He constantly regards Raskolnikov as his bitterest enemy. Even his own affairs he neglects, carried away by this enmity. He gets involved with Reissler and threatens Sonia. But Luzhin, a man who rose from seminarian ranks, from low status and routine life, is still no ordinary person. Despite everything, he cannot help but recognize Sonia’s merits, and suddenly he falls in love with her, persistently pursuing her to the end (a tragedy). He made contact with the investigator to harm Raskolnikov. Reissler’s gossip. He initially fell in love with Dunya because she was beautiful and proud, and his vanity was flattered by the thought, “Look, this is my wife.” Also, it pleased him deeply, almost lustfully, that he could dominate and be a despot over such a beautiful, proud, virtuous, and strong-willed woman.
Luzhin's character is also noteworthy:
"Full of vanity and self-love, almost to the point of flirtation, petty and passionate about gossip. He entered into a deep and heartfelt enmity with Sonia, just to spite Raskolnikov, solely because Raskolnikov said that Luzhin was not worth even her little finger, and spoke passionately about her sacrifice. Luzhin laughed at this sacrifice then and later came to hate Sonia with a personal hatred, even going so far as to involve himself with Lebezyatnikov's interests and associate with him to humiliate Sonia."
Passionate and turbulent impulses. Immoderate and insatiable thirst for pleasures. An unquenchable thirst for life. A variety of pleasures and satisfactions. Complete awareness and analysis of each pleasure, without fear that it will weaken because it is based on the needs of nature itself, of the body. Artistic pleasures refined to delicacy, and alongside them, coarse ones—but precisely because excessive coarseness touches delicacy (a severed head). Psychological pleasures. Criminal pleasures in breaking all laws. Mystical pleasures (fear at night). Pleasures of repentance, the monastery (stern fasting and prayer). Beggarly pleasures (asking for alms). Pleasures of Raphael’s Madonna. Pleasures of theft, pleasures of robbery, pleasures of suicide. (Received an inheritance at 35, before that was a teacher or official, afraid of superiors). (Widower). Pleasures of education (studying for this). Pleasures of good deeds.
Further, this characterization varies, and it is evident that the complex figure, which lingers before the novelist’s creative imagination, contains traits not only of Svidrigailov but also of several of his later characters—the Great Sinner, the hero of the planned novels "Atheism" (1868–1869) and "The Life of the Great Sinner" (1869–1870), Stavrogin ("The Demons"), and Versilov ("The Adolescent").
Finally, the character sketch that anticipates the future Svidrigailov is especially important:
“Passionate and stormy impulses, boiling up and down; heavy to carry oneself (a strong nature, uncontrollable, to the point of sensual pleasure, impulses of falsehood (Ivan the Terrible)), many meannesses and dark deeds, a child (NB killed), wanted to shoot himself. He was deciding. Tormented the poor man who depended on him and whom he supported. Instead of shooting himself – married. Jealousy. (Withheld 100,000.) Slander against his wife. Drove away or killed. A gloomy demon he can’t shake off. Suddenly, a resolve to expose himself, the whole intrigue; repentance, humility, he leaves, becomes a great ascetic, humility, thirst to endure suffering. Betrays himself. Exile. Asceticism. ‘I do not want to miserably imitate the common people.’ Still, no humility, a struggle with pride.” (VII, 156–157).
But later (from the second half of the novel), understanding what Sonya truly was, he suddenly took her side and made a terrible scene with Dunya, quarrelled and withdrew. When he learned that Dunya had been with Sonya and so on (and could not bear his own despair), Dunya found him and saved him. She began to respect him more for his character. In a word, Razumikhin is all about character (VII, 156).
Razumikhin at first became a servant to Dunya (a quick-witted young woman, as his mother called her); he humbled himself before her. The very thought that she could be his wife seemed monstrous to him at first, yet he was madly in love with her from the very first evening he saw her. When she allowed the possibility that she might be his wife, he nearly lost his mind (scene). Although he loved her terribly, and by nature was wilful and foolishly brave, he always trembled and feared her, even though he was her fiancé. And she, like a spoiled, focused, and dreamy girl, though she loved him, sometimes seemed to despise him. He did not dare speak to her. Because of this, from the very start, he hated Sonya, just as Dunya hated and insulted her (went too far) and quarreled with Razumikhin over it.
In a letter to M. H. Katkov, Dostoevsky noted that his hero is "a petty bourgeois by origin." In one of the drafts, the mother has a remark: "The Raskolnikovs are a good family name, even though your father was a teacher, the Raskolnikovs have been known for two hundred years" (VII, 186). In the final text, nothing is said about Raskolnikov's background. Among the notes on the novel, the characterization of Razumikhin stands out:
"Razumikhin is a very strong nature and, as often happens with strong natures, is entirely subject to Avdotya Romanovna. (NB. Also, that trait often found in people who, though noble and magnanimous, are rough ruffians, having seen much dirt in the world – for example, he somehow belittles himself before a woman, especially if she is graceful, proud, and beautiful.)"
NB In the artistic portrayal, remember he is 23 years old. He wants to rule – and knows no means. To seize power quickly and grow rich. The idea of murder came to him fully formed. “No matter what I am, whatever I do later – whether I become a benefactor of humanity or suck its living juices like a spider – I do not care. I know that I want to dominate, and that is enough.” (VII, 155)
Among the notes to the draft versions of the novel, a particularly interesting entry is dated January 2, 1866, where Dostoevsky formulates its "idea":
"ORTHODOX VIEW, WHAT ORTHODOXY IS: There is no happiness in comfort; happiness is purchased through suffering. This is the law of our planet, but it is immediate consciousness, felt through the process of life — there is such a great joy, for which one can pay with years of suffering <…> A person is not born for happiness. A person deserves their happiness, and always through suffering. There is no injustice in this, for life’s knowledge and consciousness (that is, directly felt by body and spirit, i.e., by the entire life process) is gained through experience pro and contra, which one must carry upon oneself." (VII, 155)
Then the author notes about Raskolnikov:
"In his character is expressed in the novel the idea of excessive pride, arrogance, and contempt for this society. His idea is to take this society into his power. Despotism is his trait. Leads him in the opposite direction."
As the story was handed over to the "all-knowing" author, the number of characters and episodes expanded significantly: alongside the figures already familiar to us from the initial notes—the main hero, the official Marmeladov, his daughter Sonya, and the old moneylender woman—the novel introduces the investigator Porfiry, and develops in detail the characters of Dunya, Luzhin, Lebezyatnikov, as well as Svidrigailov, who serve as psychological "doubles" of Raskolnikov.
The creative work of the writer on the novel is reflected in three surviving notebooks. Dostoevsky initially, in the early days of August 1865, decided to write the novel from the perspective of the main character (who at that time was named Vasily), in the form of his "confession," which appeared a few days after the crime. At this stage, the action apparently began from the moment of the pawnbroker's murder, and the author's attention was primarily focused on the psychology of the main character, his attempt to mentally understand what had happened and himself. Here is a sample of the earliest draft (the beginning has not been preserved):
Then Dostoevsky moved the timeline back, making the hero tell about the events "under trial":
From that time, the general outline of the novel’s plot was finally established. A month later, Dostoevsky was able to send the beginning of it to the "Russian Messenger," continuing to work feverishly on the novel’s continuation until the end of 1866, alongside its publication (as was usually the case for him).
