Part Four · I

“Can this be the dream still going on?” Raskolnikov thought once more. Cautiously, distrustfully, he peered at his unexpected guest.

“Svidrigailov? What nonsense! It can’t be!” he said at last aloud, bewildered.

The guest seemed not in the least surprised by this exclamation.

“I have called on you for two reasons: first, I wished to make your personal acquaintance, since I have long heard of you from a most curious angle, and one very much to your advantage; second, I dream that you may perhaps not refuse to help me in a certain undertaking that bears directly on the interests of your sister, Avdotya Romanovna. Alone, without a recommendation, she might not even let me into the yard now, owing to prejudice; well, but with your help, on the contrary, I count on…”

“You count wrong,” Raskolnikov interrupted.

“They arrived only yesterday, if I may ask?”

Raskolnikov did not answer.

“Yesterday, I know. I myself arrived only the day before yesterday. Well, sir, here is what I’ll tell you on that score, Rodion Romanovich: I consider it superfluous to justify myself, but allow me, too, to declare: what is there, after all, in all this, that is so especially criminal on my part, that is, without prejudices, judging soundly?”

Raskolnikov went on studying him in silence.

“That in my own house I pursued a defenseless girl and ‘insulted her with my vile proposals’—is that it, sir? (I’m running ahead of you myself!) But only suppose that I too am a man, et nihil humanum…¹ in a word, that I too am capable of being tempted and of falling in love (which, of course, does not happen at our command), and then everything is explained in the most natural way. The whole question here is: am I a monster, or am I myself a victim? Well, and what if a victim? Why, in proposing to the object of my passion that she run away with me to America or to Switzerland, I may have cherished the most respectful feelings in doing so, and thought besides to arrange our mutual happiness!… Reason, you know, is the servant of passion; I was ruining myself even more, perhaps, good heavens!…”

“That’s not the point at all,” Raskolnikov interrupted with disgust, “you are simply repulsive, whether you are right or wrong, and so nobody wants to have anything to do with you, and they drive you away, and off you go!…”

Svidrigailov suddenly burst out laughing.

“Well, you… well, there’s no throwing you off!” he said, laughing in the frankest way. “I had thought to be crafty, but no, you’ve put your finger on the very real point!”

“But you are going on being crafty even this minute.”

“And what of it? What of it?” Svidrigailov repeated, laughing without the least reserve. “That is bonne guerre, as they say, and the most permissible kind of craftiness!… But all the same, you interrupted me; one way or another, I affirm again: there would have been no unpleasantness at all if not for the incident in the garden. Marfa Petrovna…”

“And Marfa Petrovna, they say, you did in too?” Raskolnikov interrupted rudely.

“So you’ve heard about that as well? But then how could you not have heard… Well, as for this question of yours, I really don’t know what to tell you, although my own conscience is in the highest degree at peace on that score. That is, don’t think that I am afraid of anything of that sort: everything was done in perfect order and with complete precision: the medical inquest found an apoplexy, brought on by bathing right after a heavy dinner with nearly a bottle of wine drunk, and indeed it could not have found anything else… No, sir, here is what I was thinking to myself for a while, especially on the road, sitting in the railway car: didn’t I contribute to all this… misfortune, somehow, by irritating her morally, or something of that kind? But I concluded that this too was positively impossible.”

Raskolnikov laughed.

“Fancy worrying so much!”

“But what are you laughing at? Consider: I struck her only twice with a little riding whip, there weren’t even any marks… Don’t take me for a cynic, please; I know perfectly well, of course, how vile that was on my part, and so on and so forth; but I also know for certain that Marfa Petrovna was, very likely, even glad of this, so to speak, outburst of mine. The story about your sister had been squeezed dry to the last drop. For three days already Marfa Petrovna had been obliged to sit at home; she had no excuse to show her face in town, and besides, everyone there was sick of her and that letter of hers (you’ve heard about the reading of the letter?). And suddenly these two lashes fall as if from heaven! The first thing she did was order the carriage harnessed!… I won’t even mention that women have occasions when it is very, very pleasant to be insulted, despite all their visible indignation. Everyone has them, these occasions; man in general very, very much loves to be insulted, have you noticed that? But women especially. One might even say that it is all they live on.”

