 Section 37 of Crime and Punishment. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Crime and Punishment by Fjodor Tostoyevsky, translated by Konstantz Garnett. Part 6, Chapter 6. He spent that evening till 10 o'clock going from one low haunt to another. Katya too turned up and sang another gutter song. How is certain? Villain and tyrant began kissing Katya. Svijugrila treated Katya in the organ grinder and some singers in the waiters and two little clerks. He was particularly drawn to these clerks by the fact that they both had crooked noses, one bent to the left and the other to the right. They took him finally to a pleasure garden where he paid for their entrance. There was one lanky three-year-old pine tree and three bushes in the garden, besides a voxel, which was in reality a drinking bar where tea too was served, and there were a few green tables and chairs standing around it. A chorus of wretched singers and a drunken but exceedingly depressed German clown from Munich with a red nose entertained the public. The clerks quarreled with some other clerks, and a fight seemed imminent. Svijugrila was chosen to decide the dispute. He listened to them for a quarter of an hour, but they shouted so long that there was no possibility of understanding them. The only fact that seemed certain was that one of them had stolen something and had even succeeded in selling it on the spot to a Jew, but would not share the spoil with his companion. Finally it appeared that the stolen object was a teaspoon belonging to the voxel. It was missed and the affair began to seem troublesome. Svijugrila paid for the spoon, got up, and walked out of the garden. It was about six o'clock. He had not drunk a drop of wine all this time and had ordered tea more for the sake of appearances than anything. It was a dark and stifling evening. Threatening storm clouds came over the sky about ten o'clock. There was a clap of thunder, and the rain came down like a waterfall. The water fell not in drops, but beat on the earth in streams. There were flashes of lightning every minute, and each flash lasted while one could count to five. Drenched to the skin, he went home, locked himself in, opened the bureau, took out all his money, and tore up two or three papers. Then, putting the money in his pocket, he was about to change his clothes, but, looking out of the window and listening to the thunder and the rain, he gave up the idea, took up his hat, and went out of the room without locking the door. He went straight to Sonja. She was at home. She was not alone. The four Kaepernamab children were with her. She was giving them tea. She received Svijugrila in respectful silence, looking wonderingly at his soaking clothes. The children all ran away at once in indescribable terror. Svijugrila sat down at the table, and asked Sonja to sit beside him. She timidly prepared to listen. I may be going to America, Sophia Semyonovna, said Svijugrila. And, as I am probably seeing you for the last time, I have come to make some arrangements. Well, did you see the lady today? I know what she said to you. You need not tell me. Sonja made a movement and blushed. Those people have their own way of doing things. As to your sisters and your brother, they are really provided for, and the money assigned to them I've put into safe keeping and have received acknowledgments. You had better take charge of the receipts in case anything happens. Here, take them. Well, now that's settled. Here are three five percent bonds to the value of three thousand rubles. Take those for yourself entirely for yourself, and let that be strictly between ourselves, so that no one knows of it, whatever you hear. You will need the money for to go on living in the old way, Sophia Semyonovna, is bad. And besides, there is no need for it now. I am so much indebted to you, and so are the children, and my stepmother, said Sonja Hurdley. And if I've said so little, please don't consider. That's enough. That's enough. But as for the money, Arkady Ivanovich, I am very grateful to you, but I don't need it now. I can always earn my own living. Don't think me ungrateful. If you are so charitable, that money— it's for you. For you, Sophia Semyonovna, and please don't waste words over it. I haven't time for it. You will want it. Rodion Romanovich has two alternatives—a bullet in the brain or Siberia. Sonja looked wildly at him, and started. Don't be uneasy. I know all about it from himself, and I am not a gossip. I won't tell anyone. It was good advice when you told him to give himself up and confess. It would be much better for him. Well, if it turns out to be Siberia, he will go, and you will follow him. That's so, isn't it? And if so, you'll need money. You'll need it for him, too. Do you understand? Giving it to you is the same as my giving it to him. Besides, you promised Amalia Ivanovna to pay what's owing. I heard you. How can you undertake such obligations so heedlessly, Sophia Semyonovna? It was Katerina Ivanovna's debt, and not yours, so you ought not to have taken any notice of the German woman. You can't get through the world like that. If you are ever questioned about me, tomorrow or the day after you will be asked, don't say anything about my coming to see you now, and don't show the money to anyone, or say a word about it. Well, now goodbye. He got up. My greetings to Rodion Romanovich. By the way, you had better put the money for the present in Mr. Razumihin's keeping. You know Mr. Razumihin? Of course you do. He's not a bad fellow. Take it to him tomorrow or when the time comes. And till then, hide it carefully. Sonia, too, jumped up from her chair and looked to dismay at Speedrigailov. She longed to speak, to ask a question, but for the first moments she did not dare and did not know how to begin. How can you? How can you be going now in such rain? Why, be starting for America, and be stopped by rain. Ha, ha! Goodbye, Sophia Semyonovna, my dear. Live and live long. You will be of use to others. By the way, tell Mr. Razumihin I sent my greetings to him. Tell him Arkady Ivanovich Shvedrigailov sends his greetings. Be sure, too. He went out, leaving Sonia in a state of wandering anxiety and vague apprehension. It appeared afterward that on the same evening, at twenty past eleven, he made another various centric and unexpected visit. The rain still persisted. Drenched to the skin, he walked into the little flats where the parents of his betrothed lived, in Third Street, in Vasilyevsky Island. He knocked some time before he was admitted. In his visit at first caused great perturbation, but Shvedrigailov could be very fascinating when he liked, so that the first and indeed very intelligent surmise of the sensible parents that Shvedrigailov had probably had so much to drink that he did not know what he was doing, vanished immediately. The decrepit father was wheeled in to see Shvedrigailov by the tender and sensible mother, who as usual began the conversation with various irrelevant questions. She never asked a direct question, but began by smiling and rubbing her hands and then, if she were obliged to ascertain something, for instance, when Shvedrigailov would like to have the wedding, she would begin by interested and almost eager questions about Paris and the court life there, and only by degrees brought the conversation round to Third Street. On other occasions, this had of course been very impressive, but this time Arkady Ivanovich seemed particularly impatient and insisted on seeing his betrothed at once, though he had been informed to begin with that she had already gone to bed. The girl, of course, appeared. Shvedrigailov had informed her at once that he was obliged by very important affairs to leave Petersburg for a time, and therefore brought her fifteen thousand rubles and begged her accept them as a present from him, as he had long been intending to make her this trifling present before their wedding. The logical connection of the present with his immediate departure and the absolute necessity of visiting them for that purpose and pouring rain at midnight was not made clear, but it all went off very well. Even the inevitable ejaculations of wonder and regret, the inevitable questions were extraordinarily few and restrained. On the other hand, the gratitude expressed was most glowing and was reinforced by tears from the most sensible of mothers. Shvedrigailov got up, laughed, kissed his betrothed, patted her cheek, declared he would soon come back, and noticing in her eyes, together with childish curiosity, a sort of earnest, dumb inquiry, reflected and kissed her again, though he felt sincere anger inwardly at the thought that his present would be immediately locked up in the keeping of the most sensible of mothers. He went away, leaving them all in a state of extraordinary excitement, but the tender mama, speaking quietly in a half whisper, settled some of the most important of their doubts, concluding that Shvedrigailov was a great man, a man of great affairs and connections and of great wealth. There was no knowing what he had in his mind. He would start off on a journey and give away money just as the fancy took him, so that there was nothing surprising about it. Of course, it was strange that he was wet through, but Englishmen, for instance, are even more eccentric, and all these people of high society didn't think of what was said of them and didn't stand on ceremony. Possibly, indeed, he came like that on purpose to show that he was not afraid of anyone. Above all, not a word should be said about it, for God knows what might come of it, and the money must be locked up, and it was most fortunate that Fidozia, the cook, had not left the kitchen, and above all, not a word must be said to that old cat, Madame Restlich, and so on and so on. They sat up with spring till two o'clock, but the girl went to bed much earlier, amazed and rather sorrowful. Shvedrigailov, meanwhile, exactly at midnight, crossed the bridge on the way back to the mainland. The rain had ceased, and there was a roaring wind. He began shivering, and for one moment he gazed at the black waters of the Little Neva with a look of special interest, even inquiry. But he soon felt it very cold standing by the water. He turned and went towards wide prospect. He walked along that endless street for a long time, almost half an hour, more than once stumbling in the dark on the wooden