Original subtitles

The Russian proverb is true, it never rains but it pours.

Poor Fyodor Mikhailovich, only recently he suffered his wife's death

- and now his brother. - And he is deep in debt on top of it.

No money to pay the rent, he takes his belongings to the usurers.

And what about his contract with the editor Stillovsky?

Oh, that one! He is such a scoundrel, such a profiteer.

He has dreamt up real bondage terms for Fyodor Mikhailovich...

If he does not complete his novel by the first of November

Stillovsky can publish all Dostoyevsky's works

for nine years without paying him anything.

It absolutely can't be allowed.

- And what about him and Suslova? - Appolinaria you mean?

She is rumoured to be somewhere abroad.

Gentlemen, they say a certain Olkhin

has launched stenography classes.

Fyodor Mikhailovich could use a stenographer for the sake of speed.

- And what is it about? - The latest innovation,

- he dictates, the stenographer writes. - Yes, yes.

- That's a good idea, gentlemen. -Go!

Goodbye!

- Fyodor Mikhailovich, may I? - Yes, yes.

You are having tea, aren't you.

I like tea.

- Just went out to clear my head. - It's just that...

I am just being inquisitive, what are you writing right now? A novel?

Yes, a novel.

The deadline is the 1st of November. - Yes...

To avoid bondage conditions.

- Only the success is questionable. - Why so?

Questionable.

Stillovsky will fool you.

- By all means he will fool you. - How do you know?

- I do. - Who are you?

I work or rather vegetate at this dishonest editor's, at Stillovsky's.

At his shop.

- Oh, Stillovsky? - He will deceive you.

- How can he? - That I don't know.

But I can sense it, you should be on your guard.

For he is dishonest, profiteering.

- He has no God. - How can I protect myself?

Is it possible to protect oneself from human meanness?

Very true, Fyodor Mihailovich, very true.

Fyodor Mihailovich, just a small hint, what is the novel about?

Give a hint, I'll tell my grandchildren.

Not really...

Nothing much. The work does not go well. Not at all.

Help!

Let me go!

Police! Help!

Help!

Polia!

Appolinaria!

Excuse me.

I mistook you for someone else. I am sorry.

Everything was changed in a few days.

I...

I gave my heart to him at his whistle, with no resistance,

without any hope that I was loved.

I knew you would fall in love with someone else.

Never, do you hear it, Polia, never,

however long you might live,

will you find another heart like mine.

Neither will you be happy, Fedia.

But why?

Don't you know?

Because you feast on your own and other people's sufferings

one does on sweets.

I am lonely like a stone thrown away.

I seem destined to torture everyone

I love

and to suffer.

- Good afternoon! - Good afternoon!

I've come to see Dostoyevsky.

Come in.

This way, please.

My name is Snitkina.

Anna Grigorievna.

I was sent here by Olkhin.

I've come to see Mr. Dostoyevsky.

I am Dostoyevsky.

Come in.

Come in.

Yes.

How long have you been doing stenography?

Half a year.

Does you teacher have a lot of pupils?

At first he had many, but now no more than 20 are left.

Here it is the same with any new undertaking.

No one is eager to work hard.

By the way, I expect your teacher Olkhin

warned you about the conditions?

50 roubles for your work.

My current circumstances Ekaterina Grigorievna, dictate that...

- Anna. -What?

Anna Grigorievna.

Sorry.

I am not well. As a result my memory is horrible.

Fedosia, bring the tea

I'll dictate something for you as a test.

This, for example.

Just a few days ago it was reported in the newspapers

that a runaway prisoner in Vladimir...

Not so fast, please.

A runaway prisoner was flogged as a punishment.

Now write it in the usual way.

You are so very slow.

Insufferable.

It makes no sense.

What am I talking about?

Can I write ten printer's sheets in four weeks?

I have no experience of working with a stenographer.

I don't know, I don't know...

Mr.Dostoyevsky, I will have no complaints

if our work does not take place.

Now you are offended.

And I was glad when Olkhin sent me a girl as a stenographer

and not a man. Do you know why? -Why?

Because a man would definitely go on the booze.

And you, I presume, don't drink?

Rest assured, Mr. Dostoyevsky,

I won't go on the booze.

