بخش 06 - فصل 05

CHAPTER FIVE

RASKOLNIKOV WALKED AFTER HIM.

“What’s this?” cried Svidrigailov turning round, “I thought I said . . . ”

“It means that I am not going to lose sight of you now.”

“What?”

Both stood still and gazed at one another, as though measuring their strength.

“From all your half tipsy stories,” Raskolnikov observed harshly, “I am convinced that you have not given up your designs on my sister, but are pursuing them more actively than ever. I have learnt that my sister received a letter this morning. You have hardly been able to sit still all this time . . . You may have unearthed a wife on the way, but that means nothing. I should like to make certain myself.” Raskolnikov could hardly have said himself what he wanted and what he wished to make certain of.

“My goodness! I’ll call the police!”

“Call away!”

Again they stood for a minute facing each other. At last Svidrigailov’s face changed. Having satisfied himself that Raskolnikov was not frightened at his threat, he assumed a mirthful and friendly air.

“What a person! I purposely avoided referring to your affair, though I am devoured by curiosity. It’s fantastic. I’ve put it off until another time, but you’re enough to rouse the dead … Well, let us go, only I warn you beforehand I am only going home for a moment, to get some money; then I shall lock up the apartment, take a cab and go to spend the evening at the Islands. Now, now are you going to follow me?” “I’m coming to your house, not to see you but Sofia Semionovna, to say I’m sorry not to have been at the funeral.”

“That’s as you like, but Sofia Semionovna is not at home. She has taken the three children to an old lady of high rank, the patroness of some orphan asylums, whom I used to know years ago. I charmed the old lady by depositing a sum of money with her to provide for the three children of Katerina Ivanovna and subscribing to the institution as well. I also told her the story of Sofia Semionovna in full detail, suppressing nothing. It produced an indescribable effect on her. That’s why Sofia Semionovna has been invited to call today at the X. Hotel where the lady is staying for the time.” “It doesn’t matter; I’ll come all the same.”

“As you like, it’s nothing to me, but I won’t come with you; here we are at home. By the way, I am convinced that you regard me with suspicion just because I have shown such delicacy and have not troubled you with questions so far . . . you understand? It struck you as extraordinary; I don’t mind betting it’s that. Well, it teaches people to show delicacy!” “And to listen at doors!”

“Ah, that’s it, is it?” laughed Svidrigailov. “Yes, I would have been surprised if you had let that pass after all that has happened. Ha-ha! Though I did understand something of the pranks you had been up to and were telling Sofia Semionovna about, what was the meaning of it? Perhaps I am quite behind the times and can’t understand. For goodness’ sake, explain it, my dear boy. Expound the latest theories!” “You couldn’t have heard anything. You’re making it all up!”

“But I’m not talking about that (though I did hear something). No, I’m talking of the way you keep sighing and groaning now. The Schiller in you is in revolt every moment, and now you tell me not to listen at doors. If that’s how you feel, go and inform the police that you had this mischance; you made a little mistake in your theory. But if you are convinced that people shouldn’t listen at doors but that they may murder old women at their pleasure, you’d better hurry off to America. Run, young man! There may still be time. I’m being sincere. Haven’t you got the money? I’ll give you the fare.” “I’m not thinking of that at all,” Raskolnikov interrupted with disgust.

“I understand (but don’t put yourself out, don’t discuss it if you don’t want to). I understand the questions you are worrying over—moral ones, aren’t they? Duties of citizen and man? Lay them all aside. They are nothing to you now, ha-ha! You’ll say you are still a man and a citizen. If so you ought not to have got into this coil. It’s no use taking up a job you are not fit for. Well, you’d better shoot yourself, or don’t you want to?” “You seem to be trying to enrage me, to make me leave you alone.”

“What a strange person! But here we are. Welcome to the staircase. You see, that’s the way to Sofia Semionovna. Look, there is no-one at home. Don’t you believe me? Ask Kapernaumov. She leaves the key with him. Here is Madame de Kapernaumov herself. Hey, what? She is rather deaf. Has she gone out? Where? Did you hear? She is not in and won’t be until late in the evening probably. Well, come to my room; you wanted to come and see me, didn’t you? Here we are. Madame Resslich’s not at home. She is always busy, an excellent woman, I assure you . . . She might have been of use to you if you had been a little more sensible. Now, look! I’m taking this five per cent bond out of the bureau—see what a lot I’ve got of them still—this one will be turned into cash today. I mustn’t waste any more time. The bureau is locked, the apartment is locked, and here we are again on the stairs. Shall we take a cab? I’m going to the Islands. Would you like a lift? I’ll take this carriage. Ah, so you refuse? You are tired of it! Come for a drive! I believe it will rain. Never mind, we’ll put down the hood . . . ” Svidrigailov was already in the carriage. Raskolnikov decided that his suspicions were unjust, at least for the moment. Without answering a word he turned and walked back towards the Haymarket. If he had only turned round on his way he might have seen Svidrigailov get out not even a hundred paces away, dismiss the cab and walk along the pavement. But he had turned the corner and could see nothing. Intense disgust drew him away from Svidrigailov.

