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." Svidrigaďlov 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. Svidrigaďlov
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. Svidrigaďlov 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 Svidrigaďlov
in
respectful silence,
looking
wonderingly
at
his
soaking
clothes.
The
children
all
ran
away
at
once
in
indescribable
terror. Svidrigaďlov 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 Svidrigaďlov, "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!" "But
as
for
the
money, Arkady Ivanovitch, I
am
very
grateful
to
you,
but
I don't
need
it
now. I
can
always
earn
my
own
living. Don't
think
me
ungrateful.
If
you
are
so
charitable,
that
money...." "It's
for
you,
for
you, Sofya Semyonovna,
and
please
don't
waste
words
over
it. I haven't time
for
it.
You
will
want
it. Rodion Romanovitch has
two
alternatives: a
bullet
in
the
brain
or
Siberia." (Sonia
looked
wildly
at
him,
and
started.) "Don't
be
uneasy, I
know
all
about
it
from
himself
and
I
am
not
a gossip; I won't
tell
anyone.
It
was
good
advice
when
you
told
him
to
give
himself
up
and
confess.
It
would
be
much
better
for
him. Well,
if
it
turns
out
to
be
Siberia,
he
will
go
and
you
will
follow
him. That's so, isn't it?
And
if
so, you'll
need
money. You'll
need
it
for
him,
do
you
understand?
Giving
it
to
you
is
the
same
as
my
giving
it
to
him. Besides,
you
promised
Amalia Ivanovna
to
pay
what's owing. I
heard
you.
How
can
you
undertake
such
obligations
so
heedlessly, Sofya Semyonovna?
It
was
Katerina Ivanovna's
debt
and
not
yours,
so
you
ought
not
to
have
taken
any
notice
of
the
German
woman.
You
can't
get
through
the
world
like
that.
If
you
are
ever
questioned
about
me—to-morrow
or
the
day
after
you
will
be
asked—don't
say
anything
about
my coming
to
see
you
now
and
don't
show
the
money
to
anyone
or
say
a
word
about
it. Well,
now
good-bye." (He got up.) "My
greetings
to
Rodion Romanovitch.
By
the
way, you'd
better
put
the
money
for
the
present
in
Mr. Razumihin's keeping.
You
know
Mr. Razumihin?
Of
course
you
do. He's
not
a
bad
fellow.
Take
it
to
him
to-morrow or...
when
the
time comes.
And
till
then,
hide
it
carefully." Sonia
too
jumped
up
from
her
chair
and
looked
in
dismay
at
Svidrigaďlov.
She
longed
to
speak,
to
ask
a question,
but
for
the
first
moments
she
did
not
dare
and
did
not
know
how
to
begin. "How
can
you...
how
can
you
be
going now,
in
such
rain?" "Why,
be
starting
for
America,
and
be
stopped
by
rain! Ha, ha! Good-bye, Sofya Semyonovna, my dear!
Live
and
live
long,
you
will
be
of
use
to
others.
By
the
way...
tell
Mr. Razumihin I
send
my
greetings
to
him.
Tell
him
Arkady Ivanovitch Svidrigaďlov
sends
his
greetings.
Be
sure
to."
He
went out,
leaving
Sonia
in
a
state
of
wondering
anxiety
and
vague
apprehension.
It
appeared
afterwards
that
on
the
same
evening,
at
twenty
past eleven,
he
made
another
very
eccentric
and
unexpected visit.
The
rain
still
persisted.
Drenched
to
the
skin,
he
walked
into
the
little
flat
where
the
parents
of
his
betrothed lived,
in
Third
Street
in
Vassilyevsky Island.
He
knocked
some
time
before
he
was
admitted,
and
his
visit
at
first
caused
great
perturbation;
but
Svidrigaďlov
could
be
very
fascinating
when
he
liked,
so
that
the
first,
and
indeed
very
intelligent
surmise
of
the
sensible
parents
that
Svidrigaďlov had probably had
so
much
to
drink
that
he
did
not
know
what
he
was
doing
vanished
immediately.
