Crime and Punishment

by Fyodor Dostoyevsky

  'Father! These are nothing but words! "Forgive!" Take today - he'd have come home drunk if he hadn't been trampled, wearing the only shirt he's got, all tattered and worn, and he'd be sound asleep two minutes later, while I'd be slopping about till dawn, washing his rags and the children's, then drying them out by the window, and at first light I'd be sitting down to mend them - so much for my night! . . . What's forgiveness got to do with it? Haven't I forgiven him enough?'

  A terrible cough from deep in her chest cut her short. She spat everything into her handkerchief and held it out for the priest to see, clutching her chest with her other hand. The handkerchief was all red with blood . . .

  The priest hung his head and said nothing.

  Marmeladov was in the final throes. He kept his eyes fixed on Katerina Ivanovna's face as she bent over him once more. He was trying to tell her something. He made a start, working his tongue with difficulty and mumbling a word or two, but Katerina Ivanovna, realizing he was about to ask her forgiveness, instantly shouted him down:

  'Shut up! Just don't! . . . I know what you want to say!' - and he fell silent; but at that same moment his wandering gaze fell on the doorway and he saw Sonya . . .

  He hadn't noticed her before; she was standing in a corner, in the shadows.

  'Who's that? Who's that?' he suddenly said in a hoarse gasp, panicking and indicating with horror-filled eyes the doorway where his daughter was standing, and straining to lift himself up.

  'Lie down! Lie down, I say!' shouted Katerina Ivanovna.

  But somehow, making an unnatural effort, he managed to prop himself up on one arm. For a while he looked wildly and fixedly at his daughter, as if unsure who she was. This was the first time, after all, that he'd seen her in such an outfit. Then suddenly he recognized her: abject, crushed, dressed up and ashamed, meekly waiting her turn to say farewell to her dying father. His face expressed infinite suffering.

  'Sonya! Daughter! Forgive!' he cried and was about to stretch out his hand towards her but, losing his balance, tumbled from the couch face down onto the floor: he was quickly picked up and put back, but he was already slipping away. Sonya gave a weak cry, ran up, embraced him and froze in that embrace. He died in her arms.

  'Well, he's done it this time!' shouted Katerina Ivanovna, seeing her husband's corpse. 'Now what? How will I bury him? And how will I feed this lot tomorrow?'

  Raskolnikov walked over to her.

  'Katerina Ivanovna,' he began, 'last week the deceased, your husband, told me the story of his whole life, in every detail . . . Rest assured that he spoke of you with the most exalted respect. Ever since that evening, when I learned how devoted he was to you all, and, in particular, how much he respected and loved you, Katerina Ivanovna, despite his unfortunate weakness, ever since then we've been friends . . . So permit me now . . . to assist . . . as a way of returning my debt to my late friend. Here . . . twenty roubles, I believe - and if this can be of any help to you, then . . . I . . . in a word, I'll be back - for sure . . . perhaps I'll come by tomorrow . . . Goodbye!'

  With that he hurried out of the room, squeezing through the crowd to the stairs; but in the crowd he suddenly came face to face with Nikodim Fomich, who'd heard about the misfortune and wanted to take charge of the situation in person. They hadn't met since the scene at the bureau, but the district superintendent recognized him at once.

  'Ah, it's you?' he asked.

  'Dead,' replied Raskolnikov. 'The doctor came, the priest came, everything's fine. Don't trouble this poor, poor woman, she's consumptive as it is. Cheer her up, if you can . . . You're a kind sort, after all . . . ,' he added with a smirk, looking straight into his eyes.

  'But look at you - you're soaked in blood,' Nikodim Fomich observed, noticing in the light of the lantern several fresh stains on Raskolnikov's waistcoat.

  'Yes, I'm soaked . . . all red with blood!' Raskolnikov said with a peculiar air, then smiled, nodded and set off down the stairs.

  He went down in no great hurry, feeling feverish all over and, though unaware of it, filled by a new, boundless sensation of life surging over him suddenly in all its strength. This sensation might have been compared to that of a man sentenced to death who's been granted a sudden and unexpected pardon. The priest, who was on his way home, caught up with him halfway down the stairs. Raskolnikov let him pass, exchanging a silent bow. But then, having almost reached the bottom, he suddenly heard rapid footsteps behind him. Someone was hurrying after him. It was Polenka. She was running and calling out to him, 'Wait! Wait!'

