Crime and Punishment (92 page)

Sonya remained in the middle of the room. He had not even said goodbye to her, he had already forgotten her; a single gnawing and rebellious doubt seethed within his soul.

‘But is this really right, is this the right thing to do?’ he found himself thinking as he went down the stairs. ‘Can I really not still call it all off and make amends for everything… and not go?’

But even so, he went. He had suddenly felt once and for all that there was no point in asking any questions. As he emerged on to the street, he remembered that he had not said goodbye to Sonya, that she was still standing in the middle of the room wearing her green shawl, not daring to move a limb because of the way he had shouted; and he paused for an instant. In that split second a certain thought flooded him with brilliant light – as though it had been waiting to finally overwhelm him.

‘Why, why did I come and see her just now? I told her it was on business; what business? There was no business involved whatsoever! To tell her I was
going
; what of it? A fine sort of pretext that was! What was it then – do I love her? I don't really, do I? I mean, I chased her away just now as if she were a dog. What about those crucifixes – did I really want them from her? Oh, how low I've fallen! No – it was her tears I wanted, I wanted to see her fright, to watch her heart ache and torment itself! I needed to have something to catch on to, I wanted to play for time, to watch another human being! And I dared to have that kind of self-confidence, those kind of dreams about myself, beggar that I am, nonentity that I am, villain, villain!’

He was walking along the embankment of the Canal, and had not much further to go. When he reached the bridge, however, he paused and suddenly set off across it, breaking his route, and made his way up to the Haymarket.

Greedily he looked around him, to right and to left, scrutinizing each object intensely and unable to focus his attention on
anything; it was all slipping away. ‘In just a week or a month I'll be carted off somewhere on one of those convict transports, and how will I see this canal then – will I remember this?’ flashed through his head. ‘Take this sign here, how will I read these same letters then? Look, they've spelt it “Campany”, well, let me remember that
a
, that letter
a
, and look at it in a month's time, that very same
a
; how will I look at it then? What will I be feeling and thinking?… Oh God, how base they will all seem, all these present… concerns of mine! Of course they'll seem curious… in their own way… (ha-ha-ha! what am I thinking of?) I'm turning into a child, boasting to myself; but why am I telling myself off? Ugh, how they shove! Look at that fat fellow – he must be a German – who shoved me just now; well, does he know whom he shoved? There's a woman with a baby, begging for alms, it's interesting that she should think I'm more fortunate than herself. All right then, I'll give her something, just for amusement's sake. I say, I still have a five-copeck piece in my pocket, where did that come from? Here you are, here you are… take that, little mother!’

‘May God preserve you, sir!’ the voice of the beggarwoman said in the tone of a lament.

He entered the Haymarket. He found it unpleasant, very unpleasant to rub shoulders with people, but he had purposely gone to the place where he would see the greatest number of them. He would have given the whole world to be alone; but he himself sensed that not for one moment would he be on his own. In the crowd a drunk man was causing a disturbance: he kept trying to dance, but collapsed to the ground. He was surrounded by a ring of people. Raskolnikov forced his way through the crowd, looked at the drunk man for a few moments and then suddenly gave a curt and abrupt laugh. A moment later he had already forgotten about him, did not even see him, even though he was looking at him. At last he moved away, not even conscious of where he was; but when he reached the centre of the square he was suddenly overtaken by a spasm, a single sensation that mastered him straight away, seized hold of him entirely – both in mind and in body.

He had suddenly recalled Sonya's words: ‘Go up to the crossroads,
bow to the people, kiss the earth, because you have sinned against it too, and tell the whole world out loud: “I'm a murderer!”’ In remembering them, he had begun to tremble all over. And such a crushing weight did he now carry from the hopeless despair and anxiety of all this recent time, and especially of the last few hours, that he fairly leapt at the chance of this pure, new, complete sensation. It suddenly hit him like an epileptic seizure: a single spark began to glow within his soul, and suddenly it engulfed everything, like fire. Everything in him instantly grew soft, and the tears came spurting out. He fell to the ground where he stood…

He kneeled in the middle of the square, bowed down to the earth and kissed that dirty earth, with pleasure and happiness. He got up and bowed down a second time.