The
decrepit
father
was
wheeled
in
to
see
Svidrigaďlov
by
the
tender
and
sensible
mother,
who
as
usual
began
the
conversation
with
various
irrelevant questions.
She
never
asked
a
direct
question,
but
began
by
smiling
and
rubbing
her
hands
and
then,
if
she
were
obliged
to
ascertain
something—for instance,
when
Svidrigaďlov
would
like
to
have
the
wedding—she
would
begin
by
interested
and
almost
eager
questions
about
Paris
and
the
court
life
there,
and
only
by
degrees
brought
the
conversation
round
to
Third
Street.
On
other
occasions
this
had
of
course
been
very
impressive,
but
this
time Arkady Ivanovitch
seemed
particularly impatient,
and
insisted
on
seeing
his
betrothed
at
once,
though
he
had been informed,
to
begin
with,
that
she
had
already
gone
to
bed.
The
girl
of
course
appeared. Svidrigaďlov
informed
her
at
once
that
he
was
obliged
by
very
important
affairs
to
leave
Petersburg
for
a time,
and
therefore
brought
her
fifteen
thousand
roubles
and
begged
her
accept
them
as
a
present
from
him,
as
he
had
long
been
intending
to
make
her
this
trifling
present
before
their
wedding.
The
logical
connection
of
the
present
with
his
immediate
departure
and
the
absolute
necessity
of
visiting
them
for
that
purpose
in
pouring
rain
at
midnight
was
not
made
clear.
But
it
all
went
off
very
well;
even
the
inevitable
ejaculations
of
wonder
and
regret,
the
inevitable
questions
were
extraordinarily
few
and
restrained.
On
the
other
hand,
the
gratitude
expressed
was
most
glowing
and
was
reinforced
by
tears
from
the
most
sensible
of
mothers. Svidrigaďlov got up, laughed,
kissed
his
betrothed, patted
her
cheek,
declared
he
would
soon
come
back,
and
noticing
in
her
eyes,
together
with
childish
curiosity, a
sort
of
earnest
dumb
inquiry,
reflected
and
kissed
her
again,
though
he
felt
sincere
anger
inwardly
at
the
thought
that
his
present
would
be
immediately
locked
up
in
the
keeping
of
the
most
sensible
of
mothers.
He
went away,
leaving
them
all
in
a
state
of
extraordinary
excitement,
but
the
tender
mamma,
speaking
quietly
in
a
half
whisper, settled
some
of
the
most
important
of
their
doubts,
concluding
that
Svidrigaďlov
was
a
great
man, a
man
of
great
affairs
and
connections
and
of
great
wealth—there
was
no
knowing
what
he
had
in
his
mind.
He
would
start
off
on
a
journey
and
give
away
money
just
as
the
fancy
took
him,
so
that
there
was
nothing
surprising
about
it.
Of
course
it
was
strange
that
he
was
wet
through,
but
Englishmen,
for
instance,
are
even
more
eccentric,
and
all
these
people
of
high
society
didn't
think
of
what
was
said
of
them
and
didn't
stand
on
ceremony. Possibly, indeed,
he
came
like
that
on
purpose
to
show
that
he
was
not
afraid
of
anyone.
Above
all,
not
a
word
should
be
said
about
it,
for
God
knows
what
might
come
of
it,
and
the
money
must
be
locked
up,
and
it
was
most
fortunate
that
Fedosya,
the
cook, had
not
left
the
kitchen.
And
above
all
not
a
word
must
be
said
to
that
old
cat,
Madame
Resslich,
and
so
on
and
so
on.
They
sat
up
whispering
till
two
o'clock,
but
the
girl
went
to
bed
much
earlier, amazed
and
rather
sorrowful. Svidrigaďlov meanwhile, exactly
at
midnight,
crossed
the
bridge
on
the
way
back
to
the
mainland.
The
rain
had
ceased
and
there
was
a roaring wind.