At one point Raskolnikov thought of getting up and leaving and so putting an end to the interview. But a certain curiosity, and even a sort of calculation, held him back for a moment.

“Do you like fighting?” he asked absently.

“No, not very much,” Svidrigailov answered calmly. “And Marfa Petrovna and I almost never fought. We lived in great harmony, and she always remained pleased with me. I used the whip in all our seven years only twice (not counting one more, third occasion, which was, however, a highly ambiguous one): the first time two months after our marriage, right after we arrived in the country, and then this present, last occasion. And you thought I was such a monster, a reactionary, a serf owner? heh-heh… And by the way: don’t you remember, Rodion Romanovich, how several years ago, back in the days of beneficent publicity, a certain nobleman was disgraced before the whole nation and the whole of literature—I forget his name!—the one who thrashed the German woman in the railway car, remember? It was then, too, in that same year, I think, that the ‘Disgraceful Act’ of The Age took place (well, the ‘Egyptian Nights,’ the public reading, remember? The black eyes! Oh, where art thou, golden time of our youth!).² Well, sir, so here is my opinion: I have no deep sympathy for the gentleman who thrashed the German woman, because in fact it was… what is there to sympathize with! But at the same time I cannot help declaring that there are sometimes such provoking ‘German women’ that, it seems to me, there is not a single progressive who could fully vouch for himself. Nobody looked at the subject from that angle at the time, and yet that angle is the truly humane one, really, sir, it is!”

Having said this, Svidrigailov suddenly burst out laughing again. It was clear to Raskolnikov that this was a man who had firmly resolved on something and who kept his own counsel.

“You must not have talked to anyone for several days running?” he asked.

“Almost so. And what: you must be wondering that I am such an accommodating man?”

“No, I am wondering that you are much too accommodating a man.”

“Because I took no offense at the rudeness of your questions? Is that it? Well… why take offense? As you asked, so I answered,” he added with an amazing expression of simplicity. “You see, there’s hardly anything that especially interests me, by God,” he went on, somehow thoughtfully. “Especially now, I’m not occupied with anything at all… However, you are free to think that I am currying favor with some end in view, all the more as I have business with your sister, I announced it myself. But I will tell you frankly: I am very bored! Especially these three days, so that I was even glad to see you… Don’t be angry, Rodion Romanovich, but you yourself, for some reason, seem terribly strange to me. Say what you like, there is something in you; and precisely now, that is, not this minute exactly, but now in general… Well, well, I won’t, I won’t, don’t frown! I’m not such a bear as you think.”

Raskolnikov looked at him gloomily.

“Perhaps you are even not a bear at all,” he said. “It even seems to me that you are from very good society, or at least that you know how to be a decent man on occasion.”

“But I am not especially interested in anyone’s opinion,” Svidrigailov answered dryly and even, as it were, with a shade of haughtiness, “and so why not be a vulgar fellow for a while, when that garment is so comfortable to wear in our climate, and… and especially if you have a natural inclination for it besides,” he added, laughing again.

“I’ve heard, though, that you have a lot of acquaintances here. You are what is called ‘not without connections.’ What do you want with me, in that case, if not for some purpose?”

“That’s true, what you said, that I have acquaintances,” Svidrigailov took up, not answering the main point. “I’ve already run into some; this is my third day knocking about; I recognize people, and they recognize me, it seems. Of course, I am decently dressed and am counted a man not poor; the peasant reform passed us by, you know: woods and water meadows, the income isn’t lost; but… I won’t go there; I was sick of it even before: I’ve been walking about for three days and I haven’t made myself known to anyone… And then there’s the city! I mean, how did it ever get itself composed among us, will you tell me! A city of clerks and seminarists of every description! Really, I didn’t notice a lot of things here before, some eight years ago, when I was knocking about here… Anatomy is the only thing I’m counting on now, by God!”

“What anatomy?”

“And as for these clubs, Dussot’s, these Points of yours, or, if you like, progress besides—well, let that go on without us,” he went on, again not noticing the question. “And who wants to be a cardsharp?”

“So you were a cardsharp too?”

