Part 6 · Chapter 6

He spent that evening hopping between dive bars until ten o’clock. Katia showed up too, belting out another sad song about how some

"a total jerk, villain and tyrant."

"started hitting on Katia."

Svidrigaïlov bought drinks for Katia, the organ-grinder, a bunch of singers, the waiters, and two little clerks. He was especially drawn to these clerks - they both had crooked noses, one bent left and the other right.

They finally took him to a cheap amusement park, where he paid for everyone to get in. There was one skinny three-year-old pine tree and three bushes, plus a "Vauxhall" - basically a bar where they also served tea, with a few green tables and chairs scattered around.

A chorus of terrible singers and a drunk, seriously bummed-out German clown from Munich with a red nose were entertaining the crowd. The clerks started arguing with some other clerks, and a fight seemed like it was about to break out. Svidrigaïlov was chosen to settle it.

He listened to them for fifteen minutes, but they were shouting so loud he couldn’t understand a word. All he could tell was that one of them had stolen something and even managed to sell it to a Jewish guy, but wouldn’t share the loot with his friend.

Finally, it turned out the stolen item was a teaspoon from the Vauxhall. It was noticed, and things started to get messy. Svidrigaïlov paid for the spoon, stood up, and walked out of the park. It was around six o’clock.

He hadn't had a drop of wine the whole time and had ordered tea more for appearances than anything.

It was a dark and muggy evening. Dark storm clouds rolled in around ten o’clock. Then the thunder crashed, and the rain came down in sheets. It wasn’t just drops; it was a constant stream of water hitting the ground. Lightning flashed every minute, and each flash lasted long enough to count five.

Soaked to the bone, he headed home, locked himself in, opened his desk, took out all his money, and ripped up a couple of papers.

Then, shoving the money in his pocket, he was about to change his clothes, but looking out the window and listening to the thunder and rain, he decided against it, grabbed his hat, and went out of the room without locking the door. He went straight to Sonia. She was at home.

She wasn’t alone: the four Kapernaumov kids were with her. She was giving them tea. She received Svidrigaïlov in respectful silence, looking at his dripping clothes with a surprised look. The kids all scattered in a total panic.

Svidrigaïlov sat down at the table and asked Sonia to sit beside him. She nervously prepared to listen.

"I might be heading to America, Sofya Semyonovna," said Svidrigaïlov, "and since I’m probably seeing you for the last time, I’ve come to make some arrangements. So, did you see the lady today? I already know what she told you, you don’t need to tell me."

(Sonia made a movement and blushed.)

"Those people do things their own way. As for your sisters and your brother, they’ve been taken care of, and the money I’ve set aside for them is safely kept, with receipts. You should keep track of those receipts, just in case anything happens. Here, take them! Well, that’s settled."

Here are three five-percent bonds worth three thousand rubles. Take those for yourself, totally for yourself, and let’s keep that between us, so no one knows about it, no matter what you hear.

"You’ll need the money, because living like this, Sofya Semyonovna, isn’t good, and besides, there’s no need for it anymore."

"I owe you so much, and the kids and my stepmother owe you so much," said Sonia quickly, "and if I’ve said so little... please don’t think..."

"That’s enough! That’s enough!"

"But seriously, about the money, Arkady, I’m really grateful, but I don’t need it right now. I can totally make my own money. Don’t think I’m ungrateful. If you’re feeling generous, this money..."

"It’s for you, for you, Sofya, and please, don’t waste your breath. I’m short on time. You’re gonna need it. Rodion has two options: a bullet or Siberia."

(Sonia looked at him, totally freaked out, and started to speak.)

"Don’t worry, I know everything from him, and I’m not a blabbermouth; I won’t tell a soul. It was good advice when you told him to turn himself in and confess. It would be way better for him. Okay, so if it’s Siberia, you’re going, and you’ll follow him. Right? And you’ll need money."

You’ll need it for him, get it? Giving it to you is like me giving it to him. Plus, you promised Amalia you’d pay what you owe. I heard you. Seriously, how can you take on these kinds of commitments so carelessly, Sofya?