He
began shivering,
and
for
one
moment
he
gazed
at
the
black
waters
of
the
Little
Neva
with
a
look
of
special
interest,
even
inquiry.
But
he
soon
felt
it
very
cold, standing
by
the
water;
he
turned
and
went
towards
Y. Prospect.
He
walked
along
that
endless
street
for
a
long
time,
almost
half
an
hour,
more
than
once
stumbling
in
the
dark
on
the
wooden
pavement,
but
continually
looking
for
something
on
the
right
side
of
the
street.
He
had noticed passing
through
this
street
lately
that
there
was
a
hotel
somewhere
towards
the
end, built
of
wood,
but
fairly
large,
and
its
name
he
remembered
was
something
like
Adrianople.
He
was
not
mistaken:
the
hotel
was
so
conspicuous
in
that
God-forsaken
place
that
he
could
not
fail
to
see
it
even
in
the
dark.
It
was
a long, blackened
wooden
building,
and
in
spite
of
the
late
hour
there
were
lights
in
the
windows
and
signs
of
life
within.
He
went
in
and
asked
a
ragged
fellow
who
met
him
in
the
corridor
for
a room.
The
latter, scanning Svidrigaďlov,
pulled
himself
together
and
led
him
at
once
to
a close
and
tiny
room
in
the
distance,
at
the
end
of
the
corridor,
under
the
stairs.
There
was
no
other,
all
were
occupied.
The
ragged
fellow
looked
inquiringly. "Is
there
tea?"
asked
Svidrigaďlov. "Yes, sir." "What
else
is
there?" "Veal, vodka, savouries." "Bring
me
tea
and
veal." "And
you
want
nothing
else?"
he
asked
with
apparent
surprise. "Nothing, nothing."
The
ragged
man
went away, completely disillusioned. "It
must
be
a
nice
place,"
thought
Svidrigaďlov. "How
was
it
I didn't
know
it? I
expect
I
look
as
if
I came
from
a café chantant
and
have
had
some
adventure
on
the
way.
It
would
be
interesting
to
know
who
stayed here?"
He
lighted
the
candle
and
looked
at
the
room
more
carefully.
It
was
a
room
so
low-pitched
that
Svidrigaďlov
could
only
just
stand
up
in
it;
it
had
one
window;
the
bed,
which
was
very
dirty,
and
the
plain-stained chair
and
table
almost
filled
it
up.
The
walls
looked
as
though
they
were
made
of
planks, covered
with
shabby
paper,
so
torn
and
dusty
that
the
pattern
was
indistinguishable,
though
the
general
colour—yellow—could
still
be
made
out.
One
of
the
walls
was
cut
short
by
the
sloping
ceiling,
though
the
room
was
not
an
attic
but
just
under
the
stairs. Svidrigaďlov
set
down
the
candle, sat
down
on
the
bed
and
sank
into
thought.
But
a
strange
persistent
murmur
which
sometimes
rose
to
a shout
in
the
next
room
attracted
his
attention.
The
murmur
had
not
ceased
from
the
moment
he
entered
the
room.
He
listened: someone
was
upbraiding
and
almost
tearfully scolding,
but
he
heard
only
one
voice. Svidrigaďlov got up, shaded
the
light
with
his
hand
and
at
once
he
saw
light
through
a crack
in
the
wall;
he
went
up
and
peeped through.
The
room,
which
was
somewhat
larger
than
his, had
two
occupants.
One
of
them, a
very
curly-headed
man
with
a
red
inflamed
face,
was
standing
in
the
pose
of
an
orator,
without
his
coat,
with
his
legs
wide
apart
to
preserve
his
balance,
and
smiting
himself
on
the
breast.
He
reproached
the
other
with
being a beggar,
with
having
no
standing whatever.
He
declared
that
he
had taken
the
other
out
of
the
gutter
and
he
could
turn
him
out
when
he
liked,
and
that
only
the
finger
of
Providence
sees
it
all.
The
object
of
his
reproaches
was
sitting
in
a chair,
and
had
the
air
of
a
man
who
wants
dreadfully
to
sneeze,
but
can't.
