He
hurried
to
Svidrigaďlov's.
What
he
had
to
hope
from
that
man
he
did
not
know.
But
that
man
had
some
hidden
power
over
him.
Having
once
recognised
this,
he
could
not
rest,
and
now
the
time had come.
On
the
way,
one
question
particularly worried him: had Svidrigaďlov been
to
Porfiry's?
As
far
as
he
could
judge,
he
would
swear
to
it,
that
he
had not.
He
pondered
again
and
again, went
over
Porfiry's visit; no,
he
hadn't been,
of
course
he
hadn't.
But
if
he
had
not
been yet,
would
he
go? Meanwhile,
for
the
present
he
fancied
he
couldn't. Why?
He
could
not
have
explained,
but
if
he
could,
he
would
not
have
wasted
much
thought
over
it
at
the
moment.
It
all
worried
him
and
at
the
same
time
he
could
not
attend
to
it.
Strange
to
say,
none
would
have
believed
it
perhaps,
but
he
only
felt a faint
vague
anxiety
about
his
immediate
future. Another,
much
more
important
anxiety
tormented
him—it concerned himself,
but
in
a different,
more
vital way. Moreover,
he
was
conscious
of
immense
moral
fatigue,
though
his
mind
was
working
better
that
morning
than
it
had
done
of
late.
And
was
it
worth
while,
after
all
that
had happened,
to
contend
with
these
new
trivial
difficulties?
Was
it
worth
while,
for
instance,
to
manoeuvre
that
Svidrigaďlov
should
not
go
to
Porfiry's?
Was
it
worth
while
to
investigate,
to
ascertain
the
facts,
to
waste
time
over
anyone
like
Svidrigaďlov? Oh,
how
sick
he
was
of
it
all!
But
what
could
they
have
in
common?
Their
very
evil-doing
could
not
be
of
the
same
kind.
The
man, moreover,
was
very
unpleasant, evidently depraved, undoubtedly cunning
and
deceitful, possibly malignant.
Such
stories
were
told
about
him.
It
is
true
he
was
befriending Katerina Ivanovna's children,
but
who
could
tell
with
what
motive
and
what
it
meant?
The
man
always
had
some
design,
some
project.
There
was
another
thought
which
had been
continually
hovering
of
late
about
Raskolnikov's mind,
and
causing
him
great
uneasiness.
It
was
so
painful
that
he
made
distinct
efforts
to
get
rid
of
it.
He
sometimes
thought
that
Svidrigaďlov
was
dogging
his
footsteps. Svidrigaďlov had found
out
his
secret
and
had had
designs
on
Dounia.
What
if
he
had
them
still? Wasn't
it
practically
certain
that
he
had?
And
what
if,
having
learnt
his
secret
and
so
having
gained
power
over
him,
he
were
to
use
it
as
a
weapon
against Dounia?
This
idea
sometimes
even
tormented
his
dreams,
but
it
had
never
presented
itself
so
vividly
to
him
as
on
his
way
to
Svidrigaďlov.
The
very
thought
moved
him
to
gloomy rage.
To
begin
with,
this
would
transform
everything,
even
his
own
position;
he
would
have
at
once
to
confess
his
secret
to
Dounia.
Would
he
have
to
give
himself
up
perhaps
to
prevent
Dounia
from
taking
some
rash
step?
The
letter?
This
morning
Dounia had received a letter.
From
whom
could
she
get
letters
in
Petersburg? Luzhin, perhaps? It's true Razumihin
was
there
to
protect
her,
but
Razumihin
knew
nothing
of
the
position.
Perhaps
it
was
his
duty
to
tell
Razumihin?
He
thought
of
it
with
repugnance.
In
any
case
he
must
see
Svidrigaďlov
as
soon
as
possible,
he
decided finally.
Thank
God,
the
details
of
the
interview
were
of
little
consequence,
if
only
he
could
get
at
the
root
of
the
matter;
but
if
Svidrigaďlov
were
capable...
if
he
were
intriguing against Dounia—then... Raskolnikov
was
so
exhausted
by
what
he
had
passed
through
that
month
that
he
could
only
decide
such
questions
in
one
way; "then I
shall
kill him,"
he
thought
in
cold despair. A
sudden
anguish
oppressed
his
heart,
he
stood
still
in
the
middle
of
the
street
and
began
looking
about
to
see
where
he
was
and
which
way
he
was
going.
