Crime and Punishment
by
Dostoyevsky
EPILOGUE
PART IPART II
PART III
PART IV
PART V
PART VI
EPILOGUE
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[21892]
[21893] I
[21894]
[21895] Siberia. On the banks of a broad solitary river stands a town, one of
[21896] the administrative centres of Russia; in the town there is a fortress,
[21897] in the fortress there is a prison. In the prison the second-class
[21898] convict Rodion Raskolnikov has been confined for nine months. Almost a
[21899] year and a half has passed since his crime.
[21900]
[21901] There had been little difficulty about his trial. The criminal adhered
[21902] exactly, firmly, and clearly to his statement. He did not confuse nor
[21903] misrepresent the facts, nor soften them in his own interest, nor omit
[21904] the smallest detail. He explained every incident of the murder, the
[21905] secret of /the pledge/ (the piece of wood with a strip of metal) which
[21906] was found in the murdered woman's hand. He described minutely how he
[21907] had taken her keys, what they were like, as well as the chest and its
[21908] contents; he explained the mystery of Lizaveta's murder; described how
[21909] Koch and, after him, the student knocked, and repeated all they had
[21910] said to one another; how he afterwards had run downstairs and heard
[21911] Nikolay and Dmitri shouting; how he had hidden in the empty flat and
[21912] afterwards gone home. He ended by indicating the stone in the yard off
[21913] the Voznesensky Prospect under which the purse and the trinkets were
[21914] found. The whole thing, in fact, was perfectly clear. The lawyers and
[21915] the judges were very much struck, among other things, by the fact that
[21916] he had hidden the trinkets and the purse under a stone, without making
[21917] use of them, and that, what was more, he did not now remember what the
[21918] trinkets were like, or even how many there were. The fact that he had
[21919] never opened the purse and did not even know how much was in it seemed
[21920] incredible. There turned out to be in the purse three hundred and
[21921] seventeen roubles and sixty copecks. From being so long under the
[21922] stone, some of the most valuable notes lying uppermost had suffered
[21923] from the damp. They were a long while trying to discover why the
[21924] accused man should tell a lie about this, when about everything else
[21925] he had made a truthful and straightforward confession. Finally some of
[21926] the lawyers more versed in psychology admitted that it was possible he
[21927] had really not looked into the purse, and so didn't know what was in
[21928] it when he hid it under the stone. But they immediately drew the
[21929] deduction that the crime could only have been committed through
[21930] temporary mental derangement, through homicidal mania, without object
[21931] or the pursuit of gain. This fell in with the most recent fashionable
[21932] theory of temporary insanity, so often applied in our days in criminal
[21933] cases. Moreover Raskolnikov's hypochondriacal condition was proved by
[21934] many witnesses, by Dr. Zossimov, his former fellow students, his
[21935] landlady and her servant. All this pointed strongly to the conclusion
[21936] that Raskolnikov was not quite like an ordinary murderer and robber,
[21937] but that there was another element in the case.
[21938]
[21939] To the intense annoyance of those who maintained this opinion, the
[21940] criminal scarcely attempted to defend himself. To the decisive
[21941] question as to what motive impelled him to the murder and the robbery,
[21942] he answered very clearly with the coarsest frankness that the cause
[21943] was his miserable position, his poverty and helplessness, and his
[21944] desire to provide for his first steps in life by the help of the three
[21945] thousand roubles he had reckoned on finding. He had been led to the
[21946] murder through his shallow and cowardly nature, exasperated moreover
[21947] by privation and failure. To the question what led him to confess, he
[21948] answered that it was his heartfelt repentance. All this was almost
[21949] coarse. . . .
[21950]
[21951] The sentence however was more merciful than could have been expected,
[21952] perhaps partly because the criminal had not tried to justify himself,
[21953] but had rather shown a desire to exaggerate his guilt. All the strange
[21954] and peculiar circumstances of the crime were taken into consideration.