Dostoevsky was passionately absorbed in working on the novella for the "Russian Messenger." "The story I am writing now may perhaps be the best thing I have ever written, if I am given time to finish it," he wrote on September 16 (28), 1865, from Wiesbaden to his friend A. E. Wrangel (XXVIII, vol. 2, p. 140). But the more Dostoevsky worked on it and reflected on its plan, the more the idea grew and became complex. He not only reworked material from his earlier conceived "The Drunkards," but the project transformed from a short, single-hero novella into a large, multi-character novel. After returning to St. Petersburg at the end of November 1865, when from August to October "much had already been written and was ready," Dostoevsky, by his own words, "burned everything" and "started again," following a "new plan" (XXVIII, vol. 2, p. 150).
My story also contains a hint at the idea that the legal punishment imposed for a crime frightens the criminal far less than lawmakers think, partly because the criminal himself morally demands it, Dostoevsky writes further. I have seen this even in the most undeveloped people, in the roughest circumstances. But I wanted to express this through a developed person, of the new generation, so that the idea would be clearer and more tangible. Several recent cases have convinced me that my plot is not at all eccentric. Specifically, the murderer is a developed young man, even with good tendencies. Last year in Moscow, I was told (correctly) about a student expelled from university... who decided to break into the post office and kill the postman. There are still many signs in our eyes of an extraordinary confusion of ideas that drive people to terrible deeds... In short, I am convinced that my plot partly justifies modern times.
However, after the hero commits the murder of the pawnbroker, according to Dostoevsky, "the entire psychological process of the crime unfolds. Unsolvable questions arise before the murderer, unsuspected and unexpected feelings torment his heart. Divine justice and earthly law take their course, and he ends up confessing against himself. Forced, even if it means perishing in penal servitude, to rejoin humanity once more; the feeling of separation and alienation from mankind, which he experienced immediately after the crime, tormented him. The law of truth and human nature prevailed... The criminal himself decides to accept suffering to atone for his deed."
This is a psychological report of a crime. The setting is contemporary, in the current year. A young man, expelled from university, of middle-class origin and living in extreme poverty, out of thoughtlessness and confusion, influenced by some strange “unfinished” ideas circulating in the air, decided to suddenly escape his miserable situation. He resolved to kill an old woman, a titular counsellor, who lent money at interest. The old woman is foolish, deaf, ill, greedy, charging usurious interest, cruel, and wasting her life tormenting her younger sister, who works for her. “She is good for nothing,” “Why does she live?” “Is she useful to anyone?” and so on. These questions confuse the young man. He decides to kill her, rob her, so as to make his mother happy—she lives in the district—and to free his sister, who works as a companion for some landlords, from the lustful advances of the head of that landlord family—advances that threaten her life. He plans to finish his studies, go abroad, and then live his whole life honestly, firmly, and steadfastly fulfilling his “humane duty to humanity,” by which, of course, the “crime will be atoned for.” <…>
Three months later, in mid-September 1865, Dostoevsky, writing from abroad (from the resort town of Wiesbaden), sent a letter to M. N. Katkov, the editor of the magazine *Russky Vestnik*. In this letter, he proposed a novella with a plot that closely matches the main storyline of *Crime and Punishment*. He mentioned that he had been working on this novella for two months, planned to finish it within a month, and that it would be about “five to six printed sheets” long. Dostoevsky explained the central idea of the story as follows:
Preparing to go abroad, Dostoevsky, in early June 1865, offered his novel to the publishers of the newspaper "Saint Petersburg News" – V. F. Korsh, and to A. A. Kraevsky of the magazine "Notes of the Fatherland," promising to deliver it in October. "My novel," Dostoevsky wrote to Kraevsky, "is called 'The Drunkards' and deals with the current issue of alcoholism. It explores not only the problem itself but also all its branches, mainly the scenes of families, the upbringing of children in such an environment, and so on and so forth. The manuscript will be no less than twenty pages, perhaps even more."
Dostoevsky’s proposal was rejected by both Korsh and Kraevsky, and the novel "The Drunkards" remained unfinished. However, the author's reflections on it helped create, in "Crime and Punishment," the character of the "drunken" clerk Marmeladov, the tragic scenes of his family life, and the fate of his children.
As Dostoevsky’s letters show, the novel combined two originally separate creative plans. One of them came about in the summer, and the other in the autumn of 1865.
The idea for the novel had been developing in Dostoevsky’s mind for many years. Evidence that one of its central themes had already taken shape by 1863 comes from a diary entry dated September 17, 1863, by A. P. Suslova, who was with Dostoevsky in Italy at the time: “When we were having lunch (in Turin, at the hotel, at the table d’hôte), he (Dostoevsky), looking at the girl who was taking lessons, said: ‘Well, imagine, such a girl with an old man, and suddenly some Napoleon says: “Destroy the whole city.” It has always been like this in the world.’” However, Dostoevsky only began working creatively on the novel, reflecting on its characters, individual scenes, and situations in 1865–1866. An important preparatory role in the creation of the characters Raskolnikov and Sonia was played by *Notes from Underground* (1864; see volume 4 of the current edition). The tragedy of the thinking individualist hero, his proud intoxication with his “idea,” and his defeat in the face of “real life” — embodied in *Notes* by the direct predecessor of Sonia Marmeladova, a girl from a brothel — these fundamental outlines of *Notes* directly prepare the ground for *Crime and Punishment*.
In the fifth volume of the Collected Works of F. M. Dostoevsky, the novel "Crime and Punishment" is published. It was first released in the magazine "Russian Messenger" (1866, issues 1, 2, 4, 6–8, 11, 12) under the name F. Dostoevsky. The following year, a separate edition of the novel was published, in which the division into parts and chapters was changed (in the magazine version, the novel was divided into three parts instead of six), some episodes were shortened, and a number of stylistic corrections were made.
She too was restless all day long, and that night she even fell ill again. But she was so happy that she almost became afraid of her own happiness. Seven years, seven years! At the beginning of their happiness, at certain moments, they were both ready to see those seven years as just seven days. He did not even realise that this new life was not given to him for free, that it still had to be dearly paid for with a great, future deed... But here begins a new story, the story of a gradual renewal of a person, the story of his slow rebirth, a gradual transition from one world to another, an acquaintance with a new, until now completely unknown reality. This could have been the theme of a new tale — but our present story is now finished. Notes
He did not reveal her now, but one thought flashed through him: "Could her beliefs not be mine now as well? Her feelings, her desires, at least..."
And what are all these torments of the past! Everything, even his crime, even the sentence and exile, now seemed to him, in the first rush of feeling, like something external, strange, as if it had not really happened to him. Yet that evening, he could not think deeply or focus his mind on anything for long; nor would he have consciously resolved anything now; he only felt. Life had taken the place of dialectics, and something completely different had to form in his consciousness. Under his pillow lay the Gospel. He took it mechanically. This book belonged to her, it was the very one from which she had read to him about the resurrection of Lazarus. At the beginning of his hard labor, he thought she would torment him with religion, talk endlessly about the Gospel and force books on him. But, to his greatest surprise, she never once spoke of it, nor even offered him the Gospel. He himself had asked her for it shortly before his illness, and she silently brought him the book. Until now, he had not even opened it.