"It was Katerina’s debt, not yours, so you shouldn’t have even acknowledged the German woman. You can’t get by in the world like that. If anyone ever asks about me - tomorrow or the day after - don’t mention me coming to see you, and don’t show anyone the money or say a word about it. Alright, bye."

(He stood up.)

"Give Rodion my best. By the way, you should keep the money for now with Razumihin. You know Razumihin, right? He’s a good dude. Take it to him tomorrow, or... when the time comes. And until then, hide it somewhere safe."

Sonia also jumped up from her chair, looking totally distressed at Svidrigaïlov. She wanted to talk, to ask a question, but for a moment she couldn’t and didn't know where to start.

"How can you... how can you just leave now, in this rain?"

"Seriously? Going to America and being stopped by rain? Ha, ha! Bye, Sofya, my dear! Live long and be helpful to others. Oh, by the way... tell Razumihin I send my best. Tell him Arkady Svidrigaïlov sends his best. Make sure you do."

He left, leaving Sonia in a state of anxious worry and a feeling that something bad might happen.

Later that evening, at about eleven-thirty, he made another, really weird and unexpected visit. The rain was still coming down hard. Soaked, he walked into the small apartment where his fiancée's parents lived, on Third Street on Vassilyevsky Island.

He knocked for a while before they let him in, and his visit initially caused a lot of confusion. But Svidrigaïlov could be super charming when he wanted to be, so the parents’ initial thought that he’s probably had way too much to drink and doesn’t know what he’s doing disappeared pretty quickly.

The elderly father was brought in to see Svidrigaïlov by the kind and sensible mother, who, as usual, started the conversation with a bunch of irrelevant questions.

She never asked a direct question, but would start by smiling and rubbing her hands, and then, if she needed to find something out - like when Svidrigaïlov wanted to get married - she’s start with interested and eager questions about Paris and court life there, and only gradually bring the conversation around to Third Street.

This had been really impressive before, but this time Arkady seemed really impatient and insisted on seeing his fiancée right away, even though they’d already told him she was asleep. Of course, the girl came out.

Svidrigaïlov told her right away that he had to leave Petersburg for a bit because of some really important stuff. So, he handed her fifteen thousand rubles and asked her to accept it as a gift - he’d been meaning to give it to her before they got married.

It wasn't really clear why the gift was connected to his leaving so suddenly and why he had to visit them in the pouring rain at midnight. But it went surprisingly well; even the usual shocked reactions and questions were really few and under control.

On the other hand, the gratitude was super heartfelt, and the most sensible mom got all teary-eyed. Svidrigaïlov stood up, laughed, kissed his fiancée, patted her cheek, and said he’s coming back soon.

He noticed a mix of childlike curiosity and a serious, unspoken question in her eyes, so he looked at her and kissed her again. But inside, he was actually pretty annoyed that his gift would probably just get locked away by the most sensible of moms.

He left them all totally hyped up, but the sweet mom quietly whispered and settled most of their doubts, deciding that Svidrigaïlov was a big deal - a man of serious affairs, connections, and serious money - who knew what he was up to?

He could just randomly go on a trip and hand out cash whenever he felt like it, so it wasn’t that shocking. It was weird that he was soaked, sure, but like, Englishmen are even weirder, and all these high-society people don’t worry about what people say and don’t make a fuss.

Maybe he showed up like that on purpose to show he wasn’t afraid of anyone. Above all, they shouldn't say a word about it, because who knows what could happen, and the money needed to be locked up - it was lucky that Fedosya, the cook, hadn’t left the kitchen yet.

And definitely don't say anything to that old busybody, Madame Resslich, and so on. They whispered and talked until two in the morning, but the girl went to bed much earlier, totally stunned and a little sad.

Meanwhile, Svidrigaïlov, right at midnight, crossed the bridge heading back to the mainland. The rain had stopped, but the wind was howling. He started shivering, and for a moment, he stared at the dark waters of the Little Neva with a really intense, almost questioning look.

But he quickly realized it was freezing standing by the water, so he turned and headed towards Y. Prospect.

He walked down that endless street for a long time, almost half an hour, tripping over the wooden pavement a few times in the dark, but constantly looking for something on the right side of the street.

