Part 6 · Chapter 3

He rushed over to Svidrigaïlov’s. He had no idea what he could hope for from that guy. But Svidrigaïlov had some kind of power over him. Once he realized that, he couldn’t relax, and now the time had come.

On the way, one question kept bugging him: had Svidrigaïlov been to Porfiry’s?

As far as he could tell, he’s pretty sure he hadn’t. He went over Porfiry’s visit again and again; nope, he hadn’t, of course he hadn’t.

But if he hadn’t gone yet, would he go? For now, he just couldn't picture it. Why? He couldn’t explain it, but even if he could, he wouldn’t waste much time thinking about it right now. It was all stressing him out, but he also couldn't focus on it.

Weirdly enough, he’s only feeling a little anxious about what was coming up. A much bigger worry was eating at him - it was about himself, but in a more serious way. Plus, he felt totally drained, even though his brain was working better than it had been lately.

Was it even worth it, after everything that had happened, to deal with these new, silly problems? Was it worth it to make sure Svidrigaïlov didn’t go to Porfiry’s? Was it worth it to investigate, figure things out, and waste time on someone like Svidrigaïlov?

Ugh, he was so over it all!

And yet, he was speeding to Svidrigaïlov’s; could he be expecting something new from him, info, or a way out? People clutch at straws! Was it fate or instinct bringing them together?

Maybe it was just exhaustion, despair; maybe he needed someone else entirely, and Svidrigaïlov just happened to be around. Sonia? But what would he even go to Sonia for now? To beg for her tears again? He was even scared of Sonia. Sonia felt like an irreversible sentence.

He had to choose his own path or hers. Especially now, he didn’t feel up to seeing her. Nope, maybe trying Svidrigaïlov was better. And he had to admit he’s been feeling like he needed to see him for some reason.

But what did they even have in common? Their bad deeds couldn’t even be the same kind. The guy was seriously unpleasant, obviously messed up, definitely cunning and shady, possibly evil. That’s what people were saying.

True, he was being friendly with Katerina Ivanovna’s kids, but who knew his motives and what it meant? The guy always had some plan, some project.

There was another thought that had been circling in Raskolnikov’s mind lately, and it was really stressing him out. It was so painful that he was actively trying to block it out. He sometimes thought Svidrigaïlov was tailing him. Svidrigaïlov had found out his secret and had designs on Dounia.

What if he still did? Wasn’t it pretty much certain that he did? And what if, having learned his secret and gained power over him, he’s use it against Dounia?

This idea even haunted his dreams, but it had never felt so real as he was heading to Svidrigaïlov’s. The thought alone made him furious. To begin with, this would change everything, even his own situation; he’s have to confess his secret to Dounia.

Would he have to turn himself in to prevent Dounia from doing something crazy? The letter? This morning, Dounia had received a letter. Who could she be getting letters from in Petersburg? Luzhin, maybe? It’s true Razumihin was there to protect her, but Razumihin knew nothing about the situation.

Maybe it was his duty to tell Razumihin? He thought about it with disgust.

He really needed to see Svidrigaïlov ASAP, he decided. Thank goodness, the details of the meeting weren’t a big deal, as long as he could get to the bottom of things. But if Svidrigaïlov was plotting against Dounia - then...

Raskolnikov was totally drained from everything that had happened that month, so he could only make decisions one way: "Then I’m gonna kill him," he thought, feeling numb with despair.

A wave of anxiety hit him, and he froze in the middle of the street, looking around to figure out where he was and where he was headed. He realized he was on X. Prospect, about thirty or forty steps from the Hay Market, which he’s just come through.

The whole second floor of the building on the left was a tavern. All the windows were wide open, and it looked packed inside. There was singing, a clarinet and violin, and a booming Turkish drum. He could hear women yelling.

He was about to turn back, wondering why he’d even come to X. Prospect, when suddenly he spotted Svidrigaïlov at one of the end windows, sitting at a tea table right in the open, with a pipe in his mouth. Raskolnikov was seriously shocked, almost terrified.

Svidrigaïlov was silently watching and checking him out, and what struck Raskolnikov immediately was that he seemed to be trying to get up and slip away unnoticed.

Raskolnikov immediately pretended he hadn’t seen him, like he was just spacing out, while keeping an eye on him out of the corner of his eye. His heart was pounding. But it was clear that Svidrigaïlov didn't want to be seen.

