Siberia.
On
the
banks
of
a
broad
solitary
river
stands
a town,
one
of
the
administrative
centres
of
Russia;
in
the
town
there
is
a fortress,
in
the
fortress
there
is
a prison.
In
the
prison
the
second-class convict Rodion Raskolnikov has been
confined
for
nine
months.
Almost
a
year
and
a
half
has
passed
since
his
crime.
To
the
intense
annoyance
of
those
who
maintained
this
opinion,
the
criminal
scarcely
attempted
to
defend
himself.
To
the
decisive
question
as
to
what
motive
impelled
him
to
the
murder
and
the
robbery,
he
answered
very
clearly
with
the
coarsest
frankness
that
the
cause
was
his
miserable
position,
his
poverty
and
helplessness,
and
his
desire
to
provide
for
his
first
steps
in
life
by
the
help
of
the
three
thousand
roubles
he
had
reckoned
on
finding.
He
had been led
to
the
murder
through
his
shallow
and
cowardly
nature,
exasperated
moreover
by
privation
and
failure.
To
the
question
what
led
him
to
confess,
he
answered
that
it
was
his
heartfelt repentance.
All
this
was
almost
coarse....
The
sentence however
was
more
merciful
than
could
have
been expected,
perhaps
partly
because
the
criminal had
not
tried
to
justify
himself,
but
had
rather
shown a
desire
to
exaggerate
his
guilt.
All
the
strange
and
peculiar
circumstances
of
the
crime
were
taken
into
consideration.
There
could
be
no
doubt
of
the
abnormal
and
poverty-stricken condition
of
the
criminal
at
the
time.
The
fact
that
he
had
made
no
use
of
what
he
had stolen
was
put
down
partly
to
the
effect
of
remorse, partly
to
his
abnormal
mental
condition
at
the
time
of
the
crime. Incidentally
the
murder
of
Lizaveta served
indeed
to
confirm
the
last
hypothesis: a
man
commits
two
murders
and
forgets
that
the
door
is
open! Finally,
the
confession,
at
the
very
moment
when
the
case
was
hopelessly muddled
by
the
false
evidence
given
by
Nikolay
through
melancholy
and
fanaticism,
and
when, moreover,
there
were
no
proofs
against
the
real
criminal,
no
suspicions
even
(Porfiry Petrovitch
fully
kept
his
word)—all
this
did
much
to
soften
the
sentence.
Other
circumstances, too,
in
the
prisoner's
favour
came
out
quite
unexpectedly. Razumihin somehow
discovered
and
proved
that
while
Raskolnikov
was
at
the
university
he
had
helped
a
poor
consumptive
fellow
student
and
had spent
his
last
penny
on
supporting
him
for
six
months,
and
when
this
student
died,
leaving
a
decrepit
old
father
whom
he
had
maintained
almost
from
his
thirteenth
year, Raskolnikov had got
the
old
man
into
a
hospital
and
paid
for
his
funeral
when
he
died. Raskolnikov's landlady bore witness, too,
that
when
they
had
lived
in
another
house
at
Five
Corners, Raskolnikov had
rescued
two
little
children
from
a
house
on
fire
and
was
burnt
in
doing so.
This
was
investigated
and
fairly
well
confirmed
by
many
witnesses.
These
facts
made
an
impression
in
his
favour.
And
in
the
end
the
criminal was,
in
consideration
of
extenuating
circumstances, condemned
to
penal
servitude
in
the
second
class
for
a term
of
eight
years
only.
At
the
very
beginning
of
the
trial
Raskolnikov's mother
fell
ill. Dounia
and
Razumihin found
it
possible
to
get
her
out
of
Petersburg
during
the
trial. Razumihin chose a
town
on
the
railway
not
far
from
Petersburg,
so
as
to
be
able
to
follow
every
step
of
the
trial
and
at
the
same
time
to
see
Avdotya Romanovna
as
often
as
possible. Pulcheria Alexandrovna's illness
was
a
strange
nervous
one
and
was
accompanied
by
a
partial
derangement
of
her
intellect.
When
Dounia
returned
from
her
last
interview
with
her
brother,
she
had found
her
mother
already
ill,
in
feverish
delirium.
