began kissing katia.
svidrigailov 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. svidrigailov 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. svidrigailov 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 svidrigailov in respectful silence, looking wonderingly at his soaking clothes. the children all ran away at once in indescribable terror.
svidrigailov 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 svidrigailov, 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 svidrigailov. 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 svidrigailov 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 svidrigailov could be very fascinating when he liked, so that the first, and indeed very intelligent surmise of the sensible parents that svidrigailov 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 svidrigailov 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 svidrigailov 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.
svidrigailov 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. svidrigailov 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 svidrigailov 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.
svidrigailov 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 svidrigailov, 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 svidrigailov.
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 svidrigailov. how was it i didn't know it? i expect i look as if i came from a cafe chantant and have had some adventure on the way. it would be interesting to know who stay here?
he lighted the candle and looked at the room more carefully. it was a room so low-pitched that svidrigailov 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.
svidrigailov 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.
svidrigailov 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, svidrigailov 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. svidrigailov 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 suddenly recalled how, an hour before carrying out his design on dounia, he had recommended raskolnikov to trust her to razumihin's keeping. i suppose i really did say it, as raskolnikov guessed, to tease myself. but what a rogue that raskolnikov is! he's gone through a good deal. he may be a successful rogue in time when he's got over his nonsense. but now he's /too/ eager for life. these young men are contemptible on that point. but, hang the fellow! let him please himself, it's nothing to do with me.
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 . . .
aie! 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. svidrigailov 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. . . .
svidrigailov 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. svidrigailov, 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 svidrigailov, 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 svidrigailov. 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? svidrigailov 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! svidrigailov 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. svidrigailov 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 pecomrated 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 svidrigailov. his face wore that perpetual look of peevish dejection, which is so sourly printed on all faces of jewish race without exception. they both, svidrigailov 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 svidrigailov.
this isn't the place.
i am going to foreign parts, brother.
to foreign parts?
to america.
america.
svidrigailov 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.
svidrigailov pulled the trigger.
整整这一晚上，直到十点，他是在各个小饭馆和那些藏污纳垢的地方度过的，从这个地方出来，又到另一个地方去。在某处找到了卡佳，她又在唱另一首低级流行歌曲，歌中唱的是某个“下流坯和暴君”，