He
found
himself
in
X. Prospect,
thirty
or
forty
paces
from
the
Hay
Market,
through
which
he
had come.
The
whole
second
storey
of
the
house
on
the
left
was
used
as
a tavern.
All
the
windows
were
wide
open;
judging
from
the
figures
moving
at
the
windows,
the
rooms
were
full
to
overflowing.
There
were
sounds
of
singing,
of
clarionet
and
violin,
and
the
boom
of
a
Turkish
drum.
He
could
hear
women shrieking.
He
was
about
to
turn
back
wondering
why
he
had
come
to
the
X. Prospect,
when
suddenly
at
one
of
the
end
windows
he
saw
Svidrigaďlov, sitting
at
a tea-table
right
in
the
open
window
with
a
pipe
in
his
mouth. Raskolnikov
was
dreadfully taken aback,
almost
terrified. Svidrigaďlov
was
silently
watching
and
scrutinising
him
and,
what
struck Raskolnikov
at
once,
seemed
to
be
meaning
to
get
up
and
slip
away
unobserved. Raskolnikov
at
once
pretended
not
to
have
seen
him,
but
to
be
looking
absent-mindedly away,
while
he
watched
him
out
of
the
corner
of
his
eye.
His
heart
was
beating violently. Yet,
it
was
evident
that
Svidrigaďlov
did
not
want
to
be
seen.
He
took
the
pipe
out
of
his
mouth
and
was
on
the
point
of
concealing
himself,
but
as
he
got
up
and
moved
back
his
chair,
he
seemed
to
have
become
suddenly
aware
that
Raskolnikov had
seen
him,
and
was
watching
him.
What
had
passed
between
them
was
much
the
same
as
what
happened
at
their
first
meeting
in
Raskolnikov's room. A
sly
smile
came
into
Svidrigaďlov's face
and
grew
broader
and
broader.
Each
knew
that
he
was
seen
and
watched
by
the
other.
At
last
Svidrigaďlov
broke
into
a
loud
laugh. "Well, well,
come
in
if
you
want
me; I
am
here!"
he
shouted
from
the
window. Raskolnikov went
up
into
the
tavern.
He
found Svidrigaďlov
in
a tiny
back
room,
adjoining
the
saloon
in
which
merchants, clerks
and
numbers
of
people
of
all
sorts
were
drinking
tea
at
twenty
little
tables
to
the
desperate
bawling
of
a
chorus
of
singers.
The
click
of
billiard balls
could
be
heard
in
the
distance.
On
the
table
before
Svidrigaďlov stood
an
open
bottle
and
a glass
half
full
of
champagne.
In
the
room
he
found
also
a
boy
with
a
little
hand
organ, a healthy-looking red-cheeked
girl
of
eighteen, wearing a tucked-up
striped
skirt,
and
a Tyrolese
hat
with
ribbons.
In
spite
of
the
chorus
in
the
other
room,
she
was
singing
some
servants'
hall
song
in
a
rather
husky
contralto,
to
the
accompaniment
of
the
organ. "Come, that's enough," Svidrigaďlov stopped
her
at
Raskolnikov's entrance.
The
girl
at
once
broke
off
and
stood
waiting
respectfully.
She
had sung
her
guttural
rhymes, too,
with
a
serious
and
respectful
expression
in
her
face. "Hey, Philip, a glass!" shouted Svidrigaďlov. "I won't
drink
anything," said Raskolnikov. "As
you
like, I didn't
mean
it
for
you. Drink, Katia! I don't
want
anything
more
to-day,
you
can
go."
He
poured
her
out
a
full
glass,
and
laid
down
a
yellow
note. Katia
drank
off
her
glass
of
wine,
as
women do,
without
putting
it
down,
in
twenty
gulps,
took
the
note
and
kissed
Svidrigaďlov's hand,
which
he
allowed
quite
seriously.