pavement, but continually looking for something on the right side of the street. He had noticed, passing through this street lately, that there was a hotel somewhere towards the end, built of wood but fairly large, and its name, he remembered, was something like Adrianopla. He was not mistaken. The hotel was so conspicuous in that God-forsaken place that he could not fail to see it, even in the dark. It was a long, black and wooden building, and in spite of the late hour, there were lights in the windows and signs of life within. He went in and asked a ragged fellow who met him in the corridor for a room. The latter, scanning Svidrigailov, pulled himself together and let him at once to a close and tiny room in the distance, at the end of the corridor, under the stairs. There was no other, all were occupied. The ragged fellow looked inquiringly. Is there tea? asks Svidrigailov. Yes, sir. What else is there? Veal, vodka, savouries. Bring me tea and veal. And you want nothing else? He asked with a parent's surprise. Nothing, nothing. The ragged man went away, completely disillusioned. It must be a nice place. Thoughts, Svidrigailov? How was it? I didn't know it. I expect I look as if I came from a café Chanton and have had some adventure on the way. It would be interesting to know who stayed here. He lighted the candle and looked at the room more carefully. It was a room so low-pitched that Svidrigailov could only just stand up in it. It had one window. The bed, which was very dirty and the plain-stained chair and table almost filled it up. The walls looked as though they were made of planks, covered with shabby paper, so torn and dusty that the pattern was indistinguishable, though the general colour, yellow, could still be made out. One of the walls was cut short by the sloping ceiling, though the room was not an attic but just under the stairs. Svidrigailov sat down the candle, sat down in the bed and sank into thought. But a strange, persistent murmur which sometimes rose to a shout in the next room attracted his attention. The murmur had not ceased from the moment he entered the room. He listened. Someone was upbraiding and almost tearfully scolding, but he heard only one voice. Svidrigailov got up, shaded the light with his hand, and at once he saw light through a crack in the wall. He went up and peeped through. The room, which was somewhat larger than his, had two occupants. One of them, a very curly-headed man with a red inflamed face, was standing in the pose of an orator, without his coat, and with his legs wide apart to preserve his balance, and smiting himself on the breast. He reproached the other with being a beggar, with having no standing whatever. He declared that he had taken the other out of the gutter, and he could turn him out when he liked, and that only the finger of Providence sees it all. The object of his reproaches was sitting in a chair, and had the air of a man who wants dreadfully to sneeze but can't. He sometimes turned sheepish and befogged eyes on the speaker, but obviously had not the slightest idea what he was talking about and scarcely heard it. A candle was burning down on the table. There were wine glasses, a nearly empty bottle of vodka, bread and cucumber, and glasses with the dregs of stale tea. After gazing attentively at this, Svidrigailov turned away indifferently and sat down on the bed. The ragged attendant, returning with the tea, could not resist asking him again whether he didn't want anything more, and again receiving a negative reply, finally withdrew. Svidrigailov made haste to drink a glass of tea to warm himself, but could not eat anything. He began to feel feverish. He took off his coat and wrapping himself in the blanket, lay down on the bed. He was annoyed. It would have been better to be well for the occasion. He thought with a smile. The room was close. The candle burned dimly. In the window was roaring outside. He heard a mouse scratching in the corner, and the room smelt of mice and of leather. He lay in a sort of reverie. One thought followed another. He felt longing to fix his imagination on something. It must be a garden under the window. He thought. There is a sound of trees. How I dislike the sound of trees on a stormy night, in the dark. They give one horrid feeling. He remembered how he had disliked it when he passed Petrovsky Park just now. This reminded him of the bridge of the little neighbor, and he felt cold again, as he had when standing there. I never have liked water. He thought. Even in a landscape. And he suddenly smiled again at a strange idea. Surely now all these questions of taste and comfort ought not to matter, but I've become more particular, like an animal that picks out a special place, for such an occasion. I ought to have gone into the Petrovsky Park. I suppose it seemed dark, cold, ha ha, as though I was seeking pleasant sensations. By the way, why haven't I put out the candle? He blew it out. They have gone to bed next door. He thought, not seeing the light of the crack. Well now, Marfa Petrovna, now is the time for you to turn up. It's dark, and the very time and place for you. But now you won't come. He suddenly recalled how, an hour before carrying out his design on Dunya, he had recommended Raskolnikov to trust her to resume his keeping. I suppose I really did say it, as Raskolnikov guessed, to tease myself. But what a robe that Raskolnikov is. He's gone through a good deal. He may be a successful rogue in time when he has got over his nonsense, but now he is too eager for life. These young men are contemptible on that point. But hang the fellow, let him please himself. It's nothing to do with me. He could not get to sleep. By degrees Dunya's image rose before him, and a shutter ran over him. No, I must give up all that now. He thought, rousing himself. I must think of something else. It's queer and funny. I never had a great hatred for anyone. I never particularly desired to avenge myself even, and that's a bad sign, a bad sign, a bad sign. I never liked quarrelling either, and never lost my temper. That's a bad sign, too. And the promises I made her just now, too, damnation. But who knows? Perhaps she would have made a new man of me somehow. He ground his teeth and sank into silence again. Again Dunya's image rose before him. Just as she was when, after shooting the first time, she had lowered the revolver in terror and gazed blankly at him, so that he might have seized her twice over, and she would not have lifted a hand to defend herself if he had not reminded her. He recalled how, at that instant, he almost felt sorry for her. How he had felt a pang at his heart. Ah, yeah, damnation, these thoughts again. I must put it away. He was dozing off. The feverish shiver had ceased, when suddenly something seemed to run over his arm and leg under the bed clothes. He started. Ah, hang it. I believe it's a mouse. He thought. That's the veal I left on the table. He felt fearfully disinclined to pull off the blanket, get up, get cold, but all at once something unpleasant ran over his leg again. He pulled off the blanket and lighted the candle. Shaking with feverish chill, he bent down to examine the bed. There was nothing. He shook the blanket, and suddenly a mouse jumped out on the sheet. He tried to catch it, but the mouse ran to and fro in zigzags without leaving the bed, slipped between his fingers, ran over his hand, and suddenly darted under the pillow. He threw down the pillow, but in one instant felt something leap on his chest and dart over his body and down his back under his shirt. He trembled nervously and woke up. The room was dark. He was lying on the bed and wrapped up in the blanket as before. The wind was howling under the window. How disgusting! He thought with annoyance. He got up and sat on the edge of the bedstead, with his back to the window. It's better not to sleep at all. He decided. There was a cold damp draft from the window, however. Without getting up, he drew the blanket over him and wrapped himself in it. He was not thinking of anything and did not want to think. But one image rose after another, incoherent scraps of thought without beginning or end passed through his mind. He sank into drowsiness. Perhaps the cold or the dampness or the dark or the wind that howled under the window and tossed the trees roused a sort of persistent craving for the fantastic. He kept dwelling on images of flowers. He fancied a charming flower garden, a bright, warm, almost hot day, a holiday. Trinity day. A fine, sumptuous country cottage in the English taste, overgrown with fragrant flowers, with flower beds going round the house. The porch, wreathed in climbers, was surrounded with beds of roses. A light, cool staircase, carpeted with rich rugs, was decorated with rare plants and china pots. He noticed, particularly in the windows, nose gaze of tender, white, heavily fragrant narcissus, bending over their bright, green, thick, long stalks. He was reluctant to move away from them. But he went up the stairs and came into a large, high drawing room, and again everywhere at the windows, the doors onto the balcony, and on the balcony itself were flowers. The floors were strewn with freshly cut, fragrant hay. The windows were open. A fresh, cool, light air came into the room. The birds were chirping under the windows, and in the middle of the room, on a table covered with a white satin shroud, stood a coffin. The coffin was covered with white silk and edged with a thick white frill. Wreaths of flowers surrounded it on all sides. Among the flowers lay a girl in a white muslin dress, with her arms crossed and pressed on her bosom, as though carved out of marble. But her loose, fair hair was wet. There was a wreath of roses on her head. The stern and already rigid profile of her face looked as though chiseled of marble, too, and the smile on her pale lips was full of an immense, unchildish misery and sorrowful appeal. Spetri Gailov knew that girl. There was no holy image, no burning candle beside the coffin, no sound of prayers. The girl had drowned herself. She was only fourteen, but her heart was broken. And she had destroyed herself, crushed by an insult that had appalled and amazed that childish soul, had smirched that angel purity with unmarried disgrace and torn from her last scream of despair, unheeded and brutally disregarded on a dark night in the cold and wet while the wind