开始吻卡佳。
斯维德里盖洛夫请卡佳喝酒，也请一个背手摇风琴的流浪乐师、歌手们、跑堂的、还有两个司书喝酒。他所以要和这两个司书打交道，说实在的，是因为他们两个鼻子都是歪的：一个歪到右边，另一个歪到左边，这使斯维德里盖洛夫觉得十分惊奇。他们还带着他到一个游乐园去，他给他们买了门票。这个游乐园里有一棵树龄已有三年的、细小的枞树，还有三个灌木丛。此外，还建造了一家“饭店”，其实是个小酒馆，不过在那里也可以喝茶，而且还摆着几张绿色的小桌和几把椅子。有一些蹩脚歌手在合唱，还有一个喝得醉醺醺的、从慕尼黑来的德国人，好像是个小丑，虽然他鼻子是红的，可不知为什么神情却异常沮丧，他和那些歌手的表演都是为客人们助兴的。那两个司书和另一些司书发生争吵，就要打起来了。他们推选斯维德里盖洛夫作裁判，给他们评评理。斯维德里盖洛夫已经给他们评了差不多一刻钟了，可是他们大嚷大叫，简直无法弄清是怎么回事。最确切无疑的是，他们当中有一个偷了东西，甚至就在这儿卖给了一个偶然碰到的犹太人；可是卖掉以后，却不愿把赃款分给自己的同伴。原来那件给卖掉的东西是这家“饭店”的一把茶匙。“饭店”里发现茶匙不见了，寻找起来，于是事情变得麻烦了。斯维德里盖洛夫赔了茶匙，站起来，走出了游乐园。已经十点左右了。整个这段时间里他自己连一滴酒也没喝过，只是在“饭店”里要了一杯茶，而且就连这也多半是为了遵守人家的规矩。然而这天晚上又闷又热，天陰沉沉的。快到十点的时候，可怕的乌云从四面八方涌来；一声雷鸣，大雨倾盆，犹如瀑布。雨水不是一滴一滴地落下来，而是像一条条激流倾注到地面。在不停地打闪，每次闪光持续的时间正好可以从一数到五。他浑身湿透，回到家里，锁上房门，开开自己写字台上的抽屉，把所有的钱都取出来，还撕掉了两三张纸。然后他把钱装进衣袋，本想换件大衣，但是朝窗外望了望，留心听了听雷声和雨声，心想，算了，于是拿起帽子，没有锁门，就走了出去。他径直去找索尼娅。她在家。
她不是一个人；卡佩尔纳乌莫夫的四个小孩子团团地围着她。索菲娅·谢苗诺芙娜正在喂他们喝茶。她默默地、恭恭敬敬地迎接斯维德里盖洛夫，惊讶地看了看他那件湿透的大衣，可是一句话也没说。孩子们立刻异常惊恐地跑掉了。
斯维德里盖洛夫坐到桌边，让索尼娅坐到他身旁。她羞怯地准备好听他说话。
“索菲娅·谢苗诺芙娜，我说不定要去美国了，”斯维德里盖洛夫说，“因为这大概是我最后一次跟您见面了，所以我要来作个安排。嗯，今天您见到这位太太了吗？我知道她对您说些什么，用不着重述了。（索尼娅动了动，而且脸红了。）这种人的性格是大家都知道的。至于您的妹妹和弟弟，他们的确都给安置好了，我送给他们每个人的钱也都交给了有关方面，交到可靠的人手里，拿到了收据。不过，这些收据还是您拿去保存吧，以防万一。给，请您收下！嗯，现在这件事算办完了。这是三张五厘债券，一共三千卢布。这笔钱请您收下，是给您的，这是我们两人之间的事情，不要让任何人知道，也不管以后您会听到些什么。这些钱您是需要的，因为，索菲娅·谢苗诺芙娜，照以前那样生活下去，很不好，而且也完全没有必要了。”
“我深受您的大恩大德，还有孤儿们和已经去世的继母都受了您的恩惠，”索尼娅急忙说，“如果说，到现在我很少向您表示感谢，那么……请您别以为……”
“嗳，够了，够了。”
“不过这些钱，阿尔卡季·伊万诺维奇，我非常感谢您，可是现在我不需要这些钱了。我一个人，总可以养活自己，说不要以为我忘恩负义：既然您这样乐善好施，那么这些钱……”
“给您，给您，索菲娅·谢苗诺芙娜，请您收下，别再多说了，因为我甚至没有时间了。可您需要钱。罗季昂·罗曼诺维奇有两条路：要么对准额头开槍自杀，要么走弗拉基米尔①那条路。（索尼娅古怪地看了看他，浑身发抖了。）您别担心，我什么都知道，听他自己说的，我可不是个说话不谨慎的人；我绝不会告诉任何人。那时候您劝他去自首，这是对的。这对他要有益得多。嗯，如果要走弗拉基米尔这条路，——他去，您也会跟他去，不是吗？是这样吧？是这样吧？好吧，如果是这样，那么就是说，钱是需要的。为了他，需要钱，您明白吗？我把钱送给您，也就等于送给他。何况您还答应过阿玛莉娅·伊万诺芙娜，要还清欠她的钱；我听说了。索菲娅·谢苗诺芙娜，您怎么这样轻率地承担了这样一笔债务？是卡捷琳娜·伊万诺芙娜，而不是您欠了这个德国女人的债，那么您就不该理睬她。在这个世界上，这样是没法活下去的。嗯，如果什么时候有人问您，——明天或者后天，——向您问起我或者有关我的事情（会有人来问您的），那么我现在到您这儿来的事，千万不要提起，决不要把钱拿给任何人，也决不要对任何人说，我曾经送给您钱。好，现在再见吧。（他从椅子上站了起来。）请问候罗季昂·罗曼内奇。顺带说一声：暂时您可以把钱托拉祖米欣先生代为保管。您认识拉祖米欣先生吗？当然是认识的。这是个还不错的小伙子。明天就把钱送到他那里去，或者……到时候再说。在那以前要好好保藏起来。”
