VIII
By the time he entered Sonya’s room, dusk was already falling. Sonya had been waiting for him all day in a quite dreadful state. Dunya had waited with her. She’d come in the morning, remembering Svidrigailov’s words from the day before: that Sonya ‘knows about it’. We won’t convey the details of their conversation or the tears of both women or how close they became. From this meeting, at any rate, Dunya drew the one consolation that her brother would not be alone: it was to her, to Sonya, that he first brought his confession; in her that he sought a human being when a human being was what he needed; and it was she who would follow him, wherever fate took him. She didn’t have to ask: she knew it would be so. She even looked at Sonya with a kind of reverence, and at first this reverential attitude, and the feeling behind it, almost embarrassed Sonya. In fact, Sonya was almost ready to burst into tears: it was she who felt unworthy even to look at Dunya. The image of Dunya bowing to her so attentively and so respectfully during their first meeting at Raskolnikov’s had imprinted itself on her soul for all time as one of the most beautiful and unattainable visions in her life.
Eventually, Dunechka could bear it no longer and left Sonya, so as to wait for her brother in his room; she couldn’t help thinking he’d go there first. Left alone, Sonya immediately began tormenting herself with the fear that he really might go and kill himself. Dunya was scared of exactly the same thing. But they’d spent the whole day vying to persuade each other that this was impossible, using every available argument, and for as long as they were together they felt calmer. Now that they were apart, neither could think of anything else. Sonya remembered
Svidrigailov telling her the day before that Raskolnikov had two roads open to him – the Vladimirka or . . . She also knew all about his vanity, arrogance, self-regard and lack of faith. ‘Surely cowardice and fear of death can’t be the only two things that keep him alive?’ she wondered at last, in despair. The sun, meanwhile, was already setting. She stood sadly in front of the window and stared out – but all that could be seen through the glass was the unpainted wall of the neighbouring building. Eventually, once she’d already convinced herself of his certain death, in he came.
A shriek of joy broke from her chest. But after a closer look at his face, she suddenly went pale. ‘That’s right!’ said Raskolnikov, with a grin. ‘I’ve come for your crosses, Sonya. Wasn’t it you who sent me to the crossroads? But now it’s time to do the deed you get cold feet?’ Sonya stared at him in amazement. His tone struck her as very peculiar. Cold shivers ran down her body, but it took only a minute to realize he was putting it on – the tone, the words, everything. Even while talking to her he seemed to be looking off into the corner, trying not to look straight at her. ‘You see, Sonya, I decided that this was probably in my own best interests. There’s a certain consideration here . . .
But it’s a long story and what’s the point? Do you know what really makes me furious? It’s that now I’ll have all these idiotic, brutish mugs crowding round, gawking at me, asking me idiotic questions which I have to answer, pointing at me . . . Ugh! You know, it’s not Porfiry I’m going to. I’m sick of him. I’d rather go to my good friend Powder Keg – now that’ll be a surprise, that’ll make an impression.
Some composure would help, though. Recently I’ve become far too irritable. Can you believe it? I was almost threatening to punch my sister just now simply for turning round to take one last look at me. What a pig! To reach such a state! Well, where are those crosses?’
He seemed out of control. He couldn’t stay still for even a minute, couldn’t focus his attention on a single object; thoughts skipped over each other; his tongue ran away with him; there was a faint tremor in his hands.
In silence, Sonya took two crosses, one cypress, one copper, from a box, made the sign of the cross over herself and over him, and hung the small cypress cross around his neck. ‘A symbol, I suppose, of me taking up my cross – heh- heh! Suppose I haven’t suffered enough yet! Cypress wood – a peasant’s cross; copper – Lizaveta’s, which you’re taking for yourself. Show it to me! So that was on her . . . then? I know two other crosses like that, a silver one and a little icon. I dropped them on the old hag’s breast. Come to think of it, it’s probably those I should be wearing now . . .
