He hurried to Svidrigailov'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 Svidrigailov 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 Svidrigailov should not go to Porfiry's? Was it worth while to investigate, to ascertain the facts, to waste time over anyone like Svidrigailov?
Oh, how sick he was of it all!
And yet he was hastening to Svidrigailov; could he be expecting something /new/ from him, information, or means of escape? Men will catch at straws! Was it destiny or some instinct bringing them together? Perhaps it was only fatigue, despair; perhaps it was not Svidrigailov but some other whom he needed, and Svidrigailov had simply presented himself by chance. Sonia? But what should he go to Sonia for now? To beg her tears again? He was afraid of Sonia, too. Sonia stood before him as an irrevocable sentence. He must go his own way or hers. At that moment especially he did not feel equal to seeing her. No, would it not be better to try Svidrigailov? And he could not help inwardly owning that he had long felt that he must see him for some reason.
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 Svidrigailov was dogging his footsteps. Svidrigailov 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 Svidrigailov. 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 Svidrigailov 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 Svidrigailov 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 Svidrigailov, sitting at a tea-table right in the open window with a pipe in his mouth. Raskolnikov was dreadfully taken aback, almost terrified. Svidrigailov 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 Svidrigailov 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 Svidrigailov's face and grew broader and broader. Each knew that he was seen and watched by the other. At last Svidrigailov 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 Svidrigailov 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 Svidrigailov 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," Svidrigailov 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 Svidrigailov.
