course, impresses upon her that this, they say, is your husband and this is how it should be, in short, bliss! And this present state, the fiancé's state, really may be better than the husband's. This is what's called la nature et la vérité! Ha-ha! I've talked with her a couple of times—the girl's far from stupid; sometimes she'll glance at me furtively—just burns right through me. And you know, she has a face like Raphael's Madonna. After all, the Sistine Madonna has a fantastic face, the face of a sorrowful holy fool, hasn't that struck you? Well, something like that. The day after we were blessed, I brought presents worth a thousand and a half the next day: one diamond set, another of pearls, and a silver lady's dressing case—this big, with all sorts of things, so even her face, the little madonna's, flushed. I sat her on my lap yesterday, and probably too unceremoniously—she flushed all over and little tears spurted out, but she doesn't want to show it, she's all burning herself. Everyone left for a minute, we're left completely alone, suddenly she throws herself on my neck (for the first time herself), embraces me with both little hands, kisses me and vows that she'll be an obedient, faithful and good wife to me, that she'll make me happy, that she'll devote her whole life, every minute of her life, sacrifice everything, everything, and for all this she only wishes to have my respect alone and otherwise, she says, 'I need nothing, nothing, no presents!' You'll agree yourself that to hear such a confession in private from such a sixteen-year-old little angel, in a tulle dress, with curls fluffed up, with the blush of maidenly shame and with little tears of enthusiasm in her eyes—you'll agree yourself, it's quite tempting. Isn't it tempting? Isn't it worth something, eh? Well, isn't it worth it? Well... well, listen... well, let's go to my bride... only not right now!"
"In short, this monstrous difference in years and development excites voluptuousness in you! And are you really going to marry like this?"
"Why not? Absolutely. Everyone looks after himself, and he lives most merrily who best knows how to deceive himself. Ha-ha! But why have you plunged so completely into virtue? Spare me, father, I'm a sinful man. Heh-heh-heh!"
"You've settled Katerina Ivanovna's children, however. However... however, you had your own reasons for that... I understand everything now."
"I love children in general, I love children very much," Svidrigailov laughed. "On that account I can even tell you one extremely curious episode that's still continuing. On the very first day after my arrival I went around these various cesspools, well, after seven years I just threw myself into it. You've probably noticed that I'm in no hurry to get together with my old company, with former friends and acquaintances. Well, I'll do without them as long as possible. You know: at Marfa Petrovna's in the country, memories of all these mysterious places and little places tortured me to death, where, if one knows, one can find much. Damn it! The people drink, the educated youth burns out from inactivity in unattainable dreams and reveries, becomes deformed in theories; Jews have come from somewhere, hiding money, and everything else debauches. The city breathed on me from the first hours with a familiar smell. I ended up at one so-called dancing evening—a terrible cesspool (and I love cesspools precisely with filth), well, naturally, the cancan, the likes of which don't exist and didn't exist in my time. Yes, sir, there's progress in this. Suddenly I look, a girl, about thirteen years old, nicely dressed, dancing with one virtuoso; another vis-à-vis before her. And her mother sits on a chair by the wall. Well, you can imagine what kind of cancan! The girl is embarrassed, blushing, finally takes offense and begins to cry. The virtuoso grabs her and begins to spin her and perform before her, everyone around laughs—I love our public at such moments, even if it's a cancan public—they laugh and shout: 'Serves her right, that's what they get! Don't bring children!' Well, I don't care, and it's no business of mine whether they're consoling themselves logically or not! I immediately noted my place, sat down next to the mother and began talking about how I too am a visitor, and what ignoramuses everyone here is, that they don't know how to distinguish true merits and show due respect; let it be known that I have a lot of money; invited them to bring them home in my carriage; brought them home, made their acquaintance (they're staying in some closet as lodgers, just arrived). They announced to me that both she and her daughter can accept my acquaintance only as an honor; I learn that they have neither stake nor yard, and they came to petition about something in some government office; I offer my services, money; I learn that they went to the evening by mistake, thinking that they really taught dancing there; I offer to assist in my way with the education of the young lady, French language and dancing. They accept with delight, consider it an honor, and I'm still acquainted with them... If you like, let's go—only not right now."
"Stop, stop your vile, base anecdotes, depraved, base, voluptuous man!"
"Schiller, Schiller, our Schiller! Où va-t-elle la vertu se nicher? And you know, I'll deliberately tell you such things to hear your outcries. A pleasure!"
"Of course, aren't I ridiculous to myself at this moment?" Raskolnikov muttered angrily.
Svidrigailov laughed heartily; finally he called Filipp, paid and began to get up.
"Well, I'm drunk, assez causé!" he said, "a pleasure!"
"Of course you'd feel pleasure," exclaimed Raskolnikov, also getting up, "how could a worn-out debauchee not feel pleasure telling about such escapades—having in mind some monstrous intention of the same kind—and especially in such circumstances and to such a person as me... It inflames."
"Well, if that's the case," answered Svidrigailov even with some surprise, examining Raskolnikov, "if that's the case, then you're quite a cynic yourself. At least you contain enormous material. You can be conscious of much, much... well, and you can do much too. But enough, however. I sincerely regret that I talked so little with you, but you won't get away from me... Just wait..."
Svidrigailov left the tavern. Raskolnikov followed him. Svidrigailov was not, however, very drunk; the wine had only hit his head for a moment, but the intoxication was passing with every minute. He was very preoccupied with something, something extremely important, and was frowning. Some expectation was visibly agitating and troubling him. In the last few minutes he had somehow suddenly changed with Raskolnikov and was becoming ruder and more mocking with every minute. Raskolnikov noticed all this and was also anxious. Svidrigailov had become very suspicious to him; he decided to follow him.
They stepped onto the sidewalk.
"You go right, and I'll go left, or if you like, vice versa, only—adieu, mon plaisir, till our joyful meeting!"
And he went to the right toward the Haymarket.