Ania, wait, where are you going

- Anna Grigorievna. - I am not his servant.

Neither am I a printing machine to be treated like that.

But this is Fyodor Mikhailovich. This is Dostoyevsky himself!

I don't care about his being a celebrity.

- I am a woman. - Very well.

Please kindly take this into account.

What have I got to do with it, Anna Grigorievna?

How quick-tempered you are, Ania.

You yourself talked about plans and projects.

Yes, yes, don't laugh.

I went to him like I would to God.

I went there to express my admiration for his talent.

I dreamt of becoming his assistant, but he...

Oh, Misha, you should have seen it. Angry, gloomy, rude.

- No, it's over! - Wait, Anna Grigorievna.

I know you.

I do! They are eagerly awaiting you.

It's good.

It's good that you've come.

Yes, yes, the other day I was hard on you.

But those were moments of ill-temper.

Merely moments of ill-temper.

And my permanently frayed nerves.

May I?

- Do you smoke? - Me?

I not only refrain from smoking, but I hate it when ladies smoke.

That's it.

It's not nice when ladies smoke.

I've been talking about it for ages.

A lady with a cigarette! No. What can be more disgusting?

Who will kiss her after that?

So, are you ready, Ekaterina Grigorievna?

Anna, Fyodor Mikhailovich, my name is Anna Grigorievna.

What? Oh, I am sorry, Anna Grigorievna.

Anna Grigorievna.

Despicable forgetfulness.

So, you are ready...

Anna Grigorievna.

Oh, Fedosia.

Thank you.

This is the most important point, the tea.

Please, have some.

How old are you now, Anna Grigorievna?

Twenty.

Tiny years.

You wouldn't have read any of my writings?

When I first came to your flat, I thought you door-bell was straight

out of "Crime and Punishment", when Raskolnikov comes to the old woman.

- Do you remember? - Yes. I do remember.

- Fyodor Mikhailovich. - Yes?

- May I ask you a question? - Yes, dearest.

When are you going to publish the next chapters of "Crime..."?

"Crime..."? I am afraid to predict.

When Svidrigailov comes to Raskolnikov.

Yes, yes.

Svidrigailov is a bad person, isn't he?

- I have apprehensions about Raskolnikov. - Do you?

You pity the murderer?

I do.

A murderer he may be

- but he is suffering. - That's the whole point.

You are totally right.

Truth can be arrived at only through suffering.

His tragedy is in his suffering.

In the knowledge of what is best and the inability to achieve it.

This is a Russian

a purely Russian tragedy.

So young people do talk about me sometimes.

Of course, Fyodor Mikhailovich.

My friends and I have arguments about you every day.

- Is that so? - Your Raskolnikov has totally

thrown us off balance. It's for him that we are waiting.

It might take a long time. There are various circumstances.

Stillovsky for example.

By the 1st of November.

A cheap brigand.

Have you been abroad? At a resort?

- No. - Then it'll be interesting for you.

The story that we are going to invent,

dear Anna Grigorievna,

takes place at a resort. A mineral water resort abroad.

This will be the story about a man.

Alexei Ivanovich, our protagonist,

is a spontaneous, complex personality.

But invariably incomplete, unbelieving.

The main point is that all his life energy,

all his powers have been consumed by the roulette.

Father, I've come to see you.

The bastard usurer

paid a miserly amount for the vase.

I'll keep some money, I am hard pressed.

Enough, no more of your candour.

Oh, pardon, pardon.

Pavel Isaev, my stepson.

Anna Grigorievna Snitkina.

How young she is.

See for yourself.

What a disgrace.

I live like a pauper, struggle with debts like Laocoon with serpents.

The readers are convinced that all Russian literary men are men of fortune.

I'd go to a forced labour camp again only to pay my debts

and become a free man.

And mind you, my name is worth a million.

Forgive my bragging.

My God, how you have suffered.

Yes, man is a very lively creature.

A Russian man always complains about two things.

Lack of money and unrequited love.

The damned novel.

I've barely started writing it and I am already tired of it.

We are doomed, Russian compatriots.

But confess that you absolutely

did not want to go to my place today.

Do you confess?