That
evening
Razumihin
and
she
agreed
what
answers
they
must
make
to
her
mother's
questions
about
Raskolnikov
and
made
up
a complete
story
for
her
mother's benefit
of
his
having
to
go
away
to
a
distant
part
of
Russia
on
a
business
commission,
which
would
bring
him
in
the
end
money
and
reputation.
But
they
were
struck
by
the
fact
that
Pulcheria Alexandrovna
never
asked
them
anything
on
the
subject,
neither
then
nor
thereafter.
On
the
contrary,
she
had
her
own
version
of
her
son's
sudden
departure;
she
told
them
with
tears
how
he
had
come
to
say
good-bye
to
her,
hinting
that
she
alone
knew
many
mysterious
and
important
facts,
and
that
Rodya had
many
very
powerful enemies,
so
that
it
was
necessary
for
him
to
be
in
hiding.
As
for
his
future
career,
she
had
no
doubt
that
it
would
be
brilliant
when
certain
sinister
influences
could
be
removed.
She
assured Razumihin
that
her
son
would
be
one
day
a
great
statesman,
that
his
article
and
brilliant
literary
talent
proved
it.
This
article
she
was
continually
reading,
she
even
read
it
aloud,
almost
took
it
to
bed
with
her,
but
scarcely
asked
where
Rodya was,
though
the
subject
was
obviously
avoided
by
the
others,
which
might
have
been
enough
to
awaken
her
suspicions.
They
began
to
be
frightened
at
last
at
Pulcheria Alexandrovna's
strange
silence
on
certain
subjects.
She
did
not,
for
instance,
complain
of
getting
no
letters
from
him,
though
in
previous
years
she
had
only
lived
on
the
hope
of
letters
from
her
beloved Rodya.
This
was
the
cause
of
great
uneasiness
to
Dounia;
the
idea
occurred
to
her
that
her
mother suspected
that
there
was
something
terrible
in
her
son's fate
and
was
afraid
to
ask,
for
fear
of
hearing
something
still
more
awful.
In
any
case, Dounia
saw
clearly
that
her
mother
was
not
in
full
possession
of
her
faculties.
It
happened
once
or
twice, however,
that
Pulcheria Alexandrovna gave
such
a
turn
to
the
conversation
that
it
was
impossible
to
answer
her
without
mentioning
where
Rodya was,
and
on
receiving
unsatisfactory
and
suspicious
answers
she
became
at
once
gloomy
and
silent,
and
this
mood
lasted
for
a
long
time. Dounia
saw
at
last
that
it
was
hard
to
deceive
her
and
came
to
the
conclusion
that
it
was
better
to
be
absolutely
silent
on
certain
points;
but
it
became
more
and
more
evident
that
the
poor
mother suspected
something
terrible. Dounia
remembered
her
brother's telling
her
that
her
mother had overheard
her
talking
in
her
sleep
on
the
night
after
her
interview
with
Svidrigaďlov
and
before
the
fatal
day
of
the
confession: had
not
she
made
out
something
from
that? Sometimes
days
and
even
weeks
of
gloomy silence
and
tears
would
be
succeeded
by
a
period
of
hysterical
animation,
and
the
invalid
would
begin
to
talk
almost
incessantly
of
her
son,
of
her
hopes
of
his
future....
Her
fancies
were
sometimes
very
strange.
They
humoured
her, pretended
to
agree
with
her
(she
saw
perhaps
that
they
were
pretending),
but
she
still
went
on
talking.
Five
months
after
Raskolnikov's confession,
he
was
sentenced. Razumihin
and
Sonia
saw
him
in
prison
as
often
as
it
was
possible.
At
last
the
moment
of
separation
came. Dounia swore
to
her
brother
that
the
separation
should
not
be
for
ever, Razumihin
did
the
same. Razumihin,
in
his
youthful
ardour, had
firmly
resolved
to
lay
the
foundations
at
least
of
a secure
livelihood
during
the
next
three
or
four
years,
and
saving
up
a
certain
sum,
to
emigrate
to
Siberia, a
country
rich
in
every
natural
resource
and
in
need
of
workers,
active
men
and
capital.