He was thinking about her. He remembered how he had constantly tormented her and broken her heart; he recalled her pale, thin face, but these memories hardly troubled him anymore: he knew with what endless love he would now atone for all her suffering.
They wanted to speak but could not. Tears welled up in their eyes. Both were pale and thin; yet in those sickly, pale faces already shone the dawn of a renewed future, full of resurrection into a new life. They were revived by love; the heart of one held endless sources of life for the heart of the other. They had to wait and endure. Seven years still lay ahead; and until then, so much unbearable suffering and so much infinite happiness! But he was resurrected, and he knew it, felt it deeply with his whole renewed being, and she—she lived only through his life! That evening, after the barracks were locked, Raskolnikov lay on his bunk and thought of her. That day, it even seemed to him that all the prisoners, once his enemies, now looked at him differently. He even began to talk to them, and they answered kindly. He remembered this now, but it was only natural: shouldn’t everything change now?
How it happened, he himself did not know, but suddenly something seemed to lift him up and throw him at her feet. He wept and clung to her knees. At first, she was terribly frightened, and her whole face went pale. She jumped up, trembling, and looked at him. But at that very moment, she understood everything. Her eyes lit up with endless happiness; she understood, and there was no longer any doubt for her that he loved her, loved her endlessly, and that this moment had finally come…
Suddenly, Sonya appeared beside him. She came quietly and sat down next to him. It was still very early; the morning chill had not yet softened. She wore her poor, old burnous and a green scarf. Her face still showed signs of illness—thin, pale, and drawn. She smiled at him kindly and joyfully, but, as usual, shyly offered him her hand. She always shyly offered her hand to him, sometimes not offering it at all, as if afraid he would push her away. He always took her hand with a sort of disgust, always met her with annoyance, sometimes stubbornly silent during her entire visit. Sometimes she would tremble before him and leave in deep sorrow. But now their hands did not part; he glanced at her quickly and briefly, said nothing, and lowered his eyes to the ground. They were alone, and no one saw them. The guard had turned away by then.
Raskolnikov sat motionless, staring without shifting his gaze; his thoughts turned into dreams, into contemplation; he was thinking of nothing, yet a certain sadness stirred and troubled him.
The day was clear and warm again. Early in the morning, around six o’clock, he set off for work by the riverbank, where in a shed there was a kiln for burning alabaster, and where he was put to work. Only three workers had gone there. One of the prisoners took a guard and went with him to the fortress to fetch some tool; another started chopping wood and loading the kiln. Raskolnikov stepped out of the shed onto the riverbank, sat down on logs stacked near the shed, and began to look at the wide and deserted river. From the high bank, a broad landscape opened up. From the far opposite shore, a faint song could be heard. There, in the sun-drenched endless steppe, nomads’ yurts appeared as tiny dark dots. There was freedom — people lived differently there, unlike those here; it was as if time itself had stopped, as if the centuries of Abraham and his flocks had not yet passed.
He was very worried and sent someone to check on her. Soon, he found out that her illness was not serious. Learning in turn that he was so anxious and caring for her, Sonya sent him a note written in pencil, informing him that she was feeling much better, that it was just a mild, light cold, and that she would come to see him at work very soon, very soon. When he read this note, his heart beat strongly and painfully.
At that moment, something pierced his heart; he shuddered and quickly stepped away from the window. The next day, Sonya did not come, nor on the third day; he noticed that he was waiting for her anxiously. Finally, he was discharged. When he returned to the prison, he learned from the inmates that Sofya Semyonovna had fallen ill, was lying at home, and was not going out anywhere.
Raskolnikov was tormented by the fact that this senseless delirium echoed so sadly and painfully in his memories, and the impression of those feverish dreams lingered for so long. It was already the second week after the Holy Day; the days were warm, clear, and spring-like. The windows in the prison ward had been opened (they had bars, under which a guard patrolled). During his illness, Sonya could only visit him twice in the ward; each time, permission had to be requested, which was difficult. But she often came to the hospital yard, under the windows, especially in the evenings, sometimes just to stand there for a minute and look at the ward windows from afar. One evening, almost fully recovered, Raskolnikov fell asleep; when he woke up, he accidentally went to the window and suddenly saw Sonya far away, near the hospital gates. She was standing there, as if waiting for something.
In some places, people gathered in groups, agreed on something together, swore never to separate—only to immediately start something entirely different from what they had just planned, began accusing each other, fighting, and cutting themselves. Fires broke out, hunger began. Everything and everyone perished. The plague grew and moved further and further. Only a few people in the whole world could be saved—those pure and chosen, destined to start a new race of humans and a new life, to renew and cleanse the earth—but no one, anywhere, had seen these people, nor heard their words and voices.
He stayed in the hospital throughout the entire fasting period and the Holy Days. As he began to recover, he recalled the dreams he had while burning with fever and delirium. In his sickness, he dreamt that the whole world was condemned as a sacrifice to a terrible, unheard-of, and unseen plague spreading from the depths of Asia to Europe. Everyone was to perish except for a few, very few, chosen ones. Some new kind of trichinae appeared—microscopic creatures that entered people’s bodies. But these beings were spirits, gifted with mind and will. People who accepted them became instantly possessed and insane. Yet, never, never did people consider themselves so wise and unshakable in their truth as the infected did. Never were they more certain of their judgments, scientific conclusions, moral beliefs, and faith. Entire villages, whole cities, and nations became infected and mad. Everyone was anxious and misunderstood one another; each believed that the truth lay solely within themselves, suffering as they looked at others, beating their chests, weeping, and breaking their own arms. They did not know whom or how to judge, could not agree on what was evil and what was good. They did not know whom to blame or to forgive. People killed each other in senseless hatred. Armies gathered against each other, but on the march, soldiers suddenly began tearing themselves apart; ranks fell into disorder, warriors attacked one another, stabbed and cut themselves, bit and devoured each other. In the cities, alarms sounded all day: everyone was summoned, but no one knew who was calling or for what, and all were anxious. Ordinary crafts were abandoned because everyone proposed their own ideas and corrections, and no agreement was possible; farming stopped.
And when she appeared during work hours, coming to Raskolnikov, or met the group of prisoners going to work — everyone took off their hats, everyone bowed: “Mother, Sofya Semyonovna, our gentle, tender mother!” said these rough, branded convicts to this small, thin creature. She smiled and bowed back, and they all loved it when she smiled at them. They even loved her walk, turning to watch her go by, and praised her; praised her even for being so small, not even knowing what else to praise. Some even came to her for healing.
There was still one question he could not solve: why did they all love Sonya so much? She did not flatter them; they met her rarely, sometimes only during the work hours, when she came for just a minute to see him. Yet everyone already knew her, knew that she had followed him, knew how she lived and where she lived. She did not give them money or offer special favors. Only once, at Christmas, she brought to the whole prison a gift: pies and sweet bread. But little by little, some closer ties formed between them and Sonya: she wrote letters to their relatives and sent them by post. Their relatives, who came to the city, left things and even money with Sonya for them, as instructed. Their wives and lovers knew her and visited her.