I am angry with myself and my deficiencies

to the point of writing my own criticism.

Don't leave me now, Anna Grigorievna.

Without you I am doomed.

Yes.

Anna Grigorievna!

Ania!

We won't make it in time.

Just listen! What an idea. Listen to it.

"Not only is the Russian incapable of acquiring capital,

but he exhausts it wantonly and shamefully.

None the less we Russians too need money.

Yet it is difficult to say which is the worst of the two

Russian ineptitude

or the German method of growing rich through honest toil."

What is this? What is this crazy Slavic idea?

"What an unseemly idea," cried the General."

And what a Russian idea!' added the Frenchman."

- What is this? Who said it? - Dostoyevsky.

I don't understand it. What have you found appealing in him?

Why have you suddenly changed your mind?

I don't know. I went there to say no.

But once I saw him, I could not.

Yes... I don't know.

It's strange.

Let him be, your Dostoyevsky.

- What are we going to do? - Wait a bit, Misha.

First we must complete the novel by the first of November.

I don't know, Soon I'll start hating this novel.

Look, your fingers have grown coarse with the work.

You've lost weight, you are pale.

He must be cruel, that Dostoyevsky.

You said it yourself, he was spiteful.

- No, he is not spiteful. - Then what is he like?

I don't know.

Lonely.

Miserable.

Yes, over 40, 45.

Go to him and demand

that he should write quicker.

I am all warn out by this waiting.

What is he writing about?

I don't know how to tell you.

It's a novel about a man.

Very miserable and lost man.

The story takes place at a mineral water resort.

A foreign resort where there is a roulette.

You know, where they gamble for gold.

There's a Russian family and their tutor, Alexei Ivanovich.

He is in love, in love with the general's stepdaughter.

But she keeps torturing him. An arrogant heartless woman.

At last.

Good afternoon. Have you written it down?

Let me see.

Well, well.

What nonsense.

Hasty and mean nonsense.

Last night I realized my main mistake.

The principal adjustment will be writing in the first person.

Start from the beginning. I. I. I.

Only I.

Change it.

Let's go on.

Yes, I hated her.

I...

Yes, I detested her.

There were moments

when I would gladly have given half my life

to strangle her!

I swear that, had there

been a sharp knife to plunge into her breast,

I would have seized that knife with pleasure.

And..

At the same time

I swear upon everything that there is sacred in the world...

That there is sacred in the world...

- Fyodor Mikhailovich. - What?

Why have you interrupted me?

Sorry, Fyodor Mikhailovich.

What is her name? You keep calling her "she".

Why? Didn't I tell you?

That's strange.

Her name is Polina.

What else could it be?

Polina..

There is one thing I know for certain, Polina, I must win!

Do you think that the roulette is your only salvation and way out?

- Yes. - Why do you want money?

Why? Money is everything.

Even in your eyes money will make me a different man, not a slave.

- Slavery is a pleasure to you. - Yes, when it comes from you.

You overwhelm me. Should I recall or imagine the rustle of your dress

and I am ready to bite my own hands.

Use this slavery, use it.

- Are you joking? - Not at all.

I order you to keep silent.

I order you to keep silent.

Well, what do you think about Polina?

She seems wicked.

She is miserable.

Because a person who demands everything from someone else

but relieves oneself of all responsibilities

will never be happy.

My God...

How she tortured me.

- Shall I write this too? - What?

No, no. I'm sorry, Anna Grigorievna.

It should be written in the first person, that of Alexei Ivanovich.

She stopped, out of breath with anger.

I swear I don't know if she was good-looking...

But..

I always liked to watch her

when she stopped like that.

When she stopped like that.

Surely you are not a coward?

I don't know, I never thought about it.

If I said to you, 'Kill that man, ' would you kill him?

- The Frenchman? - Do not ask me questions; answer me.

Of course I will kill whomsoever you wish.

Could you ever do it? You are merely a tattler.

Go win as much at the roulette as possible.

I need the money badly.

That's true.

Why does Polina need the money so urgently?

- Don't you understand? - No.

Let's have tea for now...

There's this Frenchman. De Griers.

Insignificant, vulgar De Griers.