[21955] There could be no doubt of the abnormal and poverty-stricken condition
[21956] of the criminal at the time. The fact that he had made no use of what
[21957] he had stolen was put down partly to the effect of remorse, partly to
[21958] his abnormal mental condition at the time of the crime. Incidentally
[21959] the murder of Lizaveta served indeed to confirm the last hypothesis: a
[21960] man commits two murders and forgets that the door is open! Finally,
[21961] the confession, at the very moment when the case was hopelessly
[21962] muddled by the false evidence given by Nikolay through melancholy and
[21963] fanaticism, and when, moreover, there were no proofs against the real
[21964] criminal, no suspicions even (Porfiry Petrovitch fully kept his word)
[21965] --all this did much to soften the sentence. Other circumstances, too,
[21966] in the prisoner's favour came out quite unexpectedly. Razumihin
[21967] somehow discovered and proved that while Raskolnikov was at the
[21968] university he had helped a poor consumptive fellow student and had
[21969] spent his last penny on supporting him for six months, and when this
[21970] student died, leaving a decrepit old father whom he had maintained
[21971] almost from his thirteenth year, Raskolnikov had got the old man into
[21972] a hospital and paid for his funeral when he died. Raskolnikov's
[21973] landlady bore witness, too, that when they had lived in another house
[21974] at Five Corners, Raskolnikov had rescued two little children from a
[21975] house on fire and was burnt in doing so. This was investigated and
[21976] fairly well confirmed by many witnesses. These facts made an
[21977] impression in his favour.
[21978]
[21979] And in the end the criminal was, in consideration of extenuating
[21980] circumstances, condemned to penal servitude in the second class for a
[21981] term of eight years only.
[21982]
[21983] At the very beginning of the trial Raskolnikov's mother fell ill.
[21984] Dounia and Razumihin found it possible to get her out of Petersburg
[21985] during the trial. Razumihin chose a town on the railway not far from
[21986] Petersburg, so as to be able to follow every step of the trial and at
[21987] the same time to see Avdotya Romanovna as often as possible. Pulcheria
[21988] Alexandrovna's illness was a strange nervous one and was accompanied
[21989] by a partial derangement of her intellect.
[21990]
[21991] When Dounia returned from her last interview with her brother, she had
[21992] found her mother already ill, in feverish delirium. That evening
[21993] Razumihin and she agreed what answers they must make to her mother's
[21994] questions about Raskolnikov and made up a complete story for her
[21995] mother's benefit of his having to go away to a distant part of Russia
[21996] on a business commission, which would bring him in the end money and
[21997] reputation.
[21998]
[21999] But they were struck by the fact that Pulcheria Alexandrovna never
[22000] asked them anything on the subject, neither then nor thereafter. On
[22001] the contrary, she had her own version of her son's sudden departure;
[22002] she told them with tears how he had come to say good-bye to her,
[22003] hinting that she alone knew many mysterious and important facts, and
[22004] that Rodya had many very powerful enemies, so that it was necessary
[22005] for him to be in hiding. As for his future career, she had no doubt
[22006] that it would be brilliant when certain sinister influences could be
[22007] removed. She assured Razumihin that her son would be one day a great
[22008] statesman, that his article and brilliant literary talent proved it.
[22009] This article she was continually reading, she even read it aloud,
[22010] almost took it to bed with her, but scarcely asked where Rodya was,
[22011] though the subject was obviously avoided by the others, which might
[22012] have been enough to awaken her suspicions.
[22013]
[22014] They began to be frightened at last at Pulcheria Alexandrovna's
[22015] strange silence on certain subjects. She did not, for instance,
[22016] complain of getting no letters from him, though in previous years she
[22017] had only lived on the hope of letters from her beloved Rodya. This was
[22018] the cause of great uneasiness to Dounia; the idea occurred to her that
[22019] her mother suspected that there was something terrible in her son's
[22020] fate and was afraid to ask, for fear of hearing something still more
[22021] awful. In any case, Dounia saw clearly that her mother was not in full
[22022] possession of her faculties.
[22023]
[22024] It happened once or twice, however, that Pulcheria Alexandrovna gave
[22025] such a turn to the conversation that it was impossible to answer her
[22026] without mentioning where Rodya was, and on receiving unsatisfactory
[22027] and suspicious answers she became at once gloomy and silent, and this
[22028] mood lasted for a long time. Dounia saw at last that it was hard to
[22029] deceive her and came to the conclusion that it was better to be
[22030] absolutely silent on certain points; but it became more and more
[22031] evident that the poor mother suspected something terrible. Dounia
[22032] remembered her brother's telling her that her mother had overheard her
[22033] talking in her sleep on the night after her interview with
[22034] Svidrigaïlov and before the fatal day of the confession: had not she
[22035] made out something from that? Sometimes days and even weeks of gloomy
[22036] silence and tears would be succeeded by a period of hysterical
[22037] animation, and the invalid would begin to talk almost incessantly of
[22038] her son, of her hopes of his future. . . . Her fancies were sometimes
[22039] very strange. They humoured her, pretended to agree with her (she saw
[22040] perhaps that they were pretending), but she still went on talking.