"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 Svidrigailov'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. Svidrigailov 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. Svidrigailov 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 Svidrigailov. "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," Svidrigailov 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 Svidrigailov, 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 Svidrigailov. 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. Svidrigailov 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 Svidrigailov, 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," Svidrigailov 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 Svidrigailov 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," Svidrigailov 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!" Svidrigailov 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 aesthetics! 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 Svidrigailov 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 Svidrigailov was the most worthless scoundrel on the face of the earth.
"A-ach! Sit down, stay a little!" Svidrigailov 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."
他急于去找斯维德里盖洛夫。在这个人身上他能寄托什么希望呢——他自己也不知道。但是这个人身上却暗藏着一种能够支配他的权力。才一意识到这一点，他就已经不能放心了，何况现在时候已经到了呢。
一路上，有一个问题特别使他感到苦恼：斯维德里盖洛夫去没去过波尔菲里那里？
就他所了解的情况来看，他可以起誓——不，没去过！他想了又想，回想波尔菲里来访的全部过程，他明白：不，没去过，当然没去过！
不过如果他还没去过，那么他会不会去找波尔菲里呢？
目前他暂时觉得，不会去。为什么？对此他不能作出解释，不过如果他能解释的话，现在也就不会为此绞尽脑汁了。这一切使他非常苦恼，但同时不知为什么他又顾不得这个了。真是怪事，也许谁也不会相信，然而对自己目前的命运，对必须立刻作出决定的命运，不知为什么他却并不怎么关心，甚至是漫不经心。使他感到痛苦的是另一件重要得多、异常重要的事情，——这也是一件只关系到他本人、与别人都不相干的事，不过是另一件事，也是一件最主要的事情。加以他感到一精一神上已经疲劳到极点，尽管这天早上他的思考能力比最近这几天都要好一些。