She dreams of throwing the money in the face of her former lover.

Do you see the connection?

That is why she is urging Alexei Ivanovich to gamble at the roulette.

You make him look somewhat pitiable.

He is in love with her.

So what? And what about pride?

He who loves, no longer reasons.

And the roulette is poison. It is hell.

It is a whirlpool... It allures, it sucks one in.

- I am a passionate man. - Did you gamble?

Oh yes. Last year in Wiesbaden.

I invented my own system for playing.

And won 10 thousand francs immediately.

Then I started losing and could not contain myself, I lost everything.

And I went there with the intention of

saving my family and clearing myself.

Hard, cursed times.

- Will he lose? - That's a secret.

After all it doesn't matter.

Even if he contains himself today, he will definitely yield in the next day.

He is a gambler. He is beyond hope...

- And what about you? - I would have gone to waste

if I did not have to write. Who would write in my place?

You said it in such a funny way.

Of late I've been feeling terrible.

Incredibly.

In the evenings I am especially lonely.

I feel the urge to go outside.

The most horrible thing in life is when a man has

nowhere to go.

And what do you do in the evenings, Anna Grigorievna?

I don't know, Fyodor Mikhailovich.

I live.

And what does "living" mean to you?

You... Do you have ideals, aims?

Or do you live carefree without deep thought?

No. I do have thoughts and ideals and I do care.

It's good if that's the case.

Don't be late tomorrow, Anna Grigorievna.

These days the work does not go well without you.

And the novel must be raced.

I had a good writing spell last night.

That way we could finish in time, couldn't we, Anna Grigorievna?

I wish we did.

And when we finish the work by the 1st of November

we'll jump into the cab and rush to Stillovsky's.

Get this, if you please,

dear sir, murderer.

And then... freedom.

Sometimes man needs so little to be happy.

Were you ever happy, Anna Grigorievna?

I was, Fyodor Mikhailovich, very much.

When Olkhin chose me of all the students to assist you.

I was so happy I could not sleep all night.

And in the morning gave you a cold shower.

And I was never happy.

Though, no, I am wrong.

I was, once.

- Do you know, when? - No.

I don't. When?

I had five minutes left to live.

Death robes were already put on us.

The first three were tied to the poles.

I was the eighth in the third row.

In two or three minutes both rows would have been shot.

And then it was our turn.

Oh, how much I wanted to live then.

How much I wanted to live.

Life seemed so precious.

How many good useful deeds I could have done.

I remembered all my past.

Not the best way to have spent my days.

Suddenly I wanted to relive them all.

And to live a long, long life.

And suddenly it was called off.

My comrades were untied, taken back

and a new sentence was read to us.

I was sentenced to four years of forced labour.

How happy I was then.

What is wrong, Anna Grigorievna?

Retired lieutenant Dostoyevsky?

I am Dostoyevsky.

What can I do for you?

Bumbailiff of the third unit Urlov the Second.

Proceed, my friend, I don't have time to waste.

You keep writing, Mr. Dostoyevsky.

Keep penning.

- But Mr. Orlov... - Urlov!

- Urlov the Second. - Sorry, Mr. Urlov the Second.

It's true, I am under police surveillance.

But at the moment I don't see any reasons for...

Let's say there are always reasons.

Especially if you continue

to ignore your financial obligations.

- To whom? How? - Yes, ignore!

And don't argue.

Well?

Did you buy this statuette at Dotsiar's?

Yes, at Dotsiar's.

- I wonder for how much? - 150 probably, I don't remember.

He swindled you.

It coasts no more than 50 roubles.

Tell me at last, what is it all about?

It's about this, dear sir.

Mr.Stillovsky, with whom you have an official contract

contacted

and said that if you don't repay him the debt

you will be sent to the debtors' prison.

And your belongings will be sold by auction.

- Why the prison? - The prison!

Do you have no shame?

Aren't you ashamed? You are a Russian, after all.

Can't you see whom you are talking to? It's Dostoyevsky.

And there is no debt to Stillovsky. It's all lies.

He'll complete the novel by the 1st of November.

He will throw it in his face.

He is working, he is going blind because of his work.

Do you suppose that if he is all alone nobody will defend him?