There
they
would
settle
in
the
town
where
Rodya
was
and
all
together
would
begin
a
new
life.
They
all
wept
at
parting. Raskolnikov had been
very
dreamy
for
a
few
days
before.
He
asked
a
great
deal
about
his
mother
and
was
constantly
anxious
about
her.
He
worried
so
much
about
her
that
it
alarmed Dounia.
When
he
heard
about
his
mother's illness
he
became
very
gloomy.
With
Sonia
he
was
particularly reserved
all
the
time.
With
the
help
of
the
money
left
to
her
by
Svidrigaďlov, Sonia had
long
ago
made
her
preparations
to
follow
the
party
of
convicts
in
which
he
was
despatched
to
Siberia.
Not
a
word
passed
between
Raskolnikov
and
her
on
the
subject,
but
both
knew
it
would
be
so.
At
the
final
leave-taking
he
smiled
strangely
at
his
sister's
and
Razumihin's
fervent
anticipations
of
their
happy
future
together
when
he
should
come
out
of
prison.
He
predicted
that
their
mother's illness
would
soon
have
a
fatal
ending. Sonia
and
he
at
last
set
off.
Two
months
later Dounia
was
married
to
Razumihin.
It
was
a
quiet
and
sorrowful
wedding; Porfiry Petrovitch
and
Zossimov
were
invited however.
During
all
this
period
Razumihin wore
an
air
of
resolute
determination. Dounia
put
implicit
faith
in
his
carrying
out
his
plans
and
indeed
she
could
not
but
believe
in
him.
He
displayed a
rare
strength
of
will.
Among
other
things
he
began
attending
university
lectures
again
in
order
to
take
his
degree.
They
were
continually
making
plans
for
the
future;
both
counted
on
settling
in
Siberia
within
five
years
at
least.
Till
then
they
rested
their
hopes
on
Sonia. Pulcheria Alexandrovna
was
delighted
to
give
her
blessing
to
Dounia's
marriage
with
Razumihin;
but
after
the
marriage
she
became
even
more
melancholy
and
anxious.
To
give
her
pleasure Razumihin
told
her
how
Raskolnikov had
looked
after
the
poor
student
and
his
decrepit
father
and
how
a
year
ago
he
had been burnt
and
injured
in
rescuing
two
little
children
from
a fire.
These
two
pieces
of
news
excited Pulcheria Alexandrovna's disordered
imagination
almost
to
ecstasy.
She
was
continually
talking
about
them,
even
entering
into
conversation
with
strangers
in
the
street,
though
Dounia
always
accompanied her.
In
public conveyances
and
shops, wherever
she
could
capture a listener,
she
would
begin
the
discourse
about
her
son,
his
article,
how
he
had
helped
the
student,
how
he
had been burnt
at
the
fire,
and
so
on! Dounia
did
not
know
how
to
restrain
her.
Apart
from
the
danger
of
her
morbid
excitement,
there
was
the
risk
of
someone's recalling Raskolnikov's
name
and
speaking
of
the
recent
trial. Pulcheria Alexandrovna found
out
the
address
of
the
mother
of
the
two
children
her
son
had saved
and
insisted
on
going
to
see
her.
At
last
her
restlessness reached
an
extreme
point.
She
would
sometimes
begin
to
cry
suddenly
and
was
often
ill
and
feverishly
delirious.
One
morning
she
declared
that
by
her
reckoning
Rodya
ought
soon
to
be
home,
that
she
remembered
when
he
said good-bye
to
her
he
said
that
they
must
expect
him
back
in
nine
months.
She
began
to
prepare
for
his
coming, began
to
do
up
her
room
for
him,
to
clean
the
furniture,
to
wash
and
put
up
new
hangings
and
so
on. Dounia
was
anxious,
but
said
nothing
and
helped
her
to
arrange
the
room.
After
a
fatiguing
day
spent
in
continual
fancies,
in
joyful day-dreams
and
tears, Pulcheria Alexandrovna
was
taken
ill
in
the
night
and
by
morning
she
was
feverish
and
delirious.
It
was
brain
fever.
She
died
within
a fortnight.