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①流放到西伯利亚去服苦役的犯人都要走经过弗拉基米尔的那条道路。
索尼娅也从椅子上很快站起来，惊恐地瞅着他。她很想说点儿什么，问问他，可是在最初几分钟里她不敢说，也不知道该怎样说。
“您怎么……您怎么，现在下着那么大的雨，您就要走吗？”
“嗯，要去美国，还怕下雨，嘿！嘿！别了，亲爱的，索菲娅·谢苗诺芙娜！您要活下去，长久活下去，您会有益于别人的。顺带说一声……请您对拉祖米欣先生说，我请您代我向他致意。您就这样对他说：阿尔卡季·伊万诺维奇·斯维德里盖洛夫向您致意。一定要对他说。”
他走了，只剩下了索尼娅一个人，她惊讶、恐惧，心情沉重而又感到疑惑，可又说不清究竟是疑惑什么。
原来随后，这天晚上十一点多钟的时候，他又进行了一次反常和出人意料的访问。雨一直还在下个不停。十一点二十分，他浑身湿透，走进了瓦西利耶夫斯基岛第三干线马雷大街上他未婚妻父母家那所狭小的住宅。他好容易才敲开了门，起初他的到来引起了极大的惊慌和不安；不过只要愿意，阿尔卡季·伊万诺维奇是一个举止态度很有魅力的人，所以未婚妻深明事理的父母最初的猜测（虽说他们的猜测是很敏锐的）立刻自然而然地消失了——他们本以为阿尔卡季·伊万诺维奇准是在这以前已经喝得酩酊大醉，因而失去了自制。未婚妻的那位富有同情心而且深明事理的母亲把虚弱无力、坐在安乐椅里的父亲推到阿尔卡季·伊万诺维奇跟前，像往常一样，立刻提出一些她其实并不关心的问题。（这个女人从来不直截了当地提问题，总是先面带微笑，搓着手，随后，如果一定需要知道什么，譬如说，阿尔卡季·伊万诺维奇愿意订在哪一天举行婚礼，那么她就会提出一些最有趣、而且几乎是渴望得到回答的问题，询问有关巴黎的种种事情和那里的宫廷生活，只是在这以后才照例谈到瓦西利耶夫斯基岛的第三干线上来。）在旁的时候，这种谈话方式当然会让人十分尊敬，然而这一次阿尔卡季·伊万诺维奇不知为什么却显得特别没有耐心，并坚决要求会见未婚妻，尽管一开始就已经告诉过他，未婚妻已经睡了。当然，未婚妻还是出来了，阿尔卡季·伊万诺维奇直截了当地对她说，由于一个很重要的情况，他必须暂时离开彼得堡，所以给她送来了一万五千银卢布票面不同的纸币，请她收下这笔钱，作为他送给她的礼物，因为他早就打算在结婚之前把这一点儿钱送给她了。当然，这样的解释丝毫也没能说明，这礼物与立刻动身运行，与一定要冒雨在深更半夜来送礼物有什么特殊的逻辑联系，然而事情却十分顺利地对付过去了。就连必不可免的“哎哟”和“啊呀”，刨根究底的询问和惊讶，不知为什么也突然异乎寻常地既有节制，又有分寸；然而对他的感谢却是最热烈的，那位最有理智的母亲甚至感激涕零，令人留下深刻的印象。阿尔卡季·伊万诺维奇站起来，笑了，吻了吻未婚妻，拍了拍她的小脸蛋儿，肯定地说，他不久就会回来，他注意到，她的眼睛里虽然流露出孩子的好奇神情，但同时也好像向他提出一个十分严肃的、无声的问题，他想了想，再次吻了吻她，心里立刻真诚地感到遗憾，因为他的礼物立刻就会给锁起来，由这位最懂道理的母亲来保管了。他走了，丢下了这些心情异常兴奋的人。然而富有同情心的母亲立刻低声匆匆地解答了几个最重要的疑问，确切地说，就是认为阿尔卡季·伊万诺维奇是个大人物，是个有作为的人，有很多关系，是个大富翁，——天知道他头脑里有些什么想法，忽然想要出门，立刻就走，忽然想要送钱，立刻就把钱送给别人，所以，用不着大惊小怪。当然，他浑身湿透，这很奇怪，不过，譬如说吧，英国人比这更怪，而且这些上流社会的人都不在乎人家怎么议论他们，也不拘礼节。也许他甚至是故意这样做，好让人看看，他谁也不怕。而主要的是，这件事无论对什么人一个字也不能说，因为天知道这会产生什么后果，钱嘛，得赶紧锁起来，而且当然啦，菲多西娅一直待在厨房里，这可是最好也不过了，主要的是，绝对，绝对，绝对不要把这件事告诉这个诡计多端的列斯莉赫，等等，等等。他们坐在那里悄悄地议论着，一直谈到两点钟。不过，未婚妻早就去睡觉了，她感到惊讶，又有点儿忧郁。
