or rather, the fact that a great many men of genius have turned a blind eye to isolated acts of evil, stepping right over them without a second thought. He seems to have fancied that he, too, is a man of genius – or at least, he was sure of it for a time. He was greatly pained – and still is – by the thought that he may have managed to come up with a theory, but as for taking that step without a second thought – that was beyond him. So how can he be a man of genius? What could be more demeaning for a young man with a high opinion of himself, especially in our day and age . . . ?’
‘And the voice of conscience? Are you denying him all moral sense? Is he really like that?’
‘Ah, Avdotya Romanovna, nowadays all the waters are muddied; although, come to think of it, things were never terribly orderly. Russians are a broad people, Avdotya Romanovna, as broad as their land, and they have an exceptional propensity for the fantastical and the disorderly; but breadth without genius is a recipe for disaster. Do you remember how often the two of us talked like this, on this very subject, out on the terrace in the evenings, after dinner? In fact, it was precisely this breadth you reproached me with. Who knows, while we were talking he may have been lying on his bed here, thinking his thoughts. After all, Avdotya Romanovna, our educated society has no truly sacred traditions to call its own: not unless someone cobbles something together from books . . . or digs something out of the Chronicles.27 But that’s just scholars, fools in their own way, and it’s all rather embarrassing for a man of society. But anyway, you know my views. I’ve no intention of accusing anyone. I prefer to keep my hands clean. But we’ve discussed this more than once. I even had the good fortune of interesting you in my opinions . . . You’re very pale, Avdotya Romanovna!’
‘I know this theory of his. I read his article in the journal about people to whom all is permitted . . . Razumikhin brought it to me . . .’
‘Mr Razumikhin? An article by your brother? In a journal? Such an article exists? I didn’t know. Well, well, that must be interesting! But where are you off to, Avdotya Romanovna?’
‘I want to see Sofya Semyonovna,’ said Dunechka faintly. ‘Which way to her room? She may be back already. I just have to see her now. Maybe she can . . .’
Avdotya Romanovna couldn’t finish; she literally ran out of breath.
‘Sofya Semyonovna won’t be back before dark. That’s my guess. She should have come by now, or else not until very late . . .’
‘Ah, so you’re a liar, a fibber! Damn you! You were lying all along! I don’t believe you! I don’t! I don’t!’ shouted Dunechka hysterically, losing all self-control.
She dropped almost unconscious into the chair hurriedly provided by Svidrigailov.
‘Avdotya Romanovna, whatever’s the matter? Wake up! Here’s some water. Take a sip at least . . .’
He splashed her with water. Dunechka started and came round.
‘Well that shook her up!’ Svidrigailov muttered to himself with a frown. ‘Avdotya Romanovna, you mustn’t worry! He has friends, you know. We’ll save him. We’ll rescue him. Shall I take him abroad? I have money and I can get a passport certificate within three days. And as for his murder, well, there’s plenty of time for him to make amends and smooth everything over. You mustn’t worry. He may still turn out a great man. But what’s the matter? How are you feeling now?’
‘You wicked man! And you even have the nerve to laugh at me. Let me go . . .’
‘But where are you off to?’
‘To see him. Where is he? Do you know? Why’s this door locked? We came in by this door and now it’s locked. When did you manage to lock it?’
‘I couldn’t let the entire floor hear what we were saying. I’m not laughing at you in the slightest. I’m just sick of talking like this. Where will you go in such a