He
sometimes
turned
sheepish
and
befogged
eyes
on
the
speaker,
but
obviously
had
not
the
slightest
idea
what
he
was
talking
about
and
scarcely
heard
it. A
candle
was
burning
down
on
the
table;
there
were
wine-glasses, a nearly empty bottle
of
vodka, bread
and
cucumber,
and
glasses
with
the
dregs
of
stale tea.
After
gazing
attentively
at
this, Svidrigaďlov
turned
away
indifferently
and
sat
down
on
the
bed.
The
ragged
attendant,
returning
with
the
tea,
could
not
resist
asking
him
again
whether
he
didn't
want
anything
more,
and
again
receiving
a
negative
reply, finally withdrew. Svidrigaďlov
made
haste
to
drink
a glass
of
tea
to
warm
himself,
but
could
not
eat
anything.
He
began
to
feel feverish.
He
took
off
his
coat and, wrapping
himself
in
the
blanket,
lay
down
on
the
bed.
He
was
annoyed. "It
would
have
been
better
to
be
well
for
the
occasion,"
he
thought
with
a smile.
The
room
was
close,
the
candle
burnt dimly,
the
wind
was
roaring outside,
he
heard
a
mouse
scratching
in
the
corner
and
the
room
smelt
of
mice
and
of
leather.
He
lay
in
a
sort
of
reverie:
one
thought
followed
another.
He
felt a
longing
to
fix
his
imagination
on
something. "It
must
be
a
garden
under
the
window,"
he
thought. "There's a
sound
of
trees.
How
I
dislike
the
sound
of
trees
on
a
stormy
night,
in
the
dark!
They
give
one
a
horrid
feeling."
He
remembered
how
he
had
disliked
it
when
he
passed
Petrovsky Park
just
now.
This
reminded
him
of
the
bridge
over
the
Little
Neva
and
he
felt cold
again
as
he
had
when
standing there. "I
never
have
liked
water,"
he
thought, "even
in
a landscape,"
and
he
suddenly
smiled
again
at
a
strange
idea: "Surely
now
all
these
questions
of
taste
and
comfort
ought
not
to
matter,
but
I've
become
more
particular,
like
an
animal
that
picks
out
a
special
place...
for
such
an
occasion. I
ought
to
have
gone
into
the
Petrovsky Park! I
suppose
it
seemed
dark, cold, ha-ha!
As
though
I
were
seeking
pleasant
sensations!...
By
the
way,
why
haven't I
put
out
the
candle?"
he
blew
it
out. "They've gone
to
bed
next
door,"
he
thought,
not
seeing
the
light
at
the
crack. "Well, now, Marfa Petrovna,
now
is
the
time
for
you
to
turn
up; it's dark,
and
the
very
time
and
place
for
you.
But
now
you
won't come!"
He
could
not
get
to
sleep.
By
degrees
Dounia's
image
rose
before
him,
and
a shudder
ran
over
him. "No, I
must
give
up
all
that
now,"
he
thought,
rousing
himself. "I
must
think
of
something
else. It's queer
and
funny. I
never
had a
great
hatred
for
anyone, I
never
particularly
desired
to
avenge
myself
even,
and
that's a
bad
sign, a
bad
sign, a
bad
sign. I
never
liked
quarrelling
either,
and
never
lost my temper—that's a
bad
sign
too.
And
the
promises
I
made
her
just
now, too—Damnation! But—who knows?—perhaps
she
would
have
made
a
new
man
of
me
somehow...."
He
ground
his
teeth
and
sank
into
silence again.
Again
Dounia's
image
rose
before
him,
just
as
she
was
when,
after
shooting
the
first
time,
she
had
lowered
the
revolver
in
terror
and
gazed
blankly
at
him,
so
that
he
might
have
seized
her
twice
over
and
she
would
not
have
lifted a
hand
to
defend
herself
if
he
had
not
reminded her.