[22041]
[22042] Five months after Raskolnikov's confession, he was sentenced.
[22043] Razumihin and Sonia saw him in prison as often as it was possible. At
[22044] last the moment of separation came. Dounia swore to her brother that
[22045] the separation should not be for ever, Razumihin did the same.
[22046] Razumihin, in his youthful ardour, had firmly resolved to lay the
[22047] foundations at least of a secure livelihood during the next three or
[22048] four years, and saving up a certain sum, to emigrate to Siberia, a
[22049] country rich in every natural resource and in need of workers, active
[22050] men and capital. There they would settle in the town where Rodya was
[22051] and all together would begin a new life. They all wept at parting.
[22052]
[22053] Raskolnikov had been very dreamy for a few days before. He asked a
[22054] great deal about his mother and was constantly anxious about her. He
[22055] worried so much about her that it alarmed Dounia. When he heard about
[22056] his mother's illness he became very gloomy. With Sonia he was
[22057] particularly reserved all the time. With the help of the money left to
[22058] her by Svidrigaïlov, Sonia had long ago made her preparations to
[22059] follow the party of convicts in which he was despatched to Siberia.
[22060] Not a word passed between Raskolnikov and her on the subject, but both
[22061] knew it would be so. At the final leave-taking he smiled strangely at
[22062] his sister's and Razumihin's fervent anticipations of their happy
[22063] future together when he should come out of prison. He predicted that
[22064] their mother's illness would soon have a fatal ending. Sonia and he at
[22065] last set off.
[22066]
[22067] Two months later Dounia was married to Razumihin. It was a quiet and
[22068] sorrowful wedding; Porfiry Petrovitch and Zossimov were invited
[22069] however. During all this period Razumihin wore an air of resolute
[22070] determination. Dounia put implicit faith in his carrying out his plans
[22071] and indeed she could not but believe in him. He displayed a rare
[22072] strength of will. Among other things he began attending university
[22073] lectures again in order to take his degree. They were continually
[22074] making plans for the future; both counted on settling in Siberia
[22075] within five years at least. Till then they rested their hopes on
[22076] Sonia.
[22077]
[22078] Pulcheria Alexandrovna was delighted to give her blessing to Dounia's
[22079] marriage with Razumihin; but after the marriage she became even more
[22080] melancholy and anxious. To give her pleasure Razumihin told her how
[22081] Raskolnikov had looked after the poor student and his decrepit father
[22082] and how a year ago he had been burnt and injured in rescuing two
[22083] little children from a fire. These two pieces of news excited
[22084] Pulcheria Alexandrovna's disordered imagination almost to ecstasy. She
[22085] was continually talking about them, even entering into conversation
[22086] with strangers in the street, though Dounia always accompanied her. In
[22087] public conveyances and shops, wherever she could capture a listener,
[22088] she would begin the discourse about her son, his article, how he had
[22089] helped the student, how he had been burnt at the fire, and so on!
[22090] Dounia did not know how to restrain her. Apart from the danger of her
[22091] morbid excitement, there was the risk of someone's recalling
[22092] Raskolnikov's name and speaking of the recent trial. Pulcheria
[22093] Alexandrovna found out the address of the mother of the two children
[22094] her son had saved and insisted on going to see her.
[22095]
[22096] At last her restlessness reached an extreme point. She would sometimes
[22097] begin to cry suddenly and was often ill and feverishly delirious. One
[22098] morning she declared that by her reckoning Rodya ought soon to be
[22099] home, that she remembered when he said good-bye to her he said that
[22100] they must expect him back in nine months. She began to prepare for his
[22101] coming, began to do up her room for him, to clean the furniture, to
[22102] wash and put up new hangings and so on. Dounia was anxious, but said
[22103] nothing and helped her to arrange the room. After a fatiguing day
[22104] spent in continual fancies, in joyful day-dreams and tears, Pulcheria
[22105] Alexandrovna was taken ill in the night and by morning she was
[22106] feverish and delirious. It was brain fever. She died within a
[22107] fortnight. In her delirium she dropped words which showed that she
[22108] knew a great deal more about her son's terrible fate than they had
[22109] supposed.