No one loved him, and everyone avoided him. By the end, they even began to hate him – but why? He did not know. They despised him, laughed at him, laughed at his crime, even those who were far more criminal than he was. “You are a gentleman!” they said to him. “It was not for you to go about with an axe; such things are not for a gentleman.”
In the prison, in the environment around him, he certainly did not notice much, and in fact, he did not want to notice at all. He lived with his eyes somewhat lowered: it was disgusting and unbearable for him to look around. But towards the end, many things began to surprise him, and almost unwillingly, he started to notice what he had never suspected before. Above all, what amazed him the most was that terrible, impassable chasm that lay between him and all these people. It seemed as if he and they belonged to different nations. He and they looked at each other with distrust and dislike. He knew and understood the general reasons for this division; but he had never before admitted that these reasons were actually so deep and strong. In the prison, there were also exiled Poles, political criminals. They simply considered all these people ignorant peasants and looked down on them with contempt; but Raskolnikov could not see it that way: he clearly saw that these ignorant people were in many ways much smarter than those very Poles. There were also Russians here, who also despised these people too much — one former officer and two seminarians; Raskolnikov clearly noticed their mistake as well.
He rather allowed only a dull burden of instinct here, one he could not break free from, and which he, because of his weakness and insignificance, was again unable to overcome. He looked at his fellow convicts and wondered: how all of them loved life, how much they valued it! It seemed to him that in the prison camp life was loved and treasured even more than in freedom. What terrible sufferings and torments some of them had endured—like the vagrants, for example! Could it really be that a single ray of sunshine, a dense forest, or a cold spring somewhere in an unknown wilderness, marked since his third year and dreamed of by the wanderer like a meeting with a lover, seen in his dreams with green grass all around and a singing bird in the bush—could these mean so much to them? Looking further, he saw even more inexplicable examples.
He painfully asked himself this question and could not understand that even then, when he stood over the river, he might have sensed a deep falsehood within himself and his beliefs. He did not realize that this feeling could be a sign of a future turning point in his life, a future resurrection, a future new outlook on life.
This was the one thing in which he admitted his guilt: only that he could not endure it and confessed his crime. He also suffered from the thought: why did he not kill himself then? Why did he stand by the river and choose to confess instead? Could the desire to live be so strong and so hard to overcome? Yet Svidrigailov, who feared death, overcame it?
“What, what,” he thought, “made my idea any more foolish than all the other ideas and theories that have been swirling and clashing in this world ever since it began? One only needs to look at the matter with a completely independent, broad, and unbiased view, free from everyday influences, and then, surely, my idea will not seem so... strange. Oh, you doubters and wise men, for a small coin of silver, why do you stop halfway! Why does my action seem so terrible to them?” he said to himself. “Is it because it is a crime? What does the word ‘crime’ mean? My conscience is clear. Of course, a criminal act has been committed; of course, the letter of the law has been broken and blood has been spilled, so take my head for the letter of the law… and that’s enough! Certainly, in that case, even many benefactors of humanity, who did not inherit power but seized it themselves, should have been executed at their very first steps. But those people took their steps, and I did not endure, so I had no right to allow myself this step.”
At least, he could have been angry at his own foolishness, just as he had been angry before at his disgraceful and most foolish actions that had landed him in jail. But now, already in jail, he again reviewed and reconsidered all his past deeds and did not find them as foolish and disgraceful as they had seemed to him in that fateful time before.
Anxiety, aimless and pointless in the present, and in the future one continuous sacrifice, from which nothing was gained — this was what awaited him in life. And what of the fact that in eight years he would be only thirty-two and could begin to live again! Why should he live? What was the purpose? What was there to strive for? To live just to exist? But he had been ready a thousand times before to give up his mere existence for an idea, for hope, even for a fantasy. Mere existence was never enough for him; he always wanted more. Perhaps it was by the strength of his desires alone that he considered himself a man who was allowed more than others. And even if fate sent him repentance — a burning repentance, heart-breaking, chasing away sleep, such repentance from the terrible torments of which a noose and a whirlpool seemed to appear! Oh, he would have welcomed it! Torments and tears — after all, that too is life. But he did not repent his crime.
And what of it? He was even ashamed before Sonia, whom he tormented with his contemptuous and harsh behaviour. But he was not ashamed of his shaved head or the chains; his pride was deeply wounded; he even fell ill from his wounded pride. Oh, how happy he would have been if he could have blamed himself! Then he would have borne everything, even shame and disgrace. But he judged himself harshly, and his hardened conscience found no particularly terrible guilt in his past, except perhaps a simple mistake that anyone could have made. He was ashamed precisely because he, Raskolnikov, had perished so blindly, hopelessly, silently, and foolishly, by some verdict of blind fate, and had to accept and submit to the “meaninglessness” of that verdict if he wanted to find any peace within himself.
He had been ill for a long time; but it was not the horrors of penal servitude, nor the work, nor the food, nor the shaved head, nor the patchwork clothes that broke him: oh! what did all those torments and sufferings matter to him! On the contrary, he was even glad to work: physically exhausted by labour, he at least earned himself a few hours of peaceful sleep. And what did the food mean to him – that thin soup with cockroaches? As a student, in his previous life, he often did not have even that. His clothes were warm and suited to his way of life. He did not even feel the shackles on himself. Should he be ashamed of his shaved head and his worn jacket? But ashamed before whom? Before Sonya? Sonya was afraid of him, and before her, was there any reason for shame?
Sonya wrote plainly that at first he was not only uninterested in her visits but almost annoyed by her, was not talkative and even rude to her, but by the end these meetings had become a habit and almost a necessity for him, so he missed her very much when she was sick for a few days and could not visit. She met him on holidays by the prison gates or in the guardroom, where he was called to her for a few minutes; on weekdays, she saw him at work, either in workshops, brick factories, or sheds by the Irtysh River. Sonya informed privately that she had managed to make some acquaintances and gain some protection in the city; that she was doing sewing work, and since there were almost no dressmakers in the city, she had become necessary in many houses; she did not mention that through her Raskolnikov had also gained the authorities’ favor, that his work had been made easier, and so on. Finally, the news came (Dunya even noticed some special agitation and anxiety in Sonya’s last letters) that he was avoiding everyone, that the convicts in the prison did not like him; that he was silent for whole days and was becoming very pale. Suddenly, in the last letter, Sonya wrote that he had fallen seriously ill and was lying in the hospital, in the detainees’ ward…
But there was little comfort that Dunya and her husband could draw from this news, especially at first. Sonya constantly reported that he was always gloomy, not very talkative, and hardly interested at all in the news she brought him each time from the letters she received; that he sometimes asked about his mother; and when she, seeing that he was already suspecting the truth, finally told him about her death, to her surprise, even the news of his mother’s death didn’t seem to affect him much, at least that’s how it appeared from his outward behavior. She said, among other things, that although he seemed so absorbed in himself and as if shut away from everyone, he approached his new life very straightforwardly and simply; that he clearly understood his situation, did not expect anything better soon, had no frivolous hopes (which is so common in his position), and was hardly surprised by anything in the new environment around him, which was so unlike anything before. She reported that his health was satisfactory. He went to work, neither avoiding it nor asking for special favors. He was almost indifferent to food, but since the food, except on Sundays and holidays, was so bad, he gladly accepted some money from Sonya to have tea daily; for everything else, he asked her not to worry, assuring her that all these concerns only annoyed him. Furthermore, Sonya said that his cell in the prison was shared with others; she had not seen the inside of the barracks but guessed it was cramped, dirty, and unhealthy; that he slept on a plank bed, laying felt under himself, and did not want to arrange anything else. But he lived so roughly and poorly not out of any deliberate plan or intention, but simply from neglect and outward indifference to his fate.