He took the pipe out of his mouth and was about to hide, but as he stood up and pulled his chair back, he suddenly seemed to realize that Raskolnikov had seen him, and was watching him. It was pretty much the same vibe as their first meeting in Raskolnikov’s room.

A sly smile crept onto Svidrigaïlov’s face and grew wider and wider. Each one knew they were seen and watched by the other. Finally, Svidrigaïlov burst out laughing.

"Well, well, come on in if you want me; I’m here!" he shouted from the window.

Raskolnikov headed up to the tavern. He found Svidrigaïlov in a tiny back room, next to the main area where merchants, clerks, and all sorts of people were drinking tea at twenty little tables while a chorus of singers belted out tunes. He could hear the click of billiard balls in the distance.

On the table in front of Svidrigaïlov was an open bottle and a glass half full of champagne. In the room, he also saw a kid with a little hand organ, a healthy-looking, rosy-cheeked girl of eighteen, wearing a tucked-up striped skirt and a Tyrolese hat with ribbons.

Despite the chorus in the other room, she was singing some servants’ hall song in a husky voice, accompanied by the organ.

"Alright, that’s enough," Svidrigaïlov stopped her when Raskolnikov came in.

The girl immediately stopped and stood waiting respectfully. She’d sung her rough rhymes with a serious and respectful expression.

"Hey, Philip, a glass!" Svidrigaïlov shouted.

"Nah, I’m good," said Raskolnikov.

"Suit yourself, I wasn’t drinking for you. Drink, Katia! I don’t want anything more today, you can go."

He poured her a full glass and slipped her a yellow note.

Katia downed her glass of wine in twenty gulps, just like women do, put it down, and kissed Svidrigaïlov’s hand, which he let her do seriously. She went out of the room, and the kid with the organ trailed after her. They’d both been grabbed off the street.

Svidrigaïlov hadn’t even been in Petersburg for a week, but everything about him was already, like, totally on a familiar footing; the waiter, Philip, was already an old friend and super attentive.

The door to the saloon had a lock on it. Svidrigaïlov basically lived in this room and probably spent entire days here. The bar was a total dump, not even decent.

"I was gonna come see you, lookin’ for you," Raskolnikov started, "but I don’t know why I just turned off the Hay Market onto X. Prospect. I never take this turn. I always turn right from the Hay Market. That’s not even the way to your place. I just turned, and here I am. It’s weird!"

"Why not just say ‘it’s a miracle’?"

"Because it might just be luck."

"Ugh, that’s all you guys say," Svidrigaïlov laughed. "You won’t even admit it, even if you secretly think it’s a miracle! You’re saying it’s just a coincidence. And you’ve got no backbone about having your own opinions, you can’t even imagine, Rodion Romanovitch."

"I’m not talking about you, you’re different - you’re not afraid to have an opinion. That's what got my attention."

"Just that, Nothing else?"

"Well, that’s enough, you know," Svidrigaïlov was clearly stoked, but just a little.

He hadn't even finished half a glass of wine.

"I bet you came to see me before you realized I was the type to have what you call an opinion," Raskolnikov pointed out.

"Oh, it was a different vibe. Everyone’s got their own plans. And about this miracle thing, let me tell you, I think you've been out of it for the last few days. I told you about this bar myself, there’s no miracle in you showing up straight here."

"I explained how to get here, told you where it was, and when you could find me. Ring any bells?"

"I don’t remember," Raskolnikov said, sounding surprised.

"I believe you. I told you twice. The address is probably stamped into your memory. You turned this way mechanically, but still exactly as I directed, even though you don't realize it. When I told you then, I hardly thought you understood me. You give yourself away too much, Rodion Romanovitch."

And another thing, I'm convinced there are tons of people in Petersburg who talk to themselves while they walk. It’s a town full of crazy people. If only we had scientists - doctors, lawyers, and philosophers - they could do some serious research in Petersburg, each in their own field.

There aren’t many places with as many gloomy, intense, and strange influences on a person’s soul as in Petersburg. The climate alone makes a huge difference. And it’s the administrative center of all Russia, so its character has to be reflected across the whole country.

But that’s not really the point right now. The thing is, I’ve been watching you. You walk out of your place - head high - twenty paces from home you let it drop, and fold your hands behind your back. You look around, but you clearly don't see anything in front of you or beside you.