已经发生了这么多事情，现在还值不值得努力设法克服这些新的、微不足道的困难呢？譬如说，还值不值得千方百计竭力不让斯维德里盖洛夫去找波尔菲里；还值不值得去研究、打听，在一个什么斯维德里盖洛夫的身上一浪一费时间呢？
噢，这一切让他多么厌烦啊！
然而他还是急于去找斯维德里盖洛夫；他是不是期望从他那里了解到什么新情况，从他那里得到什么指示，找到什么出路呢？就连一根稻草也会抓住不放嘛！是不是命运，是不是什么本能促使他们遇到了一起？也许，这只不过是疲倦和绝望；也许需要的不是斯维德里盖洛夫，而是另一个人，而斯维德里盖洛夫只不过是偶然给碰上了而已。索尼娅吗？可现在他去找索尼娅作什么？又去乞求她的眼泪吗？而且索尼娅让他感到可怕。索尼娅就是无情的判决，索尼娅就是不可改变的决定。现在——不是走她的路，就是走他的路。特别是在这个时候，他不能去见她。不，是不是最好去试探一下斯维德里盖洛夫，弄清他究竟是个什么人？他内心里不得不承认，不知为什么他似乎当真是早就已经需要这个人了。
然而他们之间能有什么共同之处呢？就连他们干的坏事也不可能是相同的。而且这个人还很讨厌，显然异常一婬一荡，一定十分狡猾，喜欢骗人，说不定还很恶毒。关于他，就有一些这样的议论。不错，他为卡捷琳娜·伊万诺芙娜的孩子们奔走张罗；可是谁知道他这样做是为了什么，又意味着什么？
这个人总是有什么企图，有什么计划的。
这些天来，拉斯科利尼科夫的头脑里还经常出现一个模模糊糊的想法，这想法使他感到非常不安，尽管他甚至曾努力设法驱除它，它让他感到太苦恼了！有时他想：斯维德里盖洛夫一直在他周围转来转去，现在仍然在他周围转悠；斯维德里盖洛夫已经知道了他的秘密；斯维德里盖洛夫以前曾经有一些算计杜尼娅的一陰一谋诡计。如果现在还有这样的一陰一谋呢？几乎可以肯定地说：是的。如果现在，他知道了他的秘密，因而获得了控制他的权力，那么他想不想用这种权力作为武器，来算计杜尼娅呢？
这个想法有时甚至会在梦中折磨他，但是像现在，像他去找斯维德里盖洛夫的时候这样清晰地想到这一切，却还是第一次。单单是这么想一想，就已经使他心情抑郁，怒火中烧了。第一，当时一切都已经发生了变化，就连他自己的处境也改变了，所以应该立刻向杜涅奇卡坦白说出这个秘密。或许应该牺牲自己，以免杜涅奇卡行动不够谨慎。一封信？今天早晨杜尼娅接到了一封信！在彼得堡，她能接到谁的信呢？（难道是卢任吗？）不错，有拉祖米欣在那儿守护着；不过拉祖米欣什么也不知道。或许也应该向拉祖米欣坦白地说出来？
拉斯科利尼科夫极端厌恶地想。
无论如何，必须尽快见到斯维德里盖洛夫，他暗自拿定了主意。谢天谢地，他需要知道的与其说是细节，不如说是事情的实质；不过，如果斯维德里盖洛夫有算计杜尼娅的一陰一谋，只要他能做得到，那就……
这些时候，这一个月来，拉斯科利尼科夫已经心力一交一瘁，对类似的问题现在已经不能作出任何别的决定，他能想出的唯一办法就是：“那么我就杀了他”，他怀着冷酷绝望的心情想。他心情沉重，感到压抑；他在街道中间站住了，朝四下里望望：他走的是哪条路，这是上哪儿去啊？他正站在×大街上，离他刚刚穿过的干草广场有三十或四十步远。左边一幢房子的二楼上是一家小饭馆。所有窗子全都大敞着；根据窗内来回走动的人影来看，小饭馆里已经座无虚席。大厅里歌声婉转，黑管和小提琴奏出悠扬的曲调，土耳其鼓敲得热情奔放。还可以听到女人的尖一叫一声。他感到困惑不解，不知为什么竟会转到×大街上来了，本想转身回去，突然在小饭馆最边上一扇开着的窗户里看到了斯维德里盖洛夫，斯维德里盖洛夫嘴里叼着烟斗，靠窗坐在一张茶桌旁边。这使他十分惊讶，甚至是大吃一惊。斯维德里盖洛夫正在默默地观察他，仔细打量他，这也立刻使拉斯科利尼科夫吃了一惊：似乎斯维德里盖洛夫本想站起来，在还没被发觉之前悄悄地溜走。拉斯科利尼科夫立刻装作好像没看到他的样子，若有所思地望着一旁，可是还在用眼角盯着他。拉斯科利尼科夫的心忐忑不安地怦怦地狂跳。一点不错：斯维德里盖洛夫显然不愿意让人看到自己。他从嘴里拿出烟斗，已经想要躲起来了；可是，站起来，推开椅子以后，大概突然发觉，拉斯科利尼科夫已经看见他了，而且正在观察他。他们之间发生了与他们在拉斯科利尼科夫家初次见面时十分相似的情景，当时拉斯科利尼科夫正在睡觉。斯维德里盖洛夫脸上露出了狡猾的微笑，笑容越来越舒展了。两人都知道，他们彼此都看到了对方，而且在互相观察对方。最后斯维德里盖洛夫高声哈哈大笑起来。
“喂，喂，您高兴的话，那就进来吧；我在这里！”他从窗子里喊。
拉斯科利尼科夫上楼到小饭馆里去了。