然而斯维德里盖洛夫正好在半夜过了×桥，往彼得堡那个方向走去。雨停了，风却在呼啸。他冷得发抖了，有一会儿工夫，他怀着一种特殊的好奇心，甚至是疑问地望了望小涅瓦河里黑魆魆的河水。但是他很快就觉得，站在河边冷得很；他转身往×大街走去。他已经在长得好像没有尽头的×大街上大踏步地走了很久，几乎走了半个钟头，黑暗中，不止一次在那条用木块铺成的路面上绊倒，可他还是怀着好奇心不停地在大街右侧寻找着什么。不久前有一次他从附近路过，在这儿某处，已经是大街的尽头，看到过一家木结构的旅馆，不过相当宽敞，旅馆的名称，就他所记得的，好像是叫阿德里安诺波利。他的推断是正确的，在这样荒凉的地方，这家旅馆是个相当显眼的目标，就是在黑夜里，也不可能找不到它。这是一座已经发黑的、很长的木头房子，尽管已经很晚了，房子里仍然灯火通明，看得出里面还相当热闹。他走了进去，在走廊上碰到一个穿得破破烂烂的人，他问那个人有没有房间。那人打量了一下斯维德里盖洛夫，精神振作起来，立刻把他领到很远的一间房间里，这间房子又闷又狭小，缩在走廊尽头一个角落里，就在楼梯底下。但是没有别的房间；全都客满了。那个穿得破破烂烂的人疑问地望着他。
“有茶吗？”斯维德里盖洛夫问。
“这个可以。”
“还有什么吗？”
“小牛肉，伏特加，冷盘。”
“给拿小牛肉和茶来。”
“不再需要什么别的了吗？”那个穿得破破烂烂的人甚至有点儿困惑莫解地问。
“什么也不要了，什么也不要了！”
那个穿得破破烂烂的人大失所望地走了。
“想必是个好地方，”斯维德里盖洛夫想，“我怎么不知道呢。大概，我这副样子也像是从哪儿的夜酒店里出来的，路上已经出过什么事了。不过我真想知道，经常住在这里，在这里过夜的是些什么人？”
他点着了蜡烛，更仔细地看了看这间房间。这间小屋竟是那么矮小，斯维德里盖洛夫站在里面几乎直不起腰，屋里只有一扇小窗子；床很脏，一张油漆过的普通桌子和一把椅子差不多占据了全部空间。看样子墙壁好像是用木板钉成的，墙纸又旧又脏，上面已经积满灰尘，许多地方都撕破了，它们的颜色（黄的）还可以猜得出来，可是花纹已经完全无法辨认了。和通常顶楼里的情况一样，墙和天花板有一部分是倾斜的，不过这儿的斜面上边就是楼梯。斯维德里盖洛夫放下蜡烛，坐到床上，陷入沉思。然而隔壁一间小屋里说个不停的、奇怪的喃喃低语，有时竟会提高声调，几乎像在叫喊，这终于引起了他的注意。从他一进来，这低语声就没停止过。他侧耳倾听：有人在骂另一个人，几乎是哭着责备他，不过听到的只是一个人的声音。斯维德里盖洛夫站起来，用一只手遮住蜡烛，墙上一条裂缝里立刻透出灯光；他走近前去，开始张望。在比他这一间稍大一点儿的那间房间里住着两个人。其中一个没穿常礼服，有一头异常卷曲的鬈发，红通通的脸，神情十分激动，站在屋里，姿势活像个演说家，叉开两腿，以保持平衡，用一只手捶着自己的胸膛，激昂慷慨地责备另一个人，说他是个叫化子，说他连个一官半职都没捞到，说，是他把他从泥坑里拉出来的，什么时候想赶他走，就可以赶他走，还说，这一切只有上帝知道。那个受责备的朋友坐在椅子上，看样子像一个很想打喷嚏、可又怎么也打不出来的人。他偶尔用浑浊的羊眼睛看看那个演说家，但显然一点儿也不明白，他在说些什么，甚至也未必听到了什么。桌子上的蜡烛快要燃尽了，桌上还摆着一个几乎空了的、装伏特加的细颈玻璃瓶，几只酒杯，一些面包，几只玻璃杯，几根黄瓜和一只茶早已喝光了的茶杯。斯维德里盖洛夫留心看了看这个场景，就漠不关心地离开那条缝隙，又坐到了床上。
那个穿得破破烂烂的人拿着茶和小牛肉回来了，忍不住又问了一次：“还需要什么吗？”听到的又是否定的回答，于是就走了。斯维德里盖洛夫急忙喝茶，想暖一暖身子，喝了一玻璃杯，肉却一口也没吃，因为完全没有胃口。他大概发起烧来了。他脱下大衣，短外衣，裹着被子，躺到了床上。他感到遗憾：“这一次最好还是别生病”，他想，并且冷笑了一声。屋里很闷，烛光暗淡，外面风声呼啸，老鼠不知在哪个角落里啃什么，而且整个房间里好像有一股老鼠味和什么皮革的气味。他躺着，仿佛在做梦：思绪万千，此起彼伏。似乎他很想让思想停留在某一件事情上。“窗外大概是个什么花园吧，”他想，“树在簌簌地响；我多么不喜欢夜里风狂雨暴，黑暗中传来树木簌簌的响声，这是一种让人很不舒服的感觉！”他想起不久前经过彼特罗夫公园的时候，甚至一想到这种声音，就觉得讨厌。这时他也想起了×桥和小涅瓦河，于是又像不久前站在河边的时候那样，似乎觉得身上发冷了。
