Crime and Punishment (66 page)

‘Brother, brother, what are you saying? You shed blood!' cried Dunya in despair.

‘Which everyone sheds,' he rejoined in a kind of frenzy, ‘which has always poured like a waterfall, which people pour like champagne, and for which they're crowned in the Capitol
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and remembered as benefactors of humanity. Look closer, you'll see! I, too, wanted to do good. I'd have done hundreds, thousands of good deeds in exchange for this single stupidity, which in any case was more cack-handedness than it was stupidity, because this whole idea was nowhere near as stupid as it now seems, in the light of failure . . . (Everything seems stupid in the light of failure!) All I wanted was to ensure my independence, to take the first step, to get what I needed and let the immeasurable benefits, relatively speaking, smooth everything over . . . But even the first step was too much for me to cope with . . . because I'm scum! And that's all there is to it! And I refuse to look at it your way: if I'd pulled it off, I'd have been crowned; instead, I'm trapped!'

‘But that's all wrong! Brother, what are you saying?'

‘The wrong form, you mean – the aesthetics aren't right! I just can't understand it: why is raining down bombs on people, during a regular siege,
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a more honourable way of doing things? Fear of aesthetics is the first sign of weakness! Never, never have I understood this as clearly as now, and never have I understood my crime less! Never, never have I been stronger and more convinced than now!'

The colour even rushed to his pale, haggard face. But as he uttered this final cry his eyes happened to meet Dunya's and there was such
torment for him in her gaze, such pain, that he came to his senses despite himself. If nothing else, he felt, he'd made these two poor women unhappy. He was the cause . . .

‘Dunya, dearest! If I'm guilty, forgive me (although if I'm guilty, I cannot be forgiven). Goodbye! Let's not argue! I can't stay a moment longer. Don't come after me, I beg you. I've another visit to make . . . Go now and be with mother. Please, I beg you! It's the last and biggest thing I ask you. Don't leave her for a moment. I've left her too worried to cope: she'll either die or go mad. Stay with her! You'll have Razumikhin with you. I told him . . . Don't weep for me: I'll try to be a man, and honest, for the rest of my life, even though I'm a murderer. One day, perhaps, you'll hear my name. I won't shame you, you'll see. I'll still prove . . . but for the time being, goodbye,' he hurriedly concluded, noticing once again a strange expression in Dunya's eyes at these final words and promises. ‘Why are you crying like that? Don't cry, don't! We're not parting forever . . . Oh yes, wait! I forgot!'

He went over to the table, picked up a fat, dusty book, opened it and took out from between its pages a small little portrait, done in watercolour on ivory. It was a portrait of the landlady's daughter, to whom he'd once been engaged and who died of fever, that same strange girl who wanted to be a nun. He spent a minute or so studying this expressive and sickly face, kissed the portrait and passed it to Dunechka.

‘You know, I talked to her a lot
about this
, to her and no one else,' he mused. ‘All those hideous things that happened later I'd already confided to her heart. Don't worry,' he said, turning to Dunya, ‘she didn't go along with it any more than you do and I'm glad she's not alive now. What really matters is that now everything will start afresh, everything will snap in two,' he suddenly cried, returning once more to his own pain, ‘everything, everything, and am I ready for that? Is that what I want? They say it's a test I have to endure! But what's the point of all these senseless tests? What? Am I really going to understand any of this any better after twenty years' hard labour, when I'm old and feeble, crushed by suffering and idiocy, than I do now? And what would I be living for then? And why am I agreeing to live like this now? Oh, I knew I was scum today, at dawn, standing there over the Neva!'

Finally, they both went out. It was hard for Dunya, but she loved
him! She set off, but, having gone some fifty paces, turned back to take one more look at him. She could still see him. Reaching the corner, he turned back, too, and their eyes met for the last time; but seeing that she was looking at him, he waved her on her way with impatience, even anger, and turned sharply around the corner.

‘I'm being spiteful, I can see it myself,' he thought a minute later, ashamed of his petulant gesture towards Dunya. ‘But why must they love me so much if I don't deserve it? Oh, if only I'd been on my own and no one had loved me and I'd never loved anyone!
None of this would have happened!
It's a curious thing, though: will these fifteen or twenty years ahead of me really humble me to such an extent that I'll go round bowing and scraping, calling myself a criminal at the first opportunity? Yes, that's exactly what'll happen! That's why they're banishing me; that's what they want from me . . . Just look at them all scurrying around, every one of them a scoundrel and a criminal by his very nature; worse – an idiot! Try not banishing me and they'll go wild with righteous indignation! Oh, how I hate them!'

One thought absorbed him: ‘What kind of process will be needed for me to end up humbling myself before them, without a single objection, with total conviction? But then, why not? That's exactly how it should be. As if twenty years beneath the yoke won't finish you off! Water wears out stone. So why live? Why? Why am I going there now, when I know myself that this is exactly how it will be, as it is writ?'

It was probably the hundredth time he'd asked himself this question since the previous evening, but he was going all the same.

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 green
drap 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 her
I'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 first
a
, the letter
a
, and look at it a month from now, at that same
a
: 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 enter
like 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?'

‘Aha! Years may pass, no sight, no sound,
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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?'