He’d noticed recently that there was a hotel somewhere towards the end, built of wood, but pretty big, and he remembered the name was something like Adrianople. He was right: the hotel was so obvious in that forgotten place that he couldn’t miss it, even in the dark.

It was a long, blackened wooden building, and despite the late hour, there were lights in the windows and signs of life inside. He went in and asked a scruffy guy who met him in the hallway for a room.

The guy, sizing Svidrigaïlov up, straightened up and led him straight to a tiny, cramped room way down the hall, tucked under the stairs. There were no others available - all were taken. The scruffy guy looked at him curiously.

"Do you have tea?" asked Svidrigaïlov.

"Yeah, I do sir."

"Anything else?"

"Veal, vodka, snacks."

"Bring me tea and veal."

"And you don’t want anything else?" he asked, looking surprised.

"No Nothing, really nothing else."

The scruffy guy went away, totally confused.

"This has gotta be a cool spot," Svidrigaïlov thought.

"How did I not know about this? I probably look like I just rolled in from some crazy party and had a wild ride getting here. Wonder who’s been hanging out here?"

He lit the candle and really looked around. The room was super low - he could barely stand up straight! It had one window, and the bed, which was seriously gross, along with a basic chair and table, pretty much filled the whole space.

The walls looked like just planks covered in old, beat-up wallpaper, so ripped and dusty you couldn’t even make out the pattern. You could still see the color - yellow - though. One wall ended abruptly because of the slanted ceiling, even though it wasn't an attic, just tucked under the stairs.

Svidrigaïlov put down the candle and plopped down on the bed, getting lost in thought. But a weird, constant mumbling coming from the next room caught his attention. It sometimes turned into a shout. The sound hadn’t stopped since he walked in.

He listened closely: someone was yelling and practically crying while scolding, but he only heard one voice.

Svidrigaïlov got up, covered the light with his hand, and immediately saw light coming through a crack in the wall. He went over and peeked through. The room, which was a bit bigger than his, had two people in it.

One, a guy with seriously curly hair and a bright red, angry face, was standing like a speaker, without his jacket, legs spread wide to keep his balance, and pounding his chest. He was tearing into the other guy for being a loser, for having nothing going for him.

He said he’s the reason the other guy even had a shot, and he could kick him out whenever he wanted, and that only God knows what's really going on. The other guy was sitting in a chair and looked like he was desperately trying not to sneeze.

He sometimes gave the speaker a confused, blank look, but obviously had no clue what he was talking about and barely seemed to be listening. A candle was burning down on the table; there were wine glasses, a nearly empty bottle of vodka, bread and cucumbers, and glasses with the remains of old tea.

After checking it out, Svidrigaïlov turned away without a care and sat back down on the bed.

The scruffy attendant, bringing the tea, couldn't resist asking him again if he wanted anything else, and got a negative reply again, so finally left. Svidrigaïlov quickly drank a glass of tea to warm up, but couldn’t eat anything. He started feeling feverish.

He took off his coat and, wrapping himself in the blanket, lay down on the bed. He was annoyed.

"It would’ve been better to be feeling good for the occasion," he thought with a wry smile.

The room was stuffy, the candle flickered low, the wind was howling outside, he heard a mouse scratching in the corner and the room smelled of mice and leather. He drifted off into a kind of daydream, one thought chasing another. He felt a need to focus his thoughts on something.

"It must be a garden under the window," he thought.

"There’s a sound of trees. How much I hate the sound of trees on a stormy night, in the dark! It gives you a creepy feeling."

He remembered how he’d hated it when he walked past Petrovsky Park earlier. That reminded him of the bridge over the Little Neva, and he felt cold again like he had been standing there.

"I’ve never liked water," he thought, "even in a pretty view," and he suddenly smiled again at a weird idea:

"Surely now all these worries about taste and comfort shouldn’t matter, but I’ve become more picky, like an animal that chooses a special spot... for something like this. I should’ve gone into Petrovsky Park! I guess it seemed dark and cold, haha! Like I was looking for good vibes!..."

"By the way, why haven’t I blown out the candle?" He blew it out.

