Crime and Punishment (94 page)

On one or two occasions, however, it chanced that Pulkheria Aleksandrovna herself steered the conversation in such a manner that it would have been impossible in replying to her not to mention the place where Rodya now found himself; and when the replies could not help coming out, like it or not, with
a hollow, suspicious ring to them, she suddenly grew thoroughly mournful, silent and downcast, a state of affairs that continued for a very long time. In the end Dunya saw that all this lying and invention was more trouble than it was worth, and she came to the inevitable conclusion that it would on certain points be better for her to remain completely silent; it was, however, growing transparently clear that her poor mother suspected some dreadful thing. Among much else, Dunya recalled her brother's remark that Pulkheria Aleksandrovna had overheard the words she had uttered in her delirium the night before that last, fateful day, following her scene with Svidrigailov; what if she had been able to make some of them out? Frequently, sometimes after several days and even weeks of downcast, gloomy silence and speechless tears, the sick woman would spring into a kind of hysterical life and suddenly begin to talk out loud, almost incessantly, about her son, her hopes, the future… Her imaginings were sometimes very strange. They played along with her, said yes to her in everything (it was probable that she saw all too clearly that this was what they were doing), yet still she went on talking.

Five months after the criminal had turned himself in, his sentence was delivered. Razumikhin went to see him in prison whenever this was possible. So also did Sonya. At last the hour of parting drew near; Dunya swore to her brother that this parting was not for ever; so also did Razumikhin. In Razumikhin's young and excitable head there firmly took root the project of creating in the course of the next three to four years at least the beginnings of an eventual fortune, of scraping together some money and moving to Siberia, where the soil was rich in every respect but there was a shortage of workmen, farmhands and capital; of settling in the same town where Rodya would be, and… of them all beginning a new life together. As they said farewell, they all wept. During those very last days Raskolnikov was extremely broody, asked frequent questions about his mother and constantly worried about her. In fact, he positively tormented himself about her, a fact which made Dunya anxious. Having learned in detail of his mother's disturbed state of mind, he became very gloomy. For some reason during all this time he
had been particularly unforthcoming in the presence of Sonya. With the help of the money that had been left to her by Svidrigailov, Sonya had long ago made up her mind and got herself ready to follow the gang of convicts with which he too was to be dispatched. Not a word concerning this had ever been mentioned between her and Raskolnikov; both knew, however, that this was how it was going to be. At the time of their last farewell he had smiled strangely at the fervent assurances of his sister and of Razumikhin about the happy future they would have together when he had finished his penal servitude, and had prophesied that his mother's unhealthy condition would soon end in calamity. At last he and Sonya set off.

Two months later Dunya and Razumikhin were married. The wedding was a sad and quiet affair. Among the guests, it may as well be said, were Porfiry Petrovich and Zosimov. Throughout all this latter period Razumikhin wore the air of a man who has taken a firm resolve. Dunya had a blind faith that he would realize all his intentions, and it would have been hard for her to see him otherwise: this man displayed an iron will. Among other things, he began to attend university lectures again in order to be able to complete his course. Both of them spent practically every moment putting together plans for the future; both firmly intended to move to Siberia in five years’ time. Until that day they were relying on Sonya's being there…

Pulkheria Aleksandrovna gave her blessing to the marriage with joy; after it, however, she seemed to grow even sadder and more worried. In order to afford her a pleasant moment, Razumikhin informed her, among other things, of the episode concerning the student and his senile father and of the fact that Rodya had sustained burns and even fallen ill after rescuing two little children from certain death the year before. Both pieces of news had the effect of sending the already unbalanced Pulkheria Aleksandrovna into a state bordering upon frenzy. She talked about this ceaselessly, would even engage passers-by in the street to tell them about it (though Dunya never left her side). In public carriages, in shops, wherever she could capture a listener of whatever kind, she would lead the conversation to the subject of her son, to the article he had published, to his having helped
a student and suffered burns in a fire, and so on and so forth. Poor Dunya did not know how to stop her. In addition to the danger inherent in this morbid and frenetic mood, there was also the threat of disaster involved in the possibility that some-one might recall the name Raskolnikov in connection with the recent court case and begin talking about it. Pulkheria Aleksandrovna even discovered the address of the mother of the two little children who had been saved from the fire and wanted to go and visit her without fail. At last her agitation reached extreme proportions. She would on occasion begin to weep, was frequently ill and talked wildly in her fever. One morning she announced straight out that according to her estimates Rodya would soon be back again, that she remembered him telling her as he had said goodbye to her that she should expect him at the end of nine months. She began to tidy the apartment and made ready to greet him, began to make some finishing touches to the room she had designated for him (her own), clean the furniture, wash new curtains and hang them up, and so on. Dunya grew alarmed, but did not say anything and even helped her set the room up ready to receive her brother. After a troubled day spent in constant imaginings, in joyful daydreams and tears, at night she fell ill and by morning already had a high temperature and delirium. A dangerous fever had set in. Two weeks later she died. The words that escaped her lips during her delirium made it clear beyond any doubt that she suspected far more concerning the terrible fate of her son than anyone had supposed.

It was a long time before Raskolnikov found out that his mother had died, even though he established a correspondence with St Petersburg right at the very beginning of his life in Siberia. This correspondence was arranged by Sonya, who punctually each month sent a letter to St Petersburg in Razumikhin's name, and punctually each month received an answer back. Dunya and Razumikhin had initially found Sonya's letters rather dry and unsatisfactory; but they eventually arrived at the conviction that no better account could be desired, because as a result of these letters they obtained a most complete and precise idea of the fate of their unhappy brother. Sonya's letters were full of the most ordinary, everyday details and gave a
most simple and clear description of Raskolnikov's life in penal servitude. They contained no statement of her own hopes, nor any suppositions about the future or descriptions of her own feelings. In place of attempts to throw light on his mental condition and inner life in general, there were nothing but facts – his own words, that is, in the form of news concerning the state of his health, what he had asked for at such-and-such a meeting, what he had requested from her, what he had asked her to do for him, and the like. All this news was imparted in extremely thorough detail. Eventually the image of their unhappy brother emerged of its own accord, in a precise and vivid silhouette; here there could be no error, for it was all true fact.