“我一生中从来就不喜欢水，即使是在风景如画的地方，”他想，突然又为一个奇怪的想法冷笑了一声：“似乎，这些美学和舒适之类的问题，现在应该都无所谓了，可正是在这时候，却变得特别爱挑剔了，就像一头在类似的情况下……一定要给自己挑个地方的野兽。刚才我真该回彼特罗夫公园去！大概是觉得那里太暗，也觉得冷吧，嘿！嘿！几乎是需要感到惬意呢！……可是，我为什么不把蜡烛熄掉？（他熄掉了蜡烛。）隔壁已经睡了，”他想，因为刚才看到的那条缝隙里已经看不到灯光了。“唉，玛尔法·彼特罗芙娜，要是现在您来该多好，天又黑，地方也挺合适，而且正是时候。可现在您偏偏不来……”
不知为什么他突然想起，不久前，就在他要实行诱骗杜涅奇卡的计划之前一小时，他曾向拉斯科利尼科夫建议，把她托付给拉祖米欣，请他来保护她。“真的，当时我说这话，正像拉斯科利尼科夫所猜想的那样，多半是为了满足我自己的愿望——故意挑衅。不过这个拉斯科利尼科夫真是个机灵鬼！他饱经忧患。随着时间的推移，等到他不再胡思乱想，变聪明了以后，准会成为一个很机灵的人，可是现在他却太想活下去了！就这一点来说，这种人是卑鄙的。哼，去他的吧，随他的便，与我什么相干。”
他一直睡不着。渐渐地，杜涅奇卡不久前的形象出现在他的面前，突然，他打了个寒颤。“不，现在应该丢掉这个念头了，”他清醒过来，这样想，“应该想想别的。奇怪而且可笑：我从来也没深深怀恨过什么人，甚至从来也没特别想要进行报复，不是吗，这可是个坏兆头，坏兆头！我也不喜欢与人争论，不发脾气——这也是坏兆头！刚才我向她许下了多少诺言啊，呸，见鬼！大概，她会设法让我明白过来的……”他又不作声了，而且咬紧了牙：杜涅奇卡的形象又在他面前出现了，和她第一次开槍的时候一模一样，那时她吓得要命，放下了手槍，面无人色，望着他，所以两次他都可以抓住她，她却不会举起手来自卫，如果不是他提醒她的话。他想起，在那一瞬间，他似乎可怜起她来，似乎他的心揪紧了……“唉，见鬼！又是这些念头，这一切都应该丢掉，丢掉！……”
他已经昏昏欲睡：寒热病的颤栗停止了；突然好像有个什么东西在被子下面，从他手臂上和腿上跑了过去。他打了个哆嗦：“呸，见鬼，这好像是只老鼠！”他想， “这盘小牛肉我还摆在桌子上……”他真不想掀开被子，起来，让自己冻僵，可是突然又有个什么让人很讨厌的东西从他腿上很快跑了过去；他撩开被子，点着了蜡烛。他打着寒颤，俯身仔细看了看床上，什么也没有；他抖了抖被子，突然有一只老鼠跳到了床单上。他急忙去抓它；可是老鼠并不跳下床去逃走，却在床上东窜西窜，从他指缝间溜跑，从他手上跑过去，突然一下子钻到了枕头底下；他扔掉了枕头，但是转瞬间感觉到有个什么东西跳进他的怀里，从他身上很快跑过去，已经跑到背上，钻到衬衫底下去了。他急剧地打了个寒颤，醒了。屋里很暗，他像刚才一样，裹在被子里，躺在床上，窗外风声哀号。“真讨厌！”他烦恼地想。
他起来，背对着窗户，坐到床边。“最好根本别睡，”他拿定了主意。可是窗边有一股冷气和潮气；他没站起来，拉过被子，裹到身上。他没有点上蜡烛。他什么也不想，而且也不愿想；然而幻想却一个接着一个出现，一个个思想的片断，没头，没尾，互不连贯，稍纵即逝，一闪而过。他似睡非睡。是寒冷，还是黑暗，是潮湿，还是在窗外呼啸和摇撼着树木的风，这一切都在他心中激起对幻想强烈的爱好和渴望，——可是浮现在眼前的却总是花。他想象出一片迷人的景色；是陽光明媚的一天，天很暖和，几乎是炎热的，是个节日——圣灵降临节①。一座英国式豪华精致的乡村住宅，四周花坛里鲜花盛开，花香袭人，住宅周围是一垅垅菜畦；蔓生植物爬满门廊，台阶上摆满一排排玫瑰；一道明亮、凉爽的楼梯，上面铺着豪华的地毯，两边摆满栽种着奇花异卉的中国花盆。他特别注意摆在窗口的那些盛着水的花瓶，一束束洁白、娇嫩的水仙插在花瓶里，碧绿、肥壮的长茎上垂下一朵朵白花，花香浓郁。他甚至不想离开它们，但是他上楼去了，走进一个宽敞高大的大厅，这儿也到处都是鲜花：窗旁，通往凉台的门敞着，门边到处是花。地板上撒满刚刚割下的芳草，窗子都敞着，凉爽的微风送进清新的空气，窗外鸟鸣嘤嘤，大厅中央，几张铺着洁白缎子台布的桌子上停放着一口棺材。这口棺材包着那不勒斯白绸，边上镶着厚厚的白色皱边。用鲜花编成的花带从四面环绕着棺材。一个小姑娘躺在棺材里的鲜花中间，她穿一件透花白纱连衫裙，一双好似用大理石雕成的手叠放在胸前。但她那披散开的头发，那淡黄色的头发，却是湿的；头上戴着一顶玫瑰花冠。她那神情严峻、已经僵化的脸的侧面也好像是用大理石雕成的，但是她那惨白的嘴唇上的微笑却充满失去了稚气的无限悲哀，而且带有沉痛的抱怨的神情。斯维德里盖洛夫认识这个小姑娘；这口棺材旁既没有圣像，也没点蜡烛，也听不到祈祷的声音。这个小姑娘是自杀——投水自尽的。她只有十四岁，但这已经是一颗破碎了的心，这颗心因受侮辱而毁了自己，这样的侮辱吓坏了这颗幼小、稚嫩的童心，使它感到震惊，不应遭受的耻辱玷污了她那天使般纯洁的心灵，迫使她从胸中冲出最后一声绝望的呼喊，但是长夜漫漫，黑暗无边，虽已开始解冻，却还潮湿寒冷，而且狂风怒吼，这一声遭受无耻凌辱的呼喊并没有被人听见……