[22110]
[22111] For a long time Raskolnikov did not know of his mother's death, though
[22112] a regular correspondence had been maintained from the time he reached
[22113] Siberia. It was carried on by means of Sonia, who wrote every month to
[22114] the Razumihins and received an answer with unfailing regularity. At
[22115] first they found Sonia's letters dry and unsatisfactory, but later on
[22116] they came to the conclusion that the letters could not be better, for
[22117] from these letters they received a complete picture of their
[22118] unfortunate brother's life. Sonia's letters were full of the most
[22119] matter-of-fact detail, the simplest and clearest description of all
[22120] Raskolnikov's surroundings as a convict. There was no word of her own
[22121] hopes, no conjecture as to the future, no description of her feelings.
[22122] Instead of any attempt to interpret his state of mind and inner life,
[22123] she gave the simple facts--that is, his own words, an exact account of
[22124] his health, what he asked for at their interviews, what commission he
[22125] gave her and so on. All these facts she gave with extraordinary
[22126] minuteness. The picture of their unhappy brother stood out at last
[22127] with great clearness and precision. There could be no mistake,
[22128] because nothing was given but facts.
[22129]
[22130] But Dounia and her husband could get little comfort out of the news,
[22131] especially at first. Sonia wrote that he was constantly sullen and not
[22132] ready to talk, that he scarcely seemed interested in the news she gave
[22133] him from their letters, that he sometimes asked after his mother and
[22134] that when, seeing that he had guessed the truth, she told him at last
[22135] of her death, she was surprised to find that he did not seem greatly
[22136] affected by it, not externally at any rate. She told them that,
[22137] although he seemed so wrapped up in himself and, as it were, shut
[22138] himself off from everyone--he took a very direct and simple view of
[22139] his new life; that he understood his position, expected nothing better
[22140] for the time, had no ill-founded hopes (as is so common in his
[22141] position) and scarcely seemed surprised at anything in his
[22142] surroundings, so unlike anything he had known before. She wrote that
[22143] his health was satisfactory; he did his work without shirking or
[22144] seeking to do more; he was almost indifferent about food, but except
[22145] on Sundays and holidays the food was so bad that at last he had been
[22146] glad to accept some money from her, Sonia, to have his own tea every
[22147] day. He begged her not to trouble about anything else, declaring that
[22148] all this fuss about him only annoyed him. Sonia wrote further that in
[22149] prison he shared the same room with the rest, that she had not seen
[22150] the inside of their barracks, but concluded that they were crowded,
[22151] miserable and unhealthy; that he slept on a plank bed with a rug under
[22152] him and was unwilling to make any other arrangement. But that he lived
[22153] so poorly and roughly, not from any plan or design, but simply from
[22154] inattention and indifference.
[22155]
[22156] Sonia wrote simply that he had at first shown no interest in her
[22157] visits, had almost been vexed with her indeed for coming, unwilling to
[22158] talk and rude to her. But that in the end these visits had become a
[22159] habit and almost a necessity for him, so that he was positively
[22160] distressed when she was ill for some days and could not visit him. She
[22161] used to see him on holidays at the prison gates or in the guard-room,
[22162] to which he was brought for a few minutes to see her. On working days
[22163] she would go to see him at work either at the workshops or at the
[22164] brick kilns, or at the sheds on the banks of the Irtish.
[22165]
[22166] About herself, Sonia wrote that she had succeeded in making some
[22167] acquaintances in the town, that she did sewing, and, as there was
[22168] scarcely a dressmaker in the town, she was looked upon as an
[22169] indispensable person in many houses. But she did not mention that the
[22170] authorities were, through her, interested in Raskolnikov; that his
[22171] task was lightened and so on.
[22172]
[22173] At last the news came (Dounia had indeed noticed signs of alarm and
[22174] uneasiness in the preceding letters) that he held aloof from everyone,
[22175] that his fellow prisoners did not like him, that he kept silent for
[22176] days at a time and was becoming very pale. In the last letter Sonia
[22177] wrote that he had been taken very seriously ill and was in the convict
[22178] ward of the hospital.
[22179]
[22180]
[22181]
[22182] II
[22183]
[22184] He was ill a long time. But it was not the horrors of prison life, not
[22185] the hard labour, the bad food, the shaven head, or the patched clothes
[22186] that crushed him. What did he care for all those trials and hardships!
