ecause we had a
violent quarrel just before his death. 'How dare you come in with a hole
in your elbow?' I said. 'Go away, you scamp!' He turned and went out,
and never came again. I didn't tell Marfa Petrovna at the time. I wanted
to have a service sung for him, but I was ashamed."

"You should go to a doctor."

"I know I am not well, without your telling me, though I don't know
what's wrong; I believe I am five times as strong as you are. I didn't
ask you whether you believe that ghosts are seen, but whether you
believe that they exist."

"No, I won't believe it!" Raskolnikov cried, with positive anger.

"What do people generally say?" muttered Svidrigailov, as though
speaking to himself, looking aside and bowing his head. "They say, 'You
are ill, so what appears to you is only unreal fantasy.' But that's not
strictly logical. I agree that ghosts only appear to the sick, but that
only proves that they are unable to appear except to the sick, not that
they don't exist."

"Nothing of the sort," Raskolnikov insisted irritably.

"No? You don't think so?" Svidrigailov went on, looking at him
deliberately. "But what do you say to this argument (help me with
it): ghosts are, as it were, shreds and fragments of other worlds, the
beginning of them. A man in health has, of course, no reason to see
them, because he is above all a man of this earth and is bound for the
sake of completeness and order to live only in this life. But as soon
as one is ill, as soon as the normal earthly order of the organism is
broken, one begins to realise the possibility of another world; and the
more seriously ill one is, the closer becomes one's contact with that
other world, so that as soon as the man dies he steps straight into that
world. I thought of that long ago. If you believe in a future life, you
could believe in that, 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 is a madman," thought Raskolnikov.

"We always imagine eternity as something beyond our conception,
something vast, vast! But why must it be vast? Instead of all that, what
if it's one little room, like a bath house in the country, black
and grimy and spiders in every corner, and that's all eternity is? I
sometimes fancy it like that."

"Can it be you can imagine nothing juster and more comforting than
that?" Raskolnikov