  He turned round. She was running down the last flight and stopped right in front of him, one step above him. A dull light seeped in from outside. Raskolnikov made out the girl's thin sweet face smiling at him, looking at him with childish cheerfulness. She was clearly delighted to have been entrusted with this task.

  'Wait, what's your name? . . . Oh yes, and where do you live?' she asked in a breathless little voice.

  He laid both hands on her shoulders and gazed at her with a kind of happiness. It felt so nice to look at her - he himself didn't know why.

  'So who sent you?'

  'Sister Sonya sent me,' the girl replied, smiling even more cheerfully.

  'I thought it must have been sister Sonya.'

  'Mama sent me, too. When sister Sonya was telling me, Mama also came and said, "Quick as you can, Polenka!"'

  'Do you love sister Sonya?'

  'I love her more than anyone!' said Polenka with particular certainty, and her smile suddenly became more serious.

  'And will you love me?'

  Instead of a reply he saw the girl's little face coming towards him and her chubby little lips guilelessly puckering out to kiss him. Suddenly she hugged him tight in her matchstick arms, rested her head on his shoulder and sobbed softly, pressing her face tighter and tighter against him.

  'I feel sorry for Daddy!' she said a minute later, lifting her wet face and wiping away the tears with her hands. 'It's one bad thing after another at the moment,' she added unexpectedly, with that particular air of gravity which children always try to assume when they suddenly want to speak 'like grown-ups'.

  'And did Daddy love you?'

  'He loved Lidochka best of all,' she continued, very seriously and unsmilingly, just like grown-ups speak, 'because she's little and because she's sick, and he always used to give her sweets, and he taught us to read, and taught me grammar and scripture,' she added with pride, 'and Mummy didn't say anything, but we could tell she liked it, and Daddy could, too, and Mummy wants to teach me French, because it's time for me now to receive my education.'

  'What about praying - can you do that?'

  'Oh, of course we can - since forever! I pray on my own as I'm big already, and Kolya and Lidochka pray aloud with Mummy. First they say "Hail Mary" and then another prayer, "Lord, forgive and bless sister Sonya", and then another, "Lord, forgive and bless our other daddy", because our older daddy has already died, and this one's our second, so we pray for the other one, too.'

  'Polechka, my name's Rodion. Pray for me, too, sometimes; "and your servant Rodion" - nothing else.'

  'I'll pray for you every day of my life,' said the girl ardently and suddenly burst out laughing again, threw herself on his neck and hugged him once more.

  Raskolnikov told her his name, gave his address and promised to come by the very next day without fail. The little girl left, completely entranced. It was gone ten when he stepped outside. Five minutes later he was standing on the bridge, on exactly the same spot from which the woman had thrown herself earlier.

  'Enough!' he uttered decisively and solemnly. 'No more mirages! No more false fears! No more phantoms! . . . There is life! Wasn't I alive just now? So my life hasn't died yet together with the old hag! May you see the kingdom of heaven - and that's your lot, old mother, your time's up! Now for the kingdom of reason and light and . . . and will, and strength . . . and now we'll see! Now we'll see how we measure up!' he added haughtily, as though addressing and challengi
ng some force of darkness. 'Haven't I already agreed to live on one square yard?

  '... I'm very feeble now, but . . . my sickness seems to have passed completely. I knew it would when I went out earlier. Hang on: Pochinkov's house, it's a stone's throw away. Yes, I must go to Razumikhin, even if it's more than a stone's throw . . . Let him win his bet! . . . Let him have his fun . . . So what! . . . Strength is what's needed, strength: you won't get anywhere without it. And you can only win strength with strength - that's what they're missing,' he added with arrogant pride and, scarcely able to place one foot in front of the other, left the bridge behind him. His pride and self-confidence were growing by the minute; and a minute was all it took for him to become a different man. What on earth could have happened to bring about such a change? He himself did not know; like a man clutching at a straw, he'd suddenly felt that 'even for me there is life, and life goes on, and my life hasn't died yet together with the old hag.' His conclusion was too hasty, perhaps, but he had other things to worry about.