Instead of attempts to explain his mental state and his entire inner life, there were only facts — that is, his own words, detailed reports about his health condition, what he wished for during visits, what he asked her, what he entrusted to her, and so on. All these details were given with extraordinary thoroughness. The image of their unfortunate brother eventually emerged on its own, drawn clearly and distinctly; there could be no mistakes here, because all were true facts.
Raskolnikov did not learn about his mother’s death for a long time, although correspondence with Petersburg had been established from the very beginning of his exile in Siberia. This was arranged through Sonia, who carefully wrote each month to Petersburg in Razumikhin’s name and received replies from Petersburg every month. At first, Sonia’s letters seemed somewhat dry and unsatisfactory to Dunya and Razumikhin; but in the end, both of them found that it was impossible to write better, because from these letters they still got the fullest and most accurate understanding of their unfortunate brother’s fate. Sonia’s letters were filled with the most ordinary reality, the simplest and clearest description of the entire situation of Raskolnikov’s penal servitude. There was no expression of her own hopes, no riddles about the future, no descriptions of her own feelings.
After a restless day filled with endless fantasies, joyful dreams, and tears, Pulcheria Alexandrovna fell ill during the night and by morning was burning with fever and delirious. She developed a high fever. Two weeks later, she passed away. In her delirium, she uttered words suggesting she suspected far more about her son’s dreadful fate than anyone had ever imagined.
Pulcheria Alexandrovna gladly blessed her daughter’s marriage to Razumikhin; but after the wedding, she seemed even sadder and more worried. To give her a pleasant moment, Razumikhin mentioned in passing some facts about the student and his elderly father, and that Rodion had been burned and even fallen ill after saving two little children from death the previous year. Both pieces of news nearly brought the already troubled Pulcheria Alexandrovna to a state of joyful excitement. She kept talking about it constantly, even starting conversations on the street (though Dunya always accompanied her). In public carriages, in shops, whenever she found a listener, she steered the conversation to her son, his article, how he helped the student, how he was burned in the fire, and so on. Dunya didn’t even know how to hold her back. Beyond the danger of such an enthusiastic and painful mood, there was the threat that someone might remember the Raskolnikov name from the old court case and start talking about it. Pulcheria Alexandrovna even learned the address of the mother of the two children saved from the fire and was determined to visit her. Eventually, her anxiety grew to extreme limits. Sometimes she suddenly began to cry, often fell ill, and in the heat would become delirious. One morning, she declared plainly that, by her calculations, Rodion should arrive soon, that she remembered him saying goodbye to her and mentioning that he should be expected in exactly nine months. She started tidying the apartment and preparing for his arrival, setting up the room intended for him (her own), cleaning the furniture, washing and putting up new curtains, and so on. Dunya became worried but stayed silent and even helped arrange the room for her brother’s reception.
Two months later, Dunya married Razumikhin. The wedding was quiet and somber. Among the guests were Porfiry Petrovich and Zosimov. Lately, Razumikhin appeared to be a man with firm resolve. Dunya trusted blindly that he would fulfill all his intentions, and she couldn’t help but believe it: there was a steel will in him. By the way, he had started attending university lectures again to complete his course. Both of them made detailed plans for the future; they firmly expected that in five years they would definitely move to Siberia. Until then, they hoped to be with Sonya there...
Five months after the criminal’s surrender, his sentence was passed. Razumikhin met him in prison whenever it was possible. Sonya did too. Finally, the separation came; Dunya promised her brother that this parting was not forever; Razumikhin promised the same. In Razumikhin’s young and passionate mind, a firm plan took shape: to spend the next three or four years, if possible, saving some money and then move to Siberia, where the land was rich in every way, but workers, people, and capital were scarce; to settle in the very town where Rodya would be, and… all together start a new life. They all cried as they said goodbye. In his last days, Raskolnikov was very thoughtful, asking many questions about his mother and constantly worrying about her. He suffered deeply over her condition, which troubled Dunya. Learning more about their mother’s ill health, he grew very gloomy. For some reason, he was especially quiet with Sonya during that time. Sonya, with the help of money left to her by Svidrigailov, had long prepared to follow the group of prisoners that he would be sent with. Not a word about this was ever mentioned between her and Raskolnikov; but both knew it was so. At their final farewell, he smiled strangely at the passionate assurances from his sister and Razumikhin about their happy future once he was out of the labor camp, and predicted that their mother’s illness would soon end in tragedy. Then he and Sonya finally set off.
Often, sometimes after several days or even weeks of gloomy, dark silence and silent tears, the sick woman would suddenly become hysterically lively and begin to speak aloud, almost without stopping, about her son, about her hopes, about the future… Her fantasies were sometimes very strange. People comforted her, agreed with her (she herself perhaps clearly saw that they were only humoring her), but she kept talking nonetheless…
On two occasions, however, she herself brought up the subject in such a way that it was impossible, while answering her, not to mention exactly where Rodion was now; but when the answers inevitably turned out unsatisfactory and suspicious, she suddenly became extremely sad, gloomy, and silent, and this lasted for quite a long time. Dunya finally saw that it was difficult to lie and invent stories, and reached the firm conclusion that it was better to remain completely silent about known facts; yet it became clearer and clearer that the poor mother suspected something terrible. Among other things, Dunya recalled her brother’s words that their mother had listened to his delirium on the night before that last fateful day, after her scene with Svidrigailov: had she overheard anything then?
She read that article constantly, sometimes even aloud, almost falling asleep with it, yet she hardly ever asked where Rodya was now, even though people seemed to avoid talking about it with her — which in itself could have made her suspicious. Eventually, they became afraid of Pulcheria Alexandrovna’s strange silence on certain matters. For example, she did not complain about the lack of letters from him, whereas before, living in her town, she had lived only in hope and expectation of receiving a letter from her beloved Rodya. This last detail was too inexplicable and deeply troubled Dunya; she thought that perhaps her mother sensed some terrible fate awaiting her son and was afraid to ask questions, lest she learn something even worse. In any case, Dunya clearly saw that Pulcheria Alexandrovna was not in a sound state of mind.