In
her
delirium
she
dropped
words
which
showed
that
she
knew
a
great
deal
more
about
her
son's
terrible
fate
than
they
had supposed.
For
a
long
time Raskolnikov
did
not
know
of
his
mother's death,
though
a regular
correspondence
had been
maintained
from
the
time
he
reached Siberia.
It
was
carried
on
by
means
of
Sonia,
who
wrote
every
month
to
the
Razumihins
and
received
an
answer
with
unfailing regularity.
At
first
they
found Sonia's letters
dry
and
unsatisfactory,
but
later
on
they
came
to
the
conclusion
that
the
letters
could
not
be
better,
for
from
these
letters
they
received a complete
picture
of
their
unfortunate brother's life. Sonia's letters
were
full
of
the
most
matter-of-fact
detail,
the
simplest
and
clearest
description
of
all
Raskolnikov's surroundings
as
a convict.
There
was
no
word
of
her
own
hopes,
no
conjecture
as
to
the
future,
no
description
of
her
feelings.
Instead
of
any
attempt
to
interpret
his
state
of
mind
and
inner
life,
she
gave
the
simple
facts—that is,
his
own
words,
an
exact
account
of
his
health,
what
he
asked
for
at
their
interviews,
what
commission
he
gave
her
and
so
on.
All
these
facts
she
gave
with
extraordinary
minuteness.
The
picture
of
their
unhappy
brother
stood
out
at
last
with
great
clearness
and
precision.
There
could
be
no
mistake,
because
nothing
was
given
but
facts.
But
Dounia
and
her
husband
could
get
little
comfort
out
of
the
news, especially
at
first. Sonia wrote
that
he
was
constantly
sullen
and
not
ready
to
talk,
that
he
scarcely
seemed
interested
in
the
news
she
gave
him
from
their
letters,
that
he
sometimes
asked
after
his
mother
and
that
when,
seeing
that
he
had guessed
the
truth,
she
told
him
at
last
of
her
death,
she
was
surprised
to
find
that
he
did
not
seem
greatly
affected
by
it,
not
externally
at
any
rate.
She
told
them
that, although
he
seemed
so
wrapped
up
in
himself
and,
as
it
were,
shut
himself
off
from
everyone—he
took
a
very
direct
and
simple
view
of
his
new
life;
that
he
understood
his
position,
expected
nothing
better
for
the
time, had
no
ill-founded
hopes
(as
is
so
common
in
his
position)
and
scarcely
seemed
surprised
at
anything
in
his
surroundings,
so
unlike
anything
he
had known before.
She
wrote
that
his
health
was
satisfactory;
he
did
his
work
without
shirking
or
seeking
to
do
more;
he
was
almost
indifferent
about
food,
but
except
on
Sundays
and
holidays
the
food
was
so
bad
that
at
last
he
had been
glad
to
accept
some
money
from
her, Sonia,
to
have
his
own
tea
every
day.
He
begged
her
not
to
trouble
about
anything
else,
declaring
that
all
this
fuss
about
him
only
annoyed him. Sonia wrote
further
that
in
prison
he
shared
the
same
room
with
the
rest,
that
she
had
not
seen
the
inside
of
their
barracks,
but
concluded
that
they
were
crowded,
miserable
and
unhealthy;
that
he
slept
on
a
plank
bed
with
a
rug
under
him
and
was
unwilling
to
make
any
other
arrangement.
But
that
he
lived
so
poorly
and
roughly,
not
from
any
plan
or
design,
but
simply
from
inattention
and
indifference. Sonia wrote simply
that
he
had
at
first
shown
no
interest
in
her
visits, had
almost
been
vexed
with
her
indeed
for
coming,
unwilling
to
talk
and
rude
to
her.
But
that
in
the
end
these
visits
had
become
a
habit
and
almost
a
necessity
for
him,
so
that
he
was
positively distressed
when
she
was
ill
for
some
days
and
could
not
visit
him.
She
used
to
see
him
on
holidays
at
the
prison
gates
or
in
the
guard-room,
to
which
he
was
brought
for
a
few
minutes
to
see
her.
On
working
days
she
would
go
to
see
him
at
work
either
at
the
workshops
or
at
the
brick
kilns,
or
at
the
sheds
on
the
banks
of
the
Irtish.