She
went
out
of
the
room
and
the
boy
trailed
after
her
with
the
organ.
Both
had been brought
in
from
the
street. Svidrigaďlov had
not
been a
week
in
Petersburg,
but
everything
about
him
was
already,
so
to
speak,
on
a
patriarchal
footing;
the
waiter, Philip,
was
by
now
an
old
friend
and
very
obsequious.
The
door
leading
to
the
saloon
had a
lock
on
it. Svidrigaďlov
was
at
home
in
this
room
and
perhaps
spent
whole
days
in
it.
The
tavern
was
dirty
and
wretched,
not
even
second-rate. "I
was
going
to
see
you
and
looking
for
you," Raskolnikov began, "but I don't
know
what
made
me
turn
from
the
Hay
Market
into
the
X.
Prospect
just
now. I
never
take
this
turning. I
turn
to
the
right
from
the
Hay
Market.
And
this
isn't
the
way
to
you. I simply
turned
and
here
you
are.
It
is
strange!" "Why don't
you
say
at
once
'it's a miracle'?" "Because
it
may
be
only
chance." "Oh, that's
the
way
with
all
you
folk," laughed Svidrigaďlov. "You won't
admit
it,
even
if
you
do
inwardly
believe
it
a miracle!
Here
you
say
that
it
may
be
only
chance.
And
what
cowards
they
all
are
here,
about
having
an
opinion
of
their
own,
you
can't fancy, Rodion Romanovitch. I don't
mean
you,
you
have
an
opinion
of
your
own
and
are
not
afraid
to
have
it. That's
how
it
was
you
attracted
my curiosity." "Nothing else?" "Well, that's enough,
you
know," Svidrigaďlov
was
obviously
exhilarated,
but
only
slightly so,
he
had
not
had
more
than
half
a glass
of
wine. "I fancy
you
came
to
see
me
before
you
knew
that
I
was
capable
of
having
what
you
call
an
opinion
of
my own,"
observed
Raskolnikov. "Oh, well,
it
was
a
different
matter. Everyone has
his
own
plans.
And
apropos
of
the
miracle
let
me
tell
you
that
I
think
you
have
been
asleep
for
the
last
two
or
three
days. I
told
you
of
this
tavern
myself,
there
is
no
miracle
in
your
coming straight here. I
explained
the
way
myself,
told
you
where
it
was,
and
the
hours
you
could
find
me
here.
Do
you
remember?" "I don't remember,"
answered
Raskolnikov
with
surprise. "I
believe
you. I
told
you
twice.
The
address
has been
stamped
mechanically
on
your
memory.
You
turned
this
way
mechanically
and
yet
precisely
according
to
the
direction,
though
you
are
not
aware
of
it.
When
I
told
you
then, I
hardly
hoped
you
understood me.
You
give
yourself
away
too
much, Rodion Romanovitch.
And
another
thing, I'm
convinced
there
are
lots
of
people
in
Petersburg
who
talk
to
themselves
as
they
walk.
This
is
a
town
of
crazy people.
If
only
we
had
scientific
men, doctors,
lawyers
and
philosophers
might
make
most
valuable
investigations
in
Petersburg
each
in
his
own
line.
There
are
few
places
where
there
are
so
many
gloomy,
strong
and
queer
influences
on
the
soul
of
man
as
in
Petersburg.
The
mere
influences
of
climate
mean
so
much.
And
it's
the
administrative
centre
of
all
Russia
and
its
character
must
be
reflected
on
the
whole
country.
But
that
is
neither
here
nor
there
now.
The
point
is
that
I
have
several
times
watched
you.
You
walk
out
of
your
house—holding
your
head
high—twenty paces
from
home
you
let
it
sink,
and
fold
your
hands
behind
your
back.
You
look
and
evidently
see
nothing
before
nor
beside
you.
