For a moment they were silent. They were staring wide-eyed at each other.

“That's all nonsense!” Raskolnikov cried in vexation. “What does she say when she comes?”

“She? Imagine, she talks about the most worthless trifles, and—man is amazing!—that's just what makes me angry. The first time she came (I was tired, you know: the funeral service, 'Give rest with thy saints,' then the blessings, the food^[92]—finally I was left alone in the study, lit myself a cigar, and began thinking), she came in the door: 'What with all this fuss, Arkady Ivanovich,' she said, 'you've forgotten to wind the clock in the dining room.' And indeed I had been winding that clock every week for seven years, and whenever I forgot, she would always remind me. The next day I was on my way here. I walked into the stationhouse at dawn — I'd been dozing during the night, all broken up, eyes still sleepy — had some coffee; I looked up—Marfa Petrovna suddenly sat down next to me, holding a deck of cards: 'Shall I tell your fortune, Arkady Ivanovich, for the road?' She used to be good at reading cards. Well, I'll never forgive myself for not asking her! I got scared and ran away; true, they were also ringing the bell. Then, today, I was sitting with a heavy stomach after a perfectly rotten meal in a cook-shop—sitting and smoking, when Marfa Petrovna suddenly came in again, all dressed up in a new green silk gown with a very long train: 'Good afternoon, Arkady Ivanovich! How do you like my gown? Aniska will never sew like this.' (Aniska is our village dressmaker, from a former serf family, went to Moscow for lessons—a pretty wench.) She was standing in front of me and turning around. I looked the gown over, then looked attentively in her face: 'Marfa Petrovna,' I said, 'why on earth do you trouble yourself coming to me with such trifles?' 'Good heavens, my dear, can't I bother you a little?' 'I'm going to get married, Marfa Petrovna,' I said, in order to tease her. 'That's just like you, Arkady Ivanovich; it does you little credit, after you've just buried your wife, to go and get married at once. And if only you'd choose well, but I know you—it won't be right for her or for you, you'll only make good people laugh.' Then she up and left, and I thought I could hear the rustling of her train. What nonsense, eh?”

“Or maybe it's all lies?” Raskolnikov responded.

“I rarely lie,” Svidrigailov answered thoughtfully, as if he had not even noticed the rudeness of the question.

“And did you ever see ghosts before this?”

“Y-yes, I did, once before in my life, about six years ago. I had a household serf named Filka; we had just buried him, and I forgot and called out: 'Filka, my pipe!' He came in and went straight to the cabinet where I kept my pipes. I sat there thinking: 'It's his revenge on me,' because we had quarreled badly just before his death. 'How dare you come to me with a torn elbow,' I said. 'Get out, scoundrel!' He turned around, walked out, and never came back. I didn't tell Marfa Petrovna. I wanted to order a memorial service for him, but I was ashamed.”

“You should see a doctor.”

“I don't need you to tell me I'm not well, though I don't really know what's wrong with me; I think I'm five times healthier than you are.

I didn't ask whether you believe that people see ghosts. I asked if you believe that there are ghosts.”

“No, I wouldn't believe it for anything!” Raskolnikov cried out, even somewhat spitefully.

“What is it they usually say?” Svidrigailov muttered as if to himself, turning aside and inclining his head slightly. “They say, 'You're sick, and therefore what you imagine is all just nonexistent raving.' But there's no strict logic here. I agree that ghosts come only to sick people; but that only proves that ghosts cannot appear to anyone but sick people, not that they themselves do not exist.”

“Of course they don't!” Raskolnikov insisted irritably.

“No? You think not?” Svidrigailov went on, slowly raising his eyes to him. “And what if one reasons like this (come, help me now): 'Ghosts are, so to speak, bits and pieces of other worlds, their beginnings. The healthy man, naturally, has no call to see them, because the healthy man is the most earthly of men, and therefore he ought to live according to life here, for the sake of completeness and order. Well, but as soon as a man gets sick, as soon as the normal earthly order of his organism is disrupted, the possibility of another world at once begins to make itself known, and the sicker one is, the greater the contact with this other world, so that when a man dies altogether, he goes to the other world directly.' I've been reasoning it out for a long time. If one believes in a future life, one can believe in this reasoning.”

“I do not believe in a future life,” said Raskolnikov.

Svidrigailov sat thinking.

“And what if there are only spiders there, or something of the sort,” he said suddenly.

“He's a madman,” thought Raskolnikov.

“We keep imagining eternity as an idea that cannot be grasped, something vast, vast! But why must it be vast? Instead of all that, imagine suddenly that there will be one little room there, something like a village bathhouse, covered with soot, with spiders in all the corners, and that's the whole of eternity. I sometimes fancy something of the sort.”

“But surely, surely you can imagine something more just and comforting than that!” Raskolnikov cried out with painful feeling.

“More just? Who knows, perhaps that is just—and, you know, if I had my way, it's certainly how I would do it!” Svidrigailov answered, smiling vaguely.

A sort of chill came over Raskolnikov at this hideous answer. Svidrigailov raised his head, looked at him intently, and suddenly burst out laughing.

“No, but realize,” he cried, “that half an hour ago we had never even seen each other, we're supposed to be enemies, there's unfinished business between us; so we've dropped the business, and look what literature we've gone sailing into! Well, wasn't it true when I said we were apples from the same tree?”

“Do me a favor,” Raskolnikov continued irritably, “allow me to ask you for a quick explanation of why you deem me worthy to be honored by your visit...and...and...I'm in a hurry, I have no time, I must go out . . .”

“By all means, by all means. Your dear sister, Avdotya Romanovna, is going to marry Mr. Luzhin, Pyotr Petrovich?”

“Could you not somehow avoid asking any questions about my sister or mentioning her name? I don't understand how you even dare to utter her name in my presence, if you are indeed Svidrigailov.”

“But it's her that I came to speak about; how can I not mention her?”

“Very well; speak, but be quick!”

“I'm sure you've already formed an opinion of this Mr. Luzhin, to whom I am related through my wife, if you've spent as much as half an hour with him, or merely heard something true and accurate about him. He is no match for Avdotya Romanovna. In my opinion, Avdotya Romanovna is quite magnanimously and improvidently sacrificing herself in this affair for...for her family. It seemed to me, from all I had heard about you, that you, for your part, would be very pleased if this marriage could be broken off without harming anyone's interests. Now that I've met you in person, I'm even certain of it.”

“This is all very naive on your part—excuse me, I was going to say insolent,” Raskolnikov said.

“What you mean, I take it, is that I'm trying to grease my own skids. Don't worry, Rodion Romanovich, if I were going to bother about my own advantage, I would not speak so directly—I'm not a complete fool yet. In this regard, I shall reveal to you a psychological anomaly. Earlier, in justifying my love for Avdotya Romanovna, I said I was a victim myself. Well, let it be known to you that I no longer feel any love, none at all, which even seems strange to me now, because I did indeed feel something...”