About
herself, Sonia wrote
that
she
had
succeeded
in
making
some
acquaintances
in
the
town,
that
she
did
sewing, and,
as
there
was
scarcely
a dressmaker
in
the
town,
she
was
looked
upon
as
an
indispensable
person
in
many
houses.
But
she
did
not
mention
that
the
authorities
were,
through
her, interested
in
Raskolnikov;
that
his
task
was
lightened
and
so
on.
At
last
the
news
came (Dounia had
indeed
noticed
signs
of
alarm
and
uneasiness
in
the
preceding
letters)
that
he
held
aloof
from
everyone,
that
his
fellow
prisoners
did
not
like
him,
that
he
kept
silent
for
days
at
a time
and
was
becoming
very
pale.
In
the
last
letter
Sonia wrote
that
he
had been taken
very
seriously
ill
and
was
in
the
convict
ward
of
the
hospital.
Vague
and
objectless
anxiety
in
the
present,
and
in
the
future
a
continual
sacrifice
leading
to
nothing—that
was
all
that
lay
before
him.
And
what
comfort
was
it
to
him
that
at
the
end
of
eight
years
he
would
only
be
thirty-two
and
able
to
begin
a
new
life!
What
had
he
to
live
for?
What
had
he
to
look
forward to?
Why
should
he
strive?
To
live
in
order
to
exist? Why,
he
had been
ready
a
thousand
times
before
to
give
up
existence
for
the
sake
of
an
idea,
for
a hope,
even
for
a fancy.
Mere
existence
had
always
been
too
little
for
him;
he
had
always
wanted more.
Perhaps
it
was
just
because
of
the
strength
of
his
desires
that
he
had
thought
himself
a
man
to
whom
more
was
permissible
than
to
others.
And
if
only
fate
would
have
sent
him
repentance—burning
repentance
that
would
have
torn
his
heart
and
robbed
him
of
sleep,
that
repentance,
the
awful
agony
of
which
brings
visions
of
hanging
or
drowning! Oh,
he
would
have
been
glad
of
it!
Tears
and
agonies
would
at
least
have
been life.
But
he
did
not
repent
of
his
crime. "In
what
way,"
he
asked
himself, "was my
theory
stupider
than
others
that
have
swarmed
and
clashed
from
the
beginning
of
the
world?
One
has
only
to
look
at
the
thing
quite
independently, broadly,
and
uninfluenced
by
commonplace
ideas,
and
my
idea
will
by
no
means
seem
so... strange. Oh,
sceptics
and
halfpenny
philosophers,
why
do
you
halt
half-way!
It
was
only
in
that
that
he
recognised
his
criminality,
only
in
the
fact
that
he
had been unsuccessful
and
had confessed it.
He
suffered
too
from
the
question:
why
had
he
not
killed
himself?
Why
had
he
stood
looking
at
the
river
and
preferred
to
confess?
Was
the
desire
to
live
so
strong
and
was
it
so
hard
to
overcome
it? Had
not
Svidrigaďlov
overcome
it, although
he
was
afraid
of
death?
In
misery
he
asked
himself
this
question,
and
could
not
understand
that,
at
the
very
time
he
had been standing
looking
into
the
river,
he
had
perhaps
been
dimly
conscious
of
the
fundamental
falsity
in
himself
and
his
convictions.
He
didn't
understand
that
that
consciousness
might
be
the
promise
of
a
future
crisis,
of
a
new
view
of
life
and
of
his
future
resurrection.
He
preferred
to
attribute
it
to
the
dead
weight
of
instinct
which
he
could
not
step
over,
again
through
weakness
and
meanness.
He
looked
at
his
fellow
prisoners
and
was
amazed
to
see
how
they
all
loved
life
and
prized
it.
It
seemed
to
him
that
they
loved
and
valued
life
more
in
prison
than
in
freedom.
What
terrible
agonies
and
privations
some
of
them,
the
tramps
for
instance, had endured!
Could
they
care
so
much
for
a
ray
of
sunshine,
for
the
primeval
forest,
the
cold
spring
hidden
away
in
some
unseen
spot,
which
the
tramp had
marked
three
years
before,
and
longed
to
see
again,
as
he
might
to
see
his
sweetheart,
dreaming
of
the
green
grass
round
it
and
the
bird
singing
in
the
bush?