“How could I not be? There was a whole company of us, a most decent one, some eight years ago; we passed the time; and all, you know, men with manners, there were poets, there were capitalists. And in general among us, in Russian society, the best manners belong to those who have been beaten—have you noticed that? It’s in the country now that I’ve let myself go. But all the same they did put me in prison for debt then, a little Greek from Nezhin did. That was when Marfa Petrovna turned up, bargained, and bought me out for thirty thousand pieces of silver.³ (I owed seventy thousand in all.) She and I were joined in lawful matrimony, and she carried me off at once to her place in the country, like some treasure. She is five years older than I, you know. She loved me very much. For seven years I never left the country. And mark this: all her life she held a document against me, in another person’s name, for those thirty thousand, so that if I took it into my head to rebel in anything—straight into the trap! And she would have done it! In women, you know, all these things live together.”

“And if not for the document, you’d have bolted?”

“I don’t know what to tell you. The document hardly constrained me. I didn’t want to go anywhere, and Marfa Petrovna herself invited me abroad a couple of times, seeing that I was bored. What of it! I used to go abroad before, and I always felt sick there. It isn’t that, but there’s the dawn breaking, the Bay of Naples, the sea, you look, and somehow it’s sad. The most disgusting thing is that you really are sad about something! No, it’s better in one’s own country: here at least you blame others for everything and justify yourself. Perhaps I would go now on an expedition to the North Pole, because j’ai le vin mauvais,⁴ and drinking disgusts me, and besides wine there is nothing left. I’ve tried. And what about this, they say Berg is going up in a huge balloon on Sunday in the Yusupov Garden and invites fellow travelers for a certain fee, is it true?”

“Why, would you go up?”

“I? No… just so…” Svidrigailov muttered, really as if he had fallen to thinking.

“What’s the matter with him, really?” Raskolnikov thought.

“No, the document didn’t constrain me,” Svidrigailov went on musingly, “it was I myself who didn’t leave the country. And it will be a year now since Marfa Petrovna gave me that document back on my name day, and on top of that made me a present of a remarkable sum. She had capital, you know. ‘You see how I trust you, Arkady Ivanovich’—really, that’s just how she put it. You don’t believe she put it that way? But you know, I became a decent landowner in the country; I’m known in the district. I also sent away for books. At first Marfa Petrovna approved, but then she was always afraid I would study too much.”

“You seem to miss Marfa Petrovna very much?”

“I? Perhaps. Really, perhaps. And by the way, do you believe in ghosts?”

“What ghosts?”

“Ordinary ghosts, what ghosts!”

“And do you?”

“Well, perhaps not, pour vous plaire… That is, not exactly no…”

“They appear to you, is that it?”

Svidrigailov gave him a somehow strange look.

“Marfa Petrovna deigns to visit me,” he said, twisting his mouth into a sort of strange smile.

“What do you mean, deigns to visit you?”

“Why, she’s come three times already. The first time I saw her was on the very day of the funeral, an hour after the cemetery. That was the eve of my leaving for here. The second time was the day before yesterday, on the road, at dawn, at the Malaya Vishera station; and the third time two hours ago, in the lodgings where I’m staying, in the room; I was alone.”

“Awake?”

“Completely. All three times awake. She comes, talks for a minute, and goes out by the door; always by the door. You can even seem to hear it.”

“How is it that I just knew something of that sort must be happening to you!” Raskolnikov said suddenly, and at the same moment was surprised that he had said it. He was in great agitation.

“Re-eally? You thought that?” Svidrigailov asked in surprise. “Can it be? Well, didn’t I say that there is some point in common between us, eh?”

“You never said anything of the kind!” Raskolnikov answered sharply and heatedly.

“I didn’t?”

“No!”

“I thought I did. Earlier, when I came in and saw that you were lying with your eyes closed, and were only pretending, I said to myself right then: ‘This is the very one!’”

“What is that: the very one? What are you talking about?” Raskolnikov cried.

“About what? Really, I don’t know about what…” Svidrigailov muttered openheartedly, and as if he had somehow got tangled up himself.

For a minute they were silent. Both stared at each other wide-eyed.

“This is all nonsense!” Raskolnikov cried in vexation. “What does she say to you when she comes?”