他在后面一间很小的房间里找到了他，这间小房间只有一扇窗子，与大厅毗连，大厅里摆着二十张小桌，歌手们正在合唱，扯着嗓子拚命叫喊，一些商人、官吏和各色人等一边听唱歌，一边在喝茶。不知从哪里传来了打台球的响声。斯维德里盖洛夫面前的小桌上放着一瓶已经打开的香槟和一个盛着半杯酒的玻璃杯。这间小房间里还有一个背着一架小手摇风琴的少年流一浪一乐师，一个身一体健康、面颊红一润的姑一娘一，她那条花条裙子的下摆掖在腰里，戴一顶系带子的蒂罗尔①式的帽子，她是个卖唱的，约摸十七、八岁，尽管隔壁屋里正在高声合唱，她却在手摇风琴的伴奏下，用相当嘶哑的女低音在唱一首庸俗的流行歌曲……
“喂，够了！”拉斯科利尼科夫一进来，斯维德里盖洛夫就叫她别唱了。
姑一娘一立刻停下来，恭恭敬敬地等着。她唱那首押韵的庸俗流行歌曲的时候，脸上也是带着这样严肃而又恭敬的神情。
“喂，菲利普，拿个杯子来！”斯维德里盖洛夫喊了一声。
“我不喝酒，”拉斯科利尼科夫说。
“随您便，我不是给您的。喝吧，卡佳！今天不需要再唱了，你走吧！”他给她斟了满满一杯酒，拿出一张淡黄色的钞票②来。卡佳照妇女们喝酒的方式，也就是接连喝了二十来口，一口气把一杯酒全喝光了，拿了那张钞票，吻了吻斯维德里盖洛夫一本正经伸出来让她吻的手，从屋里走了出去，那个背手摇风琴的男孩子也跟着她慢慢地出去了。他们俩都是从街上叫来的。斯维德里盖洛夫在彼得堡住了还不到一个星期，可是他身边的一切已经带有古代宗法制社会的遗风了。小饭馆里的堂倌菲利普已经成了他的“熟人”，在他面前一奴一颜婢膝。通大厅的门锁起来了；斯维德里盖洛夫在这间屋里就像在自己家里一样，说不定整天整天都待在这里。这家小饭馆很脏，可以说很不好，甚至够不上中等水平。
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①蒂罗尔是奥地利的一个州。
②一卢布的钞票。
“我去您那儿找您，”拉斯科利尼科夫开始说，“可是不知为什么从干草广场拐了个弯，来到了×大街上！我从来不弯到这儿来，也不打这儿经过。我从干草广场往右转弯。而且去您那儿的路也不是往这边来。我刚一拐弯，就看到了您！这真怪！”
“您为什么不直截了当地说：这是奇迹！”
“因为这也许只不过是偶然的。”
“要知道，所有你们这些人都是这样的一性一格！”斯维德里盖洛夫哈哈大笑起来，“即使心里相信奇迹，可就是不肯承认，您不是说吗：‘也许’只不过是偶然的。谈到发表自己的意见嘛，这儿的人都是些胆小鬼，这您想象不到吧，罗季昂·罗曼内奇！我说的不是您。您有自己的见解，也不怕有自己的见解。正是因为这一点，您才引起了我的好奇心。”
“再没有旁的了吗？”
“就这一点已经足够了。”
显然斯维德里盖洛夫心情是兴奋的，不过只是稍有点儿兴奋；他只喝了半杯酒。
“我觉得，在您知道我能有您所谓的自己的见解之前，您就来找我了，”拉斯科利尼科夫说。
“啊，那时候是另一回事。无论什么事情都有几个发展阶段。至于说到奇迹嘛，我要告诉您，最近这两三天您好像都白白错过了。是我约您到这家小饭馆来的，您径直到这儿来了，根本就不是什么奇迹；我亲自详细告诉过您，到这儿来的路怎么走，还告诉过您，这家小饭馆在哪儿，几点钟的时候可以在这儿找到我。您记得吗？”
“我忘了，”拉斯科利尼科夫惊讶地说。
“我相信。我跟您说过两次了。这个地址不知不觉深深印在了您的脑子里。于是您也就不知不觉弯到这儿来了，然而您是一精一确地按照地址找来的，虽说您自己并没意识到这一点。当时我跟您说的时候，并没指望您会理解我的意思。您太露马脚了，罗季昂·罗曼内奇。我还要告诉您：我深信，彼得堡有许多人走路的时候都在自言自语。这是个半疯狂的人的城市。如果我们有科学的话，那么医生、法学家和哲学家都可以根据自己的专业作一次极有价值的调查研究。难得找到这么一个地方，像在彼得堡这样，对人有这么多忧郁的、强烈的和奇怪的影响。单是气候的影响就令人吃惊！然而这是全俄罗斯的中心，它的特征应该在一切事物上都反映出来。不过现在问题不在这里，而在于，我已经有好几次对您冷眼旁观了。您从家里出来的时候还在昂着头。走了二十来步，您已经低下头，把双手背在背后了。您在看，可是无论是前面、还是两旁的东西，您已经什么也看不见了。最后，您嘴唇微微翕动，自言自语起来，有时您还伸出一只手，作着手势。这很不好。说不定，除了我，还有别人在注意您，这可就对您不利了。其实，对我来说，反正一样，我不会治好您这个病，不过您当然明白我的意思。”
“您知道有人在监视我？”拉斯科利尼科夫问，同时试探地打量着他。
“不，我什么也不知道，”斯维德里盖洛夫似乎惊讶地回答。
“嗯，那就请您不要管我，”拉斯科利尼科夫皱起眉头，含糊不清地说。