“To think that I could for one instant have looked for help from that coarse brute, that depraved sensualist and blackguard!” he cried.

Raskolnikov’s judgment was uttered too lightly and hastily: there was something about Svidrigailov which gave him a certain original, even a mysterious character. As concerned his sister, Raskolnikov was convinced that Svidrigailov 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. Dunia 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 Svidrigailov coming quickly from the direction of the Haymarket.

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 seeing him. He had been observing Dunia for some time and had been making signs to her. She thought he was signaling to beg her not to speak to her brother, but to come towards him.

That was what Dunia did. She stole past her brother and went up to Svidrigailov.

“Let us hurry away,” Svidrigailov whispered to her, “I don’t want Rodion Romanovich to know about 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 difficulty 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,” Dunia interrupted, “and my brother won’t see us. I should tell you now that I am going no further with you. Speak to me here. You can tell me everything in the street.” “In the first place, I can’t say it in the street; secondly, you must hear Sofia Semionovna 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.” Dunia stood still, hesitating, and looked at Svidrigailov 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 Sofia Semionovna?”

“No, I have not said a word to her and I am not quite certain whether she is at home now. But most likely she is. She has buried her stepmother today: she is not likely to go out visiting people on a day like that. For the time being 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 the fact that I’m putting things so coarsely. I haven’t got an apartment to myself; Sofia Semionovna’s room is next to mine—she lodges in the next apartment. The whole floor is let out to tenants. Why are you frightened? You look like a child. Am I really so terrible?” Svidrigailov’s lips were twisted in a condescending smile; but he was in no smiling mood. His heart was throbbing and he could scarcely breathe. He spoke rather loud to cover his growing excitement. But Dunia did not notice this curious excitement, she was so irritated by his remark that she was frightened of him, that she looked like a child and that he was so terrible to her.

“Though I know that you are not a man . . . of honor, I am not in the least bit afraid of you. Lead the way,” she said with apparent composure, but her face was very pale.

Svidrigailov stopped at Sonia’s room.

“Allow me to ask 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 arrangements for them. If Sofia Semionovna does not come back in ten minutes, I will send her to you, today if you like. This is my apartment. 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 totally empty rooms, which are available for rent. Here they are . . . You must look into them with some attention.” Svidrigailov occupied two fairly large furnished rooms. Dunia was looking around her mistrustfully, but saw nothing special in the furniture or in the position of the rooms. Yet there was something to observe, for instance, that Svidrigailov’s apartment 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, Svidrigailov showed Dunia the two empty rooms that were to let. Dunia stopped in the doorway, not knowing what she was being asked to look at, but Svidrigailov swiftly explained.

“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 in order to listen more conveniently. Just the other side of the door is Sofia Semionovna’s table; she sat there talking to Rodion Romanovich. And I sat here listening on two successive evenings, for two hours at a 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 Avdotia 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 there was probably the same glow in his eyes which had once frightened Dunia 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 Svidrigailov’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 worry 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’t have any proof. You promised to prove it. Speak! But let me warn you that I don’t believe you! I don’t believe you!” Dunia said this, speaking hurriedly, and for an instant the color rushed to her face.

“If you didn’t believe it, how could you risk coming alone to my rooms? Why have you come? Just out of curiosity?”

“Don’t torment me. Speak, speak!”

“There’s no denying that you are a brave girl. In all honesty, I thought you would have asked Mr. Razumikhin to escort you here. But he was not with you nor anywhere near. I was on the look-out. It’s courageous of you, it proves you wanted to spare Rodion Romanovich. But everything is divine in you . . . About your brother, what should I tell you? You’ve just seen him yourself. What did you think of him?” “Surely that’s not the only thing you are building on?”

“No, not on that, but on his own words. He came here on two successive evenings to see Sofia Semionovna. I’ve shown you where they sat. He made a full confession to her. He is a murderer. He killed an old woman, a pawnbroker, with whom he had pawned things himself. He killed her sister too, a saleswoman called Lizaveta, who happened to come in while he was murdering her sister. He killed them with an axe he brought with him. He murdered them to rob them and he did rob them. He took money and various things . . . He told all this, word for word, to Sofia Semionovna, the only person who knows his secret. But she has had no share by word or deed in the murder; she was as horrified at it as you are now. Don’t be anxious, she won’t betray him.” “It cannot be,” muttered Dunia, with white lips. She gasped for breath. “It cannot be. There was not the slightest cause, no sort of ground . . . It’s a lie, a lie!”

