Svidrigaïlov was already in the carriage. Raskolnikov decided that his suspicions were at least for that moment unjust. Without answering a word he turned and walked back towards the Hay Market. If he had only turned round on his way he might have seen Svidrigaïlov get out not a hundred paces off, dismiss the cab and walk along the pave-ment. But he had turned the corner and could see nothing.
Intense disgust drew him away from Svidrigaïlov.
‘To think that I could for one instant have looked for help from that coarse brute, that depraved sensualist and black-guard!’ he cried.
Raskolnikov’s judgment was uttered too lightly and hastily: there was something about Svidrigaïlov which gave him a certain original, even a mysterious character. As concerned his sister, Raskolnikov was convinced that Svidrigaïlov would not leave her in peace. But it was too tiresome and unbearable to go on thinking and thinking about this.
When he was alone, he had not gone twenty paces before he sank, as usual, into deep thought. On the bridge he stood by the railing and began gazing at the water. And his sister was standing close by him.
He met her at the entrance to the bridge, but passed by without seeing her. Dounia had never met him like this in the street before and was struck with dismay. She stood still and did not know whether to call to him or not. Suddenly she saw Svidrigaïlov coming quickly from the direction of the Hay Market.
He seemed to be approaching cautiously. He did not go on to the bridge, but stood aside on the pavement, doing all he could to avoid Raskolnikov’s seeing him. He had ob-served Dounia for some time and had been making signs to her. She fancied he was signalling to beg her not to speak to her brother, but to come to him.
That was what Dounia did. She stole by her brother and went up to Svidrigaïlov.
‘Let us make haste away,’ Svidrigaïlov whispered to her, ‘I don’t want Rodion Romanovitch to know of our meeting. I must tell you I’ve been sitting with him in the restaurant
close by, where he looked me up and I had great dificulty in getting rid of him. He has somehow heard of my letter to you and suspects something. It wasn’t you who told him, of course, but if not you, who then?’
‘Well, we’ve turned the corner now,’ Dounia interrupted, ‘and my brother won’t see us. I have to tell you that I am go-
ing no further with you. Speak to me here. You can tell it all in the street.’
‘In the first place, I can’t say it in the street; secondly, you must hear Sofya Semyonovna too; and, thirdly, I will show you some papers…. Oh well, if you won’t agree to come with me, I shall refuse to give any explanation and go away at once. But I beg you not to forget that a very curious secret of your beloved brother’s is entirely in my keeping.’
Dounia stood still, hesitating, and looked at Svidrigaïlov with searching eyes.
‘What are you afraid of?’ he observed quietly. ‘The town is not the country. And even in the country you did me more harm than I did you.’
‘Have you prepared Sofya Semyonovna?’
‘No, I have not said a word to her and am not quite cer-tain whether she is at home now. But most likely she is. She has buried her stepmother to-day: she is not likely to go vis-iting on such a day. For the time I don’t want to speak to anyone about it and I half regret having spoken to you. The slightest indiscretion is as bad as betrayal in a thing like
this. I live there in that house, we are coming to it. That’s the porter of our house—he knows me very well; you see, he’s bowing; he sees I’m coming with a lady and no doubt he has noticed your face already and you will be glad of that if you are afraid of me and suspicious. Excuse my putting things so coarsely. I haven’t a flat to myself; Sofya Semyonovna’s room is next to mine—she lodges in the next flat. The whole floor is let out in lodgings. Why are you frightened like a child? Am I really so terrible?’
Svidrigaïlov’s lips were twisted in a condescending smile; but he was in no smiling mood. His heart was throb-bing and he could scarcely breathe. He spoke rather loud to cover his growing excitement. But Dounia did not notice this peculiar excitement, she was so irritated by his remark that she was frightened of him like a child and that he was so terrible to her.
‘Though I know that you are not a man … of honour, I am not in the least afraid of you. Lead the way,’ she said with apparent composure, but her face was very pale.
Svidrigaïlov stopped at Sonia’s room.
‘Allow me to inquire whether she is at home…. She is not. How unfortunate! But I know she may come quite soon. If she’s gone out, it can only be to see a lady about the orphans. Their mother is dead…. I’ve been meddling and making ar-rangements for them. If Sofya Semyonovna does not come back in ten minutes, I will send her to you, to-day if you like. This is my flat. These are my two rooms. Madame Resslich, my landlady, has the next room. Now, look this way. I will show you my chief piece of evidence: this door from my
bedroom leads into two perfectly empty rooms, which are to let. Here they are … You must look into them with some attention.’
Svidrigaïlov occupied two fairly large furnished rooms. Dounia was looking about her mistrustfully, but saw noth-ing special in the furniture or position of the rooms. Yet there was something to observe, for instance, that Svidriga-ïlov’s flat was exactly between two sets of almost uninhabited apartments. His rooms were not entered directly from the passage, but through the landlady’s two almost empty rooms. Unlocking a door leading out of his bedroom, Svid-rigaïlov showed Dounia the two empty rooms that were to let. Dounia stopped in the doorway, not knowing what she was called to look upon, but Svidrigaïlov hastened to ex-plain.
‘Look here, at this second large room. Notice that door, it’s locked. By the door stands a chair, the only one in the two rooms. I brought it from my rooms so as to listen more conveniently. Just the other side of the door is Sofya Semyonovna’s table; she sat there talking to Rodion Roma-novitch. And I sat here listening on two successive evenings, for two hours each time—and of course I was able to learn something, what do you think?’
‘You listened?’
‘Yes, I did. Now come back to my room; we can’t sit down here.’
He brought Avdotya Romanovna back into his sitting-room and offered her a chair. He sat down at the opposite side of the table, at least seven feet from her, but probably
there was the same glow in his eyes which had once fright-ened Dounia so much. She shuddered and once more looked about her distrustfully. It was an involuntary gesture; she evidently did not wish to betray her uneasiness. But the secluded position of Svidrigaïlov’s lodging had suddenly struck her. She wanted to ask whether his landlady at least were at home, but pride kept her from asking. Moreover, she had another trouble in her heart incomparably greater than fear for herself. She was in great distress.
‘Here is your letter,’ she said, laying it on the table. ‘Can it be true what you write? You hint at a crime committed, you say, by my brother. You hint at it too clearly; you daren’t deny it now. I must tell you that I’d heard of this stupid story before you wrote and don’t believe a word of it. It’s a disgusting and ridiculous suspicion. I know the story and why and how it was invented. You can have no proofs. You promised to prove it. Speak! But let me warn you that I don’t believe you! I don’t believe you!’
Dounia said this, speaking hurriedly, and for an instant the colour rushed to her face.
‘If you didn’t believe it, how could you risk coming alone to my rooms? Why have you come? Simply from curiosity?’
‘Don’t torment me. Speak, speak!’
‘There’s no denying that you are a brave girl. Upon my word, I thought you would have asked Mr. Razumihin to escort you here. But he was not with you nor anywhere near. I was
