Crime and Punishment
“This is an outrage,” cried Dounia, turning pale as death. She rushed
to the furthest corner, where she made haste to barricade herself with a
little table.
She did not scream, but she fixed her eyes on her tormentor and watched
every movement he made.
Svidrigaïlov remained standing at the other end of the room facing her.
He was positively composed, at least in appearance, but his face was
pale as before. The mocking smile did not leave his face.
“You spoke of outrage just now, Avdotya Romanovna. In that case you
may be sure I’ve taken measures. Sofya Semyonovna is not at home. The
Kapernaumovs are far away--there are five locked rooms between. I am at
least twice as strong as you are and I have nothing to fear, besides.
For you could not complain afterwards. You surely would not be willing
actually to betray your brother? Besides, no one would believe you. How
should a girl have come alone to visit a solitary man in his lodgings?
So that even if you do sacrifice your brother, you could prove nothing.
It is very difficult to prove an assault, Avdotya Romanovna.”
“Scoundrel!” whispered Dounia indignantly.
“As you like, but observe I was only speaking by way of a general
proposition. It’s my personal conviction that you are perfectly
right--violence is hateful. I only spoke to show you that you need have
no remorse even if... you were willing to save your brother of your
own accord, as I suggest to you. You would be simply submitting to
circumstances, to violence, in fact, if we must use that word. Think
about it. Your brother’s and your mother’s fate are in your hands. I
will be your slave... all my life... I will wait here.”
Svidrigaïlov sat down on the sofa about eight steps from Dounia. She had
not the slightest doubt now of his unbending determination. Besides, she
knew him. Suddenly she pulled out of her pocket a revolver, cocked it
and laid it in her hand on the table. Svidrigaïlov jumped up.
“Aha! So that’s it, is it?” he cried, surprised but smiling maliciously.
“Well, that completely alters the aspect of affairs. You’ve made things
wonderfully easier for me, Avdotya Romanovna. But where did you get the
revolver? Was it Mr. Razumihin? Why, it’s my revolver, an old friend!
And how I’ve hunted for it! The shooting lessons I’ve given you in the
country have not been thrown away.”
“It’s not your revolver, it belonged to Marfa Petrovna, whom you killed,
wretch! There was nothing of yours in her house. I took it when I began
to suspect what you were capable of. If you dare to advance one step, I
swear I’ll kill you.” She was frantic.
“But your brother? I ask from curiosity,” said Svidrigaïlov, still
standing where he was.
“Inform, if you want to! Don’t stir! Don’t come nearer! I’ll shoot! You
poisoned your wife, I know; you are a murderer yourself!” She held the
revolver ready.
“Are you so positive I poisoned Marfa Petrovna?”
“You did! You hinted it yourself; you talked to me of poison.... I know
you went to get it... you had it in readiness.... It was your doing....
It must have been your doing.... Scoundrel!”
“Even if that were true, it would have been for your sake... you would
have been the cause.”
“You are lying! I hated you always, always....”
“Oho, Avdotya Romanovna! You seem to have forgotten how you softened
to me in the heat of propaganda. I saw it in your eyes. Do you remember
that moonlight night, when the nightingale was singing?”
“That’s a lie,” there was a flash of fury in Dounia’s eyes, “that’s a
lie and a libel!”
“A lie? Well, if you like, it’s a lie. I made it up. Women ought not
to be reminded of such things,” he smiled. “I know you will shoot, you
pretty wild creature. Well, shoot away!”
Dounia raised the revolver, and deadly pale, gazed at him, measuring the
distance and awaiting the first movement on his part. Her lower lip was
white and quivering and her big black eyes flashed like fire. He had
never seen her so handsome. The fire glowing in her eyes at the moment
she raised the revolver seemed to kindle him and there was a pang of
anguish in his heart. He took a step forward and a shot rang out. The
bullet grazed his hair and flew into the wall behind. He stood still and
laughed softly.
“The wasp has stung me. She aimed straight at my head. What’s this?
Blood?” he pulled out his handkerchief to wipe the blood, which flowed
in a thin stream down his right temple. The bullet seemed to have just
grazed the skin.
Dounia lowered the revolver and looked at Svidrigaïlov not so much in
terror as in a sort of wild amazement. She seemed not to understand what
she was doing and what was going on.
“Well, you missed! Fire again, I’ll wait,” said Svidrigaïlov softly,
still smiling, but gloomily. “If you go on like that, I shall have time
to seize you before you cock again.”
Dounia started, quickly cocked the pistol and again raised it.
“Let me be,” she cried in despair. “I swear I’ll shoot again. I... I’ll
kill you.”
“Well... at three paces you can hardly help it. But if you don’t...
then.” His eyes flashed and he took two steps forward. Dounia shot
again: it missed fire.
“You haven’t loaded it properly. Never mind, you have another charge
there. Get it ready, I’ll wait.”
He stood facing her, two paces away, waiting and gazing at her with wild
determination, with feverishly passionate, stubborn, set eyes. Dounia
saw that he would sooner die than let her go. “And... now, of course she
would kill him, at two paces!” Suddenly she flung away the revolver.
“She’s dropped it!” said Svidrigaïlov with surprise, and he drew a deep
breath. A weight seemed to have rolled from his heart--perhaps not only
the fear of death; indeed he may scarcely have felt it at that moment.