‘My God, that chap's had a few!’ a young lad beside him observed.

There was a burst of laughter.

‘What it is, lads, is that he's off to Jerusalem with all his kids, and he's saying goodbye to his motherland, bowing to one and all, kissing the capital city of St Petersburg and its foundations,’ a slightly drunken artisan supplied.

‘He's still a young lad, too!’

‘A gent by the looks of it!’ someone observed in a sagacious voice.

‘You don't know who's a gent and who isn't these days.’

All these comments and arguments had an inhibiting effect on Raskolnikov, and the words ‘I've committed a murder’, which had possibly been about to escape from his lips, died within him. He calmly endured all these shouts, however, and, without looking round, walked straight down the lane in the direction of the police bureau. A certain vision floated before him as he went, but it caused him no astonishment; he had already had a premonition that this was how it was going to be. As, on the Haymarket, he had bowed to the ground for the second time, turning round to the left, some fifty paces away from him, he had seen Sonya. She had been hiding from him behind one of the wooden huts on the square; so she had observed the whole of his
via dolorosa
! Raskolnikov felt and
understood at that moment, once and for all, that Sonya was now with him for ever and would follow him even to the ends of the earth, wherever his fate might decree. His heart turned over… but – here he was, he had reached the fateful spot…

He entered the courtyard in fairly good spirits. It was necessary to go up to the third floor. ‘It'll take me a while to get up there,’ he thought. On the whole it seemed to him that the fateful moment was still a long way off, that he still had a lot of time left, that there was still plenty of room for reflection.

Again the same sweepings, the same eggshells on the spiral staircase, again the doors of the apartments wide open, again the same kitchens from which came fumes and stink. Raskolnikov had not been here since that day. His legs lost sensation and sagged under him, but they moved. He paused for a moment in order to regain his breath, in order to recover himself, in order to go in ‘like a human being’. ‘Oh, what's the point? Why bother?’ he thought suddenly, realizing what he was doing. ‘If I must drain this cup, then surely nothing will make any difference? The more loathsome, the better.’ Through his mind at that moment passed the figure of Ilya Petrovich – ‘Gunpowder’. ‘Do I really have to go and see him? Can't it be someone else? Can't I go and see Nikodim Fomich? Turn back right now and go and see the superintendent himself at his apartment? At least it would all go off in less official surroundings… No, no! Let it be Gunpowder, let it be Gunpowder! If I'm to drain it, then let me drain it all in one go…’

Growing cold, and only just aware of what he was doing, he opened the door of the bureau. On this occasion the place was practically deserted apart from a yardkeeper and some plebeian-looking fellow. The security attendant did not even bother to peer out from behind his partition. Raskolnikov walked into the next room. ‘Perhaps I can still get away without telling them,’ flashed through his head. Here a certain personage from among the scribes, dressed in an ordinary frock-coat, was getting ready to write something at his desk. In the corner another scribe was also setting to work. Of Zamyotov there was no sign. Needless to say, here was no sign of Nikodim Fomich, either.

‘Isn't there anyone here?’ Raskolnikov asked, addressing the personage at the writing desk.

‘Who are you looking for?’

‘Ah-h-h! By the ear unheard, by the eye unseen, but the Russian spirit… how does it go on in that fairy tale… I've forgotten! M-my c-compliments, sir!’ a familiar voice suddenly exclaimed.

Raskolnikov gave a shudder. Before him stood Gunpowder; he had suddenly come out of the third room. ‘This is fate personified,’ Raskolnikov thought. ‘What's he doing here?’

‘Come to see us? What about?’ yelped Ilya Petrovich. (He was by the look of it in a most excellent and even slightly stimulated mental condition.) ‘If it's on business, you're too early. I myself am simply here by chance… However, I shall do what I can. I will confess to you, Mr – er – er… I'm sorry…’

‘Raskolnikov.’

‘Ah, of course: Raskolnikov! Could you really suppose I'd forgotten? Please, you mustn't think I'm such a… Rodion Ro… Ro… Rodionych, isn't it?’

‘Rodion Romanych.’