There was, however, little comfort to be extracted by Dunya and her husband from this news, particularly at the outset. Sonya constantly reported that he was in a state of unbroken gloom, had hardly anything to say for himself and showed an almost complete lack of interest in the news she brought him, fresh each time from the letters she had received; that he sometimes asked about his mother; and when at last, realizing that he had already guessed the truth, she told him of his mother's death, much to her surprise not even that piece of news seemed to have any particular effect on him, or at least that was the way it appeared to her on the outside. She related, among other things, that even though he was so plainly absorbed in himself and seemed to have closed himself off from everyone, he viewed his new life in a very simple and straightforward manner, that he had a clear understanding of his position, expected nothing better near to hand, had no frivolous hopes (something very common among people in his situation) and was more or less unastonished by his new surroundings, which were so little similar to anything he had known previously. She told them that his health was satisfactory. He performed the work he was required to do, neither trying to evade it nor approaching it with undue eagerness. That as to the food, he was more or less indifferent to it, but that this food, except on Sundays and feast days, was so abominable that in the end he had gladly accepted a small sum of money from her in order to be able to brew tea
for himself each day; but that as far as everything else was concerned he had asked her not to trouble herself, assuring her that all these worries on his behalf were merely a source of annoyance to him. Sonya went on to relate that he shared living quarters with all the rest, that she had not seen the interior of their barracks, but assumed they were cramped, nasty and insanitary; that he slept on a plank bed with a piece of felt underneath him and did not intend to seek any other accommodation. But that the life he was leading was so crude and impoverished not because of any preconceived plan or intention, but simply because of his lack of engagement and his apparent indifference to his fate. Sonya made no bones about the fact that, particularly at the outset, he had not only showed little interest in her visits, but had almost lost his temper with her, had refused to say very much and had even crudely insulted her, but that eventually these meetings had become a habit for him and even a necessity, with the result that he was plunged into gloom when for several days she was ill and unable to visit him. She wrote that her meetings with him on Sundays and feast days took place by the prison gate or in the guardroom, whither he was summoned into her presence for a few minutes; but that on the other days of the week she visited him at his work, either in the workshops, at the brick factory or in the alabaster sheds on the bank of the Irtysh. For herself, Sonya informed them that she had actually managed to acquire a few contacts and patrons in the town; that she worked as a seamstress, and since the town was practically deficient in milliners, she had in many households become a positive necessity; the only thing she omitted to mention was that through her Raskolnikov had also received a certain degree of patronage from the authorities, that he had been given a reduced workload, and so on. Eventually the news came (Dunya noted a particular agitation and uneasiness in her letters), that he was estranged from everyone, that the other convicts in the prison did not like him; that for days on end he said nothing and was growing very pale. Suddenly, in her final letter, Sonya wrote that he had been taken very seriously ill and was in hospital, in the convicts’ ward there…

He had been ill for a long time; but it was not the horrors of life in penal servitude, not the work, not the food, not his shaven head nor his ragged clothing that had worn him down: oh, what cared he about all those sufferings and tortures! On the contrary, he had been positively glad of the work: having physically exhausted himself by it, he was at least able to obtain for himself a few hours of peaceful sleep. And of what importance was the food to him – that watery
shchi
¹
with cockroaches in it? In his previous life as a student he had frequently not had even that. His clothing kept him warm and was well adapted to the way of life he led. As for the fetters on his legs, he did not even feel them. Ought he to be ashamed of his shaven head and grey-and-brown jacket? Ashamed in front of whom? In front of Sonya? Sonya who feared him, and he was to be ashamed in front of her?

Yet who would have believed it? He was indeed thoroughly ashamed in front of Sonya, whom in return he had tormented by his scornful and crudely insulting behaviour. But it was not his shaven head or his fetters he was ashamed of; his pride had been violently wounded; it was wounded pride that had made him fall ill. Oh, how happy he would have been if he could have heaped blame upon himself! Then he would have been able to endure anything, even shame and disgrace. But he was his own severest judge, and his embittered conscience could find no particularly dreadful guilt in his past, except perhaps for a simple
blunder
which might have happened to anyone. What really made him ashamed was that he, Raskolnikov, had gone to his doom so blindly, hopelessly, in deaf-and-dumb stupidity, following the edict of blind fate, and must submit and resign himself to the ‘nonsense’ of a similar edict if he were ever to know any rest.

An anxiety with no object or purpose in the present, and in the future nothing but endless sacrifice, by means of which he would attain nothing – that was what his days on earth held in store for him. And what of the fact that in eight years’ time he
would only be thirty-two and would be able to resume his life again? What good was life to him? What prospects did he have? What did he have to strive for? Was he to live merely in order to exist? But a thousand times before he had been ready to give up his existence for an idea, for a hope, even for an imagining. Existence on its own had never been enough for him; he had always wanted more than that. Perhaps it had been merely the strength of his own desires that made him believe he was a person to whom more was allowed than others.

And even if fate had sent him no more than remorse – burning remorse that destroyed the heart, driving away sleep, the kind of remorse to escape whose fearsome torments the mind clutches at the noose and the well, oh, how glad he would have been! Torment and tears – after all, that is life, too. But he felt no remorse for his crime.