When
he
went
into
Sonia's room,
it
was
already
getting
dark.
All
day
Sonia had been
waiting
for
him
in
terrible
anxiety. Dounia had been
waiting
with
her.
She
had
come
to
her
that
morning,
remembering
Svidrigaďlov's
words
that
Sonia knew.
We
will
not
describe
the
conversation
and
tears
of
the
two
girls,
and
how
friendly
they
became. Dounia
gained
one
comfort
at
least
from
that
interview,
that
her
brother
would
not
be
alone.
He
had gone
to
her, Sonia,
first
with
his
confession;
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
and
at
first
almost
embarrassed
her
by
it. Sonia
was
almost
on
the
point
of
tears.
She
felt herself,
on
the
contrary,
hardly
worthy
to
look
at
Dounia. Dounia's
gracious
image
when
she
had
bowed
to
her
so
attentively
and
respectfully
at
their
first
meeting
in
Raskolnikov's
room
had
remained
in
her
mind
as
one
of
the
fairest
visions
of
her
life. Dounia
at
last
became
impatient
and,
leaving
Sonia, went
to
her
brother's
room
to
await
him
there;
she
kept
thinking
that
he
would
come
there
first.
When
she
had gone, Sonia began
to
be
tortured
by
the
dread
of
his
committing
suicide,
and
Dounia
too
feared
it.
But
they
had spent
the
day
trying
to
persuade
each
other
that
that
could
not
be,
and
both
were
less
anxious
while
they
were
together.
As
soon
as
they
parted,
each
thought
of
nothing
else. Sonia
remembered
how
Svidrigaďlov had said
to
her
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
to
make
him
live?"
she
thought
at
last
in
despair. Meanwhile
the
sun
was
setting. Sonia
was
standing
in
dejection,
looking
intently
out
of
the
window,
but
from
it
she
could
see
nothing
but
the
unwhitewashed
blank
wall
of
the
next
house.
At
last
when
she
began
to
feel
sure
of
his
death—he walked
into
the
room.
She
gave a
cry
of
joy,
but
looking
carefully
into
his
face
she
turned
pale. "Yes," said Raskolnikov, smiling. "I
have
come
for
your
cross, Sonia.
It
was
you
told
me
to
go
to
the
cross-roads;
why
is
it
you
are
frightened
now
it's
come
to
that?" Sonia gazed
at
him
astonished.
His
tone
seemed
strange
to
her; a cold shiver
ran
over
her,
but
in
a
moment
she
guessed
that
the
tone
and
the
words
were
a mask.
He
spoke
to
her
looking
away,
as
though
to
avoid
meeting
her
eyes. "You see, Sonia, I've decided
that
it
will
be
better
so.
There
is
one
fact....
But
it's a
long
story
and
there's
no
need
to
discuss
it.
But
do
you
know
what
angers
me?
It
annoys
me
that
all
those
stupid
brutish faces
will
be
gaping
at
me
directly,
pestering
me
with
their
stupid
questions,
which
I
shall
have
to
answer—they'll
point
their
fingers
at
me.... Tfoo!
You
know
I
am
not
going
to
Porfiry, I
am
sick
of
him. I'd
rather
go
to
my friend,
the
Explosive
Lieutenant;
how
I
shall
surprise
him,
what
a
sensation
I
shall
make!
But
I
must
be
cooler; I've
become
too
irritable
of
late.
You
know
I
was
nearly shaking my
fist
at
my
sister
just
now,
because
she
turned
to
take
a
last
look
at
me. It's a
brutal
state
to
be
in! Ah!
what
am
I coming to! Well,
where
are
the
crosses?"
He
seemed
hardly
to
know
what
he
was
doing.
He
could
not
stay
still
or
concentrate
his
attention
on
anything;
his
ideas
seemed
to
gallop
after
one
another,
he
talked incoherently,
his
hands
trembled
slightly.
Without
a
word
Sonia
took
out
of
the
drawer
two
crosses,
one
of
cypress
wood
and
one
of
copper.
She
made
the
sign
of
the
cross
over
herself
and
over
him,
and
put
the
wooden
cross
on
his
neck. "It's
the
symbol
of
my
taking
up
the
cross,"
he
laughed. "As
though
I had
not
suffered
much
till
now!
The
wooden
cross,
that
is
the
peasant
one;
the
copper
one,
that
is
Lizaveta's—you
will
wear yourself,
show
me!
So
she
had
it
on...
at
that
moment? I
remember
two
things
like
these
too, a
silver
one
and
a
little
ikon. I threw
them
back
on
the
old
woman's neck.
Those
would
be
appropriate
now, really,
those
are
what
I
ought
to
put
on
now....
But
I
am
talking
nonsense
and
forgetting
what
matters; 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.
But
I
thought
I had
more
to
say.
You
wanted
me
to
go
yourself. Well,
now
I
am
going
to
prison
and
you'll
have
your
wish. Well,
what
are
you
crying
for?
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. "Why
is
she
grieving too?"
he
thought
to
himself. "What
am
I
to
her?
Why
does
she
weep?