As
he
went
on
he
saw
still
more
inexplicable
examples.
In
prison,
of
course,
there
was
a
great
deal
he
did
not
see
and
did
not
want
to
see;
he
lived
as
it
were
with
downcast eyes.
It
was
loathsome
and
unbearable
for
him
to
look.
But
in
the
end
there
was
much
that
surprised
him
and
he
began,
as
it
were
involuntarily,
to
notice
much
that
he
had
not
suspected before.
What
surprised
him
most
of
all
was
the
terrible
impossible
gulf
that
lay
between
him
and
all
the
rest.
They
seemed
to
be
a
different
species,
and
he
looked
at
them
and
they
at
him
with
distrust
and
hostility.
He
felt
and
knew
the
reasons
of
his
isolation,
but
he
would
never
have
admitted
till
then
that
those
reasons
were
so
deep
and
strong.
There
were
some
Polish
exiles,
political
prisoners,
among
them.
They
simply
looked
down
upon
all
the
rest
as
ignorant
churls;
but
Raskolnikov
could
not
look
upon
them
like
that.
He
saw
that
these
ignorant
men
were
in
many
respects
far
wiser
than
the
Poles.
There
were
some
Russians
who
were
just
as
contemptuous, a
former
officer
and
two
seminarists. Raskolnikov
saw
their
mistake
as
clearly.
He
was
disliked
and
avoided
by
everyone;
they
even
began
to
hate
him
at
last—why,
he
could
not
tell. Men
who
had been
far
more
guilty
despised
and
laughed
at
his
crime. "You're a gentleman,"
they
used
to
say. "You shouldn't
hack
about
with
an
axe; that's
not
a gentleman's work."
The
second
week
in
Lent,
his
turn
came
to
take
the
sacrament
with
his
gang.
He
went
to
church
and
prayed
with
the
others. A
quarrel
broke
out
one
day,
he
did
not
know
how.
All
fell
on
him
at
once
in
a fury. "You're
an
infidel!
You
don't
believe
in
God,"
they
shouted. "You
ought
to
be
killed."
He
had
never
talked
to
them
about
God
nor
his
belief,
but
they
wanted
to
kill
him
as
an
infidel.
He
said nothing.
One
of
the
prisoners
rushed
at
him
in
a perfect frenzy. Raskolnikov
awaited
him
calmly
and
silently;
his
eyebrows
did
not
quiver,
his
face
did
not
flinch.
The
guard
succeeded
in
intervening
between
him
and
his
assailant,
or
there
would
have
been bloodshed.
He
was
in
the
hospital
from
the
middle
of
Lent
till
after
Easter.
When
he
was
better,
he
remembered
the
dreams
he
had had
while
he
was
feverish
and
delirious.
He
dreamt
that
the
whole
world
was
condemned
to
a
terrible
new
strange
plague
that
had
come
to
Europe
from
the
depths
of
Asia.
All
were
to
be
destroyed
except
a
very
few
chosen.
Some
new
sorts
of
microbes
were
attacking
the
bodies
of
men,
but
these
microbes
were
endowed
with
intelligence
and
will. Men
attacked
by
them
became
at
once
mad
and
furious.
But
never
had men
considered
themselves
so
intellectual
and
so
completely
in
possession
of
the
truth
as
these
sufferers,
never
had
they
considered
their
decisions,
their
scientific
conclusions,
their
moral
convictions
so
infallible.
Whole
villages,
whole
towns
and
peoples
went
mad
from
the
infection.
All
were
excited
and
did
not
understand
one
another.
Each
thought
that
he
alone
had
the
truth
and
was
wretched
looking
at
the
others, beat
himself
on
the
breast, wept,
and
wrung
his
hands.
They
did
not
know
how
to
judge
and
could
not
agree
what
to
consider
evil
and
what
good;
they
did
not
know
whom
to
blame,
whom
to
justify. Men
killed
each
other
in
a
sort
of
senseless spite.