Then you start moving your lips and talking to yourself, sometimes waving your hand and declaiming, and then you just stop in the middle of the street. That’s not cool. Someone else might be watching you besides me, and it’s not gonna do you any favors.

"It's nothing personal, and I can’t fix you, but, you know, I’m just saying."

"Do you know I’m being followed?" asked Raskolnikov, looking at him curiously.

"No, I don’t know anything about that," Svidrigaïlov said, sounding surprised.

"Well, then, just leave me alone," Raskolnikov muttered, frowning.

"Sounds good, let’s leave you alone."

"You better tell me, if you came here to drink, and directed me twice to come here to you, why did you hide, and try to sneak away just now when I looked at the window from the street? I saw it."

"He-he! And why were you lying on your sofa with your eyes closed, pretending to be asleep, even though you were totally awake, while I was standing in your doorway? I saw it."

"I... I might have had... reasons. You know that yourself."

"And I might have had my reasons, even though you don’t know them."

Raskolnikov slammed his elbow on the table, resting his chin in his hand and staring intently at Svidrigaïlov. He’s been checking him out for a full minute - the guy had made an impression before.

It was a weird face, like a mask; pale and flushed, with bright red lips, a light-colored beard, and still thick, light-colored hair. His eyes were almost too blue, and his expression was heavy and fixed.

There was something seriously off about that handsome face, which looked surprisingly young for his age. Svidrigaïlov was dressed sharp in light summer clothes, and his linen was spotless. He wore a huge ring with a fancy stone.

"Do I have to worry about you too now?" Raskolnikov blurted out, getting straight to the point with nervous energy.

"Even though you’re probably the most dangerous person if you decide to mess with me, I’m not going to go out of my way. I’m going to show you right away that I don’t think much of myself, like you probably do."

I’m here to tell you that if you keep bothering my sister and if you think you can get anything out of what’s been discovered, I’ll take you out before you can get me locked up. You can count on my word. You know I mean it.

"And second, if you want to tell me something - I keep thinking you have something to tell me - hurry up and spit it out, because time’s running out and it might be too late soon."

"Why the rush?" Svidrigaïlov asked, looking at him curiously.

"Everyone’s got their plans," Raskolnikov answered gloomily and impatiently.

"You just told me to be open, and now you won’t even answer a simple question," Svidrigaïlov said with a smile. "You’re convinced I have my own agenda, so you’re looking at me with suspicion. Of course, it’s understandable in your situation."

"But even though I’d like to be friends, I’m not going to waste my breath trying to convince you otherwise. It’s not worth the effort, and I wasn’t planning on talking to you about anything serious anyway."

"So, what did you want me for, then? You’re the one who’s been hanging around."

"Just because you’re an interesting subject to watch. I liked the crazy nature of your situation - that’s the truth!"

Plus, you’re the brother of someone who really interested me, and I’d heard a lot about you from her in the past, and it seemed like you had a huge influence over her; isn’t that enough? Ha-ha-ha! Still, I have to admit your question is kind of complex, and it’s hard for me to answer.

"You came here not only for a specific reason, but to hear something new, right? Isn’t that so? So, can’t you imagine that I, on my way here on the train, was counting on you, on you telling me something new, and on me making some kind of profit from it! See how rich we are!"

"What kind of profit could you make?"

"How can I tell you? How would I know? You see how I spend all my time in bars, and it’s kind of an enjoyment, though not a great one, but you gotta sit somewhere; that poor Katia now - you saw her?... If only I were a glutton, a serious foodie, but you see, I can eat this."

He pointed to a small table in the corner where the leftovers of a seriously gross-looking steak and potatoes sat on a tin dish.

"Have you eaten yet? I just grabbed something and don’t really want anything else. I don’t drink, seriously. Except for champagne, I never touch anything, and not even a glass of that gives me a headache."

I ordered some just now to get myself going, because I'm about to head out and you’re catching me in a weird headspace. That’s why I was hiding like a kid earlier, because I was worried you’d stop me. But hey," he checked his watch, "I can hang out for an hour. It’s almost five.

"If only I was something, you know? A landowner, a dad, a cavalry officer, a photographer, a journalist... I’m nothing, no real skills, and sometimes I’m just totally bored. I was really hoping you’d have something new to tell me."

"But who are you, and why are you here?"

"Who am I? You know, a guy. I served in the cavalry for a couple of years, then I messed around in Petersburg, then I married Marfa Petrovna and lived in the country. That's my whole life story!"