“好吧，我不管您。”
“您最好还是说说，既然您常来这儿喝酒，而且曾两次约我到这儿来会面，那么现在，我从街上朝窗子里望的时候，您为什么却躲起来，想要溜走呢？这我看得很清楚。”
“嘿！嘿！当时我站在您房门口的时候，您为什么闭着眼睛躺在沙发上，假装睡觉呢？其实您根本就没睡。这我看得很清楚。”
“我可能有……原因……这您是知道的。”
“我也可能有我的原因，虽说您不会知道，是什么原因。”
拉斯科利尼科夫把右胳膊肘撑在桌子上，用右手的手指从下面托着下巴，凝神注视着斯维德里盖洛夫。他对着他的脸仔细看了一会儿，以前这张脸也总是让他感到惊讶。这是一张奇怪的脸，好像是个假面具：面色白中透红，鲜红的嘴唇，留着一部色泽光亮的谈黄色大一胡一子，一头淡黄色的头发还相当浓密。他的眼睛不知怎么好像太蓝了，目光不知怎么似乎过于一陰一沉而又呆滞。在这张就年龄来说显得异常年轻的、美丽的脸上，不知有点儿什么让人感到极不愉快的东西。斯维德里盖洛夫的衣服极其考究，是一套轻而薄的夏装，而他特别向人炫耀的，还是他的内一衣。一只手指上戴着一枚镶着贵重宝石的老大的戒指。
“难道我也得和您较量较量吗，”拉斯科利尼科夫突然焦躁不安、急不可耐、直截了当地说，“如果您想伤害我，虽然您也许是一个最危险的人，可是我却不想突然改变自己的一习一惯。我这就让您看看，我并不是像您所想的那样一爱一惜自己，您大概认为我非常一爱一惜自己吧。您要知道，我来找您，是要直截了当地告诉您，如果您对舍妹还有从前的那种打算，如果为了达到这个目的，您想利用最近发现的秘密，那么在您把我关进*之前，我就先杀了您。我说话是算数的：您要知道，我说得到，就做得到。第二，如果您想对我没什么，——因为这些时候我一直觉得您好像有话要对我说，——那么就请快点儿说吧，因为时间是很宝贵的，也许，要不了多久，就会迟了。”
“您这么急，是急于上哪儿去啊？”斯维德里盖洛夫问，一边好奇地细细打量他。
“什么事情都有几个发展阶段，”拉斯科利尼科夫一陰一郁地、急不可耐地说。
“您自己刚才要求我们开诚布公，可是对我的第一个问题，您就拒绝回答，”斯维德里盖洛夫微笑着说。“您总是觉得我有什么目的，所以一直用怀疑的目光来看我。有什么呢，处在您的地位上，这是可以理解的。不过不管我多么想跟您一交一朋友，可我还是不敢让您相信，事情恰恰相反。真的，这样做得不偿失，而且我也没打算跟您谈任何特殊的事情。”“那么您为什么那样需要我呢？您不是对我很感兴趣吗？”
“只不过是作为一个有趣的观察对象罢了。您的处境很不平常，我喜欢这种很不平常的一性一质，——这就是我对您感兴趣的原因！此外，您是我十分关心的一个女人的哥哥，还有，当时我经常从这个女人那里听到许多关于您的事情，因此我得出结论，您对她有很大的影响；难道这还不够吗？嘿——嘿——嘿！不过，我得承认，对于我来说，您的问题非常复杂，我很难回答您。嗯，譬如说，现在您来找我，不仅是有事，而且还想来了解点儿什么新情况吧？是这样吧？是这样的，不是吗？”斯维德里盖洛夫脸上带着狡猾的微笑，坚持说，“既然如此，那么您要知道，还在我到这儿来的路上，在火车上的时候，我就对您抱有希望了，希望您也能告诉我点儿什么新情况，希望能从您这里得到点儿什么对我有用的东西！
瞧，我们都是多么富有啊！”
“什么有用的东西呢？”
“怎么跟您说呢？难道我知道是什么吗？您瞧，我一直待在一家小饭馆里，就已经感到心满意足了，也就是说，倒不是心满意足，而是说，总得有个地方坐坐吧。嗯，就拿这个可怜的卡佳来说吧，——您看到了吧？……嗯，譬如说，虽然我是个一爱一吃的人，俱乐部①的美食家，可是您瞧，像这样的东西我也能吃！（他伸出一只手指，指指角落里，那里一张小桌子上摆着一个洋铁盘子，盘子里盛着吃剩的、让人难以下咽的土豆烧牛排。）顺便问一声，您吃过午饭了吗？我稍微吃了一点儿，不想再吃了。譬如说吧，我根本不喝酒。除了香槟，什么也不喝，就连香槟，整整一晚上也只喝了一杯，就这样还觉得头痛。现在我叫了这杯酒，是为了提提神，因为我打算到一个地方去，您看得出来，我的心情有点儿特别。刚才我所以像个小学生样躲起来，是因为我想，您会妨碍我；不过，看来（他掏出表来），还可以跟您在一起坐一个钟头；现在是四点半。您相信吗，要是有个什么专长就好了；要是我是个地主，要么是神甫，要么是槍骑兵，摄影师，新闻记者……那就好了，可是什么、什么专长都没有！有时候甚至觉得无聊。真的，我还以为您会告诉我点儿什么新情况呢。”
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①指莫斯科、彼得堡的英国俱乐部，那里有最好的厨师；美食家们都喜欢到那里去享用烹调得最好的菜肴。