They
gathered
together
in
armies
against
one
another,
but
even
on
the
march
the
armies
would
begin
attacking
each
other,
the
ranks
would
be
broken
and
the
soldiers
would
fall
on
each
other,
stabbing
and
cutting,
biting
and
devouring
each
other.
The
alarm bell
was
ringing
all
day
long
in
the
towns; men
rushed
together,
but
why
they
were
summoned
and
who
was
summoning
them
no
one
knew.
The
most
ordinary
trades
were
abandoned,
because
everyone
proposed
his
own
ideas,
his
own
improvements,
and
they
could
not
agree.
The
land
too
was
abandoned. Men met
in
groups,
agreed
on
something, swore
to
keep
together,
but
at
once
began
on
something
quite
different
from
what
they
had proposed.
They
accused
one
another,
fought
and
killed
each
other.
There
were
conflagrations
and
famine.
All
men
and
all
things
were
involved
in
destruction.
The
plague
spread
and
moved
further
and
further.
Only
a
few
men
could
be
saved
in
the
whole
world.
They
were
a
pure
chosen people,
destined
to
found a
new
race
and
a
new
life,
to
renew
and
purify
the
earth,
but
no
one
had
seen
these
men,
no
one
had
heard
their
words
and
their
voices. Raskolnikov
was
worried
that
this
senseless
dream
haunted
his
memory
so
miserably,
the
impression
of
this
feverish
delirium
persisted
so
long.
The
second
week
after
Easter
had come.
There
were
warm
bright
spring
days;
in
the
prison
ward
the
grating
windows
under
which
the
sentinel
paced
were
opened. Sonia had
only
been
able
to
visit
him
twice
during
his
illness;
each
time
she
had
to
obtain
permission,
and
it
was
difficult.
But
she
often
used
to
come
to
the
hospital
yard, especially
in
the
evening, sometimes
only
to
stand
a
minute
and
look
up
at
the
windows
of
the
ward.
One
evening,
when
he
was
almost
well
again, Raskolnikov
fell
asleep.
On
waking
up
he
chanced
to
go
to
the
window,
and
at
once
saw
Sonia
in
the
distance
at
the
hospital
gate.
She
seemed
to
be
waiting
for
someone.
Something
stabbed
him
to
the
heart
at
that
minute.
He
shuddered
and
moved
away
from
the
window.
Next
day
Sonia
did
not
come,
nor
the
day
after;
he
noticed
that
he
was
expecting
her
uneasily.
At
last
he
was
discharged.
On
reaching
the
prison
he
learnt
from
the
convicts
that
Sofya Semyonovna
was
lying
ill
at
home
and
was
unable
to
go
out.
He
was
very
uneasy
and
sent
to
inquire
after
her;
he
soon
learnt
that
her
illness
was
not
dangerous. Hearing
that
he
was
anxious
about
her, Sonia sent
him
a pencilled note, telling
him
that
she
was
much
better,
that
she
had a slight cold
and
that
she
would
soon,
very
soon
come
and
see
him
at
his
work.
His
heart
throbbed painfully
as
he
read it.
Again
it
was
a
warm
bright
day.
Early
in
the
morning,
at
six
o'clock,
he
went
off
to
work
on
the
river
bank,
where
they
used
to
pound
alabaster
and
where
there
was
a
kiln
for
baking
it
in
a shed.
There
were
only
three
of
them
sent.
One
of
the
convicts went
with
the
guard
to
the
fortress
to
fetch a tool;
the
other
began
getting
the
wood
ready
and
laying
it
in
the
kiln. Raskolnikov came
out
of
the
shed
on
to
the
river
bank, sat
down
on
a
heap
of
logs
by
the
shed
and
began gazing
at
the
wide
deserted
river.
From
the
high
bank
a
broad
landscape
opened
before
him,
the
sound
of
singing
floated
faintly
audible
from
the
other
bank.
In
the
vast
steppe,
bathed
in
sunshine,
he
could
just
see,
like
black
specks,
the
nomads' tents.