howled. Spetri Gailov came to himself, got up from the bed and went to the window. He felt through the latch and opened it. The wind lashed furiously into the little room and stung his face and his chest, only covered with his shirt as though with frost. Under the window there must have been something like a garden and apparently a pleasure garden. There, too, probably, there were tea-tables and singing in the daytime. Now drops of rain flew in at the window from the trees and the bushes. It was dark as in a cellar so that he could only just make out some dark blurs of objects. Spetri Gailov, bending down with elbows on the windowsill, gazed for five minutes into the darkness. The boom of a cannon, followed by a second one, resounded in the darkness of the night. Ah, the signal! The river is overflowing. He thought. By morning it will be swirling down the street in the lower parts, flooding the basements and cellars. The cellar rats will swim out and men will curse in the rain and wind as they drag their rubbish to the upper stories. What time is it now? And he had hardly thought it when somewhere near. A clock on the wall, taking away hurriedly, struck three. Aha! It will be light in an hour. Why wait? I'll go out at once straight to the park. I'll choose a great bush there, drenched with rain, so that as soon as one's shoulder touches it, millions of drops drip on one's head. He moved away from the window, shut it, lighted the candle, put on his waistcoat, his overcoat, and his hat, and went out, carrying the candle, into the passage, looked for the ragged attendant, who would be asleep somewhere in the midst of candle ends and all sorts of rubbish, to pay him for the room and leave the hotel. It's the best minute. I couldn't choose a better. He walked for some time through a long narrow corridor, without finding anyone, and was just going to call out, when suddenly in a dark corner between an old cupboard and the door, he caught sight of a strange object which seemed to be alive. He bent down with the candle and saw a little girl, not more than five years old, shivering and crying, with her clothes as wet as a soaking house flannel. She did not seem afraid of Svetriy Gailov, but looked at him with blank amazement out of her big black eyes. Now and then she sobbed as children do when they have been crying a long time, but are beginning to be comforted. The child's face was pale and tired. She was numb with cold. How can she have come here? She must have hidden here and not slept all night. He began questioning her. The child, suddenly becoming animated, chattered away in her baby language, something about... Mommy. ...and that... Mommy would beat her. ...and about some cup that she had... Broken. The child chattered on without stopping. He could only guess from what she said that she was a neglected child, whose mother, probably a drunken cook in the service of the hotel, whipped and frightened her. That the child had broken a cup of her mother's and was so frightened that she had run away the evening before, had hidden for a long while somewhere outside in the rain, and at last had made her way in here, hidden behind the cupboard, and spent the night there, crying and trembling from the damp, the darkness and the fear that she would be badly beaten for it. He took her in his arms, went back to his room, sat her on the bed, and began on dressing her. The torn shoes which she had on her stocking this feet were as wet as if they had been standing in a puddle all night. When he had undressed her, he put her on the bed, covered her, and wrapped her in the blanket from her head downwards. She fell asleep at once. Then he sank into dreary musing again. What folly to trouble myself. He decided suddenly with an oppressive feeling of annoyance. What idiocy. In vexation he took up the candle to go and look for the ragged attendant again and make haste to go away. Damn the child. He thought as he opened the door. But he turned again to see whether the child was asleep. He raised the blanket carefully. The child was sleeping soundly. She had got warm under the blanket and her pale cheeks were flushed. But strange to say that flush seemed brighter and coarser than the rosy cheeks of childhood. It's a flush of fever. Thoughts feed her guy love. It was like the flush from drinking as though she had been given a full glass to drink. Her crimson lips were hot and glowing. But what was this? He suddenly fancied that her long black eyelashes were quivering as though the lids were opening and a sly crafty eye peeped out with an unchild-like wink as though the little girl were not asleep but pretending. Yes, it was so. Her lips parted in a smile. The corners of her mouth quivered as though she were trying to control them. But now she gave up all effort. Now it was a grin, a broad grin. There was something shameless, provocative, and that quite 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 turned a glowing, shameless glance upon him. They laughed, invited him. There was something infinitely hideous and shocking in that laugh, in those eyes, in such nastiness in the face of a child. What? At five years old? Speedre guy love muttered in genuine horror. What does it mean? And now she turned to him, her little face all aglow, holding out her arms. A cursed child. Speedre guy love cried, raising his hand to strike her. But at that moment he woke up. He was in the same bed, still wrapped in the blanket. The candle had not been lighted. And daylight was streaming in at the windows. I've had nightmare all night. He got up angrily, feeling utterly shattered. His bones ached. There was a thick mist outside, and he could see nothing. It was nearly five. He had overslept himself. He got up, put on his still-damped jacket and overcoat. Feeling the revolver in his pocket, he took it out and then he sat down, took a notebook out of his pocket, and in the most conspicuous place on the title page, wrote a few lines in large letters. 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 settled on the untouched veal, which was still on the table. He stared at them, and at last, with his free right hand, began trying to catch one. He tried till he was tired, but could not catch it. At last, realizing that he was engaged in this interesting pursuit, he started, got up, and walked resolutely out of the room. A minute later, he was in the street. A thick, milky mist hung over the town. Svetri Gailov walked along the slippery, dirty, wooden pavement towards the Little Neva. He was picturing the waters of the Little Neva swollen in the night, the Tromsky Island, the wet paths, the wet grass, the wet trees and bushes, and at last the bush. He began ill-humoredly staring at the houses, trying to think of something else. There was not a cab man or a passerby in the street. The bright yellow, wooden little houses looked dirty and dejected with their clothes shutters. The cold and damp penetrated his whole body, and he began to shiver. From time to time, he came across shop signs, and read each carefully. At last, he reached the end of the wooden pavement, and came to a big stone house. A dirty, shivering dog crossed his path with its tail between its legs. A man in a great coat lay face downwards, dead drunk across the pavement. He looked at him and went on. A high tower stood up on the left. Baa! He shouted. Here is a place. Why should it be Petrovsky? It will be in the presence of an official witness anyway. He almost smiled at this new thought, and turned into the street where there was the big house with the tower. At the great closed gate to the house, a little man stood with his shoulder leaning against them, wrapped in a grey soldier's coat, with a copper Achilles helmet on his head. He cast a drowsy and indifferent glance at Svedrigailov. His face wore that perpetual look of peevish dejection, which is so sourly printed on all faces of Jewish race without exception. They both, Svedrigailov and Achilles, stared at each other for a few minutes without speaking. At last it struck Achilles as irregular, for a man not drunk to be standing three steps from him, staring and not saying a word. What do you want here? He said, without moving or changing his position. Nothing, brother. Good morning. Answered Svedrigailov. This isn't the place. I am going to foreign parts, brother. To foreign parts? The America. America. Svedrigailov took out the revolver and cocked it. Achilles raised his eyebrows. I say this is not the place for such jokes. Why shouldn't it be the place? Because it isn't. Well, brother, I don't mind that. It's a good place. When you're asked, you just say he was going. He said, to America. He put the revolver to his right temple. You can't do it here. It's not the place. Cried Achilles, rousing himself, his eyes growing bigger and bigger. Svedrigailov pulled the trigger. End of Part 6, Chapter 6 Section 38 of Crime and Punishment This Librivox recording is in the public domain. Crime and Punishment by Fyodor Dostoevsky. Translated by Konstantz Garnet. Part 6, Chapter 7 The same day, about seven o'clock in the evening, Raskolnikov was on his way to his mother's and sister's lodging. The lodging in Bakalaev's house, which Razumihin had found for them. The stairs went up from the street. Raskolnikov walked with lagging steps, as though still hesitating whether to go or not. But nothing would have turned him back. His decision was taken. Besides, it doesn't matter. They still know nothing. He thought. And they're used to think he'd give me as eccentric. He was appollingly dressed. His clothes, torn and dirty, soaked with a night's rain. His face was almost distorted from fatigue, exposure, the inward conflict that had lasted for twenty-four hours. He had spent all the previous night alone, God knows where. But anyway he had reached a decision. He knocked at the door which was opened by his mother. Dunia was not at home. Even the servant happened to be out. At first Pulcheria Aleksandrovna was speechless with joy and surprise. Then she took him by the hand and drew him into the room. Here you are. She began, faltering with joy. Don't be angry with me, Rodja, for welcoming you so foolishly with tears. I am laughing, not crying. Did you think I was crying? No, I am delighted. But I've gotten to such a stupid habit of shedding tears. I've been like that ever since your father's death. I cry for anything. Sit