"They’ve gone to bed next door," he thought, not seeing the light peeking through the crack.

"Well, now, Marfa Petrovna, now’s your chance to show up; it’s dark, and the perfect time and place for you. But now you won’t come!"

He suddenly remembered how, just an hour before trying to do something to Dounia, he’d told Raskolnikov to leave her in Razumihin’s care.

"I guess I really did say it, like Raskolnikov figured out, to mess with myself. But what a sneaky guy that Raskolnikov is! He’s been through a lot. He might be a successful trickster someday when he gets over his nonsense. But right now, he’s too eager for life."

"These young guys are embarrassing about that. But, whatever, let him do what he wants, it’s got nothing to do with me."

He couldn’t fall asleep. Slowly, Dounia’s image appeared before him, and a shiver ran down his spine.

"No, I gotta give up on all that now," he thought, shaking himself.

"I gotta think about something else. It’s weird and funny. I’m not a super angry person, I never really wanted to get revenge, and that’s a bad sign, a bad sign, a bad sign. I never liked fighting, and never lost my temper - that’s another bad sign."

"And the promises I made her just now, too - Damn it! But - who knows? - maybe she would’ve changed me somehow..."

He clenched his teeth and fell silent again.

Again, Dounia’s image appeared before him, just as she was when, after shooting the first time, she’d lowered the revolver in terror and stared blankly at him, so that he could have grabbed her twice over and she wouldn’t have lifted a hand to defend herself if he hadn’t reminded her.

He recalled how at that moment he’s almost felt sorry for her, how he’s felt a pang in his heart...

"Ugh! Damn it, these thoughts again! I gotta shut this down!"

He was dozing off; the feverish shivers had stopped, when suddenly something seemed to run over his arm and leg under the covers. He jolted awake.

"Ugh, seriously? I think it’s a mouse," he thought, "probably from the veal I left on the table."

He really didn’t want to pull off the blanket, get up, and get cold, but then something icky ran over his leg again. He yanked off the blanket and lit the candle. Shaking with chills, he leaned over to check the bed: nothing there.

He shook the blanket, and suddenly a mouse jumped out onto the sheet. He tried to catch it, but the mouse zipped around in zigzags, staying on the bed, slipped between his fingers, ran over his hand, and then darted under the pillow.

He tossed the pillow, but in a flash, he felt something leap onto his chest and zip over his body and down his back under his shirt. He trembled and woke up completely.

The room was dark. He was lying in bed, wrapped up in the blanket like before. The wind was howling outside the window.

"How gross," he thought, annoyed.

He got up and sat on the edge of the bed with his back to the window.

"It’s better to just not sleep," he decided.

But there was a cold, damp draft from the window, so without getting up, he pulled the blanket over himself and snuggled in. He wasn’t thinking about anything, and didn’t want to. But random images kept popping into his head - disconnected thoughts, no beginning or end.

He started to feel sleepy again. Maybe it was the cold, or the dampness, or the dark, or the wind howling outside and shaking the trees, that made him crave something unreal. He kept picturing flowers - a gorgeous flower garden, a bright, warm, almost hot day, a holiday - Trinity Day.

A beautiful, fancy country cottage, totally English style, overflowing with fragrant flowers, with flowerbeds all around the house. The porch, covered in climbing vines, was surrounded by rose bushes.

A light, cool staircase, covered with thick rugs, was decorated with rare plants in fancy china pots. He especially loved the nosegays of delicate, white, heavily fragrant narcissus bending over their bright, green, thick stalks.

He didn’t want to leave them, but he went up the stairs and into a big, high living room, and everywhere - at the windows, the doors to the balcony, and on the balcony itself - were flowers.

The floors were scattered with freshly-cut fragrant hay, the windows were open, and a fresh, cool breeze filled the room. Birds were chirping outside the window, and in the middle of the room, on a table covered with a white satin cloth, stood a coffin.

The coffin was covered in white silk and trimmed with a thick white ruffle; wreaths of flowers surrounded it on all sides. Among the flowers lay a girl in a white muslin dress, her arms crossed and pressed against her chest, as if sculpted from marble.