  'Still, I did request a mention for your servant Rodion' - suddenly flashed through his mind - 'but that's . . . just in case!' he added, before immediately laughing at his own childish sally. He was in a quite splendid mood.

  Finding Razumikhin proved easy enough. The new tenant was already a familiar face at Pochinkov's house and the caretaker immediately pointed Raskolnikov in the right direction. Even halfway up the stairs there was no mistaking the noise and animation of a large gathering. The door to the stairs was wide open; he could hear shouting and arguing. Razumikhin's room was fairly big and some fifteen people had gathered. Raskolnikov stopped in the entrance hall. Behind a partition two of the landlord's maids were busy with two large samovars, bottles, plates and dishes bearing a pie and some hors d'oeuvres brought from the landlady's kitchen. Raskolnikov asked for Razumikhin, who rushed over in the greatest excitement. One glance at him was enough to see that he'd put away a quite phenomenal amount, and though Razumikhin hardly ever managed to drink enough to get drunk, this time the signs were there.

  'Listen,' Raskolnikov rushed, 'I've just come to say that you've won the bet and that it really is true that no one knows what the future holds for them. I can't come in. I'm so weak I'm about to collapse. So hello and goodbye! Come and see me tomorrow . . .'

  'Know what? I'll walk you home! If even you admit that you're weak . . .'

  'What about your guests? Who's the one with the curly hair who just poked his head round?'

  'Him? Damned if I know! Must be a mate of my uncle's, or maybe he just turned up . . . I'll leave my uncle with them, he's a priceless man. Shame you can't meet him. But to hell with them all anyway! They're doing fine without me and I could do with some fresh air - so you've come in the nick of time: another minute or two and I'd have picked a fight in there! Chronic fibbers, the lot of them . . . You've no idea how deep a man can sink in lies! Though actually, why shouldn't you? Don't we lie often enough? So let's leave them to it: lie now, and they won't lie later . . . Hang on a minute, I'll go and get Zosimov.'

  Zosimov fell upon Raskolnikov almost hungrily; there was some special curiosity in him; soon his face brightened.

  'Straight to bed,' he decided, after examining the patient as best he could, 'and take one of these for the night. Agreed? I prepared it earlier . . . just a little powder.'

  'Fine by me,' replied Raskolnikov.

  He took the powder there and then.

  'A very good thing you're going with him,' Zosimov remarked to Razumikhin. 'We'll have to see what tomorrow will bring, but today's not been bad at all: a significant change for the better. You learn something new every day . . .'

  'Know what Zosimov whispered to me just now when we were leaving?' Razumikhin blurted out as soon as they were outside. 'I'll be straight with you about everything, brother, seeing as they're all idiots. Zosimov told me to chat to you on the way and get you talking, too, and then tell him, because he's got a notion . . . that you're . . . mad or near enough mad. Can you imagine? First of all, you're three times cleverer than him. Secondly, if you're not crazy why should you care less about his wild ideas? And thirdly, this lump of meat - a surgeon by trade - has gone crazy about mental illness, and your chat with Zametov today made up his mind about you for good.'

  'Zametov told you everything?'

  'The whole lot, and a good thing too. Now I know all the ins and outs, and so does Zametov . . . Well, to cut a long story short, Rodya . . . The thing is . . . I'm a bit tipsy right now . . . But never mind . . . The thing is, this notion . . . You know? Well, it really is pecking away at them . . . I mean, none of them dare come straight out with it, 'cause it's such raving nonsense, and then, once that painter was brought in it all went up in smoke. But why do they have to be so stupid? I smacked Zametov around a bit at the time - that's between ourselves, brother, and please don't let on. I've noticed he's touchy. It happened at Laviza's - but today, today everything became clear. That Ilya Petrovich, he's the key! He took advantage of you fainting in the bureau that time, and even felt ashamed about it later; I know the whole story . . .'

  Raskolnikov was all ears. Razumikhin was drunk and saying more than he should.

  'The reason I fainted that time was the stuffiness and the smell of oil paint,' said Raskolnikov.

