CHAPTER VIII
When he went into Sonia's room, it was already getting dark. All daySonia had been waiting for him in terrible anxiety. Dounia had beenwaiting with her. She had come to her that morning, rememberingSvidrigailov's words that Sonia knew. We will not describe theconversation and tears of the two girls, and how friendly they became.Dounia gained one comfort at least from that interview, that herbrother would not be alone. He had gone to her, Sonia, first with hisconfession; he had gone to her for human fellowship when he needed it;she would go with him wherever fate might send him. Dounia did not ask,but she knew it was so. She looked at Sonia almost with reverence andat first almost embarrassed her by it. Sonia was almost on the pointof tears. She felt herself, on the contrary, hardly worthy to look atDounia. Dounia's gracious image when she had bowed to her so attentivelyand respectfully at their first meeting in Raskolnikov's room hadremained in her mind as one of the fairest visions of her life.
Dounia at last became impatient and, leaving Sonia, went to herbrother's room to await him there; she kept thinking that he would comethere first. When she had gone, Sonia began to be tortured by the dreadof his committing suicide, and Dounia too feared it. But they had spentthe day trying to persuade each other that that could not be, and bothwere less anxious while they were together. As soon as they parted, eachthought of nothing else. Sonia remembered how Svidrigailov had said toher the day before that Raskolnikov had two alternatives--Siberia or...Besides she knew his vanity, his pride and his lack of faith.
"Is it possible that he has nothing but cowardice and fear of death tomake him live?" she thought at last in despair.
Meanwhile the sun was setting. Sonia was standing in dejection, lookingintently out of the window, but from it she could see nothing but theunwhitewashed blank wall of the next house. At last when she began tofeel sure of his death--he walked into the room.
She gave a cry of joy, but looking carefully into his face she turnedpale.
"Yes," said Raskolnikov, smiling. "I have come for your cross, Sonia. Itwas you told me to go to the cross-roads; why is it you are frightenednow it's come to that?"
Sonia gazed at him astonished. His tone seemed strange to her; a coldshiver ran over her, but in a moment she guessed that the tone and thewords were a mask. He spoke to her looking away, as though to avoidmeeting her eyes.
"You see, Sonia, I've decided that it will be better so. There is onefact.... But it's a long story and there's no need to discuss it. Butdo you know what angers me? It annoys me that all those stupid brutishfaces will be gaping at me directly, pestering me with their stupidquestions, which I shall have to answer--they'll point their fingers atme.... Tfoo! You know I am not going to Porfiry, I am sick of him. I'drather go to my friend, the Explosive Lieutenant; how I shall surprisehim, what a sensation I shall make! But I must be cooler; I've becometoo irritable of late. You know I was nearly shaking my fist at mysister just now, because she turned to take a last look at me. It'sa brutal state to be in! Ah! what am I coming to! Well, where are thecrosses?"
He seemed hardly to know what he was doing. He could not stay still orconcentrate his attention on anything; his ideas seemed to gallop afterone another, he talked incoherently, his hands trembled slightly.
Without a word Sonia took out of the drawer two crosses, one of cypresswood and one of copper. She made the sign of the cross over herself andover him, and put the wooden cross on his neck.
"It's the symbol of my taking up the cross," he laughed. "As though Ihad not suffered much till now! The wooden cross, that is the peasantone; the copper one, that is Lizaveta's--you will wear yourself, showme! So she had it on... at that moment? I remember two things likethese too, a silver one and a little ikon. I threw them back on the oldwoman's neck. Those would be appropriate now, really, those are what Iought to put on now.... But I am talking nonsense and forgetting whatmatters; I'm somehow forgetful.... You see I have come to warn you,Sonia, so that you might know... that's all--that's all I came for. ButI thought I had more to say. You wanted me to go yourself. Well, now Iam going to prison and you'll have your wish. Well, what are you cryingfor? You too? Don't. Leave off! Oh, how I hate it all!"
But his feeling was stirred; his heart ached, as he looked at her. "Whyis she grieving too?" he thought to himself. "What am I to her? Why doesshe weep? Why is she looking after me, like my mother or Dounia? She'llbe my nurse."
"Cross yourself, say at least one prayer," Sonia begged in a timidbroken voice.
"Oh certainly, as much as you like! And sincerely, Sonia, sincerely...."
But he wanted to say something quite different.
He crossed himself several times. Sonia took up her shawl and putit over her head. It was the green _drap de dames_ shawl of whichMarmeladov had spoken, "the family shawl." Raskolnikov thought of thatlooking at it, but he did not ask. He began to feel himself that hewas certainly forgetting things and was disgustingly agitated. He wasfrightened at this. He was suddenly struck too by the thought that Soniameant to go with him.