He
recalled
how
at
that
instant
he
felt
almost
sorry
for
her,
how
he
had felt a pang
at
his
heart... "Aďe! Damnation,
these
thoughts
again! I
must
put
it
away!"
He
was
dozing
off;
the
feverish
shiver had ceased,
when
suddenly
something
seemed
to
run
over
his
arm
and
leg
under
the
bedclothes.
He
started. "Ugh!
hang
it! I
believe
it's a mouse,"
he
thought, "that's
the
veal
I left
on
the
table."
He
felt fearfully disinclined
to
pull
off
the
blanket,
get
up,
get
cold,
but
all
at
once
something
unpleasant
ran
over
his
leg
again.
He
pulled
off
the
blanket
and
lighted
the
candle. Shaking
with
feverish
chill
he
bent
down
to
examine
the
bed:
there
was
nothing.
He
shook
the
blanket
and
suddenly a
mouse
jumped
out
on
the
sheet.
He
tried
to
catch
it,
but
the
mouse
ran
to
and
fro
in
zigzags
without
leaving
the
bed, slipped
between
his
fingers,
ran
over
his
hand
and
suddenly darted
under
the
pillow.
He
threw
down
the
pillow,
but
in
one
instant
felt
something
leap
on
his
chest
and
dart
over
his
body
and
down
his
back
under
his
shirt.
He
trembled
nervously
and
woke up.
The
room
was
dark.
He
was
lying
on
the
bed
and
wrapped
up
in
the
blanket
as
before.
The
wind
was
howling
under
the
window. "How disgusting,"
he
thought
with
annoyance.
He
got
up
and
sat
on
the
edge
of
the
bedstead
with
his
back
to
the
window. "It's
better
not
to
sleep
at
all,"
he
decided.
There
was
a cold damp
draught
from
the
window, however;
without
getting
up
he
drew
the
blanket
over
him
and
wrapped
himself
in
it.
He
was
not
thinking
of
anything
and
did
not
want
to
think.
But
one
image
rose
after
another, incoherent scraps
of
thought
without
beginning
or
end
passed
through
his
mind.
He
sank
into
drowsiness.
Perhaps
the
cold,
or
the
dampness,
or
the
dark,
or
the
wind
that
howled
under
the
window
and
tossed
the
trees
roused
a
sort
of
persistent
craving
for
the
fantastic.
He
kept dwelling
on
images
of
flowers,
he
fancied a charming flower garden, a bright, warm,
almost
hot
day, a holiday—Trinity day. A fine,
sumptuous
country
cottage
in
the
English
taste
overgrown
with
fragrant
flowers,
with
flower
beds
going round
the
house;
the
porch,
wreathed
in
climbers,
was
surrounded
with
beds
of
roses. A light, cool staircase, carpeted
with
rich
rugs,
was
decorated
with
rare
plants
in
china pots.
He
noticed particularly
in
the
windows
nosegays
of
tender, white,
heavily
fragrant
narcissus
bending
over
their
bright, green,
thick
long
stalks.
He
was
reluctant
to
move
away
from
them,
but
he
went
up
the
stairs
and
came
into
a large, high drawing-room
and
again
everywhere—at
the
windows,
the
doors
on
to
the
balcony,
and
on
the
balcony
itself—were flowers.
The
floors
were
strewn
with
freshly-cut
fragrant
hay,
the
windows
were
open, a fresh, cool,
light
air came
into
the
room.
The
birds
were
chirruping
under
the
window,
and
in
the
middle
of
the
room,
on
a table covered
with
a
white
satin
shroud, stood a coffin.
The
coffin
was
covered
with
white
silk
and
edged
with
a
thick
white
frill;
wreaths
of
flowers
surrounded
it
on
all
sides.
Among
the
flowers
lay
a
girl
in
a
white
muslin
dress,
with
her
arms
crossed
and
pressed
on
her
bosom,
as
though
carved
out
of
marble.
But
her
loose
fair
hair
was
wet;
there
was
a
wreath
of
roses
on
her
head.