“He robbed her, that was the cause, he took money and various things. It’s true that by his own admission he made no use of the money or the things and hid them under a stone, where they are now. But that was because he did not dare make use of them.” “But how could he steal, rob? How could he dream of it?” cried Dunia, and she jumped up from the chair. “But you know him, you’ve seen him, can he be a thief?”

She seemed to be imploring Svidrigailov; she had entirely forgotten her fear.

“There are thousands and millions of combinations and possibilities, Avdotia Romanovna. A thief steals and knows he is a scoundrel, but I’ve heard of a gentleman who broke open the mail. Who knows, very likely he thought he was doing a gentlemanly thing! Of course I should not have believed it myself if I’d been told of it as you have, but I believe my own ears. He explained all the causes of it to Sofia Semionovna too, but she did not believe her ears at first, yet she believed her own eyes at last.” “What . . . were the causes?”

“It’s a long story, Avdotia Romanovna. Here’s . . . how shall I tell you?—A theory of a sort, the same one by which I for instance consider that a single misdeed is permissible if the principal aim is right, a solitary wrongdoing and hundreds of good deeds! It’s galling too, of course, for a young man of gifts and overweening pride to know that if he had, for instance, a paltry three thousand, his whole career, his whole future would be differently shaped and yet not to have that three thousand. Add to that, nervous irritability from hunger, from lodging in a hole, from rags, from a vivid sense of the charm of his social position and his sister’s and mother’s position too. Above all, vanity, pride and vanity, though goodness knows he may have good qualities too . . . I am not blaming him, please don’t think it; besides, it’s not my business. A special little theory came in too—a theory of a sort—dividing mankind, you see, into material and superior people, that is people to whom the law does not apply owing to their superiority, who make laws for the rest of mankind, the material, that is. It’s all right as a theory, une théorie comme une autre.71 Napoleon attracted him tremendously, that is, what affected him was that a great many men of genius have not hesitated at wrongdoing, but have overstepped the law without thinking about it. He seems to have fancied that he was a genius too—that is, he was convinced of it for a time. He has suffered a great deal and is still suffering from the idea that he could make a theory, but was incapable of boldly overstepping the law, and so he is not a man of genius. And that’s humiliating for a young man of any pride, in our day especially . . . ” “But remorse? You deny him any moral feeling then? Is he like that?”

“Ah, Avdotia Romanovna, everything is in a muddle now; not that it was ever in very good order. Russians in general are broad in their ideas, Avdotia Romanovna, broad like their land and extremely disposed to the fantastic, the chaotic. But it’s a misfortune to be broad without a special genius. Do you remember what a lot of talk we had together on this subject, sitting in the evenings on the terrace after supper? Why, you used to reproach me with breadth! Who knows, perhaps we were talking at the very time when he was lying here thinking over his plan. There are no sacred traditions amongst us, especially in the educated class, Avdotia Romanovna. At best someone will make them up somehow for himself from books or from some old chronicle. But those are for the most part the learned and all of them are old, so that it would be almost ill-bred in a man of society. You know my opinions in general, though. I never blame anyone. I do nothing at all, I persevere in that. But we’ve talked of this more than once before. I was so happy indeed as to interest you in my opinions . . . You are very pale, Avdotia Romanovna.” “I know his theory. I read that article of his about men for whom everything is permissible. Razumikhin brought it to me.”

“Mr. Razumikhin? Your brother’s article? In a magazine? Is there such an article? I didn’t know. It must be interesting. But where are you going, Avdotia Romanovna?”

“I want to see Sofia Semionovna,” Dunia articulated faintly. “How can I see her? Maybe she has come back. I must see her at once. Perhaps she . . . ”

Avdotia Romanovna could not finish. Her breath literally failed her.

“Sofia Semionovna will not be back until nightfall, at least I believe not. She was going to come back at once, but if not, then she will not be in until pretty late.”

“Ah, then you are lying! I see . . . you were lying . . . lying all the time . . . I don’t believe you! I don’t believe you!” cried Dunia, completely losing her head.

Almost fainting, she sank on to a chair which Svidrigailov hastily gave her.

“Avdotia Romanovna, what is it? Control yourself! Here is some water. Drink a little . . . ”

He sprinkled some water over her. Dunia shuddered and came to herself.