- Madam, I did not know that. - It's private property.

You have no right, I know, it's against the law!

All Stillovsky wants is to enslave Dostoyevsky forever.

What a scoundrel.

Why are you standing there? Go.

What a swindler, this Stillovsky is! He meant to fool me!

Be on your guard lest he swindles you completely.

My advice is, Madam,

when the novel is ready, bring it to our department.

But you... You are great.

Don't fear anybody now that you are around.

- Shall we get back to work? - Yes.

No, I can't.

I can't. What a hard life it is.

He sent an assessor, bastard.

Right! Marmeladov from the pub was a thousand times right.

It's a conspiracy.

They are digging a pit.

A pit...

Nine years of forced labour again.

My God.

Nine years of bondage.

Where can I look for defence?

Where can I turn to? Where can I run?

Fyodor Mikhailovich, stop it! What is this faint-heartedness?

Shame on you! Sit down.

How many days are there in this month?

Thirty one.

There are 16 days left and we've got three printer's pages written out.

No, no, we won't manage in time.

- We won't. - We will, Fyodor Mikhailovich.

We will manage.

We will work at night, but we'll meet the deadline.

All Stillovsky is waiting for is for you to get nervous and stop working.

His benefit.

But on the 1st of November you'll get into the cab and drive to his place.

Here, take this, dear Sir murderer.

Fate offered me so little genuine compassion.

So little.

- Anna Grigorievna. - 16 days, Fyodor Mikhailovich.

Only 16 days.

I told you I could never win for other people... least of all for you.

I warned you that no good would ever come of it.

What pleases you so much? The fact of having lost my money?

Why did you give me money to lose?

I am certain that, whenever I play for myself

I win.

- Why do you want so much money? - You want to know?

Must pay off a debt.

- I must. - Is it to the Frenchman?

What sort of question is that?

Do you see that fat Baroness?

- It is the Baroness Burmergelm. - So what?

I wish only for a good laugh.

Come up to the Baroness,

take off your hat and say something in French to her.

What for?

Let me see the Baron give you a sound thrashing with his stick.

Then you challenge me? You think that I will not do it?

Yes, I do challenge you.

Go, for such is my will.

I have the honour of being your slave.

What are you laughing at, Anna Grigorievna?

Forgive me, Fyodor Mikhailovich, but they talk in such a funny way.

Father, you are a Don Juan, a Celadon.

Another message. All perfumed.

I bet it must be from Appolinaria Suslova.

Your infernal woman.

She is so insistent, though, isn't she?

My God...

My God, how long...

Father is upset.

- Lest something happens. - And what can happen?

Don't you know? Convulsions.

Then he will start talking, talking, talking.

- Then he cries out, falls down. - I don't understand.

Go.

The brat is a show-off, but I love him.

Love him for what he is.

Let's continue.

Where did we stop?

Then you can take the consequences.

Further, further.

- It's Polina. It's all her doing. - Yes, yes.

I don't understand, I don't understand what is good about her.

She is good-looking, that's for sure.

It seems. Good-looking.

She drives

other people crazy.

She is tall and slender... Very.

Only too thin.

It seems you can tie her in a knot

or

fold her in two.

Her foot is narrow and long.

- Painfully. - Yes, painfully.

About four months ago

one evening...

About four months ago one evening in the hall

she had a very long talk with De Griers.

It was a long and passionate conversation.

It was that evening that I fell in love with her.

That evening...

I fell in love with her.

Yes, there is...

Yes, there is...

There is delight in humility.

Oh yes, there is delight in utter

humility and insignificance.

Damn it,

might it be in the whip?

It might be in the whip

when the whip lashes the back

and tears the flesh to pieces

And tears the flesh...

Why are you not writing?

I won't write.

I don't understand.

Because it is disgusting.

- What is wrong, Anna Grigorievna? - Yes, it is disgusting.

It is mean, impure.

Both she and he... And she...

How dare you? Who are you to give me orders?

Me?

- Come to your senses! - All the same, I won't write it.

I won't! I won't!

What is wrong, Anna Grigorievna?

People don't love that way. This is not love.

Oh, you don't know what love is.

No, you don't.

Even if she is lost...