But her long, blonde hair was wet; there was a wreath of roses on her head. Her serious, almost frozen face looked like it had been carved from marble too, and the smile on her pale lips was full of an enormous, adult-like sadness and a heartbreaking plea.

Svidrigaïlov knew that girl; there was no holy image, no burning candle next to the coffin; no sound of prayers: the girl had drowned herself. She was only fourteen, but her heart was broken.

And she had ended it all, crushed by an insult that had shocked and stunned her young soul, had stained that innocent purity with undeserved shame and ripped from her a final scream of despair, ignored and brutally dismissed, on a dark, wet night while the wind howled...

Svidrigaïlov shook himself awake, got up from the bed, and headed to the window. He fumbled with the latch and popped it open. The wind slammed into the small room, stinging his face and chest - just a shirt on, so it felt like frost.

Below the window, it looked like a garden, maybe even a nice hangout spot. Probably tea tables and music during the day. Now, raindrops flew in from the trees and bushes; it was pitch black, like a basement, so he could barely make out shapes.

Svidrigaïlov leaned on the window sill, staring into the darkness for a good five minutes. Then, the boom of a cannon echoed through the night.

"Ah, the signal! The river’s overflowing," he thought.

"By morning, it’s gonna be swirling down the street in the lower parts, flooding basements and cellars. The cellar rats will swim out, and people will be cursing in the rain and wind as they drag their stuff upstairs. What time is it?"

And almost as soon as he thought it, a clock somewhere nearby, ticking like crazy, struck three.

"Aha! It’s gonna be light in an hour! Why wait? I’m heading straight to the park. I’ll find a huge bush soaked with rain, so as soon as my shoulder touches it, millions of drops drip down on me."

He stepped away from the window, shut it, lit the candle, threw on his vest, overcoat, and hat, and headed out into the hallway, carrying the candle, looking for the ragged attendant who’s probably asleep somewhere amid candle stubs and junk, to pay him for the room and check out of the hotel.

"This is the best time; I couldn’t have picked a better moment."

He walked through a long, narrow hallway for a while without finding anyone, and was just about to call out, when suddenly, in a dark corner between an old cabinet and the door, he spotted something strange that looked like it was alive.

He bent down with the candle and saw a little girl, no older than five, shivering and crying, her clothes as wet as a sopping-wet towel. She didn't seem scared of Svidrigaïlov, but looked at him with a blank, amazed expression from her big, black eyes.

Now and then she sobbed like kids do after crying a long time, but starting to feel better. The child’s face was pale and tired, she was numb from the cold.

"How did she get here? She must have hidden here and not slept all night."

He started asking her questions. The child suddenly perked up, chattering away in baby talk, something about "mommy" and that "mommy would beat her," and about some cup she had "bwoken." The child kept chattering on without stopping.

He could only guess from what she said that she was a neglected kid, whose mom, probably a drunk cook working at the hotel, yelled and scared her; that the child had broken a cup of her mom’s and was so terrified she ran away the evening before, hid outside in the rain for a while, finally made her way in here, hid behind the cabinet, and spent the night there, crying and trembling from the damp, the darkness, and the fear that she’s gonna get a major beating for it.

He scooped her up in his arms, went back to his room, sat her on the bed, and started taking her clothes off. The ripped shoes on her bare feet were as wet as if they’d been standing in a puddle all night.

After he got her undressed, he put her on the bed, tucked her in, and wrapped her in the blanket from her head down. She fell asleep instantly. Then he sank back into gloomy thoughts again.

"Seriously, why am I even worrying about this?" he decided, suddenly annoyed.

"This is absolutely ridiculous!"

Frustrated, he grabbed the candle to find the ragged helper again and just get out of there.

"Ugh, that kid!" he thought as he opened the door, but then he turned back to check if the child was asleep.

He carefully lifted the blanket. The child was sleeping soundly, warmed up under the blanket, and her pale cheeks were flushed. But weirdly, that flush seemed brighter and rougher than the rosy cheeks of a kid.

"It’s a fever flush," thought Svidrigaïlov.

