第197章

第197章“whatfollytotroublemyself,”hedecidedsuddenlywithanoppressivefeelingofannoyance.“whatidiocy!”invexationhetookupthecandletogoandlookfortheedattendantagainandmakehastetogoaway.“damnthechild!”hethoughtasheopenedthedoor,butheturnedagaintoseewhetherthechildwasasleep.heraisedtheblanketcarefully.thechildwassleepingsoundly,shehadgotwarmundertheblanket,andherpalecheekswereflushed.butstrangetosaythatflushseemedbrighterandcoarserthantherosycheeksofchildhood.“it’saflushoffever,”thoughtsvidrigailov.itwasliketheflushfromdrinking,asthoughshehadbeengivenafullglasstodrink.hercrimsonlipswerehotandglowing;butwhatwasthis?hesuddenlyfanciedthatherlongblackeyelasheswerequivering,asthoughthelidswereopeningandaslycraftyeyepeepedoutwithanunchildlikewink,asthoughthelittlegirlwerenotasleep,butpretending.yes,itwasso.herlipspartedinasmile.thecornersofhermouthquivered,asthoughsheweretryingtocontrolthem.butnowshequitegaveupalleffort,nowitwasagrin,abroadgrin;therewassomethingshameless,provocativeinthatquiteunchildishface;itwasdepravity,itwasthefaceofaharlot,theshamelessfaceofafrenchharlot.nowbotheyesopenedwide;theyturnedaglowing,shamelessglanceuponhim;theylaughed,invitedhim.…therewassomethinginfinitelyhideousandshockinginthatlaugh,inthoseeyes,insuchnastinessinthefaceofachild.“what,atfiveyearsold?”svidrigailovmutteredingenuinehorror.“whatdoesitmean?”andnowsheturnedtohim,herlittlefaceallaglow,holdingoutherarms.…“accursedchild!”svidrigailovcried,raisinghishandtostrikeher,butatthatmomenthewokeup.

hewasinthesamebed,stillwrappedintheblanket.thecandlehadnotbeenlighted,anddaylightwasstreaminginatthewindows.

“i’vehadnightmareallnight!”hegotupangrily,feelingutterlyshattered;hisbonesached.therewasathickmistoutsideandhecouldseenothing.itwasnearlyfive.hehadoverslepthimself!hegotup,putonhisstilldampjacketandovercoat.feelingtherevolverinhispocket,hetookitoutandthenhesatdown,tookanotebookoutofhispocketandinthemostconspicuousplaceonthetitlepagewroteafewlinesinlargeletters.readingthemover,hesankintothoughtwithhiselbowsonthetable.therevolverandthenotebooklaybesidehim.someflieswokeupandsettledontheuntouchedveal,whichwasstillonthetable.hestaredatthemandatlastwithhisfreerighthandbegantryingtocatchone.hetriedtillhewastired,butcouldnotcatchit.atlast,realisingthathewasengagedinthisinterestingpursuit,hestarted,gotupandwalkedresolutelyoutoftheroom.aminutelaterhewasinthestreet.

athickmilkymisthungoverthetown.svidrigailovwalkedalongtheslipperydirtywoodenpavementtowardsthelittleneva.hewaspicturingthewatersofthelittlenevaswolleninthenight,petrovskyisland,thewetpaths,thewetgrass,thewettreesandbushesandatlastthebush.…hebeganill-humouredlystaringatthehouses,tryingtothinkofsomethingelse.therewasnotacabmanorapasser-byinthestreet.thebrightyellow,wooden,littlehouseslookeddirtyanddejectedwiththeirclosedshutters.thecoldanddamppenetratedhiswholebodyandhebegantoshiver.fromtimetotimehecameacrossshopsignsandreadeachcarefully.atlasthereachedtheendofthewoodenpavementandcametoabigstonehouse.adirty,shiveringdogcrossedhispathwithitstailbetweenitslegs.amaninagreatcoatlayfacedownwards;deaddrunk,acrossthepavement.helookedathimandwenton.ahightowerstoodupontheleft.“bah!”heshouted,“hereisaplace.whyshoulditbepetrovsky?itwillbeinthepresenceofanofficialwitnessanyway.…”

healmostsmiledatthisnewthoughtandturnedintothestreetwheretherewasthebighousewiththetower.atthegreatclosedgatesofthehouse,alittlemanstoodwithhisshoulderleaningagainstthem,wrappedinagreysoldier’scoat,withacopperachilleshelmetonhishead.hecastadrowsyandindifferentglanceatsvidrigailov.hisfaceworethatperpetuallookofpeevishdejection,whichissosourlyprintedonallfacesofjewishracewithoutexception.theyboth,svidrigailovandachilles,staredateachotherforafewminuteswithoutspeaking.atlastitstruckachillesasirregularforamannotdrunktobestandingthreestepsfromhim,staringandnotsayingaword.

“whatdoyouwanthere?”hesaid,withoutmovingorchanginghisposition.

“nothing,brother,goodmorning,”answeredsvidrigailov.

“thisisn’ttheplace.”

“iamgoingtoforeignparts,brother.”

“toforeignparts?”

“toamerica.”

“america.”

svidrigailovtookouttherevolverandcockedit.achillesraisedhiseyebrows.

“isay,thisisnottheplaceforsuchjokes!”

“whyshouldn’titbetheplace?”

“becauseitisn’t.”

“well,brother,idon’tmindthat.it’sagoodplace.whenyouareasked,youjustsayhewasgoing,hesaid,toamerica.”

heputtherevolvertohisrighttemple.

“youcan’tdoithere,it’snottheplace,”criedachilles,rousinghimself,hiseyesgrowingerander.

svidrigailovpulledtheer.