"Are you a gambler?"

"Nah, just a really bad one. More like a card sharp - not a serious gambler."

"So you’re a card sharp?"

"Yeah, I’ve been a card sharp too."

"Didn’t you get beat up sometimes?"

"It happened. Why?"

"Just wondering... you could have challenged them... it must have been pretty wild."

"I won’t argue with you, and I’m not really into philosophy. I’m gonna be honest, I came here for the women."

"As soon as you buried Marfa Petrovna?"

"Exactly," Svidrigaïlov smiled, being totally honest.

"What’s wrong with that? You seem to think there’s something wrong with me talking about women."

"You’re asking if I think there’s something wrong with being immoral?"

"Immoral! That’s what you’re getting at! But I’ll answer you straight. About women in general - I love talking about them. Tell me, why should I hold back? Why give up women, since I’m totally into them? It's a way to pass the time, anyway."

"So you’re not expecting anything here but trouble?"

"Okay, fine, trouble then. You’re insisting it’s trouble. But anyway, I like direct questions. In this... trouble... at least it's something permanent, based on nature and not just some fantasy. It’s in your blood, like a fire that's always burning, and might not go out easily, even after years."

"You’re gonna have to agree it's a decent way to spend your time."

"That’s nothing to celebrate, it’s a sickness and a dangerous one."

"Oh, that’s what you think? I agree, everything that goes too far is a sickness. And of course, you have to go too far with this. But first of all, everyone does something like that in their own way, and second, of course, you should be moderate and careful, no matter how low-key it is."

"But what am I supposed to do? If I didn’t have this, I might as well shoot myself. I’m willing to admit that a decent guy should be able to handle being bored, but still..."

"And could you shoot yourself?"

"Oh, come on!"

Svidrigaïlov reacted with disgust.

"Please don’t talk about it," he added quickly.

His tone was now completely different than before. His face changed suddenly.

"I admit it’s a pathetic weakness, but I can’t help it. I’m scared of dying, and I don’t like even talking about it. Did you know I’m kind of a mystic?"

"Ah, the ghost of Marfa Petrovna! Are you still seeing her?"

"Ugh, don’t even bring her up; there haven’t been any more in Petersburg, seriously!" he snapped with irritation.

"Let’s talk about... though... H’m! I’m really short on time, can’t stick around long, it’s a shame! I’d have so much to tell you."

"What’s your appointment, a woman?"

"Yeah, a woman, just a random thing... No, that’s not what I want to talk about."

"And all this... ugliness, this filth... doesn’t it bother you? Have you lost the strength to stop yourself?"

"And you’re trying to act tough, too? He-he-he! You totally surprised me just now, Rodion Romanovitch, though I knew it would happen. You're lecturing me about what’s wrong and what's cool! You - like, a Schiller, you - an idealist!"

"Of course, that's how it should be, and it would be weird if it wasn't, but it’s still kind of wild... Ah, too bad I'm swamped for time, because you’re a seriously interesting person! And, by the way, are you into Schiller? I'm obsessed."

"Seriously, you’re such a show-off," Raskolnikov said, kinda grossed out.

"I swear, I'm not," Svidrigaïlov laughed.

"But fine, call me a show-off, why not brag if it’s not hurting anyone? I spent seven years in the countryside with Marfa Petrovna, so now when I run into someone smart like you - smart and totally fascinating - I’m just stoked to chat. Plus, I had a little champagne, and it’s gone to my head a bit."

"And there’s this one thing that’s really bugging me, but about that... I’ll keep it under wraps. Where are you rushing off to?" he asked, sounding worried.

Raskolnikov was already getting up. He felt weighed down and trapped and, like, totally uncomfortable being here. He was convinced that Svidrigaïlov was the biggest loser on the planet.

"Hey! Sit down, hang out a bit!" Svidrigaïlov pleaded.

"Let them bring you some tea, at least. Stick around, I won’t ramble on about myself, I mean. I’ll tell you something. If you want, I’ll tell you how a woman tried ‘to save’ me, as you’d say? It’s basically an answer to your first question, because the woman was your sister. Should I spill?"

"It’s a good way to kill some time."

"Tell me, but I’m not sure I..."

"Oh, don’t sweat it. Plus, even in a lowlife like me, Avdotya Romanovna only inspires the deepest respect."