  'As if you need to explain! It wasn't just the paint: you'd had an inflammation developing all month. Ask Zosimov! And what about that kid Zametov - he's simply mortified! "I'm not worth that man's little finger!" he says. Your little finger, he means. He has his kinder moments, you know. But what a lesson he was given today in the "Crystal Palace" - the peak of perfection! What a fright you gave him - turned him into a quivering wreck! You almost had him believing all that hideous nonsense again, then suddenly stuck out your tongue as if to say, "Ha! Fooled you!" Perfection! Now he's crushed, destroyed! You're a genius, damn it - that's the only way to show 'em. If only I'd been there! He was desperate for you to come just now. Porfiry also wants to meet you . . .'

  'Ah . . . him as well . . . But why have they decided I'm mad?'

  'Not mad exactly. I've been talking too much, brother . . . What struck them, you see, was that you only care about this one point (but now it's clear why, given the circumstances) . . . and how annoyed you got at the time and how it all got mixed up with your illness . . . I'm a bit tipsy, brother, but he's got this notion . . . I'm telling you, he's gone crazy about mental illness. Just ignore him . . .'

  Both fell silent for half a minute or so.

  'Listen, Razumikhin,' Raskolnikov began, 'I'll be straight with you: I've just come from a death, a civil servant . . . I gave away all my money there . . . and, what's more, I was kissed just now by a creature who, even if I really had killed someone, would also . . . to cut it short, I saw another creature there, too . . . with a feather the colour of fire . . . actually, I'm lying through my teeth. I'm very weak - help me . . . here are the stairs . . .'

  'What's wrong with you? What is it?' asked Razumikhin in alarm.

  'My head's started spinning, but never mind. I just feel so sad, so terribly sad! Like a woman . . . I mean it! Look, what's that? Look! Look!'

  'What?'

  'Can't you see? A light in my room, see? Through the crack . . .'

  They were already at the bottom of the last flight of stairs, by the landlady's kitchen, and a light in Raskolnikov's garret really was visible from below.

  'How strange! Might be Nastasya,' said Razumikhin.

  'She's never in my room at this hour, and anyway she'll be fast asleep by now. But . . . what do I care? Goodbye!'

  'Are you joking? I'll go with you - we'll go in together!'

  'I know we'll go in together, but I feel like shaking your hand and saying goodbye to you here. Well, give me your hand, then, and goodbye!'

  'What's wrong, Rodya?'

  'Nothing. Let's go. You'll be the witness . . .'

  They started climbing the stairs, and the thought flashed through Razumikhin's mind that perhaps Z
osimov was right after all. 'I've gone and upset him with all my talk!' he muttered to himself. Suddenly, approaching the door, they heard voices in the room.

  'What on earth's going on here?' cried Razumikhin.

  Raskolnikov got to the handle first, flung open the door and stood rooted to the threshold.

  His mother and sister were sitting on his couch and had already been waiting for an hour and a half. Why had he not been expecting them? Why had he not even been thinking about them, despite the reports, confirmed only today, that they were leaving, that they were on their way, arriving any moment? For an hour and a half now they'd been vying with one another to interrogate Nastasya, who was still standing there before them, having already filled them in on everything. They were beside themselves with worry on hearing that he 'ran off today' while sick and, by all accounts, delirious! 'God, what's the matter with him?' Both had been crying; both had suffered all the agonies of the cross during this one-and-a-half hour wait.

  A joyful, ecstatic cry greeted Raskolnikov's appearance. Both women threw themselves upon him. But he was more dead than alive; an awareness of something struck him like thunder, with sudden, excruciating force. He couldn't even lift his arms to embrace them: they wouldn't move. Mother and sister smothered him in embraces, kissed him, laughed, cried . . . He took one step forward, swayed and crashed to the floor in a faint.

  Alarm, cries of horror, groans . . . Razumikhin, who'd been standing on the threshold, flew into the room, grabbed the sick man in his mighty arms and laid him out on the couch a second later.

  'It's nothing, nothing!' he shouted to the women. 'He just fainted, that's all! The doctor said just now that he's so much better, that he's right as rain! Some water please! See, he's already coming round. See, he's already come to!'

  And grabbing Dunechka's hand so hard he almost twisted it, he made her bend over to see for herself that 'he's already come to'. Both mother and sister looked at Razumikhin as if he were Providence itself, with tenderness and gratitude; they'd already heard from Nastasya what this man had done for their Rodya throughout his sickness - this 'competent young man', as he'd been called that evening, in private conversation with Dunya, by Pulkheria Alexandrovna Raskolnikova herself.