At
last
you
begin
moving
your
lips
and
talking
to
yourself,
and
sometimes
you
wave
one
hand
and
declaim,
and
at
last
stand
still
in
the
middle
of
the
road. That's
not
at
all
the
thing. Someone
may
be
watching
you
besides me,
and
it
won't
do
you
any
good. It's
nothing
really
to
do
with
me
and
I can't
cure
you, but,
of
course,
you
understand
me." "Do
you
know
that
I
am
being followed?"
asked
Raskolnikov,
looking
inquisitively
at
him. "No, I
know
nothing
about
it," said Svidrigaďlov, seeming surprised. "Well, then,
let
us
leave
me
alone," Raskolnikov muttered, frowning. "Very good,
let
us
leave
you
alone." "You had
better
tell
me,
if
you
come
here
to
drink,
and
directed
me
twice
to
come
here
to
you,
why
did
you
hide,
and
try
to
get
away
just
now
when
I
looked
at
the
window
from
the
street? I
saw
it." "He-he!
And
why
was
it
you
lay
on
your
sofa
with
closed
eyes
and
pretended
to
be
asleep,
though
you
were
wide
awake
while
I stood
in
your
doorway? I
saw
it." "I
may
have
had... reasons.
You
know
that
yourself." "And I
may
have
had my reasons,
though
you
don't
know
them." Raskolnikov
dropped
his
right
elbow
on
the
table,
leaned
his
chin
in
the
fingers
of
his
right
hand,
and
stared
intently
at
Svidrigaďlov.
For
a
full
minute
he
scrutinised
his
face,
which
had impressed
him
before.
It
was
a
strange
face,
like
a mask;
white
and
red,
with
bright
red
lips,
with
a flaxen beard,
and
still
thick
flaxen hair.
His
eyes
were
somehow
too
blue
and
their
expression
somehow
too
heavy
and
fixed.
There
was
something
awfully unpleasant
in
that
handsome face,
which
looked
so
wonderfully
young
for
his
age. Svidrigaďlov
was
smartly dressed
in
light
summer
clothes
and
was
particularly
dainty
in
his
linen.
He
wore a
huge
ring
with
a precious
stone
in
it. "Have I got
to
bother
myself
about
you, too, now?" said Raskolnikov suddenly, coming
with
nervous
impatience
straight
to
the
point. "Even
though
perhaps
you
are
the
most
dangerous
man
if
you
care
to
injure
me, I don't
want
to
put
myself
out
any
more. I
will
show
you
at
once
that
I don't
prize
myself
as
you
probably
think
I do. I've
come
to
tell
you
at
once
that
if
you
keep
to
your
former
intentions
with
regard
to
my
sister
and
if
you
think
to
derive
any
benefit
in
that
direction
from
what
has been
discovered
of
late, I
will
kill
you
before
you
get
me
locked
up.
You
can
reckon
on
my word.
You
know
that
I
can
keep
it.
And
in
the
second
place
if
you
want
to
tell
me
anything—for I
keep
fancying
all
this
time
that
you
have
something
to
tell
me—make
haste
and
tell
it,
for
time
is
precious
and
very
likely
it
will
soon
be
too
late." "Why
in
such
haste?"
asked
Svidrigaďlov,
looking
at
him
curiously. "Everyone has
his
plans," Raskolnikov
answered
gloomily
and
impatiently. "You urged
me
yourself
to
frankness
just
now,
and
at
the
first
question
you
refuse
to
answer," Svidrigaďlov
observed
with
a smile. "You
keep
fancying
that
I
have
aims
of
my
own
and
so
you
look
at
me
with
suspicion.
Of
course
it's perfectly
natural
in
your
position.
But
though
I
should
like
to
be
friends
with
you, I shan't
trouble
myself
to
convince
you
of
the
contrary.
The
game
isn't
worth
the
candle
and
I wasn't
intending
to
talk
to
you
about
anything
special." "What
did
you
want
me, for, then?
It
was
you
who
came hanging
about
me." "Why, simply
as
an
interesting
subject
for
observation. I
liked
the
fantastic
nature
of
your
position—that's
what
it
was! Besides
you
are
the
brother
of
a
person
who
greatly
interested me,
and
from
that
person
I had
in
the
past
heard
a
very
great
deal
about
you,
from
which
I
gathered
that
you
had a
great
influence
over
her; isn't
that
enough? Ha-ha-ha!