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①在复活节后的第五十天。
斯维德里盖洛夫醒了，从床上起来，大步走到窗前。他摸索着找到了插销，打开窗子。风猛吹进他这间狭小的斗室，仿佛往他脸上和仅有一件衬衫遮盖着的胸脯上贴了一层冷冰冰的霜花。窗外大概真的像个花园，看来也是个游乐园；大概白天这里也有歌手唱歌，也给人往小桌子上送茶。现在水珠却从树上和灌木丛上飞进窗里，很暗，就像在地窖里似的，所以勉强才能分辨出某些标志着什么物体的黑点。斯维德里盖洛夫弯下腰，用胳膊肘撑在窗台上，已经目不转睛地对着这片黑暗望了五分钟了。黑暗的夜色中传来一声炮响，接着又是一声。
“啊，号炮响了，河水暴涨了①”，他想，“到早晨水就会涌进低洼的地方，涌到街上，淹没地下室和地窖，地下室里的老鼠都会浮出水面，人们也将在风雨中咒骂着，浑身湿透，把自己的一些破烂儿拖到上面几层去……现在几点了？”他刚一这样想，附近什么地方的挂钟仿佛竭力匆匆忙忙地滴答滴答地响着，打了三响。“哎哟，再过一个钟头就要天亮了！还等什么呢？立刻就走，一直去彼特罗夫公园：在那儿什么地方挑一个大灌木丛，叫雨淋透的灌木丛，只要用肩膀稍微碰一碰，就会有千百万水珠浇到头上……”他离开窗子，把它关上，点着了蜡烛，穿上短上衣、大衣，戴上帽子，手持蜡烛，走到走廊上，想找到那个不知睡在什么地方一间小屋里、一堆堆废物和蜡烛头之间的穿得破破烂烂的人，把房钱交给他，然后从旅馆里出去。“这是最好的时间，再也挑不到更好的时间了！”
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①一八六五年六月二十九日到三十日的夜里，彼得堡下了暴雨，河水猛涨，曾鸣炮报警。海军部大厦的尖顶上白天挂了信号旗，夜里挂上了灯笼。
他在狭长的走廊上走了很久，一个人也找不到，已经想要高声呼喊了，突然在一个黑暗的角落里，一个旧橱和门之间看到一个奇怪的东西，好像还是活的。他手持蜡烛，弯下腰去，看到一个孩子——一个五岁左右的小姑娘，不会更大了，她身上的那件小连衫裙已经湿透了，像一块擦地板的抹布，她浑身发抖，还在哭泣。看到斯维德里盖洛夫，她似乎并不害怕，却用她那双乌黑的大眼睛看着他，目光中流露出迟钝的惊讶神情，间或抽泣几声，这就像所有孩子一样，他们哭了很久，可是已经住了声，甚至已经不再伤心了，却还会偶尔突然呜咽一声。小姑娘的脸苍白而憔悴；她冻僵了，不过“她是怎么来到这里的？这么说，她是躲在这里，一宿没睡了。”他开始询问她。小姑娘突然变得活跃了，用孩子的语言很快地含糊不清地说了起来。她说到“妈妈”，说是“妈妈打”她，还说有只什么碗叫她给“打泼（破）了”。小姑娘说个不停；从她说的这些话里勉强可以猜出，这是个没人疼爱的孩子，她的母亲大概就是这家旅馆里的厨娘，经常喝得烂醉，把她毒打了一顿，还吓唬她；小姑娘打破了妈妈的一只碗，吓坏了，还在晚上就逃了出来；她大概在院子里什么地方躲了好久，一直淋着雨，最后偷偷地溜到这里，藏在大橱后面，在这个角落里坐了整整一夜，一直在哭，由于潮湿、黑暗和害怕，浑身颤抖，为了这一切，现在她准又要挨一顿打。他把她抱起来，回到自己的房间里，让她坐在床上，给她脱去衣服。她赤脚穿着的那双破鞋子湿淋淋的，仿佛整夜都站在水洼里。给她脱掉衣服以后，他把她放到床上，给她盖上被子，连头都裹到被子里。她立刻睡着了。做完这一切以后，他又忧郁地沉思起来。