"What are you doing? Where are you going? Stay here, stay! I'll goalone," he cried in cowardly vexation, and almost resentful, he movedtowards the door. "What's the use of going in procession?" he mutteredgoing out.
Sonia remained standing in the middle of the room. He had not even saidgood-bye to her; he had forgotten her. A poignant and rebellious doubtsurged in his heart.
"Was it right, was it right, all this?" he thought again as he went downthe stairs. "Couldn't he stop and retract it all... and not go?"
But still he went. He felt suddenly once for all that he mustn't askhimself questions. As he turned into the street he remembered that hehad not said good-bye to Sonia, that he had left her in the middle ofthe room in her green shawl, not daring to stir after he had shoutedat her, and he stopped short for a moment. At the same instant, anotherthought dawned upon him, as though it had been lying in wait to strikehim then.
"Why, with what object did I go to her just now? I told her--onbusiness; on what business? I had no sort of business! To tell her I was_going_; but where was the need? Do I love her? No, no, I drove her awayjust now like a dog. Did I want her crosses? Oh, how low I've sunk! No,I wanted her tears, I wanted to see her terror, to see how her heartached! I had to have something to cling to, something to delay me, somefriendly face to see! And I dared to believe in myself, to dream of whatI would do! I am a beggarly contemptible wretch, contemptible!"
He walked along the canal bank, and he had not much further to go. Buton reaching the bridge he stopped and turning out of his way along itwent to the Hay Market.
He looked eagerly to right and left, gazed intently at every object andcould not fix his attention on anything; everything slipped away. "Inanother week, another month I shall be driven in a prison van over thisbridge, how shall I look at the canal then? I should like to rememberthis!" slipped into his mind. "Look at this sign! How shall I read thoseletters then? It's written here 'Campany,' that's a thing to remember,that letter _a_, and to look at it again in a month--how shall I lookat it then? What shall I be feeling and thinking then?... How trivialit all must be, what I am fretting about now! Of course it must all beinteresting... in its way... (Ha-ha-ha! What am I thinking about?) I ambecoming a baby, I am showing off to myself; why am I ashamed? Foo! howpeople shove! that fat man--a German he must be--who pushed againstme, does he know whom he pushed? There's a peasant woman with a baby,begging. It's curious that she thinks me happier than she is. I mightgive her something, for the incongruity of it. Here's a five copeckpiece left in my pocket, where did I get it? Here, here... take it, mygood woman!"
"God bless you," the beggar chanted in a lachrymose voice.
He went into the Hay Market. It was distasteful, very distasteful to bein a crowd, but he walked just where he saw most people. He would havegiven anything in the world to be alone; but he knew himself that hewould not have remained alone for a moment. There was a man drunk anddisorderly in the crowd; he kept trying to dance and falli
ng down. Therewas a ring round him. Raskolnikov squeezed his way through the crowd,stared for some minutes at the drunken man and suddenly gave a shortjerky laugh. A minute later he had forgotten him and did not see him,though he still stared. He moved away at last, not remembering where hewas; but when he got into the middle of the square an emotion suddenlycame over him, overwhelming him body and mind.
He suddenly recalled Sonia's words, "Go to the cross-roads, bow down tothe people, kiss the earth, for you have sinned against it too, and sayaloud to the whole world, 'I am a murderer.'" He trembled, rememberingthat. And the hopeless misery and anxiety of all that time, especiallyof the last hours, had weighed so heavily upon him that he positivelyclutched at the chance of this new unmixed, complete sensation. It cameover him like a fit; it was like a single spark kindled in his soul andspreading fire through him. Everything in him softened at once and thetears started into his eyes. He fell to the earth on the spot....
He knelt down in the middle of the square, bowed down to the earth, andkissed that filthy earth with bliss and rapture. He got up and boweddown a second time.
"He's boozed," a youth near him observed.
There was a roar of laughter.
"He's going to Jerusalem, brothers, and saying good-bye to his childrenand his country. He's bowing down to all the world and kissing the greatcity of St. Petersburg and its pavement," added a workman who was alittle drunk.
"Quite a young man, too!" observed a third.
"And a gentleman," someone observed soberly.
"There's no knowing who's a gentleman and who isn't nowadays."
These exclamations and remarks checked Raskolnikov, and the words, "I ama murderer," which were perhaps on the point of dropping from his lips,died away. He bore these remarks quietly, however, and, without lookinground, he turned down a street leading to the police office. He had aglimpse of something on the way which did not surprise him; he had feltthat it must be so. The second time he bowed down in the Hay Market hesaw, standing fifty paces from him on the left, Sonia. She was hidingfrom him behind one of the wooden shanties in the market-place. She hadfollowed him then on his painful way! Raskolnikov at that moment feltand knew once for all that Sonia was with him for ever and would followhim to the ends of the earth, wherever fate might take him. It wrung hisheart... but he was just reaching the fatal place.