But I’m blathering again. I’ll forget what I’m doing. Why am I so distracted? You see, Sonya, the reason I’m here is to warn you, for you to know . . . And that’s about it, really . . . That’s the only reason I came. (H’m, thought I’d have a bit more to say.) You yourself wanted me to go, so now I’ll do my time and your wish will come true. Now why are you crying? You too? Stop! That’s enough! I can’t take any more of this!’ Still, a feeling was born in him. His heart clenched as he looked at her. ‘Her, why her?’ he thought to himself. ‘What am I to her? Why’s she crying? Why’s she getting me ready, like mother or Dunya? My nanny – that’s who she’ll be!’ ‘Cross yourself and pray, at least this once,’ asked Sonya in a trembling, timid voice. ‘Oh, by all means, as much as you like! And with a pure
heart, Sonya, a pure heart . . .’ It wasn’t what he meant to say.
He crossed himself several times. Sonya grabbed her shawl and tied it round her head. It was a greendrap de dames shawl, probably the same one Marmeladov had mentioned that time, the ‘family’ one. The thought flashed
through Raskolnikov’s mind, but he didn’t ask. He’d begun to sense for himself how dreadfully distracted he was, how horribly nervous. It frightened him. Sonya’s desire to go with him also came as a sudden shock. ‘Where are you off to? Stay here, stay here! I’ll go on my own,’ he cried with petty irritation, almost hostility, and made for the door. ‘I never asked for a retinue!’ he muttered, walking out.
He left Sonya standing in the middle of the room. He hadn’t even said goodbye and he’d already forgotten all about her; a venomous, mutinous doubt seethed in his soul. ‘Can this really be right? Can this be it?’ he asked himself again as he went down the stairs. ‘Is it really too late to stop and patch everything up again . . . and not go?’ But he was going all the same. He suddenly felt, once and for all, that asking himself questions was pointless.
Coming out into the street, he remembered he hadn’t said goodbye to Sonya, that he’d left her standing in the middle of the room, in her green shawl, too scared to move, and for an instant he paused. At that very second he was dazzled by a sudden thought – as though it had been lying in wait for him, to stagger him once and for all. ‘So why did I go and see her just now – why? Time to do the deed, I told her. What deed? There was no deed! Just to tell herI’m going and that’s it? All this just for that? Or because I love her? But I don’t, do I? Didn’t I shoo her away like a dog just now? Or was it really her crosses I needed?
How low I’ve fallen! No – it was her tears I needed, the fear on her face, the sight of her heart in pain and torment! I needed to grab hold of something, anything; to buy myself some time; to see a human being before me! And I dared put so much faith in myself, so many dreams . . . I’m a beggar. I’m nobody. Just scum. Scum!’ He was walking along the bank of the Ditch, and hadn’t much further to go. But, reaching the bridge, he paused, suddenly stepped onto it and went to Haymarket instead.
Greedily, he looked to his left and to his right, fastened on each and every object, and couldn’t focus his attention on a single one; everything slipped away from him. ‘A week from now, a month from now, when I’m being taken God knows where in one of those convict wagons over this very bridge, how will I look at the Ditch then? Should I try to remember all this?’ flashed through his mind. ‘Or this sign: how will I read these same letters then? Someone’s written “Campany” – I should remember this firsta, the lettera, and look at it a month from now, at that samea: how will I see it then? What will I be thinking and feeling? . . . God, how pathetic all this must seem, all these . . . worries of mine! Of course, it must all be quite curious . . . in its way . . . (Ha-ha-ha! What the hell am I thinking about?) . . . I’m turning into a child, showing off to myself. But why am I so ashamed? Ugh, all this pushing and shoving! Just look at this fat German. Does he know who he’s shoving? Some woman begging with a child; curious that she thinks I’m happier than she is. How about giving her something, for the fun of it? Ha! A five-copeck piece! How did I keep hold of that? Here you go, mother!’ ‘God bless you!’ came the beggar woman’s doleful voice.
He entered Haymarket. He found it unpleasant, very unpleasant, to come face to face with commoners, but he was heading right into the thick of them. He’d have given anything to be left alone; but he wouldn’t last a minute on his own, he could feel it himself. A drunk was misbehaving in the crowd: he kept trying to dance and kept falling over.