A low ignoble woman

You will love her dissipation.

You will love her ignobility, ugliness

which disgust you.

You will do everything.

You will go far, to the last limit and beyond...

It's late, I must return home.

Anna Grigorievna, it's too late.

- Shall I walk you home? - No need, I am not afraid.

You are wrong. Nights in St. Petersburg are frightening.

The other night I was walking along the embankment.

Three well-dressed gentlemen

emerged from the Adussau restaurant.

And there was a woman coming towards them.

One of those who walk at night.

Because it is their trade.

Those gentlemen were not drunk, not at all.

They were even holding a sublime conversation

and probably reading poetry.

And those gentlemen, being in an excited state,

felt such extraordinary disgust

for this dissipated woman.

And their own extraordinary purity.

That all three of them, all three.

Pushed her and spat in her face!

Anna Grigorievna!

Mummy!

No, no, I don't want to, let me go! Don't, don't!

- My darling, what is wrong? - Let me go!

- Let me go - My dear!

- Don't! Let me go. - My darling, wake up.

Mummy! You are here! What a horrible dream

My God, you are feverish. What is wrong, my baby!

I've come from Anna Snitkina.

- And where is she herself? - She is ill.

Fyodor Mikhailovich has been waiting for her.

She asked to give you her work.

Good bye.

Gentlemen, Dostoyevsky.

Good afternoon, gentlemen!

Good afternoon, Fyodor Mikhailovich.

I know only too well the cause of your indisposition.

I told you a lot of rubbish last night.

Not out of spite, believe me, not out of spite.

There is gloom in my head and premonitions in my heart.

I should not be the cause of your illness.

Meet my friend Liza.

- This is my mother Anna Nikolayevna. - Pleased to meet you.

Komarovich, a medical student. Korytin, a writer.

We've met. In '62 in Wiesbaden at the resort, playing the roulette.

- Do you remember? - Sorry.

Because of my illness my memory is horrible. Keep playing.

You were a tutor of those charming children who...

No, not at all a tutor, sir.

We met a famous emancipée at Suslova's.

- At Appolinaria Suslova's. - I don't know.

I don't remember, might be.

Tea, gentlemen?

Cakes, perhaps?

Tell me, you were in the forced labour camp, you suffered for the people.

Your hands were in fetters.

How could you

soil our entire student community

with your Raskolnikov?

I know, I know.

He said it well.

Let me find out, Mr. Dostoevsky, while we are at it.

What is the predestination of your Rodion Raskolnikov?

Tell us, Fyodor Mikhailovich, tell us.

We now even have different parties.

My brother is sure he will escape to America.

- And my sister says... - No, no, not to America.

He will come to suffering, great suffering.

If he has enough spiritual power he will repent.

If not, he will perish.

What suffering are you talking about?

He killed a human being.

In what way is he different from us all? From him, from me?

He is a student like us.

What could make me do it?

Riches?

I don't need riches soaked in blood.

Love?

I don't want such love, do you understand, I don't.

No, I don't want it.

On the brink of death I will not kill anybody.

- Who is this? - He is my fiance.

Your fiance?

And... do you love him?

Do you?

You put it well.

Well. But I am not your enemy.

Believe me,

My most precious hopes rest with you,

the young generation, with the Russia of honest people.

For Man is great when he has overcome evil in himself.

I live and I know

that people can be beautiful and happy.

Don't want and can't believe

that evil is the normal state for a human being.

You want truth, don't you?

The naked truth with no theory or comfort.

Do contend that we have in us

a lot of youthful quest for honesty next to horrible dissipation.

The common people, let them be harsh, unseemly, sinful!

But the time will come and you will be amazed at

the spiritual freedom that they will display and suffer through.

They will suffer through everything in the name of truth!

Virgin Mother, you are so kind.

I pray to you, see how hard life is for him,

how he is suffering.

How much suffering he has taken upon himself, his own and other people's.

Give him peace, pray, at least some peace.

And love.

Save and protect him. Save and protect.

They are not in, they went out.

They were very gloomy in the morning and then they left.

Come into the room, Anna Grigorievna.

He will probably be back any minute.

Ascending to my own room, and opening the door,

I perceived in the semi-darkness

a figure.