down, dear boy, you must be tired. I see you are. Oh, how muddy you are. I was in the rain yesterday, mother. Raskolnikov began. No, no. Pulcheria Aleksandrovna heredly interrupted. You thought I was going to cross question you in the womanish way I used to. Don't be anxious. I understand. I understand it all. Now I've learned the ways here, and, truly, I see for myself that they are better. I've made up my mind once for all. How could I understand your plans and expect you to give an account of them? God knows what concerns and plans you may have, or what ideas you are hatching, so it's not for me to keep nudging your elbow, asking you what you are thinking about. But my goodness, why am I running to and fro as though I were crazy? I am reading your article in the magazine for the third time, Rodja. Dmitry Prokofievich brought it to me. Directly I saw it. I cried out to myself. There, foolish one, I thought. That's what he is busy about. That's the solution of the mystery. Learned people are always like that. He may have some new ideas in his head just now. He is thinking them over, and I worry him and upset him. I read it, my dear, and, of course, there was a great deal I did not understand. But that's only natural. How should I? She'll be, mother. Raskolnikov took the magazine and glanced at the article. In congruence as it was with his mood and his circumstances, he felt that strange and bitter sweet sensation that every author experiences the first time he sees himself in print. Besides, he was only twenty-three. It lasted only a moment. After reading a few lines, he frowned, and his heart throbbed with anguish. He recalled all the inward conflict of the preceding months. He flung the article on the table with disgust and anger. But, however foolish I may be, Rodja, I can see for myself that you will very soon be one of the leading, if not the leading man, in the world of Russian thought, and they dared to think you were mad. You don't know, but they really thought that. Ah, the despicable creatures! How could they understand genius? And Dunia, Dunia was all but believing it. What do you say to that? Your father sent twice to magazines, the first time poems. I've got the manuscript and will show you. And the second time a whole novel, I begged him to let me copy it out, and how we prayed that they should be taken. They weren't. I was breaking my heart, Rodja, six or seven days ago over your food and your clothes and the way you are living. But now I see again how foolish I was, for you can attain any position you like by your intellect and talent. No doubt you don't care about that for the present, and you are occupied with much more important matters. Don't you's not at home, mother? No, Rodja. I often don't see her. She leaves me alone. Dmitry Prokofievich comes to see me. It's so good of him, and he always talks about you. He loves you and respects you, my dear. I don't say that Dunia is very wanting in consideration. I'm not complaining. She has her ways, and I have mine. She seems to have got some secrets of late, and I never have any secrets from you two. Of course, I am sure that Dunia has far too much sense, and besides she loves you and me. But I don't know what it will all lead to. You've made me so happy by coming now, Rodja. But she has missed you by going out, and when she comes in I'll tell her your brother came in while you were out, where have you been all this time? You mustn't spoil me, Rodja, you know. Come when you can, but if you can't it doesn't matter. I can wait. I shall know, anyway, that you are fond of me. That will be enough for me. I shall read what you write. I shall hear about you from everyone, and sometimes you'll come yourself to see me. What could be better? Here, you've come now to comfort your mother. I see that. Here, Pulharia Alexandrovna began to cry. Here I am again. Don't mind my foolishness. My goodness, why am I sitting here? She cried, jumping up. There is coffee, and I don't offer you any. Ah, that's the selfishness of old age. I'll get it at once. Mother, don't trouble. I am going at once. I haven't come for that. Please listen to me. Pulharia Alexandrovna went up to him timidly. Mother, whatever happens, whatever you hear about me, whatever you are told about me, will you always love me as you do now? He asked suddenly from the fullness of his heart, as though not thinking of his words and not weighing them. Roger, Roger, what is the matter? How can you ask me such a question? Why, who will tell me anything about you? Besides, I shouldn't believe anyone. I should refuse to listen. I have come to assure you that I have always loved you, and am glad that we are alone. Even glad Donia is out. He went on with the same impulse. I have come to tell you that though you will be unhappy, you must believe that your son loves you now more than himself, and that all you thought about me, that I was cruel and didn't care about you, was all a mistake. I shall never cease to love you. Well, that's enough. I thought I must do this and begin with this. Pulharia Alexandrovna embraced him in silence, pressing him to her bosom and weeping gently. I don't know what is wrong with you, Roger. She said at last, I've been thinking all this time that we were simply boring you, and now I see that there is a great sorrow in store for you, and that's why you are miserable. I've foreseen it a long time, Roger. Forgive me for speaking about it. I keep thinking about it, and lie awake at night. Your sister lay talking in her sleep all last night, talking of nothing but you. I caught something, but I couldn't make it out. I felt all the morning as though I were going to be hanged, waiting for something, expecting something, and now it has come. Roger, Roger, where are you going? You are going away somewhere? Yes. That's what I thought. I can come with you, you know, if you need me. And Dunia too, she loves you, she loves you dearly. And Sofia Semionovna may come with us, if you like. You see, I am glad to look upon her as a daughter even. Dmitry Prokovich will help us to go together, but where are you going? Goodbye, mother. What, today? She cried as though losing him forever. I can't stay. I must go now. And can't I come with you? No, but kneel down and pray to God for me. Your prayer, perhaps, will reach him. Let me bless you and sign you with the cross. That's right. That's right. Oh God, what are we doing? Yes, he was glad. He was very glad that there was no one there, that he was alone with his mother. For the first time after all those awful months his heart was softened. He fell down before her, he kissed her feet, and both wept, embracing. And she was not surprised, and did not question him this time. For some days she had realized that something awful was happening to her son, and that now some terrible minute had come for him. Rodya, my darling, my firstborn. She said sobbing. Now you are just as when you were little. You would run like this to me and hug me and kiss me. When your father was living and we were poor, you comforted us simply by being with us. And when I buried your father, how often we wept together at his grave and embraced us now. And if I've been crying lately, it's that my mother's heart had a foreboding of trouble. The first time I saw you that evening, you remember, as soon as we arrived here? I guessed, simply from your eyes. My heart sank at once. And today when I opened the door and looked at you, I thought the fatal hour had come. Rodya, Rodya, you are not going away today. No. You'll come again? Yes, I'll come. Rodya, don't be angry. I don't dare to question you. I know I mustn't. Only, say two words to me. Is it far where you are going? Very far. What is awaiting you there? Some post or career for you? What God sends. Only, pray for me. Raskolnikov went to the door, but she clutched him and gazed despairingly into his eyes. Her face worked with terror. Enough, mother, said Raskolnikov, deeply regretting that he had come. Not for ever. It's not yet for ever. You'll come. You'll come tomorrow. I will. I will. Goodbye. He tore himself away at last. It was a warm, fresh, bright evening. It had cleared up in the morning. Raskolnikov went to his lodgings. He made haste. He wanted to finish all before sunset. He did not want to meet anyone till then. Going up the stairs, he noticed that Nastasia rushed from the Samovar to watch him intently. Can anyone have come to see me? He wondered. He had a disgusted vision of Porfiri. But opening his door, he saw Dunya. She was sitting alone, plunged in deep thought, and looked as though she had been waiting a long time. He stopped short in the doorway. She rose from the sofa in dismay and stood up facing him. Her eyes, fixed upon him, betrayed horror and infinite grief. And from those eyes alone he saw at once that she knew. It might have come in or go away. He asked uncertainly. I've been all day with Sofia Samonovna. We were both waiting for you. We thought that you would be sure to come here. Raskolnikov went into the room and sank exhausted on a chair. I feel weak, Dunya. I am very tired. And I should have liked at this moment to be able to control myself. He glanced at her mistrustfully. Where were you all night? I don't remember clearly. You see, sister, I wanted to make up my mind once and for all. And several times I walked by the Neva. I remember that I wanted to end it all there. But I couldn't make up my mind. He whispered, looking at her mistrustfully again. Thank God! That was just what we were afraid of. Sofia Samonovna and I. Then you still have faith in life. Thank God! Thank God! Raskolnikov smiled bitterly. I haven't faith. But I have just been weeping in mother's arms. I haven't faith. But I have just asked her to pray for me. I don't know how it is, Dunya. I don't understand it. Have you been at mother's? Have you told her? Cryed, Dunya, horrors stricken. Surely you haven't done that. No, I didn't tell her, in words. But she understood a great deal. She heard you talking in your sleep. I am sure she half understands it already. Perhaps I did wrong in going to see her. I don't know why I did go. I am a contemptible person, Dunya. A contemptible person, but ready to face suffering. You are, aren't you? Yes, I am going. At once. Yes, to escape the disgrace I thought of drowning myself, Dunya. But as I looked into the water, I thought that if I had considered myself strong