He went into the yard fairly resolutely. He had to mount to the thirdstorey. "I shall be some time going up," he thought. He felt as thoughthe fateful moment was still far off, as though he had plenty of timeleft for consideration.
Again the same rubbish, the same eggshells lying about on the spiralstairs, again the open doors of the flats, again the same kitchens andthe same fumes and stench coming from them. Raskolnikov had not beenhere since that day. His legs were numb and gave way under him, butstill they moved forward. He stopped for a moment to take breath, tocollect himself, so as to enter _like a man_. "But why? what for?" hewondered, reflecting. "If I must drink the cup what difference does itmake? The more revolting the better." He imagined for an instant thefigure of the "explosive lieutenant," Ilya Petrovitch. Was he actuallygoing to him? Couldn't he go to someone else? To Nikodim Fomitch?Couldn't he turn back and go straight to Nikodim Fomitch's lodgings?At least then it would be done privately.... No, no! To the "explosivelieutenant"! If he must drink it, drink it off at once.
Turning cold and hardly conscious, he opened the door of the office.There were very few people in it this time--only a house porter and apeasant. The doorkeeper did not even peep out from behind his screen.Raskolnikov walked into the next room. "Perhaps I still need not speak,"passed through his mind. Some sort of clerk not wearing a uniform wassettling himself at a bureau to write. In a corner another clerk wasseating himself. Zametov was not there, nor, of course, Nikodim Fomitch.
"No one in?" Raskolnikov asked, addressing the person at the bureau.
"Whom do you want?"
"A-ah! Not a sound was heard, not a sight was seen, but I scent theRussian... how does it go on in the fairy tale... I've forgotten! 'Atyour service!'" a familiar voice cried suddenly.
Raskolnikov shuddered. The Explosive Lieutenant stood before him. Hehad just come in from the third room. "It is the hand of fate," thoughtRaskolnikov. "Why is he here?"
"You've come to see us? What about?" cried Ilya Petrovitch. Hewas obviously in an exceedingly good humour and perhaps a trifleexhilarated. "If it's on business you are rather early.[*] It's only achance that I am here... however I'll do what I can. I must admit, I...what is it, what is it? Excuse me...."
[*] Dostoevsky appears to have forgotten that it is after sunset, and that the last time Raskolnikov visited the police office at two in the afternoon he was reproached for coming too late.--TRANSLATOR.
"Raskolnikov."
"Of course, Raskolnikov. You didn't imagine I'd forgotten? Don't think Iam like that... Rodion Ro--Ro--Rodionovitch, that's it, isn't it?"
"Rodion Romanovitch."
"Yes, yes, of course, Rodion Romanovitch! I was just getting at it. Imade many inquiries about you. I assure you I've been genuinely grievedsince that... since I behaved like that... it was explained to meafterwards that you were a literary man... and a learned one too... andso to say the first steps... Mercy on us! What literary or scientificman does not begin by some originality of conduct! My wife and I havethe greatest respect for literature, in my wife it's a genuine passion!Literature and art! If only a man is a gentleman, all the rest can begained by talents, learning, good sense, genius. As for a hat--well,what does a hat matter? I can buy a hat as easily as I can a bun; butwhat's under the hat, what the hat covers, I can't buy that! I was evenmeaning to come and apologise to you, but thought maybe you'd... But Iam forgetting to ask you, is there anything you want really? I hear yourfamily have come?"
"Yes, my mother and sister."
"I've even had the honour and happiness of meeting your sister--a highlycultivated and charming person. I confess I was sorry I got so hot withyou. There it is! But as for my looking suspiciously at your faintingfit--that affair has been cleared up splendidly! Bigotry and fanaticism!I understand your indignation. Perhaps you are changing your lodging onaccount of your family's arriving?"
"No, I only looked in... I came to ask... I thought that I should findZametov here."
"Oh, yes! Of course, you've made friends, I heard. Well, no, Zametov isnot here. Yes, we've lost Zametov. He's not been here since yesterday...he quarrelled with everyone on leaving... in the rudest way. He is afeather-headed youngster, that's all; one might have expected somethingfrom him, but there, you know what they are, our brilliant young men.He wanted to go in for some examination, but it's only to talk andboast about it, it will go no further than that. Of course it's a verydifferent matter with you or Mr. Razumihin there, your friend. Yourcareer is an intellectual one and you won't be deterred by failure. Foryou, one may say, all the attractions of life _nihil est_--you are anascetic, a monk, a hermit!... A book, a pen behind your ear, a learnedresearch--that's where your spirit soars! I am the same way myself....Have you read Livingstone's Travels?"
"No."