At the very beginning of the trial, Raskolnikov’s mother fell ill. Dunya and Razumikhin decided it would be best to take her out of Petersburg for the entire duration of the court proceedings. Razumikhin chose a town along the railway, not far from Petersburg, so he could keep track of the trial while also visiting Avdotya Romanovna as often as possible. Pulcheria Alexandrovna’s illness was strange and nervous in nature, accompanied by something like delirium, if not complete madness, then at least partly so. When Dunya returned from her last meeting with her brother, she found her mother very sick, burning with fever and in a state of delirium. That same evening, she and Razumikhin agreed on what to tell her mother about her brother’s situation. They even made up a whole story for Pulcheria Alexandrovna about Rodya’s departure far away, near the Russian border, on a private mission that would finally bring him both money and fame. But what surprised them was that Pulcheria Alexandrovna neither then nor later asked any questions about this. On the contrary, she had her own story about her son’s sudden departure; she tearfully recounted how he had come to say goodbye, hinting that only she knew many important and mysterious details, and that Rodya had many powerful enemies, forcing him to hide. As for his future career, she was sure it would be brilliant once certain hostile circumstances passed. She assured Razumikhin that her son would one day become a statesman, proving this by his article and his remarkable literary talent.
Even the former landlady, the widow Zarnitsyna, mother of Raskolnikov’s deceased fiancée, testified that when they still lived in another house near Pyatye Ugla, Raskolnikov had, during a nighttime fire, rescued two small children from an already burning apartment and was burned himself in the process. This fact was thoroughly investigated and well attested by many witnesses. In short, it ended with the criminal being sentenced to second-class penal servitude for only eight years, in consideration of his confession and some mitigating circumstances.
Moreover, completely unexpected circumstances appeared that greatly favoured the accused. Razumikhin, a former student, somehow found information and presented evidence that the criminal Raskolnikov, during his time at the university, had helped one poor and consumptive university friend with his last means and almost supported him for six months. When that friend died, Raskolnikov looked after the friend’s old and weak father—who had been working and supporting himself since nearly the age of thirteen—finally arranging for the old man to be placed in a hospital, and when he too passed away, Raskolnikov took care of his burial. All this information had some positive influence on the decision regarding Raskolnikov’s fate.
However, the sentence turned out to be more lenient than one might have expected, considering the crime committed, and perhaps it was precisely because the criminal not only refused to defend himself but even seemed to want to accuse himself further. All the strange and special circumstances of the case were taken into account. The criminal’s painful and desperate condition before the crime was never doubted. The fact that he did not benefit from the robbery was partly credited to his awakened remorse and partly to his impaired mental state at the time of the crime. The accidental killing of Lizaveta even served as an example supporting the latter assumption: a man commits two murders and at the same time forgets that the door was left unlocked! Finally, his confession came at a time when the case had become very confused due to the false testimony of a broken spirit—the villain Nikolai—and, moreover, when there were hardly any clear clues or even suspicions against the real criminal (Porfiry Petrovich fully kept his word). All these factors ultimately contributed to the reduction of the accused’s punishment.
All this was almost blunt...
All this strongly supported the conclusion that Raskolnikov was not quite like an ordinary murderer, robber, and thief, but that there was something else at work. To the great frustration of those defending this view, the criminal himself hardly tried to defend himself; to final questions about what exactly could have driven him to murder and what prompted him to commit the robbery, he answered very clearly, with the roughest precision, that the cause was his bad situation, his poverty and helplessness, and his desire to strengthen the first steps of his life’s career with the help of at least three thousand rubles he expected to find with the victim. He decided on the murder because of his frivolous and weak character, further irritated by hardships and failures. When asked what exactly prompted him to come forward and confess, he answered plainly that it was sincere repentance.
Finally, some (especially psychologists) even considered the possibility that he truly had not looked inside the wallet and therefore did not know what was inside and, not knowing, just left it under the stone. From this, they concluded that the crime itself could only have happened during a temporary mental illness, so to speak, a pathological monomania of murder and robbery, without further goals or plans for gain. Incidentally, the latest fashionable theory of temporary insanity, which is often applied nowadays to various criminals, came in handy here. Moreover, Raskolnikov’s long-standing hypochondriac condition was confirmed in detail by many witnesses, including Doctor Zosimov, his former friends, his landlady, and the servants.
The investigators and judges were very surprised, among other things, that he had hidden the wallet and belongings under the stone without using them, and most of all, that he not only did not remember in detail all the things he had actually stolen but even made mistakes in counting them. The fact that he never opened the wallet and did not even know how much money was in it seemed unbelievable (there were three hundred seventeen silver rubles and three two-ruble notes in the wallet; some of the upper, largest banknotes were badly damaged after lying under the stone for so long). They tried hard to find out why the accused lied in this one matter while admitting everything else voluntarily and truthfully.
He recounted the entire murder process to the last point: he explained the mystery of the wooden plank with a metal strip that was found in the hands of the old woman who was killed; he gave a detailed account of how he took the keys from her, described those keys, described the bundle and what it contained; he even counted some of the individual items lying inside it; he clarified the puzzle about the murder of Lizaveta; he told how Kokh came and knocked, followed by the student, relating everything they said to each other; how he, the criminal, then fled down the stairs and heard the screams of Mikolka and Mitka; how he hid in an empty apartment, came home, and finally pointed out the stone in the yard on Voznesensky Prospect, under the gate, beneath which the belongings and the wallet were found. In short, the case became clear.
The trial in his case proceeded without great difficulty. The criminal firmly, clearly, and precisely maintained his testimony, neither confusing the circumstances nor softening them in his favor, nor distorting the facts, nor forgetting the slightest detail.
Raskolnikov pushed the water aside with his hand and spoke quietly, deliberately, but clearly:
It was I who killed the old pawnbroker and her sister Lizaveta with an axe, and robbed them. Ilya Petrovich opened his mouth in surprise. People gathered from all sides. Raskolnikov repeated his confession. . . . . . . Epilogue
I
Siberia. On the bank of a wide, desolate river stands a city, one of the administrative centres of Russia; in the city is a fortress, and inside the fortress is a prison. For nine months now, Rodion Raskolnikov, a second-category penal exile, has been held there. Almost a year and a half has passed since the crime.
Raskolnikov, with pale lips and a fixed gaze, quietly approached him, came right up to the table, rested his hand on it, wanted to say something, but could not; only some incoherent sounds were heard. “You’re not well, chair! Here, sit on the chair, sit down! Water!”
Raskolnikov sat down but did not take his eyes off the face of the very unpleasantly surprised Ilya Petrovich. They both looked at each other for a minute and waited. Water was brought. “It is I…” Raskolnikov began. “Drink the water.”
He went out; he was staggering. His head was spinning. He didn’t know if he was standing on his feet. He began to come down the stairs, leaning with his right hand against the wall. It seemed to him that some sweeper, holding a book, had pushed him while climbing up towards the office; that some little dog was barking loudly somewhere on the lower floor, and that some woman had thrown a rolling pin at it and shouted. He went down and stepped into the yard. There, near the exit, stood pale, almost lifeless Sonya, looking at him wildly, wildly. He stopped in front of her. Something sick and tormented showed in her face, something desperate. She clasped her hands. An ugly, lost smile appeared on his lips. He stood for a moment, smirked, and turned back upstairs, back to the office. Ilya Petrovich sat down and rummaged through some papers. In front of him stood the very man who had just pushed Raskolnikov while climbing the stairs. “Ah? You again! Left something behind?.. But what’s wrong with you?”