“She? Imagine, about the most trivial trifles, and marvel at man: that is just what makes me angry. The first time she came in (I was tired, you know: the funeral service, ‘With the saints give rest,’ then the litany, the collation—at last I was alone in the study, I lit a cigar, fell to thinking), she came in by the door: ‘You know, Arkady Ivanovich,’ she says, ‘with all the bustle today you forgot to wind the clock in the dining room.’ And that clock, in fact, I had wound myself every week for all seven years, and if I forgot, she would always remind me. The next day I was already on my way here. I went into the station at dawn—I’d dozed in the night, I was aching all over, my eyes were heavy with sleep—I took some coffee; I look—Marfa Petrovna suddenly sits down beside me, a pack of cards in her hands: ‘Shall I tell your fortune for the journey, Arkady Ivanovich?’ And she was a great hand at telling fortunes. Well, I’ll never forgive myself for not letting her! I ran off in a fright, and then, it’s true, the bell rang too. Today I’m sitting after a most wretched dinner from a cookshop, with a heavy stomach—I sit, I smoke—suddenly Marfa Petrovna again, she comes in all dressed up in a new green silk dress with a very long train: ‘Good day, Arkady Ivanovich! How do you like my dress? Aniska couldn’t make one like it.’ (Aniska is a dressmaker in our village, one of the former serfs, she was apprenticed in Moscow—a pretty little thing.) She stands there, turning around in front of me. I looked over the dress, then looked attentively into her face: ‘Why do you want to come to me over such trifles, Marfa Petrovna,’ I say, ‘and trouble yourself?’—‘Oh, my God, my dear man, a body can’t even trouble you anymore!’ I say to her, to tease her: ‘I want to get married, Marfa Petrovna.’—‘That’s just like you, Arkady Ivanovich; it does you little honor that before you’ve even buried your wife you go straight off to get married. And if only you’d chosen well, but as it is, I know—it’ll be no good to her or to you, you’ll only make good people laugh.’ And she up and went out, and her train seemed to rustle, just like that. What nonsense, eh?”

“But then perhaps you’re lying about all of it?” Raskolnikov responded.

“I seldom lie,” Svidrigailov answered thoughtfully, and as if he had not noticed the rudeness of the question at all.

“And before, before this, had you never seen ghosts?”

“N… no, I did, only once in my life, six years ago. I had a house serf, Filka; he had just been buried, and I shouted, forgetting myself: ‘Filka, my pipe!’—he came in and went straight to the cabinet where I keep my pipes. I sit there and think: ‘He’s come to get back at me,’ because just before his death we had quarreled badly. ‘How dare you come in to me with a hole in your elbow,’ I say, ‘get out, you scoundrel!’ He turned around, went out, and never came again. I didn’t tell Marfa Petrovna then. I wanted to have a memorial service said for him, but I felt ashamed.”

“Go see a doctor.”

“I understand without you that I’m not well, though really I don’t know what’s wrong with me; in my opinion, I’m probably five times healthier than you. That’s not what I asked you—whether or not you believe that ghosts appear. I asked you: do you believe that ghosts exist?”

“No, I won’t believe it for anything!” Raskolnikov cried, even with a kind of spite.

“After all, what do people usually say?” Svidrigailov muttered as if to himself, looking aside and bending his head somewhat. “They say: ‘You are ill, and therefore what appears to you is nothing but a nonexistent delirium.’ But there is no strict logic in that. I agree that ghosts appear only to the sick; but that only proves that ghosts cannot appear except to the sick, not that they do not exist in themselves.”

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

“No? You think so?” Svidrigailov went on, looking at him slowly. “Well, and what if one reasons like this (now help me out here): ‘Ghosts are, so to speak, shreds and fragments of other worlds, their beginning. A healthy man, naturally, has no reason to see them, because a healthy man is the most earthly of men, and so must live this life here only, for the sake of completeness and order. Well, but as soon as he falls ill, as soon as the normal earthly order in his organism is disturbed a little, the possibility of another world at once begins to make itself felt, and the sicker he is, the more contact he has with the other world, so that when a man dies altogether, he goes straight over into the other world.’ I reasoned about this long ago. If you believe in a future life, you can believe this reasoning too.”

“I don’t believe in a future life,” said Raskolnikov.

Svidrigailov sat lost in thought.

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

“He’s a madman,” Raskolnikov thought.

“We always imagine eternity as an idea that cannot be grasped, something huge, huge! But why must it be huge? And suddenly, instead of all that, imagine, there will be one little room there, something like a village bathhouse, all sooty, with spiders in every corner, and that is all eternity is. You know, I sometimes fancy it that way.”