Comma..

Seated on a chair - comma, in the corner - comma,

by the window. Full stop.

I approached it swiftly, peered at it closely,

and felt my heart almost stop beating.

The figure was Polina.

You are here! At my place!

If I am here, I have come with all that I have to bring

Such has always been my way. Please light a candle.

Oh, he was not the man he had been once. Not in the least.

Oh, how gladly I could throw

those fifty thousand roubles in his despicable face!

Bravo! Bravo!

Bravo!

You should perform at the theatre.

- Where's father? - Fyodor Mikhailovich is out.

Where is he?

I need him badly.

Oh, never mind.

- Tell father I've taken the vase. - I don't understand.

Tell him I've taken the vase.

- Put the vase down. - What?

I said, return the vase to its place.

What a fancy!

What have you got to do with it?

Who are you?

- I said, put the vase down. - Let me pass.

I am pressed for time.

- Put the vase down. - Make way.

I won't consider it that you are a lady.

What insolence! How funny!

Who are you after all?

A stenographer, almost a servant.

And I have the right! Yes, yes, I do!

Let me be a stenographer, let me be a nobody.

- But you.. - Well?

You are shamelessly robbing this man.

You've pawned his fur coat. And he has a cough.

It's cold and wet outside. You are killing him.

While you do not deserve as much as to kiss his hand.

He is the kindest, the best, the most miserable man on Earth.

He should be protected from everything. But you...

- Excuse me. - Give me the vase!

- What right have you? - Let go of the vase.

Not likely.

I'll hit you.

Damn.

- What is going on here? - Why? Nothing.

She has broken the vase. It was her.

You asked yourself to sell it and pay her.

50 roubles.

I'll be going, I have things to do.

Listen, Anna Grigorievna.

Considering my circumstances, which are well known to you,

when I am totally dependent on you

it does not give you the right to shout at my family.

- And finally, this vase... - But I...

I did not know.

I...

Why do people lack acuity?

I am fighting the creditors,

slaving like a dog.

And when I come home I find no peace either.

- Mr. Dostoyevsky! - Don't you dare shout at me!

I will, I will!

Poor vase.

I did not know anything.

Don't, don't.

I beg you.

Anna Grigorievna,

I know my sick and bad traits.

But I also know that I will never

hurt anybody for no reason.

No, Anna Grigorievna, I don't want

to lose your heart.

I don't want to.

Why did you leave your coat here? I'll go and hang it.

Where did we stop?

I approached it swiftly, peered at it closely,

and felt my heart almost stop beating.

The figure was Polina

You are here! At my place?

If I am here, I'm fully here. Such has always been my way.

Please light a candle.

Yet to think that you should have loved De Griers!

Do you want me to kill him in a duel?

Polina, give me but an hour.

Wait here just one hour until I return.

Yes, you must do so.

Stay here.

Polina!

I have won two hundred thousand francs!

Here are fifty thousand.

Tomorrow throw them in De Griers' face.

I am not going to take your money.

- Why not? Why not, Polina? - I don't receive money for nothing.

Incredible! I was so wrong, so wrong.

She is all trembling.

A string is drawn tight in her heart.

Read me the last sentences.

I am not going to take your money.

She said contemptuously.

Why not! Why not!

Polina, why not? I don't take money for nothing.

But I am offering it to you as a friend.

I am offering you my very life, cried Alexei Ivanovich.

Write it, write it.

But I am offering it to you as a friend.

I am offering you my very life!

You are giving too much for me.

The De Griers's lover is not worth fifty thousand francs.

Oh Polina, how can you speak so?

Am I De Griers?

- Do you understand? - No, I don't.

That's just as well. Write. “I hate you!"

Yes, yes.

I love you no more than I do De Griers.

Buy me, would you, would you?

Would you buy me for fifty thousand francs as De Griers did?

Buy me! Buy me!

Go on, Fyodor Mikhailovich, go on.

Yet I neither saw nor heard her.

My head was in a whirl..

You love me.

Love.

You are my dear one; you are the man I trust.

You will love me.

Polina.

I heard nothing. Oh how I hate her.

- My head was in a whirl - And in the morning...