“瞧，又想多管闲事了！”最后他突然想，心里有一种痛苦和气愤的感觉。多么荒唐！”他烦恼地拿起蜡烛，无论如何也要找到那个穿得破破烂烂的人，赶快离开这儿。“哎呀，小姑娘！”他心中暗暗地咒骂着想，已经在开门了，可是又回来再看看那个小姑娘，看她是不是还在睡，睡得怎么样？他小心翼翼地把被子稍微掀开一点儿，小姑娘睡得很熟，很香。她盖着被子，暖和过来了，苍白的面颊上已经泛起红晕。可是奇怪：这红晕看上去仿佛比通常孩子们脸上的红晕更加鲜艳、浓郁。 “这是发烧的红晕，”斯维德里盖洛夫想，这好像是酒后的红晕，就好像给她喝了满满的一杯酒。鲜红的嘴唇仿佛在燃烧，在冒热气，不过这是怎么回事？他突然觉得，她那长长的黑睫毛仿佛在抖动，在眨巴着，好像抬起来了，一只狡猾、锐利、不像小孩子的眼睛从睫毛底下向外偷偷张望，在递眼色，似乎小姑娘并没睡着，而是假装睡着了。是的，果真是这样：她的嘴唇张开，微微一笑；嘴角微微抖动，仿佛还在忍着。不过，瞧，她已经再也忍不住了；这已经是名副其实的笑，明显的笑了；这张完全不像小孩子的脸上露出某种无耻的、挑逗的神情；这是婬荡，这是风流女人的面孔，是法国妓女的无耻的脸。瞧，那双眼睛已经毫不掩饰地睁开了，用火热的、无耻的目光打量着他，呼唤他，而且在笑……在这笑容里，在这双眼睛里，在这孩子的脸上这些下流无耻的表情里，含有某种丑恶和带有侮辱性的东西。“怎么！一个五岁的孩子！”斯维德里盖洛夫喃喃地说，他真的吓坏了，“这……这是怎么回事？”可是她已经把红艳艳的小脸完全转过来，面对着他，伸出双手……“啊，该死的！”斯维德里盖洛夫惊恐地大喊一声，对着她举起手来……可是就在这时候他醒了。
他仍然睡在那张床上，还是那样裹在被子里；蜡烛没有点着，窗子上已经发白，天完全亮了。
“整夜都在做恶梦！”他气愤地欠起身来，觉得浑身无力；骨头酸痛。外面大雾弥漫，什么也无法看清。已经快六点了：他睡过了头！他起来，穿上还在湿的短外衣和大衣。他在衣袋里摸到了那支手槍，掏出来，摆正了底火；然后坐下，从口袋里掏出一本笔记本，在最惹人注意的卷头页上写了几行大字。写完又看了一遍，把胳膊肘支在桌子上，陷入沉思。手槍和笔记本就放在那儿，就在胳膊肘旁。几只醒来的苍蝇在桌子上那盘没有吃过的小牛肉上慢慢地爬。他盯着它们看了好久，最后用那只空着的手去捉一只苍蝇。他捉了很久，弄得疲惫不堪，可是怎么也捉不到。最后发觉自己在干这种可笑的事，清醒过来，颤栗了一下，站起身，毅然走出了房门。
一分钟后，他已经来到了街上。
乳白色的浓雾笼罩在城市上空。斯维德里盖洛夫在用木块铺成的又滑又脏的马路上往小涅瓦河那个方向走去。他仿佛看到了一夜之间涨高了的小涅瓦河里的河水，仿佛看到了彼特罗夫岛、湿漉漉的小路、湿淋淋的草、湿淋淋的树和灌木丛，最后仿佛看到了那丛灌木……他遗憾地去看一排房子，为的是想点儿什么别的。大街上既没碰到一个行人，也没遇到一辆马车。那些关着百叶窗、颜色鲜黄的小木屋看上去凄凉而且肮脏。寒气和潮气透入他的全身，他觉得身上发冷了。有时他碰到一些小铺和菜店的招牌，每块招牌他都仔细看了一遍。木块铺的路面已经到了尽头。他已经来到一幢很大的石头房子旁边。一条身上很脏、冷得发抖的小狗，夹着尾巴从他面前跑着横穿过马路。一个穿着军大衣、烂醉如泥的醉鬼脸朝下横卧在人行道上。他朝这个醉鬼看了一眼，又往前走去。在他左边隐约露出一个高高的了望台。“噢！”他想，“就是这个地方嘛，干吗要到彼特罗夫公园去？至少有个正式的证人……”这个新想法几乎使他冷笑了一声，于是他转弯到×大街上去了。那幢有了望台的大房子就在这里。房子的大门关着，门边站着一个个子不高的人，肩膀靠在门上，他身上裹着一件士兵穿的灰大衣，头戴一顶阿喀琉斯①式的铜盔。他用睡眼惺忪的目光朝正在走近的斯维德里盖洛夫冷冷地瞟了一眼。他脸上露出那种永远感到不满的悲哀神情，犹太民族所有人的脸上无一例外都陰郁地带着这副神情。有那么一会工夫，他们俩，斯维德里盖洛夫和“阿喀琉斯”，都在默默地打量着对方。最后，“阿喀琉斯”觉得不大对头：这个人并没喝醉，可是站在离他三步远的地方，凝神注视着他，什么话也不说。
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①阿喀琉斯是荷马的史诗《伊里亚特》中最伟大的英雄。此处“阿喀琉斯式的铜盔”指消防队员的铜盔。
“您为什么，您要在这儿干什么？”他说，仍然一直一动不动，没有改变自己的姿势。
“啊，不干什么，老弟，您好！”斯维德里盖洛夫回答。
“这儿不是你要找的地方。”
“老弟，我要到外国去了。”
“到外国去？”
“去美国。”
“去美国？”
斯维德里盖洛夫掏出手槍，扳起板机。“阿喀琉斯”扬起了眉毛。
“您要干什么，这玩意儿，这里可不是干这种事的地方！”
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