Why
is
she
looking
after
me,
like
my mother
or
Dounia? She'll
be
my nurse." "Cross yourself,
say
at
least
one
prayer," Sonia
begged
in
a
timid
broken
voice. "Oh certainly,
as
much
as
you
like!
And
sincerely, Sonia, sincerely...."
But
he
wanted
to
say
something
quite
different. "What
are
you
doing?
Where
are
you
going? Stay here, stay! I'll
go
alone,"
he
cried
in
cowardly
vexation,
and
almost
resentful,
he
moved
towards
the
door. "What's
the
use
of
going
in
procession?"
he
muttered
going out. Sonia
remained
standing
in
the
middle
of
the
room.
He
had
not
even
said good-bye
to
her;
he
had forgotten her. A
poignant
and
rebellious
doubt
surged
in
his
heart. "Was
it
right,
was
it
right,
all
this?"
he
thought
again
as
he
went
down
the
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
ask
himself
questions.
As
he
turned
into
the
street
he
remembered
that
he
had
not
said good-bye
to
Sonia,
that
he
had left
her
in
the
middle
of
the
room
in
her
green
shawl,
not
daring
to
stir
after
he
had shouted
at
her,
and
he
stopped
short
for
a moment.
At
the
same
instant,
another
thought
dawned
upon
him,
as
though
it
had been lying
in
wait
to
strike
him
then.
He
walked
along
the
canal
bank,
and
he
had
not
much
further
to
go.
But
on
reaching
the
bridge
he
stopped
and
turning
out
of
his
way
along
it
went
to
the
Hay
Market. "God
bless
you,"
the
beggar
chanted
in
a
lachrymose
voice.
He
went
into
the
Hay
Market.
It
was
distasteful,
very
distasteful
to
be
in
a crowd,
but
he
walked
just
where
he
saw
most
people.
He
would
have
given
anything
in
the
world
to
be
alone;
but
he
knew
himself
that
he
would
not
have
remained
alone
for
a moment.
There
was
a
man
drunk
and
disorderly
in
the
crowd;
he
kept trying
to
dance
and
falling down.
There
was
a ring round him. Raskolnikov squeezed
his
way
through
the
crowd, stared
for
some
minutes
at
the
drunken
man
and
suddenly gave a
short
jerky
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
he
was;
but
when
he
got
into
the
middle
of
the
square
an
emotion
suddenly came
over
him,
overwhelming
him
body
and
mind.
He
suddenly recalled Sonia's words, "Go
to
the
cross-roads,
bow
down
to
the
people,
kiss
the
earth,
for
you
have
sinned
against
it
too,
and
say
aloud
to
the
whole
world, 'I
am
a murderer.'"
He
trembled,
remembering
that.
And
the
hopeless
misery
and
anxiety
of
all
that
time, especially
of
the
last
hours, had
weighed
so
heavily
upon
him
that
he
positively clutched
at
the
chance
of
this
new
unmixed, complete sensation.
It
came
over
him
like
a fit;
it
was
like
a single spark
kindled
in
his
soul
and
spreading
fire
through
him. Everything
in
him
softened
at
once
and
the
tears
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,
and
kissed
that
filthy
earth
with
bliss
and
rapture.
He
got
up
and
bowed
down
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
children
and
his
country. He's
bowing
down
to
all
the
world
and
kissing
the
great
city
of
St. Petersburg
and
its
pavement," added a
workman
who
was
a
little
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
am
a murderer,"
which
were
perhaps
on
the
point
of
dropping
from
his
lips,
died
away.
He
bore
these
remarks quietly, however, and,
without
looking
round,
he
turned
down
a
street
leading
to
the
police
office.
He
had a
glimpse
of
something
on
the
way
which
did
not
surprise
him;
he
had felt
that
it
must
be
so.
The
second
time
he
bowed
down
in
the
Hay
Market
he
saw, standing
fifty
paces
from
him
on
the
left, Sonia.
She
was
hiding
from
him
behind
one
of
the
wooden
shanties
in
the
market-place.
She
had
followed
him
then
on
his
painful way! Raskolnikov
at
that
moment
felt
and
knew
once
for
all
that
Sonia
was
with
him
for
ever
and
would
follow
him
to
the
ends
of
the
earth, wherever fate
might
take
him.
It
wrung
his
heart...
but
he
was
just
reaching
the
fatal
place.
He
went
into
the
yard
fairly
resolutely.
He
had
to
mount
to
the
third
storey. "I
shall
be
some
time going up,"
he
thought.
He
felt
as
though
the
fateful
moment
was
still
far
off,
as
though
he
had
plenty
of
time left
for
consideration.
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
a peasant.
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
was
settling
himself
at
a
bureau
to
write.
In
a
corner
another
clerk
was
seating
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
the
Russian...
how
does
it
go
on
in
the
fairy
tale... I've forgotten! 'At
your
service!'" a
familiar
voice cried suddenly. Raskolnikov shuddered.
The
Explosive
Lieutenant
stood
before
him.
He
had
just
come
in
from
the
third
room. "It
is
the
hand
of
fate,"
thought
Raskolnikov. "Why
is
he
here?" "You've
come
to
see
us?