[22187] he was even glad of the hard work. Physically exhausted, he could at
[22188] least reckon on a few hours of quiet sleep. And what was the food to
[22189] him--the thin cabbage soup with beetles floating in it? In the past as
[22190] a student he had often not had even that. His clothes were warm and
[22191] suited to his manner of life. He did not even feel the fetters. Was he
[22192] ashamed of his shaven head and parti-coloured coat? Before whom?
[22193] Before Sonia? Sonia was afraid of him, how could he be ashamed before
[22194] her? And yet he was ashamed even before Sonia, whom he tortured
[22195] because of it with his contemptuous rough manner. But it was not his
[22196] shaven head and his fetters he was ashamed of: his pride had been
[22197] stung to the quick. It was wounded pride that made him ill. Oh, how
[22198] happy he would have been if he could have blamed himself! He could
[22199] have borne anything then, even shame and disgrace. But he judged
[22200] himself severely, and his exasperated conscience found no particularly
[22201] terrible fault in his past, except a simple /blunder/ which might
[22202] happen to anyone. He was ashamed just because he, Raskolnikov, had so
[22203] hopelessly, stupidly come to grief through some decree of blind fate,
[22204] and must humble himself and submit to "the idiocy" of a sentence, if
[22205] he were anyhow to be at peace.
[22206]
[22207] Vague and objectless anxiety in the present, and in the future a
[22208] continual sacrifice leading to nothing--that was all that lay before
[22209] him. And what comfort was it to him that at the end of eight years he
[22210] would only be thirty-two and able to begin a new life! What had he to
[22211] live for? What had he to look forward to? Why should he strive? To
[22212] live in order to exist? Why, he had been ready a thousand times before
[22213] to give up existence for the sake of an idea, for a hope, even for a
[22214] fancy. Mere existence had always been too little for him; he had
[22215] always wanted more. Perhaps it was just because of the strength of his
[22216] desires that he had thought himself a man to whom more was permissible
[22217] than to others.
[22218]
[22219] And if only fate would have sent him repentance--burning repentance
[22220] that would have torn his heart and robbed him of sleep, that
[22221] repentance, the awful agony of which brings visions of hanging or
[22222] drowning! Oh, he would have been glad of it! Tears and agonies would
[22223] at least have been life. But he did not repent of his crime.
[22224]
[22225] At least he might have found relief in raging at his stupidity, as he
[22226] had raged at the grotesque blunders that had brought him to prison.
[22227] But now in prison, /in freedom/, he thought over and criticised all
[22228] his actions again and by no means found them so blundering and so
[22229] grotesque as they had seemed at the fatal time.
[22230]
[22231] "In what way," he asked himself, "was my theory stupider than others
[22232] that have swarmed and clashed from the beginning of the world? One has
[22233] only to look at the thing quite independently, broadly, and
[22234] uninfluenced by commonplace ideas, and my idea will by no means seem
[22235] so . . . strange. Oh, sceptics and halfpenny philosophers, why do you
[22236] halt half-way!"
[22237]
[22238] "Why does my action strike them as so horrible?" he said to himself.
[22239] "Is it because it was a crime? What is meant by crime? My conscience
[22240] is at rest. Of course, it was a legal crime, of course, the letter of
[22241] the law was broken and blood was shed. Well, punish me for the letter
[22242] of the law . . . and that's enough. Of course, in that case many of
[22243] the benefactors of mankind who snatched power for themselves instead
[22244] of inheriting it ought to have been punished at their first steps. But
[22245] those men succeeded and so /they were right/, and I didn't, and so I
[22246] had no right to have taken that step."
[22247]
[22248] It was only in that that he recognised his criminality, only in the
[22249] fact that he had been unsuccessful and had confessed it.
[22250]
[22251] He suffered too from the question: why had he not killed himself? Why
[22252] had he stood looking at the river and preferred to confess? Was the
[22253] desire to live so strong and was it so hard to overcome it? Had not
[22254] Svidrigaïlov overcome it, although he was afraid of death?
[22255]
[22256] In misery he asked himself this question, and could not understand
[22257] that, at the very time he had been standing looking into the river, he
[22258] had perhaps been dimly conscious of the fundamental falsity in himself
[22259] and his convictions. He didn't understand that that consciousness
[22260] might be the promise of a future crisis, of a new view of life and of
[22261] his future resurrection.