Still
I
must
admit
that
your
question
is
rather
complex,
and
is
difficult
for
me
to
answer. Here, you,
for
instance,
have
come
to
me
not
only
for
a
definite
object,
but
for
the
sake
of
hearing
something
new. Isn't
that
so? Isn't
that
so?"
persisted
Svidrigaďlov
with
a
sly
smile. "Well, can't
you
fancy
then
that
I, too,
on
my
way
here
in
the
train
was
reckoning
on
you,
on
your
telling
me
something
new,
and
on
my
making
some
profit
out
of
you!
You
see
what
rich
men
we
are!" "What
profit
could
you
make?" "How
can
I
tell
you?
How
do
I know?
You
see
in
what
a
tavern
I
spend
all
my time
and
it's my enjoyment, that's
to
say
it's
no
great
enjoyment,
but
one
must
sit
somewhere;
that
poor
Katia now—you
saw
her?...
If
only
I had been a
glutton
now, a club gourmand,
but
you
see
I
can
eat
this."
He
pointed
to
a
little
table
in
the
corner
where
the
remnants
of
a terrible-looking beef-steak
and
potatoes
lay
on
a
tin
dish. "Have
you
dined,
by
the
way? I've had
something
and
want
nothing
more. I don't drink,
for
instance,
at
all.
Except
for
champagne
I
never
touch
anything,
and
not
more
than
a glass
of
that
all
the
evening,
and
even
that
is
enough
to
make
my
head
ache. I ordered
it
just
now
to
wind
myself
up,
for
I
am
just
going
off
somewhere
and
you
see
me
in
a
peculiar
state
of
mind.
That
was
why
I hid
myself
just
now
like
a schoolboy,
for
I
was
afraid
you
would
hinder
me.
But
I believe,"
he
pulled
out
his
watch, "I
can
spend
an
hour
with
you. It's half-past
four
now.
If
only
I'd been something, a landowner, a father, a
cavalry
officer, a photographer, a journalist... I
am
nothing,
no
specialty,
and
sometimes I
am
positively bored. I really
thought
you
would
tell
me
something
new." "But
what
are
you,
and
why
have
you
come
here?" "What
am
I?
You
know, a gentleman, I served
for
two
years
in
the
cavalry,
then
I
knocked
about
here
in
Petersburg,
then
I married Marfa Petrovna
and
lived
in
the
country.
There
you
have
my biography!" "You
are
a gambler, I believe?" "No, a
poor
sort
of
gambler. A card-sharper—not a gambler." "You
have
been a card-sharper then?" "Yes, I've been a card-sharper too." "Didn't
you
get
thrashed sometimes?" "It
did
happen. Why?" "Why,
you
might
have
challenged them... altogether
it
must
have
been lively." "I won't
contradict
you,
and
besides I
am
no
hand
at
philosophy. I
confess
that
I hastened
here
for
the
sake
of
the
women." "As
soon
as
you
buried Marfa Petrovna?" "Quite so," Svidrigaďlov
smiled
with
engaging candour. "What
of
it?
You
seem
to
find
something
wrong
in
my
speaking
like
that
about
women?" "You
ask
whether
I find
anything
wrong
in
vice?" "Vice! Oh, that's
what
you
are
after!
But
I'll
answer
you
in
order,
first
about
women
in
general;
you
know
I
am
fond
of
talking.
Tell
me,
what
should
I
restrain
myself
for?
Why
should
I
give
up
women,
since
I
have
a
passion
for
them? It's
an
occupation, anyway." "So
you
hope
for
nothing
here
but
vice?" "Oh,
very
well,
for
vice
then.
You
insist
on
its
being vice.
But
anyway
I
like
a
direct
question.
In
this
vice
at
least
there
is
something
permanent, founded
indeed
upon
nature
and
not
dependent
on
fantasy,
something
present
in
the
blood
like
an
ever-burning ember,
for
ever
setting
one
on
fire
and, maybe,
not
to
be
quickly
extinguished,
even
with
years. You'll
agree
it's
an
occupation
of
a sort." "That's
nothing
to
rejoice
at, it's a
disease
and
a
dangerous
one." "Oh, that's
what
you
think,
is
it! I agree,
that
it
is
a
disease
like
everything
that
exceeds
moderation. And,
of
course,
in
this
one
must
exceed
moderation.