‘Yes, yes-yes! Rodion Romanych, Rodion Romanych! It was on the tip of my tongue. You know, I've been trying to get in touch with you for ages. I will confess to you that I was genuinely sorry we… dealt with you the way we did that time… it was explained to me afterwards, I learned that you are a young
littérateur
and even a scholar… and that, as it were, your first steps… Oh, good heavens! Which of our
littérateurs
and scholars did not begin with some eccentric first steps? My wife and I both have a deep respect for literature, and with my wife it even takes the form of a passion!… Literature and the arts! As long as the fellow's a gentleman, all the rest can be acquired by means of talent, knowledge, intellect, genius! A hat – well, what does a hat signify, for example? A hat is as plain as a pancake, I can buy it at Zimmerman's; but what lies under the hat and is covered by the hat, that I cannot buy, sir!… I will confess to you that I even wanted to come and have the whole matter out with you, but I thought perhaps you… But I'm
neglecting to ask: is there something you want? They say your family has arrived in town?’

‘Yes, my mother and sister.’

‘I've actually had the honour and good fortune of meeting your sister – a charming and educated person. I will confess, I was sorry you and I got so angry with each other that day. A curious incident! And as for my viewing your fainting-fit that day in a certain light – it all became quite dazzlingly clear afterwards! Blind cruelty and fanaticism! I understand your indignation. Is it perhaps that you're moving your lodgings in connection with the arrival of your family?’

‘N-no, I simply dropped by… I came to inquire… I thought I would find Zamyotov here.’

‘Ah, yes! You and he have made friends; I heard about it, sir. But I'm afraid Zamyotov isn't here – you've missed him. Yes, sir, we've lost Aleksandr Grigoryevich! He left yesterday; he got a transfer… and, in the process of being transferred, he fairly quarrelled with us all… in a most impolite manner. He's an empty-headed young whippersnapper, and that's all there is to it; one might have thought he'd have come to something; but I mean, there you have it, our resplendent youth! He says he's going to take some examination or other, but I mean it's only so he can tell us about it and boast to us, that's how far
that
examination will go. I mean, he's not like you, or your friend there, Mr Razumikhin! Your career lies in the field of scholarship, and you won't be brought down by failure! For you all those charms of life, one might say –
nihil est
, you're an ascetic, a monk, a recluse!… what matters to you is the book, the pen behind the ear, your scholarly research – that's where your spirit soars! I myself do a little… have you by any chance read Livingstone's
Travels
?’

‘No.’

‘I must admit I have. Actually, you know, there's an awful lot of nihilists around these days; well, I mean, it's understandable; what kind of times are these, I ask you? But you see, I thought that perhaps with you I could… I mean,
you
can't possibly be a nihilist! Answer me truthfully now, truthfully!’

‘N-no…’

‘Now come along, you can be quite open with me, you needn't feel embarrassed, it's just as though we were alone, and not in here at all! “One thing that duty sends, another among…” – did you think I was going to say “friends”? No, sir, you guess wrongly! Not friendship, but a sense of being a citizen and a human being, a sense of humaneness and love of the Almighty. I may be an official, serving at my post, but I am forever obliged to be aware of the citizen and the human being in myself,
¹
and to render account… You mentioned Zamyotov just now. Zamyotov will be off causing some scandal in the French manner inside some sleazy establishment over a glass of champagne or Don wine – that's your Zamyotov for you! While I, it may perhaps be said, as it were, have burned with devotion and lofty feelings, and what is more possess importance, rank, occupy a position! I'm married and have children. Fulfil my duty as a citizen and a human being – but what is he, may I ask? I address you as a man who has been ennobled by education. And then again, there are far too many of these midwives around, if you want my opinion.’

Raskolnikov raised his eyebrows interrogatively. The things Ilya Petrovich, who had plainly not long risen from table, was saying had been raining and rattling down before him for the most part like so many empty sounds. He had, however, absorbed the gist of some of them; he gazed with a question in his eyes, uncertain how all this was going to end.

‘It's these girls with their hair cut short I'm talking about,’ the loquacious Ilya Petrovich continued. ‘“Midwives” is the name I've invented for them, and I think it's a perfectly good one. Hee-hee! They get themselves into the Academy and learn anatomy; well, I ask you: if I fall ill am I going to summon a young girl to cure me? Hee-hee!’