"Oh, I have. There are a great many Nihilists about nowadays, you know,and indeed it is not to be wondered at. What sort of days are they? Iask you. But we thought... you are not a Nihilist of course? Answer meopenly, openly!"
"N-no..."
"Believe me, you can speak openly to me as you would to yourself!Official duty is one thing but... you are thinking I meant to say_friendship_ is quite another? No, you're wrong! It's not friendship,but the feeling of a man and a citizen, the feeling of humanity and oflove for the Almighty. I may be an official, but I am always boundto feel myself a man and a citizen.... You were asking about Zametov.Zametov will make a scandal in the French style in a house of badreputation, over a glass of champagne... that's all your Zametov is goodfor! While I'm perhaps, so to speak, burning with devotion and loftyfeelings, and besides I have rank, consequence, a post! I am mar
ried andhave children, I fulfil the duties of a man and a citizen, but who ishe, may I ask? I appeal to you as a man ennobled by education... Thenthese midwives, too, have become extraordinarily numerous."
Raskolnikov raised his eyebrows inquiringly. The words of IlyaPetrovitch, who had obviously been dining, were for the most part astream of empty sounds for him. But some of them he understood. Helooked at him inquiringly, not knowing how it would end.
"I mean those crop-headed wenches," the talkative Ilya Petrovitchcontinued. "Midwives is my name for them. I think it a very satisfactoryone, ha-ha! They go to the Academy, study anatomy. If I fall ill, amI to send for a young lady to treat me? What do you say? Ha-ha!" IlyaPetrovitch laughed, quite pleased with his own wit. "It's an immoderatezeal for education, but once you're educated, that's enough. Why abuseit? Why insult honourable people, as that scoundrel Zametov does? Whydid he insult me, I ask you? Look at these suicides, too, how commonthey are, you can't fancy! People spend their last halfpenny and killthemselves, boys and girls and old people. Only this morning we heardabout a gentleman who had just come to town. Nil Pavlitch, I say, whatwas the name of that gentleman who shot himself?"
"Svidrigailov," someone answered from the other room with drowsylistlessness.
Raskolnikov started.
"Svidrigailov! Svidrigailov has shot himself!" he cried.
"What, do you know Svidrigailov?"
"Yes... I knew him.... He hadn't been here long."
"Yes, that's so. He had lost his wife, was a man of reckless habits andall of a sudden shot himself, and in such a shocking way.... He leftin his notebook a few words: that he dies in full possession of hisfaculties and that no one is to blame for his death. He had money, theysay. How did you come to know him?"
"I... was acquainted... my sister was governess in his family."
"Bah-bah-bah! Then no doubt you can tell us something about him. You hadno suspicion?"
"I saw him yesterday... he... was drinking wine; I knew nothing."
Raskolnikov felt as though something had fallen on him and was stiflinghim.
"You've turned pale again. It's so stuffy here..."
"Yes, I must go," muttered Raskolnikov. "Excuse my troubling you...."
"Oh, not at all, as often as you like. It's a pleasure to see you and Iam glad to say so."
Ilya Petrovitch held out his hand.
"I only wanted... I came to see Zametov."
"I understand, I understand, and it's a pleasure to see you."
"I... am very glad... good-bye," Raskolnikov smiled.
He went out; he reeled, he was overtaken with giddiness and did not knowwhat he was doing. He began going down the stairs, supporting himselfwith his right hand against the wall. He fancied that a porter pushedpast him on his way upstairs to the police office, that a dog inthe lower storey kept up a shrill barking and that a woman flung arolling-pin at it and shouted. He went down and out into the yard.There, not far from the entrance, stood Sonia, pale and horror-stricken.She looked wildly at him. He stood still before her. There was a look ofpoignant agony, of despair, in her face. She clasped her hands. His lipsworked in an ugly, meaningless smile. He stood still a minute, grinnedand went back to the police office.
Ilya Petrovitch had sat down and was rummaging among some papers. Beforehim stood the same peasant who had pushed by on the stairs.
"Hulloa! Back again! have you left something behind? What's the matter?"
Raskolnikov, with white lips and staring eyes, came slowly nearer.He walked right to the table, leaned his hand on it, tried to saysomething, but could not; only incoherent sounds were audible.
"You are feeling ill, a chair! Here, sit down! Some water!"
Raskolnikov dropped on to a chair, but he kept his eyes fixed on theface of Ilya Petrovitch, which expressed unpleasant surprise. Bothlooked at one another for a minute and waited. Water was brought.
"It was I..." began Raskolnikov.
"Drink some water."
Raskolnikov refused the water with his hand, and softly and brokenly,but distinctly said:
"_It was I killed the old pawnbroker woman and her sister Lizaveta withan axe and robbed them._"
Ilya Petrovitch opened his mouth. People ran up on all sides.
Raskolnikov repeated his statement.