till now, I'd better not be afraid of disgrace. He said, herring on. It's pride, Dunya. Pride, Rodya. There was a gleam of fire in his lusterless eyes. He seemed to be glad to think that he was still proud. You don't think, sister, that I was simply afraid of the water? He asked, looking into her face with a sinister smile. Oh, Rodya, harsh. Cried Dunya bitterly. Silence lasted for two minutes. He sat with his eyes fixed on the floor. Dunya stood at the other end of the table. And looked at him with anguish. Suddenly he got up. It's late. It's time to go. I am going at once to give myself up. But I don't know why I'm going to give myself up. Back tears fell down her cheeks. You are crying, sister. But can you hold out your hand to me? You doubted it? She threw her arms round him. Aren't you half-expiating your crime by facing the suffering? She cried, holding him close and kissing him. Crime? What crime? He cried in a sudden fury. That I killed a vile, noxious insect, an old pawnbroker woman of use to no one? Killing her was atonement for forty cents. She was sucking the life out of poor people. Was that a crime? I am not thinking of it, and I am not thinking of expiating it. And why are you all rubbing it in on all sides? It's a crime, a crime. Only now I see clearly the imbecility of my cowardice, now that I have decided to face this superfluous disgrace. It's simply because I am contemptible, and have nothing in me that I have decided to, perhaps too for my advantage, as that poorafidee suggested. Brother, brother, what are you saying? Why, have you shed blood? Cryed Donia in despair. Which all men shed? He put in almost frantically. Which flows, and has always flowed in streams, which is spilt like champagne, for which men are crowned in the capital, and are called afterwards benefactors of mankind. Look into it more carefully, and understand it. I too wanted to do good to men, and would have done hundreds, thousands of good deeds, to make up for that one piece of stupidity, not stupidity even, simply clumsiness. For the idea was by no means so stupid as it seems now that it has failed. Everything seems stupid when it fails. By that stupidity I only wanted to put myself into an independent position, to take the first step, to obtain means, and that everything would be smoothed over by benefits immeasurable in comparison. But I, I couldn't carry out even the first step, because I am contemptible. That's what's the matter. And yet I won't look at it, as you do. If I had succeeded, I should have been crowned with glory. But now I'm trapped. But that's not so, and not so. Brother, what are you saying? Ah, it's not picturesque, not aesthetically attractive. I fail to understand why bombarding people with my regular siege is more honorable. The fear of appearance is at the first symptom of impotence. I have never, never recognized this more clearly than now. And I am further than ever from seeing that what I did was a crime. I have never, never been stronger and more convinced than now. The color had rushed into his pale, exhausted face, but as he uttered his last explanation, he happened to meet Dunya's eyes, and he saw such anguish in them that he could not help being checked. He felt that he had, anyway, made these two poor women miserable, that he was, anyway, the cause. Donya, darling, if I am guilty, forgive me, though I cannot be forgiven if I am guilty. Goodbye. We won't dispute. It's time, high time to go. Don't follow me, I beseech you. I have somewhere else to go. Would you go at once and sit with mother? I entreat you to. It's my last request of you. Don't leave her at all. I left her in a state of anxiety that she is not fit to bear. She will die or go out of her mind. Be with her. Razumekin will be with you. I've been talking to him. Don't cry about me. I'll try to be honest and manly all my life, even if I am a murderer. Perhaps I shall someday make a name. I won't disgrace you, you will see. I'll still show. Now goodbye for the present. He concluded heredly, noticing again a strange expression in Dunja's eyes at his last words and promises. Why are you crying? Don't cry, don't cry. We are not parting forever. Ah, yes. Wait a minute, I'd forgotten. He went to the table, took up a thick dusty book, opened it, and took from between the pages a little watercolor portrait on ivory. It was the portrait of his landlady's daughter, who had died of fever, that strange girl who had wanted to be a nun. For a minute he gazed at the delicate, expressive face of his betrothed, kissed the portrait, and gave it to Dunja. I used to talk a great deal about it to her, only to her. He said thoughtfully, To her heart I confided much of what has since been so hideously realized. Don't be uneasy. He returned to Dunja. She was as much opposed to it as you, and I'm glad that she is gone. The great point is that everything now is going to be different, is going to be broken into two. He cried, suddenly returning to his rejection. Everything, everything, and am I prepared for it? Do I want it myself? They say it is necessary for me to suffer. What's the object of these senseless sufferings? Shall I know any better what they are for, when I am crushed by hardships and idiocy, and weak as an old man after twenty years' penal servitude? And what shall I have to live for then? Why am I consenting to that life now? Oh, I knew I was contemptible, and I stood looking at the Neva at daybreak to-day. At last they both went out. It was hard for Dunja, but she loved him. She walked away, but after going fifty paces she turned round to look at him again. He was still in sight. At the corner he too turned, and for the last time their eyes met. But noticing that she was looking at him, he motioned her away with impatience and even vexation, and turned the corner abruptly. I am wicked. I see that. He thought to himself, feeling ashamed a moment later of his angry gesture to Dunja. But why are they so fond of me if I don't deserve it? Oh, if only I were alone, and no one loved me. And I too had never loved anyone. Nothing of all this would have happened. But I wonder, shall I in those fifteen or twenty years grow so meek that I shall humble myself before people, and whimper at every word that I am a criminal? Yes, that's it, that's it. That's what they are sending me there for. That's what they want. Look at them running to and fro about the streets. Every one of them a scoundrel and a criminal at heart. And worse still, an idiot. But try to get me off, and they'd be wild with righteous indignation. Oh, how I hate them all. He fell to musing by what process it could come to pass that he could be humbled before all of them indiscriminately, humbled by conviction. And yet, why not? It must be so. Would not twenty years of continual bondage crush him utterly? Water wears out a stone. And why, why should he live after that? Why should he go now, when he knew that it would be so? It was the hundredth time, perhaps, that he had asked himself that question since the previous evening, but still he went. He did not confuse nor misrepresent the facts, nor soften them in his own interest, nor omit the smallest detail. He explained every incident of the murder, the secret of the pledge, the piece of the wood with a strip of metal, which was found in the murdered woman's hand. He described minutely how he had taken her keys, what they were like, as well as the chest and its contents. He explained the mystery of Lizaveta's murder, described how Koch, and after him the student, knocked and repeated all they had said to one another, how he afterwards had run downstairs and heard Nicolai and Dimitri shouting, how he had hidden in the empty flat and afterwards gone home. He ended by indicating the stone in the yard of the Woznozinski Prospekt, under which the purse and the trinkets were found. The whole thing, in fact, was perfectly clear. The lawyers and the judges were very much struck, among other things, by the fact that he had hidden the trinkets and the purse under a stone, without making use of them, and that, what was more, he did not now remember what the trinkets were like, or even how many there were. The fact that he had never opened the purse, and did not even know how much was in it, seemed incredible. There turned out to be in the purse 317 rubles and 60 copax. From being so long under the stone, some of the most valuable notes, lying uppermost, had suffered from the dump. They were a long while trying to discover why the accused man should tell a lie about this, when, about everything else, he had made a truthful and straightforward confession. Finally, some of the lawyers, more versed in psychology, admitted that it was possible he had really not looked into the purse, and so didn't know what was in it when he hid it under the stone. But they immediately drew the deduction that the crime could only have been committed through temporary mental derangement, through homicidal mania, without object or the pursuit of gain. This fell in with the most recent fashionable theory of temporary insanity, so often applied in our days in criminal cases. Moreover, Raskolnikov's hypohondriacal condition was proved by many witnesses, by Dr. Zasimov, his former fellow students, his landlady, and her servant. All this pointed strongly to the conclusion that Raskolnikov was not quite like an ordinary murderer and robber, but that there was another element in the case. To the intense annoyance of those who maintained this opinion, the criminals scarcely attempted to defend himself. To the decisive question as to what motive impelled him to the murder and the robbery, he answered very clearly with the coarsest frankness that the cause was his miserable position, his poverty, and helplessness, and his desire to provide for his first steps in life by the help of the three thousand rubles he had reckoned on finding. He had been led to the murder, through his shallow and cowardly nature, exasperated moreover by privation and failure. To the question what led him to confess, he answered that it was his heartfelt repentance, all this was almost coarse. The sentence, however, was more merciful than could have been expected, perhaps partly because the criminal had not tried to justify himself, but had rather shown a desire to exaggerate his guilt. All the strange and peculiar circumstances of the crime were taken into consideration. There