“And can it be, can it be that nothing more comforting and more just than that comes to your mind!” Raskolnikov cried out with a painful feeling.

“More just? And how can we know, perhaps that is just, and you know, I would certainly have made it so on purpose!” Svidrigailov answered, smiling vaguely.

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

“No, just consider this,” he shouted, “half an hour ago we had never even seen each other, we are counted enemies, there is unsettled business between us; we have dropped the business, and look what literature we’ve wandered off into! Well, wasn’t I telling the truth, that we are birds of a feather?”

“Do me a favor,” Raskolnikov went on irritably, “allow me to ask you to explain yourself quickly and tell me why you have honored me with your visit… and… and… I’m in a hurry, I have no time, I want to go out…”

“By all means, by all means. Your sister, Avdotya Romanovna, is marrying Mr. Luzhin, Pyotr Petrovich?”

“Couldn’t you somehow avoid any question about my sister and not mention her name? I don’t even understand how you dare pronounce her name in my presence, if you really are Svidrigailov.”

“But it’s about her that I’ve come to talk, how can I not mention her?”

“Very well; talk, but quickly!”

“I am sure that you have already formed your opinion of this Mr. Luzhin, a relative of mine through my wife, if you have seen him for even half an hour or have heard anything true and exact about him. He is no match for Avdotya Romanovna. In my opinion, Avdotya Romanovna is sacrificing herself in this affair most magnanimously and improvidently for… for her family. It seemed to me, from everything I had heard about you, that you, for your part, would be very pleased if this marriage could be broken off without damage to anyone’s interests. Now, having come to know you personally, I am even sure of it.”

“On your part all this is very naive; excuse me, I meant to say: impudent,” said Raskolnikov.

“That is, you mean by this that I am bustling to line my own pocket. Don’t worry, Rodion Romanovich, if I were bustling for my own gain, I would not speak out so directly, I’m not a complete fool, after all. On that score I will reveal to you one psychological oddity. Earlier, justifying my love for Avdotya Romanovna, I said that I had myself been a victim. Well, then, know that I feel no love now, n-none at all, so that it even seems strange to me myself, because I really did feel something…”

“From idleness and depravity,” Raskolnikov interrupted.

“Indeed, I am a depraved and idle man. And yet your sister has so many advantages that even I could not help yielding to a certain impression. But that is all nonsense, as I now see myself.”

“And how long have you seen that?”

“I began to notice it even before, but I was finally convinced the day before yesterday, almost at the very moment of my arrival in Petersburg. Still, even in Moscow I imagined that I was going to seek Avdotya Romanovna’s hand and to compete with Mr. Luzhin.”

“Excuse me for interrupting you, but do me a favor: couldn’t you cut it short and go straight to the purpose of your visit? I’m in a hurry, I have to go out…”

“With the greatest pleasure. Having arrived here and having now resolved to undertake a certain… voyage, I wished to make the necessary preliminary arrangements. My children have stayed with their aunt; they are rich, and they have no need of me personally. And what kind of father am I! For myself I have taken only what Marfa Petrovna gave me a year ago. That is enough for me. Excuse me, I am coming to the business itself right now. Before the voyage, which may perhaps come off, I want to finish with Mr. Luzhin too. Not that I can’t stand him so very much, but it was because of him, all the same, that my quarrel with Marfa Petrovna came about, when I learned that it was she who had cooked up this marriage. I wish now to see Avdotya Romanovna, through your mediation, and, perhaps, in your presence too, to explain to her, first, that from Mr. Luzhin she will not only have not the slightest advantage, but will even certainly suffer obvious harm. Then, having begged her pardon for all these recent unpleasantnesses, I would ask permission to offer her ten thousand roubles and in that way ease the break with Mr. Luzhin, a break which, I am sure, she herself would not be averse to, if only the possibility presented itself.”

“But you really, really are mad!” cried Raskolnikov, not so much angered even as surprised. “How dare you talk like that!”