Are you going to hand me over my fifty thousand francs?

The francs are mine, then, are they? They are mine?

Yes; they have always been yours.

Here, take your fifty thousand francs!

THE GAMBLER. Novel. From a young man's notes

Anna Grigorievna,

will it all be over once the novel has been completed?

There's a good chance that two people will meet.

Yes.

I am thinking of a new novel, dear Anna Grigorievna.

And what about "Crime and Punishment"?

To hell with "Crime...".

I'll give it up. I will.

I am thinking over a new novel.

The main character is an artist.

An aged man, like myself.

A sick man, gloomy and irritable.

No wonder.

He has known a lot of grief in his life.

He is poor.

He loved but was not loved himself.

He toiled, suffered, felt afflicted.

And at the crucial moment in his life

he met a girl of your age.

A pure, innocent creature.

A contemporary youth.

A woman..

In whom the world will find its salvation.

Would you say, it is possible

that a young girl

so different from him in years and character

could fall in love with my artist?

Don't give an answer. Wait.

Bare in mind, he is gloomy, not handsome, seriously ill. He is a failure.

But the could accomplish a lot.

But he is so poor that he can't pay his models.

Excuse me a minute.

Just a minute.

- Good afternoon! - Good afternoon!

Don't you recognize me?

- No, I don't. - You don't?

No?

Forgive me, Anna Grigorievna.

Don't give me an answer now.

Think till tomorrow.

Please, think it over till tomorrow.

Tell me tomorrow.

Are you Appolonov?

Fyodor Timofeevich could not wait any longer.

What Appolonov? I am Dostoyevsky, a writer.

I've brought the novel, as agreed.

Contact Fyodor Timofeevich Stillovsky.

- Talk it over with him. - Exactly with him.

- Could you invite him? - Impossible.

What do you mean impossible? Why?

He has been away for two days. He went to St. Petersburg.

Why did he go?

I don't know.

He killed me. Killed.

And what if...

Fyodor Mikhailovich, oh my God, dear God.

Fyodor Mikhailovich, dearest!

I warned you that he would deceive you.

Misha?

- What are you doing here? - I was walking nearby.

Ania, pray, don't go to him. Wait.

Anna Grigorievna. Don't you see? Don't you understand?

- He is trying to win you over. - Of course not, Misha. How could you?

- I don't dare think about it. - Here, you said it.

If you go to him, it will mean the end.

- Do you hear me, Ania? The end! - We'll talk about it later.

There will be no "later".

No "later". Go to him. Go.

- He is right. Go to him. - I am not going anywhere.

Why haven't you handed over the manuscript?

Stillovsky ran away.

It is the 31st. Today is the 31st, do you understand?

I am doomed. Exterminate, eliminate.

- Give it to me. - No one wants it.

What an incongruous man you are.

THE GAMBLER A novel

From a young man's notes. 1866.

- What can I do for you? - Mr. Officer.

This is the writer Dostoyevsky's novel. Please, accept it

And certify with a receipt that you got it

on the 31st of October, 1866.

I don't know, I don't know. It is such a delicate matter.

I don't know. There were no precedents.

You must go to the bosses.

That is strange. Mr. Urlov the Second visited us

and said to tell you...

Urlov the Second, that's strange...

- In that case wait till tomorrow. - Mr. Officer.

It has to be done today. On the 31st of October, 1866.

I am asking you, I am begging you, I'll get down on my knees...

Don't, madam, don't. Over such a trifle...

All right, give it to me.

Dostoyevsky. The Gambler. A novel.

- And who are you to him? - Me?

I...

I am his wife.

Crime and Punishment.

Where did we stop, Ania, dear?

Let me see.

Read it.

Siberia.

SIBERIA. On the banks of a broad solitary river

stands a town, one of the administrative centres of Russia;

in the town there is a fortress,

in the fortress there is a prison.

In the prison the convict

Rodion Raskolnikov.

Second-class convict Rodion Raskolnikov

has been confined for nine months.

He did not know

that the new life would not be given him for nothing,

that he would have to pay dearly for it,

that it would cost him great striving, great suffering.

But that is the beginning of a new story.

That might be the subject of a new story,

but our present story is ended.