“那么您是什么人，您为什么要来这里？”
“我是什么人？您是知道的：我是个贵族，曾在骑兵队里服役两年，后来在这儿，在彼得堡闲荡，后来和玛尔法·彼特罗芙娜结婚，住在乡下。这就是我的履历！”
“您好像是个赌徒？”
“不，我算什么赌徒。是赌棍，不是赌徒。”
“您是赌棍？”
“是啊，是赌棍。”
“怎么，有人打过您吗！”
“有过。那又怎样呢？”
“喂，那么，您可以要求决斗……一般说，决斗会使人获得新生……”
“我不反驳您，而且我也不善于谈论哲学问题。我坦白地对您说，我匆匆赶到这里来，多半是为了女人。”
“刚刚埋葬了玛尔法·彼特罗芙娜，您就赶来了吗？”
“嗯，是的，”斯维德里盖洛夫微微一笑，感到在开诚布公这一点上，他获得了胜利。“那又怎样呢？您好像认为，我这样谈论女人是不道德的？”
“也就是说，我是不是认为，生活放一荡是不道德的？”
“生活放一荡！唉，您说到哪里去了！不过我要按顺序来回答您，首先一般地谈谈女人，您要知道，我喜欢闲扯。您倒说说看，我为什么要克制自己？既然我一爱一女人，那我为什么要放弃女人呢？至少可以有事做。”
“那么您在这儿仅仅是希望过放一荡的生活了！”
“就算是想过放一荡生活吧，那又怎样呢！您老是想着放一荡的生活。至少我喜欢直截了当的问题。在这种放一荡生活里至少有一种固定不变的东西，它甚至是以天一性一为基础，而不是为幻想所左右的，它犹如血液中永不熄灭的炭火，永远燃一烧着，还要燃一烧很久很久，随着年龄的增长，或许也不能让它很快熄灭。您应该承认，这难道不也是一种工作吗？”
“这有什么值得高兴的？这是一种病，而且是一种危险的病。”
“唉，您又说到哪里去了？我同意，这是一种病，正如一切过度的事情一样，——而这种事情是一定会过度的，——不过要知道，这种事情，第一，各人的情况不同，第二，当然啦，一切都要有分寸，要有节制，虽然是下流的，可是有什么办法呢？要不是有这种工作，大概，真会开槍自一杀。我同意，一个正派人理应不怕寂寞，可是……”
“您会开槍自一杀吗？”
“唉，”斯维德里盖洛夫厌恶地阻止他说，“请您别谈这个，”他又赶紧补充说，甚至不像以前那样，已经不再吹牛了。就连他的脸色也好像变了。“我承认有这个不可原谅的弱点，可是有什么办法呢：我怕死，也不喜欢别人谈死。您知道吗，在某种程度上，我是个神秘主义者。”
“啊！玛尔法·彼特罗芙娜的鬼魂！怎么，还继续出现吗？”
“去它的吧，您别提了；在彼得堡还没出现过；去它的！”他高声说，脸上露出恼怒的神情。“不，最好还是谈谈这个吧……对了，不过……嗯哼！哎呀，时间不多了，我不能跟您长久待在这里，很可惜！本想告诉您的。”
“您有什么事，是女人吗？”
“是的，是女人，一个意外的机会……不，我要说的不是这个。”
“嗯，这儿环境的卑鄙污浊已经不影响您了？您已经无力自制了吗？”
“那么您也希望获得这种力量吗？嘿——嘿——嘿！刚才您让我吃了一惊，罗季昂·罗曼内奇，虽说我早就知道，事情是会这样的。您在跟我大谈放一荡的生活，大谈美学！您是席勒，您是理想主义者！当然，这一切理应如此，如果不是这样，倒要让人觉得奇怪了，然而实际上还是奇怪的……唉，可惜，时间不多了，因为您是个非常有趣的人！顺便问一声，您喜欢席勒吗？我倒非常喜欢。”
“不过，您可真是个一爱一吹牛的人！”拉斯科利尼科夫有些厌恶地说。
“唉，真的，我不是！”斯维德里盖洛夫哈哈大笑着回答，“不过，我不争辩，就算是一爱一吹牛吧；可是为什么不吹呢，既然吹牛并不会伤害别人。我在乡下，在玛尔法·彼特罗芙娜的庄园里住了七年，所以现在急于想跟像您这样的聪明人——聪明而又十分有趣的人谈谈，真高兴海阔天空，随便聊聊，此外，我喝了半杯酒，酒劲已经有点儿冲上来了。主要的是，有一个情况让我感到十分兴奋，不过这件事……我不想谈。您去哪里？”斯维德里盖洛夫突然惊恐地问。
拉斯科利尼科夫站了起来。他来到这里，感到难过，气闷，不大舒服。他确信，斯维德里盖洛夫是世界上最无聊、最渺小的一个恶棍。
“唉——！别走，再坐一会儿嘛，”斯维德里盖洛夫请求说。 “至少也得要杯茶喝。好，请坐一会儿，好，我不再一胡一扯了，也就是说，不再谈我自己的事了。我要告诉您一件事。嗯，如果您想听，我跟您谈谈，一个女人怎么，用您的说法，怎么‘救了’我？这甚至就是对您第一个问题的回答，因为这个女人就是令妹。可以谈吗？而且咱们还可以消磨时间。”
“您说吧，不过我希望，您……”
“噢，请您放心！而且就连像我这样一个品质恶劣、一精一神空虚的人，阿芙多季娅·罗曼诺芙娜使我心中产生的也只有深深的敬意。”