[22262]
[22263] He preferred to attribute it to the dead weight of instinct which he
[22264] could not step over, again through weakness and meanness. He looked at
[22265] his fellow prisoners and was amazed to see how they all loved life and
[22266] prized it. It seemed to him that they loved and valued life more in
[22267] prison than in freedom. What terrible agonies and privations some of
[22268] them, the tramps for instance, had endured! Could they care so much
[22269] for a ray of sunshine, for the primeval forest, the cold spring hidden
[22270] away in some unseen spot, which the tramp had marked three years
[22271] before, and longed to see again, as he might to see his sweetheart,
[22272] dreaming of the green grass round it and the bird singing in the bush?
[22273] As he went on he saw still more inexplicable examples.
[22274]
[22275] In prison, of course, there was a great deal he did not see and did
[22276] not want to see; he lived as it were with downcast eyes. It was
[22277] loathsome and unbearable for him to look. But in the end there was
[22278] much that surprised him and he began, as it were involuntarily, to
[22279] notice much that he had not suspected before. What surprised him most
[22280] of all was the terrible impossible gulf that lay between him and all
[22281] the rest. They seemed to be a different species, and he looked at them
[22282] and they at him with distrust and hostility. He felt and knew the
[22283] reasons of his isolation, but he would never have admitted till then
[22284] that those reasons were so deep and strong. There were some Polish
[22285] exiles, political prisoners, among them. They simply looked down upon
[22286] all the rest as ignorant churls; but Raskolnikov could not look upon
[22287] them like that. He saw that these ignorant men were in many respects
[22288] far wiser than the Poles. There were some Russians who were just as
[22289] contemptuous, a former officer and two seminarists. Raskolnikov saw
[22290] their mistake as clearly. He was disliked and avoided by everyone;
[22291] they even began to hate him at last--why, he could not tell. Men who
[22292] had been far more guilty despised and laughed at his crime.
[22293]
[22294] "You're a gentleman," they used to say. "You shouldn't hack about with
[22295] an axe; that's not a gentleman's work."
[22296]
[22297] The second week in Lent, his turn came to take the sacrament with his
[22298] gang. He went to church and prayed with the others. A quarrel broke
[22299] out one day, he did not know how. All fell on him at once in a fury.
[22300]
[22301] "You're an infidel! You don't believe in God," they shouted. "You
[22302] ought to be killed."
[22303]
[22304] He had never talked to them about God nor his belief, but they wanted
[22305] to kill him as an infidel. He said nothing. One of the prisoners
[22306] rushed at him in a perfect frenzy. Raskolnikov awaited him calmly and
[22307] silently; his eyebrows did not quiver, his face did not flinch. The
[22308] guard succeeded in intervening between him and his assailant, or there
[22309] would have been bloodshed.
[22310]
[22311] There was another question he could not decide: why were they all so
[22312] fond of Sonia? She did not try to win their favour; she rarely met
[22313] them, sometimes only she came to see him at work for a moment. And yet
[22314] everybody knew her, they knew that she had come out to follow /him/,
[22315] knew how and where she lived. She never gave them money, did them no
[22316] particular services. Only once at Christmas she sent them all presents
[22317] of pies and rolls. But by degrees closer relations sprang up between
[22318] them and Sonia. She would write and post letters for them to their
[22319] relations. Relations of the prisoners who visited the town, at their
[22320] instructions, left with Sonia presents and money for them. Their wives
[22321] and sweethearts knew her and used to visit her. And when she visited
[22322] Raskolnikov at work, or met a party of the prisoners on the road, they
[22323] all took off their hats to her. "Little mother Sofya Semyonovna, you
[22324] are our dear, good little mother," coarse branded criminals said to
[22325] that frail little creature. She would smile and bow to them and
[22326] everyone was delighted when she smiled. They even admired her gait and
[22327] turned round to watch her walking; they admired her too for being so
[22328] little, and, in fact, did not know what to admire her most for. They
[22329] even came to her for help in their illnesses.
[22330]
[22331] He was in the hospital from the middle of Lent till after Easter. When
[22332] he was better, he remembered the dreams he had had while he was
[22333] feverish and delirious. He dreamt that the whole world was condemned
[22334] to a terrible new strange plague that had come to Europe from the
[22335] depths of Asia. All were to be destroyed except a very few chosen.