What
about?" cried Ilya Petrovitch.
He
was
obviously
in
an
exceedingly
good
humour
and
perhaps
a trifle exhilarated. "If it's
on
business
you
are
rather
early.[*] It's
only
a
chance
that
I
am
here... however I'll
do
what
I can. I
must
admit, I...
what
is
it,
what
is
it?
Excuse
me...." "Raskolnikov." "Of course, Raskolnikov.
You
didn't
imagine
I'd forgotten? Don't
think
I
am
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. I
made
many
inquiries
about
you. I
assure
you
I've been
genuinely
grieved
since
that...
since
I
behaved
like
that...
it
was
explained
to
me
afterwards
that
you
were
a
literary
man...
and
a learned
one
too...
and
so
to
say
the
first
steps...
Mercy
on
us!
What
literary
or
scientific
man
does
not
begin
by
some
originality
of
conduct! My
wife
and
I
have
the
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
be
gained
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;
but
what's
under
the
hat,
what
the
hat
covers, I can't
buy
that! I
was
even
meaning
to
come
and
apologise
to
you,
but
thought
maybe you'd...
But
I
am
forgetting
to
ask
you,
is
there
anything
you
want
really? I
hear
your
family
have
come?" "Yes, my mother
and
sister." "I've
even
had
the
honour
and
happiness
of
meeting
your
sister—a
highly
cultivated
and
charming person. I
confess
I
was
sorry
I got
so
hot
with
you.
There
it
is!
But
as
for
my
looking
suspiciously
at
your
fainting
fit—that
affair
has been cleared
up
splendidly!
Bigotry
and
fanaticism! I
understand
your
indignation.
Perhaps
you
are
changing
your
lodging
on
account
of
your
family's arriving?" "No, I
only
looked
in... I came
to
ask... I
thought
that
I
should
find Zametov here." "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? I
ask
you.
But
we
thought...
you
are
not
a
Nihilist
of
course?
Answer
me
openly, openly!" "N-no..." Raskolnikov
raised
his
eyebrows
inquiringly.
The
words
of
Ilya Petrovitch,
who
had
obviously
been dining,
were
for
the
most
part
a
stream
of
empty
sounds
for
him.
But
some
of
them
he
understood.
He
looked
at
him
inquiringly,
not
knowing
how
it
would
end. "I
mean
those
crop-headed wenches,"
the
talkative
Ilya Petrovitch continued. "Midwives
is
my
name
for
them. I
think
it
a
very
satisfactory
one, ha-ha!
They
go
to
the
Academy,
study
anatomy.
If
I
fall
ill,
am
I
to
send
for
a
young
lady
to
treat me?
What
do
you
say? Ha-ha!" Ilya Petrovitch laughed,
quite
pleased
with
his
own
wit. "It's
an
immoderate
zeal
for
education,
but
once
you're educated, that's enough.
Why
abuse
it?
Why
insult
honourable
people,
as
that
scoundrel
Zametov does?
Why
did
he
insult
me, I
ask
you?
Look
at
these
suicides, too,
how
common
they
are,
you
can't fancy!
People
spend
their
last
halfpenny
and
kill themselves,
boys
and
girls
and
old
people.
Only
this
morning
we
heard
about
a gentleman
who
had
just
come
to
town.
Nil
Pavlitch, I say,
what
was
the
name
of
that
gentleman
who
shot
himself?" "Svidrigaďlov," someone
answered
from
the
other
room
with
drowsy
listlessness. Raskolnikov started. "Svidrigaďlov! Svidrigaďlov has
shot
himself!"
he
cried. "What,
do
you
know
Svidrigaďlov?" "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
and
all
of
a
sudden
shot
himself,
and
in
such
a
shocking
way....
He
left
in
his
notebook a
few
words:
that
he
dies
in
full
possession
of
his
faculties
and
that
no
one
is
to
blame
for
his
death.
He
had money,
they
say.
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
had
no
suspicion?" "I
saw
him
yesterday... he...
was
drinking wine; I
knew
nothing." Raskolnikov felt
as
though
something
had fallen
on
him
and
was
stifling
him. "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
I
am
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
know
what
he
was
doing.
He
began going
down
the
stairs, supporting
himself
with
his
right
hand
against
the
wall.
He
fancied
that
a porter
pushed
past
him
on
his
way
upstairs
to
the
police
office,
that
a
dog
in
the
lower
storey kept
up
a shrill
barking
and
that
a
woman
flung a rolling-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
of
poignant
agony,
of
despair,
in
her
face.
She
clasped
her
hands.
His
lips
worked
in
an
ugly, meaningless smile.
He
stood
still
a minute, grinned
and
went
back
to
the
police
office. Ilya Petrovitch had sat
down
and
was
rummaging
among
some
papers.
Before
him
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
say
something,
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
the
face
of
Ilya Petrovitch,
which
expressed unpleasant surprise.
Both
looked
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: Ilya Petrovitch
opened
his
mouth.
People
ran
up
on
all
sides. Raskolnikov repeated
his
statement.