“I knew you would shout; but, first, though I am not rich, these ten thousand roubles are free, that is, I have absolutely, absolutely no need of them. If Avdotya Romanovna doesn’t accept them, I’ll probably use them in an even sillier way. That’s one. Second: my conscience is completely at peace; I am making the offer without any calculations. Believe it or not, but later on both you and Avdotya Romanovna will know. The whole thing is that I really did cause your highly esteemed sister some trouble and unpleasantness; consequently, feeling sincere repentance, I heartily wish—not to buy myself off, not to pay for the unpleasantness, but simply to do something to her advantage, on the grounds that I did not, after all, take out a patent for doing nothing but evil. If there were even a millionth part of calculation in my offer, I would not make it so directly; and I would not be offering a mere ten thousand when only five weeks ago I offered her more. Besides that, I may be marrying a certain girl very, very soon, and consequently all suspicions of any designs against Avdotya Romanovna must thereby be done away with. In conclusion I will say that, in marrying Mr. Luzhin, Avdotya Romanovna is taking the very same money, only from another side… Now don’t be angry, Rodion Romanovich, judge calmly and coolly.”

As he said this, Svidrigailov was himself extremely cool and calm.

“I ask you to stop,” said Raskolnikov. “In any case, this is unpardonably insolent.”

“Not in the least. At that rate, a man may do nothing but evil to another man in this world and, on the contrary, has no right to do a crumb of good, because of empty accepted formalities. That is absurd. Why, if I, for instance, died and left this sum to your sister by my will, would she really refuse to accept it even then?”

“Very possibly.”

“Oh no, sir, she wouldn’t. But then, no is no, so be it. Only ten thousand is a fine thing, on occasion. In any case, I will ask you to pass on what I have said to Avdotya Romanovna.”

“No, I won’t pass it on.”

“In that case, Rodion Romanovich, I shall be forced to seek a personal interview myself, and so to trouble her.”

“And if I pass it on, you won’t seek a personal interview?”

“I really don’t know what to tell you. I would very much like to see her once.”

“Don’t hope for it.”

“A pity. But then you don’t know me. Perhaps we shall become closer.”

“You think we shall become closer?”

“And why not?” said Svidrigailov with a smile, got up, and took his hat. “It isn’t that I so very much wished to trouble you, and coming here I didn’t even count on much, although, by the way, your face struck me this morning…”

“Where did you see me this morning?” Raskolnikov asked uneasily.

“By chance, sir… I keep feeling that there is something in you akin to mine… But don’t worry, I’m not a bore; I got along with cardsharps, and I didn’t bore Prince Svirbey, a distant relative of mine and a grandee, and I managed to write about Raphael’s Madonna in Madame Prilukova’s album, and I lived with Marfa Petrovna for seven years without once leaving, and in the old days I spent nights in the Vyazemsky house on the Haymarket, and perhaps I shall go up in a balloon with Berg.”

“Well, all right, sir. Allow me to ask, will you be setting off on your journey soon?”

“What journey?”

“Why, that ‘voyage’… You said so yourself.”

“The voyage? Ah, yes!… indeed, I told you about the voyage… Well, that’s a broad question… But if only you knew what you are asking about!” he added, and suddenly laughed loudly and briefly. “Perhaps I’ll get married instead of the voyage; they are making a match for me.”

“Here?”

“Yes.”

“When did you find time for that?”

“But I very much wish to see Avdotya Romanovna once. I ask it seriously. Well, good-bye… ah, yes! Here’s what I forgot! Tell your sister, Rodion Romanovich, that she is mentioned in Marfa Petrovna’s will for three thousand. That is positively true. Marfa Petrovna made the arrangements a week before her death, and it was done in my presence. In two or three weeks Avdotya Romanovna can have the money.”

“Are you telling the truth?”

“The truth. Tell her. Well, sir, your servant. I am staying not very far from you, you know.”

Going out, Svidrigailov ran into Razumikhin in the doorway.

Notes

1. 1. Latin, from Terence: Homo sum, humani nihil a me alienum puto, “I am a man; I count nothing human alien to me.”

2. 2. Two newspaper scandals of the early 1860s, the years of the new “publicity” (glasnost) under Alexander II. In 1861 a provincial landowner was pilloried in the press for beating a German woman in a train. The same year the weekly The Age (Vek) printed a sneering article, “A Disgraceful Act,” about a lady who had read Pushkin’s “Egyptian Nights” aloud at a public literary evening.

3. 3. The Russian word, srebreniki, is the one used for Judas’s thirty pieces of silver.

4. 4. French: “drink makes me nasty.” Just below, pour vous plaire: “to please you.”