could be no doubt of the abnormal and poverty-stricken condition of the criminal at that time. The fact that he had made no use of what he had stolen was put down partly to the effect of remorse, partly to his abnormal mental condition at the time of the crime. Incidentally, the murder of Lisaveta served indeed to confirm the last hypothesis. A man commits two murders and forgets that the door is open. Finally, the confession at the very moment when the case was hopelessly muddled by the false evidence given by Nikolai through melancholy and fanaticism, and when, moreover, there were no proofs against the real criminal, no suspicion even, Porfiry Petrovich fully kept his word, all this did much to soften the sentence. Other circumstances too, in the prisoner's favor, came out quite unexpectedly. Razumihin somehow discovered and proved that while Raskolnikov was at the university, he had helped a poor consumptive fellow student and had spent his last penny on supporting him for six months. And when this student died, leaving a decrepit old father whom he had maintained almost from his 13th year, Raskolnikov had got the old man into a hospital and paid for his funeral when he died. Raskolnikov's landlady bore witness too, that when they had lived in another house at five corners, Raskolnikov had rescued two little children from a house on fire and was burned in doing so. This was investigated and fairly well confirmed by many witnesses. These facts made an impression in his favor. And in the end the criminal was, in consideration of extenuating circumstances, condemned to penal servitude in the second class for a term of eight years only. At the very beginning of the trial Raskolnikov's mother fell ill. Dunja and Razumihin found it possible to get her out of Petersburg during the trial. Razumihin chose a town on the railway not far from Petersburg so as to be able to follow every step of the trial and at the same time to see Avdotya Romanovna as often as possible. Pulheria Alexandrovna's illness was a strange, nervous one, and was accompanied by a partial derangement of her intellect. When Dunja returned from her last interview with her brother, she had found her mother already ill in feverish delirium. That evening Razumihin and she agreed what answers they might make to her mother's questions about Raskolnikov and made up a complete story for her mother's benefit of his having to go away to a distant part of Russia on a business commission, which would bring him in the end money and reputation. But they were struck by the fact that Pulheria Alexandrovna never asked them anything on the subject, neither then nor thereafter. On the contrary, she had her own version of her son's sudden disappearance. She told them with tears how he had come to say goodbye to her, hinting that she alone knew many mysterious and important facts, and that Rodia had many powerful enemies so that it was necessary for him to be in hiding. As for his future career, she had no doubt that it would be brilliant when certain sinister influences could be removed. She assured Razumihin that her son would be one day a great statesman, that his article and brilliant literary talent proved it. This article she was continually reading, she even read it aloud, almost took it to bed with her, but scarcely asked where Rodia was, though the subject was obviously avoided by the others, which might have been enough to awaken her suspicion. They began to be frightened at last at Pulheria Alexandrovna's strange silence on certain subjects. She did not, for instance, complain of getting no letters from him, though in previous years she had only lived on the hope of letters from her beloved Rodia. This was the cause of great uneasiness to Dunia. The idea occurred to her that her mother suspected that there was something terrible in her son's fate, and was afraid to ask for fear of hearing something still more awful. In any case, Dunia saw clearly that her mother was not in full possession of her faculties. It happened once or twice, however, that Pulheria Alexandrovna gave such a turn to the conversation that it was impossible to answer her without mentioning where Rodia was, and on receiving unsatisfactory and suspicious answers she became at once gloomy and silent, and this mood lasted for a long time. Dunia saw at last that it was hard to deceive her, and came to the conclusion that it was better to be absolutely silent on certain points. But it became more and more evident that the poor mother suspected something terrible. Dunia remembered her brothers telling her that her mother had overheard her talking in her sleep on the night after her interview with Svidrigailov and before the fatal day of the confession. Had not she made out something from that, sometimes days and even weeks of gloomy silence and tears would be succeeded by a period of hysterical animation, and the invalid would begin to talk almost incessantly of her son, of her hopes of his future. Her fancies were sometimes very strange. They humored her, pretended to agree with her. She saw perhaps that they were pretending, but she still went on talking. Five months after Raskolnikov's confession he was sentenced. Razumihin and Sonia saw him in prison as often as it was possible. At last the moment of separation came. Dunia swore to her brother that the separation should not be forever. Razumihin did the same. Razumihin and his youthful ardor had firmly resolved to lay the foundations at least of a secure livelihood during the next three or four years, and saving up a certain sum to emigrate to Siberia, a country rich in every natural resource and in need of workers, active men and capital. There they would settle in the town where Rodia was, and all together would begin a new life. They all wept at parting. Raskolnikov had been very dreamy for a few days before. He asked a great deal about his mother, and was constantly anxious about her. He worried so much about her that it alarmed Dunia. When he heard about his mother's illness he became very gloomy. With Sonia he was particularly reserved all the time. With the help of the money left to her by Svidrigailov, Sonia had long ago made her preparations to follow the party of convicts in which he was dispatched to Siberia. Not a word passed between Raskolnikov and her on the subject, but both knew it would be so. At the final leaf-taking he smiled strangely at his sisters and Razumihin's fervent anticipations of their happy future together when he should come out of prison. He predicted that their mother's illness would soon have a fatal ending. Sonia and he at last set off. Two months later Dunia was married to Razumihin. It was a quiet and sorrowful wedding. Porfiry Petrovich and Zosimov were invited, however. During all this period Razumihin wore an heir of resolute determination. Dunia put implicit faith in his carrying out his plans, and indeed she could not but believe in him. He displayed a rare strength of will. Among other things he began attending university lectures again in order to take his degree. They were continually making plans for the future. Both counted on settling in Siberia within five years at least. Till then they rested their hopes on Sonia. Porfiry Alexandrovna was delighted to give her blessing to Dunia's marriage with Razumihin, but after the marriage she became even more melancholy and anxious. To give her pleasure Razumihin told her how Raskolnikov had looked after the poor student and his decrepit father, and how a year ago he had been burnt and injured in rescuing two little children from a fire. These two pieces of news excited Porfiry Alexandrovna's disordered imagination almost to ecstasy. She was continually talking about them, even entering into conversation with strangers in the street, though Dunia always accompanied her, in public conveyances and shops. Wherever she could capture a listener she would begin the discourse about her son, his article, how he had helped the student, how he had been burnt at the fire, and so on. Dunia did not know how to restrain her. Apart from the danger of her morbid excitement there was the risk of someone's recalling Raskolnikov's name and speaking of the recent trial. Porfiry Alexandrovna found out the address of the mother of the two children her son had saved and insisted on going to see her. At last her restlessness reached an extreme point. She would sometimes begin to cry suddenly and was often ill and feverishly delirious. One morning she declared that by her reckoning Rodia Otsum to be home, that she remembered when he said goodbye to her he said that they must expect him back in nine months. She began to prepare for his coming, began to do up her room for him, to clean the furniture, to wash and put up new hangings, and so on. Dunia was anxious but said nothing and helped her to arrange the room. After a fatiguing day spent in continual fancies, in joyful daydreams and tears, Porfiry Alexandrovna was taken ill in the night, and by morning she was feverish and delirious. It was brain fever. She died within a fortnight. In her delirium she dropped words which showed that she knew a great deal more about her son's terrible fate than they had supposed. For a long time Askolnikov did not know of his mother's death, though a regular correspondence had been maintained from the time he reached Siberia. It was carried on by means of Sonia, who wrote every month to the Razumihin's and received an answer with unfailing regularity. At first they found Sonia's letters dry and unsatisfactory, but later on they came to the conclusion that the letters could not be better, for from these letters they received a complete picture of their unfortunate brother's life. Sonia's letters were full of the most matter-of-fact details, the simplest and clearest description of all Askolnikov's surroundings as a convict. There was no word of her own hopes, no conjecture as to the future, no description of her feelings. Instead of any attempt to interpret his state of mind and inner life, she gave the simple facts, that is, his own words, an exact account of his health, what he asked for at their interviews, what commissions he gave her, and so on. All these facts she gave with extraordinary minuteness. The picture of their unhappy brothers stood out at last with great clearness and precision. There could be no mistake, because nothing was given but