It was the deliverance from another feeling, darker and more bitter,
which he could not himself have defined.
He went to Dounia and gently put his arm round her waist. She did not
resist, but, trembling like a leaf, looked at him with suppliant eyes.
He tried to say something, but his lips moved without being able to
utter a sound.
“Let me go,” Dounia implored. Svidrigaïlov shuddered. Her voice now was
quite different.
“Then you don’t love me?” he asked softly. Dounia shook her head.
“And... and you can’t? Never?” he whispered in despair.
“Never!”
There followed a moment of terrible, dumb struggle in the heart of
Svidrigaïlov. He looked at her with an indescribable gaze. Suddenly
he withdrew his arm, turned quickly to the window and stood facing it.
Another moment passed.
“Here’s the key.”
He took it out of the left pocket of his coat and laid it on the table
behind him, without turning or looking at Dounia.
“Take it! Make haste!”
He looked stubbornly out of the window. Dounia went up to the table to
take the key.
“Make haste! Make haste!” repeated Svidrigaïlov, still without turning
or moving. But there seemed a terrible significance in the tone of that
“make haste.”
Dounia understood it, snatched up the key, flew to the door, unlocked it
quickly and rushed out of the room. A minute later, beside herself, she
ran out on to the canal bank in the direction of X. Bridge.
Svidrigaïlov remained three minutes standing at the window. At last he
slowly turned, looked about him and passed his hand over his forehead. A
strange smile contorted his face, a pitiful, sad, weak smile, a smile of
despair. The blood, which was already getting dry, smeared his hand.
He looked angrily at it, then wetted a towel and washed his temple.
The revolver which Dounia had flung away lay near the door and suddenly
caught his eye. He picked it up and examined it. It was a little pocket
three-barrel revolver of old-fashioned construction. There were still
two charges and one capsule left in it. It could be fired again. He
thought a little, put the revolver in his pocket, took his hat and went
out.
CHAPTER VI
He spent that evening till ten o’clock going from one low haunt to
another. Katia too turned up and sang another gutter song, how a certain
“villain and tyrant”
“began kissing Katia.”
Svidrigaïlov treated Katia and the organ-grinder and some singers and
the waiters and two little clerks. He was particularly drawn to these
clerks by the fact that they both had crooked noses, one bent to the
left and the other to the right. They took him finally to a pleasure
garden, where he paid for their entrance. There was one lanky
three-year-old pine-tree and three bushes in the garden, besides a
“Vauxhall,” which was in reality a drinking-bar where tea too was
served, and there were a few green tables and chairs standing round it.
A chorus of wretched singers and a drunken but exceedingly depressed
German clown from Munich with a red nose entertained the public. The
clerks quarrelled with some other clerks and a fight seemed imminent.
Svidrigaïlov was chosen to decide the dispute. He listened to them for
a quarter of an hour, but they shouted so loud that there was no
possibility of understanding them. The only fact that seemed certain was
that one of them had stolen something and had even succeeded in
selling it on the spot to a Jew, but would not share the spoil with his
companion. Finally it appeared that the stolen object was a teaspoon
belonging to the Vauxhall. It was missed and the affair began to seem
troublesome. Svidrigaïlov paid for the spoon, got up, and walked out of
the garden. It was about six o’clock. He had not drunk a drop of wine
all this time and had ordered tea more for the sake of appearances than
anything.
It was a dark and stifling evening. Threatening storm-clouds came over
the sky about ten o’clock. There was a clap of thunder, and the rain
came down like a waterfall. The water fell not in drops, but beat on the
earth in streams. There were flashes of lightning every minute and each
flash lasted while one could count five.
Drenched to the skin, he went home, locked himself in, opened the
bureau, took out all his money and tore up two or three papers. Then,
putting the money in his pocket, he was about to change his clothes,
but, looking out of the window and listening to the thunder and the
rain, he gave up the idea, took up his hat and went out of the room
without locking the door. He went straight to Sonia. She was at home.
She was not alone: the four Kapernaumov children were with her. She
was giving them tea. She received Svidrigaïlov in respectful silence,
looking wonderingly at his soaking clothes. The children all ran away at
once in indescribable terror.
Svidrigaïlov sat down at the table and asked Sonia to sit beside him.
She timidly prepared to listen.
“I may be going to America, Sofya Semyonovna,” said Svidrigaïlov, “and
as I am probably seeing you for the last time, I have come to make some
arrangements. Well, did you see the lady to-day? I know what she said to
you, you need not tell me.” (Sonia made a movement and blushed.) “Those
people have their own way of doing things. As to your sisters and your
brother, they are really provided for and the money assigned to them
I’ve put into safe keeping and have received acknowledgments. You had
better take charge of the receipts, in case anything happens. Here, take
them! Well now, that’s settled. Here are three 5-per-cent bonds to the
value of three thousand roubles. Take those for yourself, entirely for
yourself, and let that be strictly between ourselves, so that no one
knows of it, whatever you hear. You will need the money, for to go on
living in the old way, Sofya Semyonovna, is bad, and besides there is no
need for it now.”
“I am so much indebted to you, and so are the children and my
stepmother,” said Sonia hurriedly, “and if I’ve said so little... please
don’t consider...”
“That’s enough! that’s enough!”