"Oh, please, as much as you like! It was my pleasure, and I am glad to say so..."
Ilya Petrovich even extended his hand. "I just wanted to... I am on my way to Zametov..."
"I understand, I understand, and it was a pleasure."
"I... am very glad... goodbye..." Raskolnikov smiled.
“Svidrigailov,” someone answered hoarsely and indifferently from another room. Raskolnikov shuddered. “Svidrigailov! Svidrigailov has shot himself!” he cried out. “What! You know Svidrigailov?”
“Yes… I know him… He arrived recently…”
“Well, yes, he arrived recently, lost his wife, a man with questionable behaviour, and suddenly he shoots himself, and so scandalously that it’s hard to imagine… He left a few words in his notebook, saying he died sane and asking no one to blame anyone for his death. They say he had money. How do you happen to know?”
“I… am acquainted… my sister worked as a governess in their house…”
“Ah, ah, ah… So you can tell us something about him. And you didn’t suspect?”
“I saw him yesterday… he… was drinking wine… I didn’t know anything.”
Raskolnikov felt as if something had fallen on him and crushed him. “You seem to have gone pale again. The air here is so stuffy…”
“Yes, I should be going,” Raskolnikov muttered, “sorry to trouble you…”
– Well, let's say the thirst for knowledge is excessive; but once enlightened, that's enough. Why then misuse it? Why insult noble people, like that scoundrel Zametov does? Why did he insult me, I ask you? And there have been so many of these suicides spreading — you can't even imagine. They spend their last money and kill themselves. Girls, boys, old men... Just this morning, there was news about some recently arrived gentleman. Nil Pavlych, yes Nil Pavlych! What was his name, that gentleman they reported about the other day, who shot himself on Petersburg Street?
Raskolnikov raised his eyebrows in question. The words of Ilya Petrovich, who had obviously just come from the table, struck and fell before him mostly like empty sounds. But he still managed to understand some part of them; he looked puzzled and did not know how it would all end. “I’m talking about those cropped girls,” continued the talkative Ilya Petrovich, “I’ve nicknamed them midwives myself, and I find the name quite fitting. Heh-heh! They go to the academy, study anatomy; well, tell me, if I got sick, would I call a girl to treat me? Heh-heh!”
Ilya Petrovich laughed, quite pleased with his own wit.
I treat you as a person ennobled by education. And these midwives—there are far too many of them spreading nonsense.
– No, you know, be frank with me, don’t hesitate, as if you were alone with yourself! It’s a different matter when it comes to service, a different matter… You thought I was going to say: no, no, you guessed wrong! It’s not friendship, but a sense of being a citizen and a human being, a feeling of humanity and love for the Almighty. I can be an official, holding a position, but I must always feel and acknowledge myself first as a citizen and a human being… You started talking about Zametov. Zametov, he might cause a scandal in some improper place, like the French do, over a glass of champagne or Don wine – that’s your Zametov! But I, so to speak, have been consumed by loyalty and high feelings, and besides that, I have rank and hold a position! I am married and have children. I fulfil my duty as a citizen and a human being, but who is he, may I ask?
– No. – But I have read it. Nowadays, there are many nihilists around; well, it’s understandable, given the times we live in, isn’t it? But still, I believe you... you are certainly not a nihilist! Be honest now, truly honest! – N-no...
– Ah, yes! I heard you became friends. Well, Zametov is not with us anymore – missed him. Yes, we lost Alexander Grigorievich! Since yesterday, he’s no longer around; he left… and even quarreled with everyone while leaving… quite rude, actually… A restless boy, nothing more; he might have shown some promise, but well, such is our brilliant youth! They want to hold some kind of exam, but here we only talk and boast, and that’s how the exam ends. It’s not like you or your friend Mr. Razumikhin, for example! Your career is in the academic field, and failures won’t bring you down! For you, all the beauties of life are, so to say – nihil est, an ascetic, a monk, a hermit!.. For you, books, a pen behind the ear, scholarly research – that’s where your spirit soars! I myself, partly… have you had the chance to read Livingston’s notes?
– Yes, mother and sister. – I even had the honour and pleasure of meeting your sister — an educated and charming lady. I must admit, I regretted how heated we got that time. What a situation! And when I glanced at you then, because of your fainting, it all became brilliantly clear afterward! Such cruelty and fanaticism! I understand your indignation. Perhaps, with your family arriving, you might consider changing your apartment? – N-no, I just... I came to ask... I thought I would find Zametov here.
I heard your relatives have come to see you?
— Yes, yes-yes! Rodion Romanovich, Rodion Romanovich! That’s exactly what I was aiming for. I even checked several times. I must admit, since then I have sincerely regretted how we were back then… Later, I was told, I learned that you were a young writer and even a scholar… making, so to speak, your first steps… Oh Lord! But who among writers and scholars doesn’t make original steps at first! Both my wife and I respect literature—my wife, passionately so! Literature and artistry! If one is noble, the rest can be acquired through talent, knowledge, reason, genius! A hat—well, what does a hat mean, for example? A hat is a flat thing, I can buy it from Zimmerman; but what is kept under the hat and covered by it, that I cannot buy! I must confess, I even wanted to come and explain myself to you, but I thought, maybe you… However, I won’t ask: do you really need something?
“Is anyone here?” Raskolnikov asked, addressing the person at the bureau. “And who are you looking for?”
“Ah! No sign, no sound, but the Russian spirit… how was it in the tale… I forgot! M-may p-pardon!” suddenly shouted a familiar voice. Raskolnikov trembled. Before him stood Porokh; he had just come out of the third room. “This is fate itself,” thought Raskolnikov, “why is he here?”
“To us? For what?” exclaimed Ilya Petrovich. (He seemed to be in excellent, even slightly excited spirits.) “If it’s business, you’ve come too early. I’m here myself for a reason… But anyway, how can I help? I must confess to you… how? how? Excuse me…”
“Raskolnikov.”
“Well then: Raskolnikov! And could you really think I forgot? Please, don’t think me that way… Rodion Ro… Ro… Rodionych, is that right?”
“Rodion Romanich.”
Feeling a chill and barely keeping his composure, he opened the door to the office. This time, there were very few people inside—there was a sweeper and another common man. The watchman didn’t even peek out from his partition. Raskolnikov moved into the next room. “Maybe I won’t have to say anything after all,” he thought. There was one clerk, dressed in a private jacket, getting ready to write something at the desk. In the corner, another clerk was sitting down. There was no sign of Zametov. Of course, Nikodim Fomich was not there either.
He entered the courtyard quite briskly. He had to climb to the third floor. "For now, I'll keep going up," he thought. In general, it seemed to him that the fateful moment was still far away, there was still plenty of time left, and much could still be reconsidered. Again the same rubbish, the same shells on the spiral staircase, again the apartment doors wide open, again the same kitchens filled with smoke and stench. Raskolnikov hadn’t been here since then. His legs were numb and shaky, but he kept walking. He stopped for a moment to catch his breath, to compose himself, to enter. "But why? For what?" he suddenly thought, realizing his movement. "If I have to drink this cup, does it really matter? The worse, the better." In his imagination, the figure of Ilya Petrovich Porok flashed before him. "Really to him? But can’t it be to another? Couldn’t it be to Nikodim Fomich? Turn back now and go to the overseer’s apartment? At least it would be done quietly... No, no! To Porok, to Porok! If I’m to drink, then drink it all at once..."
but here he was, having reached the fateful place...