People gathered round. Raskolnikov squeezed through the throng, watched the drunk for a minute or two, and suddenly, abruptly, laughed out loud. A minute later he’d forgotten all about him and didn’t even see him, though he was staring straight at him. Eventually he moved off, no longer even remembering where he was. But when he reached the middle of the square a sudden impulse, a
sudden sensation, took hold of him and gripped him from top to toe, body and mind.
He suddenly recalled Sonya’s words: ‘Go to the crossroads, bow to the people, kiss the earth, because you have sinned before the earth as well, and say out loud to the entire world: “I am a murderer!”’ Remembering this, he began shaking all over. The anguish and anxiety of all this time, but especially the last few hours, had suffocated him to such a point that he simply hurled himself into the possibility of this sensation of wholeness, of newness and fullness. It came upon him suddenly, like a fit; from a single spark, it caught fire in his soul and swept all over him.
Everything softened in him at once and the tears gushed out. His legs gave way beneath him . . .
He kneeled in the middle of the square, bowed right down to the ground and kissed the dirty earth, with pleasure and happiness. He got to his feet and bowed once more. ‘He’s completely smashed!’ observed a lad standing next
to him.
Roars of laughter. ‘He’s on his way to Jerusalem, lads. He’s leaving his children, his country, he’s bowing to the whole world, kissing our capital city of Saint Petersburg and its soil,’
added a tipsy tradesman. ‘He’s only young!’ a third put in. ‘Gentry, too!’ observed another in an imposing voice. ‘There’s no telling anymore who’s gentry and who’s not.’ All this banter and talk deterred Raskolnikov, and the words ‘I have killed!’, which may have been on the very tip of his tongue, froze inside him. Still, he bore the comments calmly and, without looking round, set off down a side street in the direction of the bureau. A vision flashed before him, but it caused him no surprise; he’d already sensed that this was how it should be. Bowing down to the earth on Haymarket for the second time, he turned his head to
the left and there, some fifty paces away, saw Sonya. She was hiding from him behind one of the wooden huts on the square; so she’d accompanied him all along his walk of sorrows! At that moment Raskolnikov felt and understood, once and for all, that Sonya would never leave him, that she’d follow him to the very ends of the earth, wherever fate sent him. His heart turned over inside him . . . but – here he was already, at the place of destiny . . .
There was a spring in his step as he entered the courtyard. He had to go up to the third floor. ‘All these stairs to climb first,’ he thought. The moment of destiny still seemed a long way off; still plenty of time to think things over.
Once again, the same rubbish, the same eggshells on the spiral staircase; once again, the doors to the apartments flung wide open; once again, the rank fumes and stench from the kitchens. Raskolnikov hadn’t been back since then. His legs were numb and buckling, but still they moved. He paused for a moment to get his breath back, to tidy himself up, to enterlike a human being. ‘But why?
What’s the point?’ he suddenly wondered, catching himself at this task. ‘If I have to drink this cup anyway, what difference can it make? The fouler the better.’ At that instant the image of Ilya Petrovich Powder Keg came briefly before him. ‘Must it really be him I go to? Can’t it be someone else? Nikodim Fomich, say? Can’t I turn back now and visit the district superintendent at home? It would be a lot less formal . . . No, no! Lieutenant Powder Keg it is!
Better to drink it all in one go . . .’ Turning cold and barely conscious of his actions, he opened the door to the bureau. This time there was hardly anyone there, just a caretaker and some other commoner.
The guard didn’t even poke his head out from behind his screen. Raskolnikov walked through to the next room. ‘Perhaps I won’t have to say it now either,’ flashed through him. Here, some scribe or other, casually dressed, was
getting down to some work at a desk. In a corner another clerk was also settling down. No sign of Zametov. Nor, needless to say, of Nikodim Fomich. ‘No one in?’ Raskolnikov asked the man at the desk. ‘Who d’you want?’ 43 ‘Aha! Years may pass, no sight, no sound,yet the Russian spirit . . . How does it go again, that fairy tale? . . .
I’ve forgotten! My compliments, sir!’ a familiar voice suddenly boomed.