The
stern
and
already
rigid
profile
of
her
face
looked
as
though
chiselled
of
marble too,
and
the
smile
on
her
pale
lips
was
full
of
an
immense
unchildish
misery
and
sorrowful
appeal. Svidrigaďlov
knew
that
girl;
there
was
no
holy
image,
no
burning
candle
beside
the
coffin;
no
sound
of
prayers:
the
girl
had
drowned
herself.
She
was
only
fourteen,
but
her
heart
was
broken.
And
she
had
destroyed
herself, crushed
by
an
insult
that
had appalled
and
amazed
that
childish
soul, had smirched
that
angel
purity
with
unmerited
disgrace
and
torn
from
her
a
last
scream
of
despair, unheeded
and
brutally
disregarded,
on
a dark
night
in
the
cold
and
wet
while
the
wind howled.... Svidrigaďlov came
to
himself, got
up
from
the
bed
and
went
to
the
window.
He
felt
for
the
latch
and
opened
it.
The
wind lashed furiously
into
the
little
room
and
stung
his
face
and
his
chest,
only
covered
with
his
shirt,
as
though
with
frost.
Under
the
window
there
must
have
been
something
like
a garden,
and
apparently a pleasure garden. There, too, probably
there
were
tea-tables
and
singing
in
the
daytime.
Now
drops
of
rain
flew
in
at
the
window
from
the
trees
and
bushes;
it
was
dark
as
in
a cellar,
so
that
he
could
only
just
make
out
some
dark blurs
of
objects. Svidrigaďlov,
bending
down
with
elbows
on
the
window-sill, gazed
for
five
minutes
into
the
darkness;
the
boom
of
a cannon,
followed
by
a
second
one,
resounded
in
the
darkness
of
the
night. "Ah,
the
signal!
The
river
is
overflowing,"
he
thought. "By
morning
it
will
be
swirling
down
the
street
in
the
lower
parts, flooding
the
basements
and
cellars.
The
cellar
rats
will
swim out,
and
men
will
curse
in
the
rain
and
wind
as
they
drag
their
rubbish
to
their
upper
storeys.
What
time
is
it
now?"
And
he
had
hardly
thought
it
when, somewhere near, a clock
on
the
wall,
ticking
away
hurriedly, struck three. "Aha!
It
will
be
light
in
an
hour!
Why
wait? I'll
go
out
at
once
straight
to
the
park. I'll
choose
a
great
bush
there
drenched
with
rain,
so
that
as
soon
as
one's shoulder
touches
it,
millions
of
drops
drip
on
one's head."
He
moved
away
from
the
window,
shut
it,
lighted
the
candle,
put
on
his
waistcoat,
his
overcoat
and
his
hat
and
went out, carrying
the
candle,
into
the
passage
to
look
for
the
ragged
attendant
who
would
be
asleep
somewhere
in
the
midst
of
candle-ends
and
all
sorts
of
rubbish,
to
pay
him
for
the
room
and
leave
the
hotel. "It's
the
best
minute; I couldn't
choose
a better."
He
walked
for
some
time
through
a
long
narrow
corridor
without
finding
anyone
and
was
just
going
to
call
out,
when
suddenly
in
a dark
corner
between
an
old
cupboard
and
the
door
he
caught
sight
of
a
strange
object
which
seemed
to
be
alive.
He
bent
down
with
the
candle
and
saw
a
little
girl,
not
more
than
five
years
old,
shivering
and
crying,
with
her
clothes
as
wet
as
a
soaking
house-flannel.
She
did
not
seem
afraid
of
Svidrigaďlov,
but
looked
at
him
with
blank
amazement
out
of
her
big
black
eyes.
Now
and
then
she
sobbed
as
children
do
when
they
have
been
crying
a
long
time,
but
are
beginning
to
be
comforted.
The
child's face
was
pale
and
tired,
she
was
numb
with
cold. "How
can
she
have
come
here?
She
must
have
hidden
here
and
not
slept
all
night."
He
began
questioning
her.