There
there
was
freedom,
there
other
men
were
living,
utterly
unlike
those
here;
there
time
itself
seemed
to
stand
still,
as
though
the
age
of
Abraham
and
his
flocks
had
not
passed. Raskolnikov sat gazing,
his
thoughts
passed
into
day-dreams,
into
contemplation;
he
thought
of
nothing,
but
a
vague
restlessness excited
and
troubled him. Suddenly
he
found Sonia
beside
him;
she
had
come
up
noiselessly
and
sat
down
at
his
side.
It
was
still
quite
early;
the
morning
chill
was
still
keen.
She
wore
her
poor
old
burnous
and
the
green
shawl;
her
face
still
showed
signs
of
illness,
it
was
thinner
and
paler.
She
gave
him
a joyful
smile
of
welcome,
but
held
out
her
hand
with
her
usual
timidity.
She
was
always
timid
of
holding
out
her
hand
to
him
and
sometimes
did
not
offer
it
at
all,
as
though
afraid
he
would
repel
it.
He
always
took
her
hand
as
though
with
repugnance,
always
seemed
vexed
to
meet
her
and
was
sometimes
obstinately
silent
throughout
her
visit. Sometimes
she
trembled
before
him
and
went
away
deeply
grieved.
But
now
their
hands
did
not
part.
He
stole
a
rapid
glance
at
her
and
dropped
his
eyes
on
the
ground
without
speaking.
They
were
alone,
no
one
had
seen
them.
The
guard
had
turned
away
for
the
time.
How
it
happened
he
did
not
know.
But
all
at
once
something
seemed
to
seize
him
and
fling
him
at
her
feet.
He
wept
and
threw
his
arms
round
her
knees.
For
the
first
instant
she
was
terribly frightened
and
she
turned
pale.
She
jumped
up
and
looked
at
him
trembling.
But
at
the
same
moment
she
understood,
and
a
light
of
infinite
happiness came
into
her
eyes.
She
knew
and
had
no
doubt
that
he
loved
her
beyond
everything
and
that
at
last
the
moment
had come....
They
wanted
to
speak,
but
could
not;
tears
stood
in
their
eyes.
They
were
both
pale
and
thin;
but
those
sick
pale
faces
were
bright
with
the
dawn
of
a
new
future,
of
a
full
resurrection
into
a
new
life.
They
were
renewed
by
love;
the
heart
of
each
held
infinite
sources
of
life
for
the
heart
of
the
other.
They
resolved
to
wait
and
be
patient.
They
had
another
seven
years
to
wait,
and
what
terrible
suffering
and
what
infinite
happiness
before
them!
But
he
had
risen
again
and
he
knew
it
and
felt
it
in
all
his
being,
while
she—she
only
lived
in
his
life.
On
the
evening
of
the
same
day,
when
the
barracks
were
locked, Raskolnikov
lay
on
his
plank
bed
and
thought
of
her.
He
had
even
fancied
that
day
that
all
the
convicts
who
had been
his
enemies
looked
at
him
differently;
he
had
even
entered
into
talk
with
them
and
they
answered
him
in
a
friendly
way.
He
remembered
that
now,
and
thought
it
was
bound
to
be
so. Wasn't everything
now
bound
to
be
changed?
Under
his
pillow
lay
the
New
Testament.
He
took
it
up
mechanically.
The
book
belonged
to
Sonia;
it
was
the
one
from
which
she
had read
the
raising
of
Lazarus
to
him.
At
first
he
was
afraid
that
she
would
worry
him
about
religion,
would
talk
about
the
gospel
and
pester
him
with
books.
But
to
his
great
surprise
she
had
not
once
approached
the
subject
and
had
not
even
offered
him
the
Testament.
He
had
asked
her
for
it
himself
not
long
before
his
illness
and
she
brought
him
the
book
without
a word.
Till
now
he
had
not
opened
it.
He
did
not
open
it
now,
but
one
thought
passed
through
his
mind: "Can
her
convictions
not
be
mine
now?
Her
feelings,
her
aspirations
at
least...."
But
that
is
the
beginning
of
a
new
story—the
story
of
the
gradual
renewal
of
a man,
the
story
of
his
gradual
regeneration,
of
his
passing
from
one
world
into
another,
of
his
initiation
into
a
new
unknown
life.
That
might
be
the
subject
of
a
new
story,
but
our
present
story
is
ended.