Raskolnikov started to shake. Before him stood Powder Keg. He’d emerged suddenly from the third room. ‘Must be fate,’ thought Raskolnikov. ‘Why’s he here?’ ‘And what brings you here, old boy?’ exclaimed Ilya Petrovich. (He was evidently in a splendid mood and even a little overexcited.) ‘If it’s business, you’re a touch on the early side. It’s pure chance I’m . . . But anyway, how may I . . . ? I must admit, Mr . . . Mr . . . I beg your pardon . . .’ ‘Raskolnikov.’ ‘Too right: Raskolnikov! And you thought I’d forgotten!
Please don’t take me for some . . . Rodion Ro . . . Ro . . .
Rodionych, I believe?’ ‘Rodion Romanych.’ ‘Yes, yes-yes! Rodion Romanych, Rodion Romanych!
That’s what I was after. I even asked around about it. I must admit, ever since that day I’ve truly mourned the fact that we . . . later I had it all explained to me: a young literary type, a scholar no less . . . The first steps, as it were . . . Good Lord! Hasn’t every literary type or scholar begun by taking an original step or two? My wife and I, we both respect literature, but for her it’s a passion! . . . Literature and artistry! Be honourable and all the rest can be acquired by talents, learning, reasoning, genius! A hat, say – now what’s the meaning of a hat? A hat’s a pancake, I can 44 buy it at Zimmerman’s;but as for what’s kept under the hat, what’s kept hidden by the hat – well, I can’t buy that,
sir! . . . I must admit, I had half a mind to pay you a visit and clear the air, but then I thought, perhaps you . . . But I haven’t even asked: is there anything we can actually do for you? I hear your family has come to see you?’ ‘Yes, my mother and sister.’ ‘I’ve even had the honour and pleasure of meeting your sister – an educated and delightful young lady. I must admit, I regretted the way you and I got so carried away.
Won’t happen again! And as for my giving you a funny look on account of you fainting – well, a most brilliant explanation was soon found for all that! Zealotry and fanaticism! I understand your indignation. Perhaps you’re changing address on account of your family’s arrival?’ ‘N-no, I just . . . I came to ask . . . I thought I’d find Zametov here.’ ‘Oh yes! The two of you hit it off, I hear. Well, Zametov’s not here – you’re out of luck. Yes, sir, we’ve lost Alexander Grigoryevich! Absent since yesterday; moved on . . . and, while moving, fell out with just about everyone . . . Wasn’t even civil about it . . . A flighty little boy, no two ways about it. Promising enough at one time; but that’s what they’re like, our brilliant youth! Seems he wants to take some exam or other, but you don’t get a diploma for chatting and bragging. Not a bit like you, say, or your friend Mr Razumikhin! Yours is the career of a scholar, no misfortune will throw you off course! For you, one might say, life’s fripperies –nihil est; you’re an ascetic, a monk, a hermit! . . . A book, a pen behind your ear, scholarly publications – only there does your spirit soar! I myself . . . perhaps
45you’ve read Livingstone’s journals?’ ‘No.’ ‘Well I have. But there’s so many nihilists about nowadays. Quite understandable, I suppose; just think of the times we’re living in! Although you and I . . . Well, I’m sure you’re not a nihilist! Answer me frankly now, frankly!’
‘N-no . . .’ ‘Really, be frank with me, don’t hold back – talk as if you were the only person in the room! Public service is one thing, quite another is . . . Ha, you thought I was going to sayfriendship! No sir, not friendship, but the sense of being 46 a citizen and a man,the sense of one’s humanity and love for the Almighty. I may be a state official, I may be at my post, but I am forever obliged to sense the citizen within me, to stand up and be counted . . . You saw fit to mention Zametov just now. You know, Zametov’s just the type to do something disgraceful, something French, in some seedy establishment, over a glass of champagne or Russian wine – that’s Zametov for you! Whereas I, so to speak, burn with loyalty and fine feelings; not only that, I am a man of consequence and rank, with a certain position! Married, with children. Fulfilling my duty as citizen and man. And who’s he, pray tell? I speak to you as to a man ennobled by education. Or take these new midwives: there’s far too many of them about.’ Raskolnikov raised his eyebrows. For the most part, the words uttered by Ilya Petrovich, evidently just up from the dinner table, rained down on him like empty sounds. Some of them, though, made a kind of sense. He gave him a questioning glance and wondered where it would all end. ‘I mean those short-haired wenches,’ the loquacious Ilya Petrovich went on. ‘Midwives is my own little nickname, and I find the description more than satisfactory. Heh-heh!