The
child
suddenly becoming animated, chattered
away
in
her
baby language,
something
about
"mammy"
and
that
"mammy
would
beat her,"
and
about
some
cup
that
she
had "bwoken."
The
child
chattered
on
without
stopping.
He
could
only
guess
from
what
she
said
that
she
was
a neglected child,
whose
mother, probably a
drunken
cook,
in
the
service
of
the
hotel,
whipped
and
frightened her;
that
the
child
had
broken
a
cup
of
her
mother's
and
was
so
frightened
that
she
had
run
away
the
evening
before, had
hidden
for
a
long
while
somewhere outside
in
the
rain,
at
last
had
made
her
way
in
here,
hidden
behind
the
cupboard
and
spent
the
night
there,
crying
and
trembling
from
the
damp,
the
darkness
and
the
fear
that
she
would
be
badly beaten
for
it.
He
took
her
in
his
arms, went
back
to
his
room, sat
her
on
the
bed,
and
began undressing her.
The
torn
shoes
which
she
had
on
her
stockingless feet
were
as
wet
as
if
they
had been standing
in
a puddle
all
night.
When
he
had undressed her,
he
put
her
on
the
bed, covered
her
up
and
wrapped
her
in
the
blanket
from
her
head
downwards.
She
fell
asleep
at
once.
Then
he
sank
into
dreary
musing again. "What
folly
to
trouble
myself,"
he
decided suddenly
with
an
oppressive
feeling
of
annoyance. "What idiocy!"
In
vexation
he
took
up
the
candle
to
go
and
look
for
the
ragged
attendant
again
and
make
haste
to
go
away. "Damn
the
child!"
he
thought
as
he
opened
the
door,
but
he
turned
again
to
see
whether
the
child
was
asleep.
He
raised
the
blanket carefully.
The
child
was
sleeping soundly,
she
had got
warm
under
the
blanket,
and
her
pale
cheeks
were
flushed.
But
strange
to
say
that
flush
seemed
brighter
and
coarser
than
the
rosy
cheeks
of
childhood. "It's a flush
of
fever,"
thought
Svidrigaďlov.
It
was
like
the
flush
from
drinking,
as
though
she
had been
given
a
full
glass
to
drink.
Her
crimson
lips
were
hot
and
glowing;
but
what
was
this?
He
suddenly fancied
that
her
long
black
eyelashes
were
quivering,
as
though
the
lids
were
opening
and
a
sly
crafty
eye
peeped
out
with
an
unchildlike wink,
as
though
the
little
girl
were
not
asleep,
but
pretending. Yes,
it
was
so.
Her
lips
parted
in
a smile.
The
corners
of
her
mouth
quivered,
as
though
she
were
trying
to
control them.
But
now
she
quite
gave
up
all
effort,
now
it
was
a grin, a
broad
grin;
there
was
something
shameless,
provocative
in
that
quite
unchildish face;
it
was
depravity,
it
was
the
face
of
a harlot,
the
shameless
face
of
a
French
harlot.
Now
both
eyes
opened
wide;
they
turned
a glowing,
shameless
glance
upon
him;
they
laughed, invited him....
There
was
something
infinitely
hideous
and
shocking
in
that
laugh,
in
those
eyes,
in
such
nastiness
in
the
face
of
a child. "What,
at
five
years
old?" Svidrigaďlov
muttered
in
genuine
horror. "What
does
it
mean?"
And
now
she
turned
to
him,
her
little
face
all
aglow, holding
out
her
arms.... "Accursed child!" Svidrigaďlov cried,
raising
his
hand
to
strike her,
but
at
that
moment
he
woke up.
He
was
in
the
same
bed,
still
wrapped
in
the
blanket.
The
candle
had
not
been lighted,
and
daylight
was
streaming
in
at
the
windows. "I've had
nightmare
all
night!"
He
got
up
angrily, feeling
utterly
shattered;
his
bones
ached.
There
was
a
thick
mist
outside
and
he
could
see
nothing.
It
was
nearly five.
He
had overslept himself!