But
in
the
first
place, everybody
does
so
in
one
way
or
another,
and
in
the
second
place,
of
course,
one
ought
to
be
moderate
and
prudent, however
mean
it
may
be,
but
what
am
I
to
do?
If
I hadn't this, I
might
have
to
shoot myself. I
am
ready
to
admit
that
a
decent
man
ought
to
put
up
with
being bored,
but
yet..." "And
could
you
shoot yourself?" "Oh, come!" Svidrigaďlov parried
with
disgust. "Please don't
speak
of
it,"
he
added hurriedly
and
with
none
of
the
bragging tone
he
had shown
in
all
the
previous
conversation.
His
face
quite
changed. "I
admit
it's
an
unpardonable weakness,
but
I can't
help
it. I
am
afraid
of
death
and
I
dislike
its
being talked of.
Do
you
know
that
I
am
to
a
certain
extent
a mystic?" "Ah,
the
apparitions
of
Marfa Petrovna!
Do
they
still
go
on
visiting
you?" "Oh, don't talk
of
them;
there
have
been
no
more
in
Petersburg,
confound
them!"
he
cried
with
an
air
of
irritation. "Let's
rather
talk
of
that... though... H'm! I
have
not
much
time,
and
can't stay
long
with
you, it's a pity! I
should
have
found
plenty
to
tell
you." "What's
your
engagement, a woman?" "Yes, a woman, a
casual
incident.... No, that's
not
what
I
want
to
talk of." "And
the
hideousness,
the
filthiness
of
all
your
surroundings, doesn't
that
affect you?
Have
you
lost
the
strength
to
stop yourself?" "And
do
you
pretend
to
strength, too? He-he-he!
You
surprised
me
just
now, Rodion Romanovitch,
though
I
knew
beforehand
it
would
be
so.
You
preach
to
me
about
vice
and
ćsthetics! You—a Schiller, you—an idealist!
Of
course
that's
all
as
it
should
be
and
it
would
be
surprising
if
it
were
not
so,
yet
it
is
strange
in
reality.... Ah,
what
a
pity
I
have
no
time,
for
you're a
most
interesting type! And, by-the-way,
are
you
fond
of
Schiller? I
am
awfully
fond
of
him." "But
what
a
braggart
you
are," Raskolnikov said
with
some
disgust. "Upon my word, I
am
not,"
answered
Svidrigaďlov laughing. "However, I won't
dispute
it,
let
me
be
a braggart,
why
not
brag,
if
it
hurts
no
one? I spent
seven
years
in
the
country
with
Marfa Petrovna,
so
now
when
I
come
across
an
intelligent
person
like
you—intelligent
and
highly
interesting—I
am
simply
glad
to
talk and, besides, I've
drunk
that
half-glass
of
champagne
and
it's gone
to
my
head
a little.
And
besides, there's a
certain
fact
that
has
wound
me
up
tremendously,
but
about
that
I...
will
keep
quiet.
Where
are
you
off
to?"
he
asked
in
alarm. Raskolnikov had begun
getting
up.
He
felt oppressed
and
stifled
and,
as
it
were,
ill
at
ease
at
having
come
here.
He
felt
convinced
that
Svidrigaďlov
was
the
most
worthless
scoundrel
on
the
face
of
the
earth. "A-ach!
Sit
down, stay a little!" Svidrigaďlov begged. "Let
them
bring
you
some
tea, anyway. Stay a little, I won't talk nonsense,
about
myself, I mean. I'll
tell
you
something.
If
you
like
I'll
tell
you
how
a
woman
tried 'to save' me,
as
you
would
call
it?
It
will
be
an
answer
to
your
first
question
indeed,
for
the
woman
was
your
sister.
May
I
tell
you?
It
will
help
to
spend
the
time." "Tell me,
but
I
trust
that
you..." "Oh, don't
be
uneasy. Besides,
even
in
a worthless
low
fellow
like
me, Avdotya Romanovna
can
only
excite
the
deepest
respect."