[22336] Some new sorts of microbes were attacking the bodies of men, but these
[22337] microbes were endowed with intelligence and will. Men attacked by them
[22338] became at once mad and furious. But never had men considered
[22339] themselves so intellectual and so completely in possession of the
[22340] truth as these sufferers, never had they considered their decisions,
[22341] their scientific conclusions, their moral convictions so infallible.
[22342] Whole villages, whole towns and peoples went mad from the infection.
[22343] All were excited and did not understand one another. Each thought that
[22344] he alone had the truth and was wretched looking at the others, beat
[22345] himself on the breast, wept, and wrung his hands. They did not know
[22346] how to judge and could not agree what to consider evil and what good;
[22347] they did not know whom to blame, whom to justify. Men killed each
[22348] other in a sort of senseless spite. They gathered together in armies
[22349] against one another, but even on the march the armies would begin
[22350] attacking each other, the ranks would be broken and the soldiers would
[22351] fall on each other, stabbing and cutting, biting and devouring each
[22352] other. The alarm bell was ringing all day long in the towns; men
[22353] rushed together, but why they were summoned and who was summoning them
[22354] no one knew. The most ordinary trades were abandoned, because everyone
[22355] proposed his own ideas, his own improvements, and they could not
[22356] agree. The land too was abandoned. Men met in groups, agreed on
[22357] something, swore to keep together, but at once began on something
[22358] quite different from what they had proposed. They accused one another,
[22359] fought and killed each other. There were conflagrations and famine.
[22360] All men and all things were involved in destruction. The plague spread
[22361] and moved further and further. Only a few men could be saved in the
[22362] whole world. They were a pure chosen people, destined to found a new
[22363] race and a new life, to renew and purify the earth, but no one had
[22364] seen these men, no one had heard their words and their voices.
[22365]
[22366] Raskolnikov was worried that this senseless dream haunted his memory
[22367] so miserably, the impression of this feverish delirium persisted so
[22368] long. The second week after Easter had come. There were warm bright
[22369] spring days; in the prison ward the grating windows under which the
[22370] sentinel paced were opened. Sonia had only been able to visit him
[22371] twice during his illness; each time she had to obtain permission, and
[22372] it was difficult. But she often used to come to the hospital yard,
[22373] especially in the evening, sometimes only to stand a minute and look
[22374] up at the windows of the ward.
[22375]
[22376] One evening, when he was almost well again, Raskolnikov fell asleep.
[22377] On waking up he chanced to go to the window, and at once saw Sonia in
[22378] the distance at the hospital gate. She seemed to be waiting for
[22379] someone. Something stabbed him to the heart at that minute. He
[22380] shuddered and moved away from the window. Next day Sonia did not come,
[22381] nor the day after; he noticed that he was expecting her uneasily. At
[22382] last he was discharged. On reaching the prison he learnt from the
[22383] convicts that Sofya Semyonovna was lying ill at home and was unable to
[22384] go out.
[22385]
[22386] He was very uneasy and sent to inquire after her; he soon learnt that
[22387] her illness was not dangerous. Hearing that he was anxious about her,
[22388] Sonia sent him a pencilled note, telling him that she was much better,
[22389] that she had a slight cold and that she would soon, very soon come and
[22390] see him at his work. His heart throbbed painfully as he read it.
[22391]
[22392] Again it was a warm bright day. Early in the morning, at six o'clock,
[22393] he went off to work on the river bank, where they used to pound
[22394] alabaster and where there was a kiln for baking it in a shed. There
[22395] were only three of them sent. One of the convicts went with the guard
[22396] to the fortress to fetch a tool; the other began getting the wood
[22397] ready and laying it in the kiln. Raskolnikov came out of the shed on
[22398] to the river bank, sat down on a heap of logs by the shed and began
[22399] gazing at the wide deserted river. From the high bank a broad
[22400] landscape opened before him, the sound of singing floated faintly
[22401] audible from the other bank. In the vast steppe, bathed in sunshine,
[22402] he could just see, like black specks, the nomads' tents. There there
[22403] was freedom, there other men were living, utterly unlike those here;
[22404] there time itself seemed to stand still, as though the age of Abraham
[22405] and his flocks had not passed. Raskolnikov sat gazing, his thoughts
[22406] passed into day-dreams, into contemplation; he thought of nothing, but
[22407] a vague restlessness excited and troubled him. Suddenly he found Sonia
[22408] beside him; she had come up noiselessly and sat down at his side. It
[22409] was still quite early; the morning chill was still keen. She wore her
[22410] poor old burnous and the green shawl; her face still showed signs of
[22411] illness, it was thinner and paler. She gave him a joyful smile of
[22412] welcome, but held out her hand with her usual timidity. She was always
[22413] timid of holding out her hand to him and sometimes did not offer it at
[22414] all, as though afraid he would repel it. He always took her hand as
[22415] though with repugnance, always seemed vexed to meet her and was
[22416] sometimes obstinately silent throughout her visit. Sometimes she
[22417] trembled before him and went away deeply grieved. But now their hands
[22418] did not part. He stole a rapid glance at her and dropped his eyes on
[22419] the ground without speaking. They were alone, no one had seen them.