All these reactions and conversations held Raskolnikov back, and the words "I killed" that might have been ready to slip from his tongue froze inside him. Yet he calmly endured all those cries and, without looking back, went straight through the alley towards the office. One vision flashed before him on the way, but he was not surprised by it; he already sensed that it was meant to be so. At the very moment when, on Sennaya Square, he bowed to the ground once again, turning left, about fifty steps away from him, he saw Sonia. She was hiding from him behind one of the wooden barracks standing in the square—so she was accompanying his entire sorrowful journey! Raskolnikov felt and understood at that moment, once and for all, that Sonia was now with him forever and would follow him to the ends of the earth, wherever fate might lead him. His whole heart turned over...
He knelt down in the middle of the square, bowed to the ground, and kissed that dirty earth with pleasure and happiness. Then he stood up and bowed once again. “Looks like he’s had too much to drink!” remarked a young man beside him. Laughter broke out. “He’s going to Jerusalem, brothers, saying goodbye to his children and homeland, worshipping the whole world, kissing the capital city Saint Petersburg and its soil,” added a somewhat drunk man from the townsfolk. “The boy is still young!” chimed in a third. “From a noble family!” someone said in a serious voice. “But now it’s hard to tell who is noble and who is not.”
Suddenly, he remembered Sonia’s words: “Go to the crossroads, bow to the people, kiss the ground, because you have sinned before it, and say aloud to the whole world: ‘I am a murderer!’” He trembled all over as he recalled this. The hopeless anguish and anxiety that had crushed him all this time, especially in the last few hours, overwhelmed him so much that he rushed toward the chance for this whole, new, complete feeling. It came to him like a sudden seizure: a single spark lit up in his soul and then, like fire, spread throughout. Everything inside him softened at once, and tears poured out. He fell to the ground just as he stood…
He entered Sennaya Square. It was unpleasant for him, very unpleasant to face the crowd, yet he walked exactly where the crowd was thickest. He would have given anything in the world to be alone; but he himself felt he would not remain alone for even a minute. Among the crowd, a drunken man was causing a scene: he wanted to dance but kept stumbling to the side. People surrounded him. Raskolnikov squeezed through the crowd, watched the drunkard for a few minutes, then suddenly let out a short, sharp laugh. A minute later, he had already forgotten about the man, not even seeing him anymore, though his eyes were still fixed on him. He finally moved away, not even remembering where he was; but when he reached the middle of the square, a sudden movement, a single sensation took hold of him all at once, seizing his entire being — body and mind alike.
“God bless you!” came the sorrowful voice of the beggar woman.
He looked around eagerly to the right and left, gazing intently at every object but couldn’t focus on anything; everything slipped away. “In a week, in a month, they’ll take me somewhere in those prisoner carts across that bridge. How will I look at that ditch then? Should I remember it?” flashed through his mind. “This sign here — how will I read these very letters then? Here it says: ‘Tovarishchestvo’ (Partnership), well, remember it — the letter ‘a’ — and look at it in a month, how will I look at it then? What will I feel and think?.. God, how low all this must be, all these present... worries of mine! Of course, it must be interesting… in its own way… (ha-ha-ha! what am I thinking!) I’m acting like a child, boasting before myself; why should I shame myself? Ugh, how they shove! That fat man — must be German — who pushed me: does he even know whom he pushed? A woman with a child is asking for alms, funny that she thinks I’m happier than she is. Well, maybe I should give something for curiosity’s sake. Ah, the coin stayed in my pocket, where from? Here, here... take it, mother!”
He was walking along the embankment of the canal, and he was almost near his destination. But when he reached the bridge, he stopped for a moment, suddenly turned onto the bridge, and went towards Sennaya.
But still he walked on. Suddenly, he felt completely that there was no use asking himself any questions. Stepping onto the street, he remembered that he hadn’t said goodbye to Sonya, that she was left inside the room, in her green scarf, too afraid to move at his sharp words, and he paused for a moment. At that very moment, a single thought suddenly lit up in his mind — as if waiting to strike him completely. “What for, why did I come to her now? I told her: it was about business; but what business? There was no business at all! To declare that—so what? What’s the point! Do I love her? No, no! I just drove her away like a dog. Did I really need something from Krestov because of her? Oh, how low I have fallen! No — I needed her tears, I needed to see her frightened, to watch how her heart aches and suffers! I should have clung to something, delayed, looked at her as a person! And I dared to hope like this for myself, to dream about myself — I’m a beggar, I’m worthless, a scoundrel, a scoundrel!”
– What are you doing! Where are you going? Stay, stay! I’m alone, – he cried out in a cowardly frustration and, almost angrily, headed for the door. – And what’s the use of a whole retinue here! – he muttered as he left. Sonya remained in the room. He didn’t even say goodbye to her; he had already forgotten her. Only a sharp, rebellious doubt boiled up in his soul. “Is it really so, is it really all like that? – he thought again, coming down the stairs, – isn’t it possible to stop once more and fix everything again… and not go?”
A feeling, however, was born in him; his heart tightened as he looked at her. "What is she, what is she?" he thought to himself. "What am I to her? Why is she crying, why is she gathering me like a mother or Dunya? She will be my nanny!"
"Cross yourself, pray at least once," Sonya asked in a trembling, timid voice. "Oh, certainly, as many times as you want! And from the bottom of my heart, Sonya, from the bottom of my heart..."
Yet, he wanted to say something else. He crossed himself several times. Sonya grabbed her handkerchief and threw it over her head. It was a green driadam shawl, probably the very one Marmeladov had mentioned then, the "family" one. Raskolnikov had a fleeting thought about it but did not ask. Indeed, he already felt terribly distracted and somehow shamefully disturbed. He was frightened by this. He was suddenly struck by the fact that Sonya wanted to leave with him.
– So, this means it’s a symbol that I’m taking the cross upon myself, he-he! And truly, I have suffered little until now! The cypress one, that is the common people’s; the copper one – that’s Lizaveta’s, you keep it yourself – show me? That’s how it was on her… at that moment? I also know two similar crosses, a silver one and an icon. I dropped them then on the old lady’s chest. Those would be just right now, really, those I would wear… But anyway, I’m lying all this, I’ll forget about it; I’m a bit absent-minded!.. You see, Sonya, actually, I came just to warn you, so you would know… Well, that’s all… That’s the only reason I came. (Hmm, though I thought I would say more). But you yourself wanted me to go, so now I’ll be sitting in jail, and your wish will come true; so why are you crying? And you too? Stop, enough; oh, how hard all this is for me!
He seemed almost not himself. He could not stay still for even a minute, nor could he focus his attention on anything; his thoughts jumped from one to another, and he began to stammer; his hands trembled slightly. Sonya silently took two crosses from the drawer, one made of cypress wood and the other of copper. She crossed herself, then crossed him, and placed the cypress cross on his chest.