He
got up,
put
on
his
still
damp
jacket
and
overcoat. Feeling
the
revolver
in
his
pocket,
he
took
it
out
and
then
he
sat down,
took
a notebook
out
of
his
pocket
and
in
the
most
conspicuous
place
on
the
title
page
wrote a
few
lines
in
large
letters.
Reading
them
over,
he
sank
into
thought
with
his
elbows
on
the
table.
The
revolver
and
the
notebook
lay
beside
him.
Some
flies
woke
up
and
settled
on
the
untouched veal,
which
was
still
on
the
table.
He
stared
at
them
and
at
last
with
his
free
right
hand
began trying
to
catch
one.
He
tried
till
he
was
tired,
but
could
not
catch
it.
At
last,
realising
that
he
was
engaged
in
this
interesting pursuit,
he
started, got
up
and
walked
resolutely
out
of
the
room. A
minute
later
he
was
in
the
street. A
thick
milky
mist
hung
over
the
town. Svidrigaďlov walked
along
the
slippery
dirty
wooden
pavement
towards
the
Little
Neva.
He
was
picturing
the
waters
of
the
Little
Neva
swollen
in
the
night, Petrovsky Island,
the
wet
paths,
the
wet
grass,
the
wet
trees
and
bushes
and
at
last
the
bush....
He
began ill-humouredly staring
at
the
houses, trying
to
think
of
something
else.
There
was
not
a cabman
or
a passer-by
in
the
street.
The
bright
yellow, wooden,
little
houses
looked
dirty
and
dejected
with
their
closed shutters.
The
cold
and
damp
penetrated
his
whole
body
and
he
began
to
shiver.
From
time
to
time
he
came
across
shop
signs
and
read
each
carefully.
At
last
he
reached
the
end
of
the
wooden
pavement
and
came
to
a
big
stone
house. A dirty,
shivering
dog
crossed
his
path
with
its
tail
between
its
legs. A
man
in
a greatcoat
lay
face downwards;
dead
drunk,
across
the
pavement.
He
looked
at
him
and
went on. A high
tower
stood
up
on
the
left. "Bah!"
he
shouted, "here
is
a place.
Why
should
it
be
Petrovsky?
It
will
be
in
the
presence
of
an
official
witness anyway...."
He
almost
smiled
at
this
new
thought
and
turned
into
the
street
where
there
was
the
big
house
with
the
tower.
At
the
great
closed gates
of
the
house, a
little
man
stood
with
his
shoulder
leaning
against them, wrapped
in
a grey soldier's coat,
with
a
copper
Achilles
helmet
on
his
head.
He
cast a
drowsy
and
indifferent
glance
at
Svidrigaďlov.
His
face wore
that
perpetual
look
of
peevish
dejection,
which
is
so
sourly
printed
on
all
faces
of
Jewish
race
without
exception.
They
both, Svidrigaďlov
and
Achilles, stared
at
each
other
for
a
few
minutes
without
speaking.
At
last
it
struck
Achilles
as
irregular
for
a
man
not
drunk
to
be
standing
three
steps
from
him, staring
and
not
saying
a word. "What
do
you
want
here?"
he
said,
without
moving
or
changing
his
position. "Nothing, brother,
good
morning,"
answered
Svidrigaďlov. "This isn't
the
place." "I
am
going
to
foreign
parts, brother." "To
foreign
parts?" "To America." "America." Svidrigaďlov
took
out
the
revolver
and
cocked
it.
Achilles
raised
his
eyebrows. "I say,
this
is
not
the
place
for
such
jokes!" "Why shouldn't
it
be
the
place?" "Because
it
isn't." "Well, brother, I don't
mind
that. It's a
good
place.
When
you
are
asked,
you
just
say
he
was
going,
he
said,
to
America."
He
put
the
revolver
to
his
right
temple. "You can't
do
it
here, it's
not
the
place," cried Achilles,
rousing
himself,
his
eyes
growing
bigger
and
bigger. Svidrigaďlov
pulled
the
trigger.