[22420] The guard had turned away for the time.
[22421]
[22422] How it happened he did not know. But all at once something seemed to
[22423] seize him and fling him at her feet. He wept and threw his arms round
[22424] her knees. For the first instant she was terribly frightened and she
[22425] turned pale. She jumped up and looked at him trembling. But at the
[22426] same moment she understood, and a light of infinite happiness came
[22427] into her eyes. She knew and had no doubt that he loved her beyond
[22428] everything and that at last the moment had come. . . .
[22429]
[22430] They wanted to speak, but could not; tears stood in their eyes. They
[22431] were both pale and thin; but those sick pale faces were bright with
[22432] the dawn of a new future, of a full resurrection into a new life. They
[22433] were renewed by love; the heart of each held infinite sources of life
[22434] for the heart of the other.
[22435]
[22436] They resolved to wait and be patient. They had another seven years to
[22437] wait, and what terrible suffering and what infinite happiness before
[22438] them! But he had risen again and he knew it and felt it in all his
[22439] being, while she--she only lived in his life.
[22440]
[22441] On the evening of the same day, when the barracks were locked,
[22442] Raskolnikov lay on his plank bed and thought of her. He had even
[22443] fancied that day that all the convicts who had been his enemies looked
[22444] at him differently; he had even entered into talk with them and they
[22445] answered him in a friendly way. He remembered that now, and thought it
[22446] was bound to be so. Wasn't everything now bound to be changed?
[22447]
[22448] He thought of her. He remembered how continually he had tormented her
[22449] and wounded her heart. He remembered her pale and thin little face.
[22450] But these recollections scarcely troubled him now; he knew with what
[22451] infinite love he would now repay all her sufferings. And what were
[22452] all, /all/ the agonies of the past! Everything, even his crime, his
[22453] sentence and imprisonment, seemed to him now in the first rush of
[22454] feeling an external, strange fact with which he had no concern. But he
[22455] could not think for long together of anything that evening, and he
[22456] could not have analysed anything consciously; he was simply feeling.
[22457] Life had stepped into the place of theory and something quite
[22458] different would work itself out in his mind.
[22459]
[22460] Under his pillow lay the New Testament. He took it up mechanically.
[22461] The book belonged to Sonia; it was the one from which she had read the
[22462] raising of Lazarus to him. At first he was afraid that she would worry
[22463] him about religion, would talk about the gospel and pester him with
[22464] books. But to his great surprise she had not once approached the
[22465] subject and had not even offered him the Testament. He had asked her
[22466] for it himself not long before his illness and she brought him the
[22467] book without a word. Till now he had not opened it.
[22468]
[22469] He did not open it now, but one thought passed through his mind: "Can
[22470] her convictions not be mine now? Her feelings, her aspirations at
[22471] least. . . ."
[22472]
[22473] She too had been greatly agitated that day, and at night she was taken
[22474] ill again. But she was so happy--and so unexpectedly happy--that she
[22475] was almost frightened of her happiness. Seven years, /only/ seven
[22476] years! At the beginning of their happiness at some moments they were
[22477] both ready to look on those seven years as though they were seven
[22478] days. He did not know that the new life would not be given him for
[22479] nothing, that he would have to pay dearly for it, that it would cost
[22480] him great striving, great suffering.
[22481]
[22482] But that is the beginning of a new story--the story of the gradual
[22483] renewal of a man, the story of his gradual regeneration, of his
[22484] passing from one world into another, of his initiation into a new
[22485] unknown life. That might be the subject of a new story, but our
[22486] present story is ended.