facts. But Dunia and her husband could get little comfort out of the news, especially at first. Sonia wrote that he was constantly sullen and not ready to talk, that he scarcely seemed interested in the news she gave him from their letters, that he sometimes asked after his mother, and that when seeing that he had guessed the truth she told him at last of her death, she was surprised to find that he did not seem greatly affected by it, not externally at any rate. She told them that although he seemed so wrapped up in himself, and as it were shut himself off from everyone, he took a very direct and simple view of his new life, that he understood his position, expected nothing better for the time, had no ill-founded hopes, as it is common in his position, and scarcely seemed surprised at anything in his surroundings, so unlike anything he had known before. She wrote that his health was satisfactory. He did his work without shirking or seeking to do more. He was almost indifferent about food, but except on Sundays and holidays the food was so bad that at last he had been glad to accept some money from her, Sonia, to have his own tea every day. He begged her not to trouble about anything else, declaring that all this fuss about him only annoyed him. Sonia wrote further, that in prison he shared the same room with the rest, that she had not seen the insight of their barracks, but concluded that they were crowded, miserable, and unhealthy, that he slept on a plank bed with a rag under him, and was unwilling to make any other arrangement, but that he lived so poorly and roughly, not from any plan or design, but simply from inattention and indifference. Sonia wrote simply that he had at first shown no interest in her visits, had almost been vexed with her indeed for coming, unwilling to talk and rude to her, but that in the end these visits had become a habit and almost a necessity for him, so that he was positively distressed when she was ill for some days and could not visit him. She used to see him on holidays at the prison gates, or in the guardroom, to which he was brought for a few minutes to see her. On working days she would go to see him at work, either at the workshops, or at the brick kilns, or at the sheds on the banks of the irtish. About herself Sonia wrote that she had succeeded in making some acquaintances in the town, that she did sewing, and as there was scarcely a dressmaker in the town, she was looked upon as an indispensable person in many houses. But she did not mention that the authorities were, through her, interested in Raskolnikov, that his task was lightened, and so on. At last the news came, Dunia had indeed noticed signs of alarm and uneasiness in the preceding letters, that he held aloof from everyone, that his fellow prisoners did not like him, that he kept silent for days at a time, and was becoming very pale. In the last letter Sonia wrote that he had been taken very seriously ill, and was in the convict ward of the hospital. He was ill a long time, but it was not the horrors of prison life, not the hard labor, the bad food, the shaven head, or the patch clothes that crushed him. What did he care for all those trials and hardships? He was even glad of the hard work. Physically exhausted, he could at least reckon on a few hours of quiet sleep. And what was the food to him? The thin cabbage soup with beetles floating it. In the past as a student, he had often not had even that. His clothes were warm and suited to his manner of life. He did not even feel the fetters. Was he ashamed of his shaven head and the party-colored coat? Before whom? Before Sonia? Sonia was afraid of him. How could he be ashamed before her? And yet he was ashamed, even before Sonia, whom he tortured because of it with his contemptuous rough manner. But it was not his shaven head and his fetters he was ashamed of. His pride had been stung to the quick. It was wounded pride that made him ill. Oh, how happy he would have been if he could have blamed himself. He could have borne anything then, even shame and disgrace. But he judged himself severely, and his exasperated conscience found no particularly terrible fault in his past, except a simple blunder which might happen to anyone. He was ashamed just because he, Raskolnikov, had so hopelessly, stupidly come to grief through some decree of blind fate and must humble himself and submit to the idiocy of a sentence, if he were anyhow to be at peace. Vague and objectless anxiety in the present and in the future a continual sacrifice leading to nothing. That was all that lay before him. And what comfort was it to him that at the end of eight years he would only be 32 and able to begin a new life? What had he to live for? What had he to look forward to? Why should he strive to live in order to exist? Why, he had been ready a thousand times before to give up existence for the sake of an idea, for a hope, even for a fancy. Mere existence had always been too little for him. He had always wanted more. Perhaps it was just because of the strength of his desires that he had thought himself a man to whom more was permissible than to others. And if only fate would have sent him repentance, burning repentance that would have torn his heart to rob him of sleep, that repentance, the awful agony of which brings visions of hanging or drowning. Oh, he would have been glad of it. Tears and agony would at least have been life. But he did not repent of his crime. At least he might have found relief enraging at his stupidity, as he had raged at the grotesque blunders that had brought him to prison. But now in prison, in freedom, he thought over and criticized all his actions, and by no means found them so blundering and so grotesque as they had seemed at the fatal time. In what way, he asked himself, was my theory stupider than others that have swarmed and clashed from the beginning of the world? One has only to look at the thing quite independently, broadly, and uninfluenced by commonplace ideas, and my idea will by no means seem so strange. Oh, skeptics and half-penny philosophers, why do you halt halfway? Why does my action strike them as so horrible? He said to himself, Is it because it was a crime? What is meant by crime? My conscience is at rest. Of course, it was a legal crime. Of course, the letter of the law was broken and blood was shed. Well, punish me for the letter of the law. And that's enough. Of course, in that case, many of the benefactors of mankind who snatched power for themselves instead of inheriting it ought to have been punished at their first steps. But those men succeeded, and so they were right. And I didn't. And so I had no right to have taken that step. It was only in that that he recognized his criminality, only in the fact that he had been unsuccessful and had confessed it. He suffered too from the question, why had he not killed himself? Why had he stood looking at the river and preferred to confess? Was the desire to live so strong, and was it so hard to overcome it? Had Nas Vigilov overcome it, even though he was afraid of death? In misery he asked himself this question and could not understand that at the very time he had been standing looking into the river, he had perhaps been dimly conscious of the fundamental falsity in himself and his convictions. He didn't understand that that consciousness might be the promise of a future crisis, of a new view of life and of his future resurrection. He preferred to attribute it to the dead weight of instinct, which he could not step over, through weakness and meanness. He looked to his fellow prisoners and was amazed to see how they all loved life and apprised it. It seemed to him that they loved and valued life more in prison than in freedom. What terrible agonies and privations some of them, the tramps for instance, had endured. Could they care so much for a ray of sunshine, for the primeval forest, the cold spring hidden away in some unseen spot, which the tramp had marked three years before and longed to see again, as he might to see his sweetheart dreaming of the green grass rounded and the birds singing in the bush? As he went on, he saw still more inexplicable examples. In prison of course, there was a great deal he did not see and did not want to see. He lived as it were with downcast eyes. It was loathsome and unbearable for him to look. But in the end there was much that surprised him, and he began, as it were involuntarily, to notice much that he had not suspected before. What surprised him most of all was the terrible, impossible gulf that lay between him and all the rest. They seemed to be a different species and he looked at them and they had him with distrust and hostility. He felt and knew the reasons of his isolation, but he would never have admitted till then that those reasons were so deep and strong. There were some Polish exiles, political prisoners among them. They simply looked down upon all the rest as ignorant Charles, but Raskolnikov could not look upon them like that. He saw that these ignorant men were in many respects far wiser than the Poles. There were some Russians who were just as contemptuous, a former officer and two Seminarists. Raskolnikov saw their mistake as clearly. He was disliked and avoided by everyone. They even began to hate him at last. Why he could not tell? Men who had been far more guilty despised and laughed at his crime. You're a gentleman. They used to say. You shouldn't hack about with an axe. That's not a gentleman's work. The second week in Lent his turn came to take the sacrament with his gang. He went to church and prayed with the others. A quarrel broke out one day. He did not know how. All fell on him at once in a fury. You're an infidel. You don't believe in God. They shouted. You ought to be killed. He had never talked to them about God nor his belief, but they wanted to kill him as an infidel. He said nothing. One of the prisoners rushed at him in a perfect frenzy. Raskolnikov awaited him calmly and silently. His eyebrows did not quiver. His face did not flinch. The guards succeeded in intervening between him and his assailant. Or there would have been bloodshed. There was another question he could not decide. Why were they all so fond of Sonia? She did not try to win their favour. She rarely met them. Sometimes only she came to see him at work for a moment. And yet everybody knew her. They knew that she had come out to