“It has acted violently,” Svidrigailov muttered to himself, frowning. “Avdotia Romanovna, calm yourself! Believe me, he has friends. We will save him. Would you like me to take him abroad? I have money, I can get a ticket in three days. And as for the murder, he will do all sorts of good deeds yet, to atone for it. Calm yourself. He may become a great man yet. Well, how are you? How do you feel?” “You cruel man! How can you jeer at it! Let me go . . . ”

“Where are you going?”

“To see him. Where is he? Do you know? Why is this door locked? We came in through that door and now it is locked. When did you manage to lock it?”

“We couldn’t be shouting all over the apartment about such a subject. I am far from jeering; it’s simply that I’m sick of talking like this. But how can you go in such a state? Do you want to betray him? You will drive him to fury, and he will give himself up. Let me tell you, he is already being watched; they are already on his trail. You will simply be giving him away. Wait a little: I saw him and was talking to him just now. He can still be saved. Wait a bit, sit down; let us think it over together. I asked you to come in order to discuss it alone with you and to consider it thoroughly. Sit down!” “How can you save him? Can he really be saved?”

Dunia sat down. Svidrigailov sat down beside her.

“It all depends on you, on you, on you alone,” he began with glowing eyes, almost in a whisper and hardly able to utter the words for emotion.

Dunia drew back from him in alarm. He too was trembling all over.

“You . . . one word from you, and he is saved. I . . . I’ll save him. I have money and friends. I’ll send him away at once. I’ll get a passport, two passports, one for him and one for me. I have friends . . . capable people . . . If you like, I’ll take a passport for you . . . for your mother . . . What do you want with Razumikhin? I love you too . . . I love you beyond everything . . . Let me kiss the hem of your dress, let me, let me . . . The very rustle of it is too much for me. Tell me, ‘do that,’ and I’ll do it. I’ll do everything. I will do the impossible. What you believe, I will believe. I’ll do anything—anything! Don’t, don’t look at me like that. Do you know that you are killing me? . . . ” He was almost beginning to rave . . . Something seemed suddenly to go to his head. Dunia jumped up and rushed to the door.

“Open it! Open it!” she called, shaking the door. “Open it! Is there no-one there?”

Svidrigailov got up and regained his composure. His still trembling lips slowly broke into an angry mocking smile.

“There is no-one at home,” he said quietly and emphatically. “The landlady has gone out, and it’s a waste of time to shout like that. You are only exciting yourself uselessly.”

“Where is the key? Open the door at once, at once, base man!”

“I have lost the key and cannot find it.”

“This is an outrage,” cried Dunia, turning pale as death. She rushed to the furthest corner, where she hurriedly barricaded herself with a little table.

She did not scream, but fixed her eyes on her tormentor and watched every movement he made.

Svidrigailov remained standing at the other end of the room facing her. He really was 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, Avdotia Romanovna. In that case you may be sure I’ve taken measures. Sofia Semionovna 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. Why would 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, Avdotia Romanovna.” “Scoundrel!” whispered Dunia 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 have suggested 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.” Svidrigailov sat down on the sofa about eight steps from Dunia. 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. Svidrigailov jumped up.

“Aha! So that’s it, is it?” he cried, surprised but smiling maliciously. “Well, that completely alters the way we look at things. You’ve made things much easier for me, Avdotia Romanovna. But where did you get the revolver? Was it Mr. Razumikhin? 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 out of curiosity,” said Svidrigailov, still standing where he was.

“Inform on him, if you want to! Don’t move! Don’t come closer! 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 spoke to me about poison . . . I know you went to get it . . . you had it ready . . . It was your doing . . . It must have been your doing . . . Blackguard!” “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 . . . ”

“Oh, Avdotia 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 Dunia’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!”

Dunia 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 beautiful. 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.

Dunia lowered the revolver and looked at Svidrigailov 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 Svidrigailov softly, still smiling, but gloomily. “If you go on like that, I shall have time to seize you before you cock again.”

Dunia 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. Dunia shot again: it misfired.

“You haven’t loaded it properly. Never mind, you have another bullet 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. Dunia 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 Svidrigailov 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 Dunia and gently put his arm round her waist. She did not resist, but, trembling like a leaf, looked at him with imploring eyes. He tried to say something, but his lips moved without being able to utter a sound.

“Let me go,” Dunia implored. Svidrigailov shuddered. Her voice now was quite different.

“Then you don’t love me?” he asked softly. Dunia 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 Svidrigailov. 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 Dunia.

“Take it! Hurry!”

He looked stubbornly out of the window. Dunia went up to the table to take the key.

“Hurry! Hurry!” repeated Svidrigailov, still without turning or moving. But there seemed a terrible significance in the tone of that “hurry.”

Dunia 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.

Svidrigailov spent 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 Dunia 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.