There they are, sneaking into the medical academy to study 47 anatomy.But tell me, when I get sick am I really going to ask a young lady to treat me? Heh-heh!’ Ilya Petrovich guffawed, savouring his wit. ‘An immoderate thirst for enlightenment, I suppose, but one must know when to stop. Why abuse one’s privilege?
Why insult honourable people, as that scoundrel Zametov likes to do? Why did he insult me, I ask you? Or take all
these suicides – you can’t imagine how common it’s become. Spending their last roubles, then doing themselves in. Young girls, young boys, old men . . . Only this morning a report came in about some gentleman, a recent arrival.
Nil Pavlych? Hey, Nil Pavlych! What was his name again, that well-mannered gent who shot himself yesterday on Petersburg Side?’ ‘Svidrigailov,’ came a hoarse, indifferent voice from the
other room.
Raskolnikov shuddered. ‘Svidrigailov! Svidrigailov’s shot himself!’ he cried. ‘You mean you know Svidrigailov?!’ ‘Yes . . . I know him . . . He arrived not long ago.’ ‘That’s right, arrived not long ago, recently widowed, a rake if ever there was, and suddenly shot himself in the most scandalous way imaginable . . . Left a few lines in his notebook to say he was sound of mind and to ask that no one be blamed for his death. Had money, I hear. But how do you know him?’ ‘We’re . . . acquainted . . . My sister was their governess . . .’ ‘Well, well, well . . . Then there must be things you can tell us about him. And you didn’t suspect anything?’ ‘I saw him only yesterday . . . He . . . was drinking wine . . . I didn’t know.’ Raskolnikov felt as though something had fallen on him, crushed him. ‘You seem to be turning pale again. There’s never enough air in here . . .’ ‘Yes, sir, time for me to be off,’ mumbled Raskolnikov. ‘Sorry for disturbing . . .’ ‘Not at all, not at all. Always a pleasure! And I’m glad to declare . . .’ Ilya Petrovich even offered him his hand. ‘I simply wanted . . . It was Zametov I . . .’ ‘I understand, I understand. Always a pleasure!’
‘I’m . . . very glad . . . Goodbye, sir,’ smiled Raskolnikov.
He walked out, swaying. His head was spinning. He couldn’t even feel his legs. He started down the stairs, supporting himself against the wall with his right arm. He had the impression that some caretaker, with a register in his hand, shoved him on his way up to the bureau; that a dog was barking away furiously on a floor below and that a woman had thrown a rolling pin at it and yelled. He reached the bottom and stepped outside. There in the yard, not far from the door, numb and deathly pale, stood Sonya, looking at him wild-eyed. He stopped in front of her. There was something sick and haggard about her expression, something desperate. She threw up her hands. His lips forced out a hideous, bewildered smile. He stood, grinned and went back upstairs, back to the bureau.
Ilya Petrovich had sat down and was rummaging through some papers. Before him stood the same man who’d just shoved Raskolnikov on his way up the stairs. ‘Eh? You again? Left something, did you? Whatever’s the matter?’ Raskolnikov, lips white, eyes fixed, advanced slowly towards him, went right up to the desk, leant on it, tried to say something, but couldn’t; nothing came out except a few incoherent sounds. ‘You’re having a bad turn! A chair! Here, sit down on this chair! Sit! Some water!’ Raskolnikov lowered himself into the chair, without taking his eyes off the face of the very unpleasantly astonished Ilya Petrovich. They looked at each other for a minute or so, waiting. The water arrived.
‘It was me . . . ,’ Raskolnikov began. ‘Have some water.’ Raskolnikov moved the water aside and said quietly yet distinctly, with pauses between the words: ‘It was me who murdered that civil servant’s old widow and her sister Lizaveta with an axe, and robbed them.’
Ilya Petrovich opened his mouth. People ran in from all
sides.
Raskolnikov repeated his statement.