Like the flush you get from drinking, like she’s been given a full glass. Her bright red lips were hot and glowing; but wait, what was this?

He suddenly thought her long, dark eyelashes were twitching, like her lids were opening and a sneaky, grown-up eye was peeking out with an unchildlike wink, like the little girl wasn’t asleep but pretending. Yeah, that’s what it was. Her lips parted in a smile.

The corners of her mouth quivered, like she was trying to hold them back. But now she gave up, it was a grin, a big grin; there was something shameless, provocative in that totally unchildish face; it was depravity, it was the face of a harlot, the shameless face of a French harlot.

Now both eyes opened wide; they gave him a glowing, shameless look; they were laughing, inviting him... There was something unbelievably creepy and shocking in that laugh, in those eyes, in such nastiness on a child’s face.

"What? At five years old?" Svidrigaïlov muttered, genuinely horrified.

"What’s going on?"

And now she turned to him, her little face all lit up, holding out her arms...

"Cursed kid!" Svidrigaïlov cried, raising his hand to hit her.

but then he woke up. He was still in the same bed, still wrapped in the blanket.

The candle wasn't lit, and sunlight was streaming in through the windows.

"I had a crazy nightmare all night!"

He got up angrily, feeling totally drained; his bones ached. There was a thick fog outside, and he couldn’t see anything. It was almost five. He’s overslept! He got up, threw on his still-damp jacket and overcoat.

Feeling the revolver in his pocket, he pulled it out, then he sat down, took a notebook out of his pocket and on the title page, in big letters, wrote a few lines. Reading them over, he sank into thought with his elbows on the table. The revolver and the notebook lay beside him.

Some flies woke up and landed on the untouched veal, which was still on the table. He stared at them and finally, with his free right hand, started trying to catch one. He tried until he was tired, but couldn’t catch it.

Realizing he was caught up in this weird game, he jumped up and walked resolutely out of the room. A minute later, he was in the street.

A thick, milky fog hung over the town. Svidrigaïlov walked along the slippery, dirty wooden sidewalk towards the Little Neva. He was picturing the waters of the Little Neva swollen in the night, Petrovsky Island, the wet paths, the wet grass, the wet trees and bushes, and finally, the bush...

He started staring ill-humoredly at the houses, trying to think about something else. There wasn’t a cab or a passerby in the street. The bright yellow, wooden, little houses looked dirty and gloomy with their closed shutters. The cold and damp seeped into his whole body, and he started to shiver.

From time to time, he came across shop signs and read each carefully. Finally, he reached the end of the wooden sidewalk and came to a big stone house. A dirty, shivering dog crossed his path with its tail between its legs. A man in a greatcoat lay face down; dead drunk, across the sidewalk.

He looked at him and kept walking. A tall tower stood up on the left.

"Bah!" he shouted, "this is the spot. Why should it be Petrovsky? There’s a witness anyway..."

He almost cracked a smile at that thought and headed down the street toward the huge house with the tower. At the massive, locked gates, a short dude stood leaning against them, rocking a grey military coat and a shiny copper helmet - like, an Achilles helmet.

He gave Svidrigaïlov a super sleepy, "whatever" look. His face always had that grumpy, downbeat vibe, you know? It’s just, like, always on people of Jewish heritage. They just stared at each other for a few minutes, no one saying anything.

Then Achilles thought, "Seriously? A dude just standing three steps away, staring, and not saying a word? That’s kinda weird."

"What’s up?" he asked, not moving or changing his spot.

"Nothing, man, morning," answered Svidrigaïlov.

"I feel like i'm in the wrong place for this."

"I am Heading overseas, dude."

"Overseas? ...Oversees where?"

"I am going to America."

"Yes America is where I am going"

Svidrigaïlov pulled out a revolver and clicked it open. Achilles raised his eyebrows.

"Dude, this isn’t the time for jokes!"

"Ah come on, Why not?"

"Because it’s not."

"Whatever. It’s a good spot. When they ask, you just say he was going, he said, to America."

He put the revolver to his temple.

"You can’t do that here, it’s not the place," Achilles blurted out, suddenly awake, his eyes getting huge.

Svidrigaïlov pulled the trigger.