follow him. Knew how and where she lived. She never gave them money, did them no particular services. Only once at Christmas she sent them all presents of pies and rolls. But by degrees closer relations sprang up between them and Sonia. She would write and post letters for them to their relations. Relations of the prisoners who visited the town at their instructions left with Sonia presents and money for them. Their wives and sweethearts knew her and used to visit her. And when she visited Raskolnikov at work or met a party of the prisoners on the road, they all took off their hats to her. Little Mother Sophia Semyanomna, you are our dear. Good little mother. Course branded criminals said to that frail little creature. She would smile and bow to them and everyone was delighted when she smiled. They even admired her gait and turned round to watch her walking. They admired her too for being so little and in fact did not know what to admire her the most for. They even came to her for help in their illnesses. He was in the hospital from the middle of Lent till after Easter. When he was better, he remembered the dreams he had had while he was feverish and delirious. He dreamt that the whole world was condemned to a terrible, new, strange plague that had come to Europe from the depths of Asia. All were to be destroyed except a very few chosen. Some new sorts of microbes were attacking the bodies of men, but these microbes were endowed with intelligence and will. Men attacked by them became at once mad and furious. But never had men considered themselves so intellectual and so completely in possession of the truth as these sufferers. Never had they considered their decisions, their scientific conclusions, their moral convictions so infallible. Whole villages, whole towns and peoples went mad from the infection. All were excited and did not understand one another. Each thought that he alone had the truth and was a wretched looking at the others, beat himself on the breast, wept and wrung his hands. They did not know how to judge and could not agree what to consider evil and what good. They did not know whom to blame, whom to justify. Men killed each other in a sort of senseless spite. They gathered together in armies against one another, but even on the march the armies would begin attacking each other. The ranks would be broken and the soldiers would fall on each other, stabbing and cutting, biting and devouring each other. The alarm bell was ringing all day in the towns. Men rushed together, but why they were summoned and who was summoning them, no one knew. The most ordinary trades were abandoned because everyone proposed his own ideas, his own improvements, and they could not agree. The land too was abandoned. Men met in groups, agreed on something, swore to keep together, but at once began on something quite different from what they had proposed. They accused one another, fought and killed each other. There were conflagrations and famine. All men in all things were involved in destruction. The plague spread and moved further and further. Only a few men could be saved in the whole world. They were a pure chosen people, destined to found a new race and a new life, to renew and purify the earth. But no one had seen these men, no one had heard their words and their voices. Vizkonaikov was worried that this senseless dream haunted his memory so miserably, the impression of this feverish delirium persisted so long. The second week after Easter had come, there were warm bright spring days. In the prison ward, the grating windows under which the sentinel paced were opened. Sonia had only been able to visit him twice during his illness. Each time she had to obtain permission and it was difficult. But she often used to come to the hospital yard, especially in the evening, sometimes only to stand a minute and look up at the windows of the ward. One evening, when he was almost well again, Vizkonaikov fell asleep. On waking up, he chanced to go to the window and at once saw Sonia in the distance at the hospital gate. She seemed to be waiting for someone. Something stabbed him to the heart at that minute. He shuddered and moved away from the window. Next day, Sonia did not come, nor the day after. He noticed that he was expecting her uneasily. At last, he was discharged. On reaching the prison, he learned from the convicts that Sofia Semyonovna was lying ill at home and was unable to go out. He was very uneasy and sent to inquire after her. He soon learned that her illness was not dangerous. Hearing that he was anxious about her, Sonia sent him a penciled note, telling him that she was much better, that she had a slight cold, and that she would soon, very soon, come and see him at his work. His heart throbbed painfully as he read it. Again, it was a warm, bright day. Early in the morning at six o'clock, he went off to work on the riverbank, where they used to pound alabaster and where there was a kiln for baking it in a shed. There were only three of them sent. One of the convicts went with the guard to the fortress to fetch a tool. The other began getting the wood ready and laying it in the kiln. Raskolnikov came out of the shed onto the riverbank, sat down on a heap of logs by the shed, and began gazing at the wide, deserted river. From the high bank, a broad landscape opened before him. The sound of singing floated faintly audible from the other bank. In the vast steppe, bathed in sunshine, he could just see, like black specks, the nomads' tents. There there was freedom. There other men were living, utterly unlike those here. There time itself seemed to stand still, as though the age of Abraham and his flocks had not passed. Raskolnikov sat gazing, his thoughts passed into daydreams, into contemplation. He thought of nothing, but a vague restlessness excited and troubled him. Suddenly he found Sonia beside him. She had come up noiselessly and sat down at his side. It was still quite early. The morning chill was still keen. She wore her poor old bernouse and the green shawl. Her face still showed signs of illness. It was thinner and paler. She gave him a joyful smile of welcome, but held out her hand with her usual timidity. She was always timid of holding out her hand to him, and sometimes did not offer it at all, as though afraid he would repel it. He always took her hand as though with repugnance, always seemed vexed to meet her, and was sometimes obscenately silent throughout her visit. Sometimes she trembled before him and went away deeply grieved, but now their hands did not part. He stole a rapid glance at her and dropped his eyes on the ground without speaking. They were alone. No one had seen them. The guard had turned away for the time. How it happened he did not know, but all at once something seemed to seize him and fling him at her feet. He wept and threw his arms around her knees. For the first instant she was terribly frightened and she turned pale. She jumped up and looked at him, trembling. But at the same moment she understood, and a light of infinite happiness came into her eyes. She knew and had no doubt that he loved her beyond everything, and that at last the moment had come. They wanted to speak but could not. Tears stood in their eyes. They were both pale and thin, but those sick pale faces were bright with the dawn of a new future, of a full resurrection into a new life. They were renewed by love. The heart of each held infinite sources of life for the heart of the other. They resolved to wait and be patient. They had another seven years to wait, and what terrible suffering, and what infinite happiness before them. But he had risen again, and he knew it and felt it and all his being, while she, she only lived in his life. On the evening of the same day when the barracks were locked, Raskolnikov lay on his plank and thought of her. He had even fancied that day that all the convicts who had been his enemies looked at him differently. He had even entered in to talk with them, and they answered him in a friendly way. He remembered that now, and thought it was bound to be so. Wasn't everything now bound to be changed? He thought of her. He remembered how continually he had tormented her and wounded her heart. He remembered her pale and thin little face, but these recollections scarcely troubled him now. He knew with what infinite love he would now repay all her sufferings. In what were all, all the agonies of the past, everything, even his crime, his sentence and imprisonment, seemed to him now in the first rush of feeling an external, strange fact with which he had no concern. But he could not think for long together of anything that evening, and he could not have analyzed anything consciously. He was simply feeling. Life had stepped into the place of theory, and something quite different would work itself out in his mind. Under his pillow lay the New Testament. He took it up mechanically. The book belonged to Sonya. It was the one from which she had read the raising of Lazarus to him. At first he was afraid that she would worry him about religion, would talk about the gospel and pester him with books. But to his great surprise she had not once approached the subject, and had not even offered him the Testament. He had asked her for it himself not long before his illness, and she brought him the book without a word. Till now he had not opened it. He did open it now, but one thought passed through his mind. Can her convictions not be mine now? Her feelings, her aspirations, at least? She too had been greatly agitated that day, and at night she was taken ill again. But she was so happy, and so unexpectedly happy, that she was almost frightened of her happiness. Seven years, only seven years. At the beginning of their happiness at some moments they were both ready to look on those seven years as though they were seven days. He did not know that the new life would not be given him for nothing, that he would have to pay dearly for it, but it would cost him great striving, great suffering. But that is the beginning of a new story, the story of a gradual renewal of a man, the story of his gradual regeneration, of his passing from one world into another, of his initiation into a new unknown life. That might be the subject of a new story, but our present story is ended. End of epilogue chapter two. End of crime and punishment by Fyodor Dostoyevsky, translated by Constance Garnet.