Part 6 · Chapter 8

It was already getting dark when he went into Sonia’s room. All day, Sonia had been waiting for him, super anxious. Dounia had been waiting with her. She’s come over that morning, remembering what Svidrigaïlov had told Sonia.

We're not gonna go into all the details of their conversation and the tears, and how quickly they became close. Dounia did get one comfort from it, though - knowing her brother wouldn’t be alone.

He’s come to Sonia first with his confession; he’s come to her for a real connection when he needed it; she’d go with him wherever life took him. Dounia didn’t have to ask; she just knew it. She looked at Sonia with so much respect, and it almost embarrassed her at first.

Sonia was practically in tears. She felt like she wasn’t even worthy to look at Dounia. Dounia’s kind face, when she’d bowed to her so politely at their first meeting in Raskolnikov’s room, was one of the most beautiful memories of her life.

Dounia finally got impatient and, leaving Sonia, went to her brother’s room to wait for him there; she kept thinking he’s come there first. After she left, Sonia started freaking out, terrified he’s going to kill himself, and Dounia was worried too.

But they’d spent the whole day trying to convince each other that couldn’t happen, and they felt less stressed when they were together. As soon as they split up, all they could think about. Sonia remembered Svidrigaïlov saying the day before that Raskolnikov had two choices - Siberia or...

Besides, she knew he was arrogant, prideful, and didn't believe in anything.

"Seriously, is he just living out of fear and cowardice?" she thought, totally despairing.

Meanwhile, the sun was setting. Sonia was standing there, bummed out, staring intently out the window, but all she could see was the plain, unpainted wall of the building next door. Finally, when she started to feel like he was really gone - he walked into the room.

She let out a cry of joy, but looking closely at his face, she went pale.

"Yeah," said Raskolnikov, smiling. "I’m here for your cross, Sonia. You told me to go to the crossroads; why are you scared now that it’s actually happening?"

Sonia stared at him, totally confused. His tone sounded weird to her; a cold shiver ran down her spine, but then she realized the tone and the words were just a front. He was talking to her, looking away, like he didn’t want to meet her eyes.

"You see, Sonia, I’ve decided it’s better this way. There’s one thing... But it’s a long story, and there’s no need to go into it. But what really gets me?"

It annoys me that all those dumb, clueless faces will be staring at me, grilling me with their stupid questions, which I’m going to have to answer - they’ll point their fingers at me... Tfoo! You know I’m not going to Porfiry, I’m sick of him.

I’d rather go to my friend, the Explosive Lieutenant; imagine the buzz I’m going to make! But I need to chill; I’ve been super irritable lately. You know I almost shook my fist at my sister just now, because she turned to take one last look at me. It’s a brutal state to be in!

"Ugh, what am I becoming! Well, where are the crosses?"

He barely knew what he was doing. He couldn’t sit still or focus on anything; his thoughts were racing, he was talking nonsense, his hands were trembling a little.

Without a word, Sonia took out two crosses from the drawer, one made of cypress wood and one of copper. She made the sign of the cross over herself and over him, and put the wooden cross around his neck.

"It’s like, my way of saying I’m sacrificing everything," he laughed. "Like I haven’t suffered enough already! That wooden cross is what the peasants wear; the copper one, that’s Lizaveta’s - you’re wearing one, show me! So she had it on... right then?"

I remember a couple of other things too, a silver one and a little icon. I tossed them back onto the old woman’s neck. Those would be perfect now, really, those are what I should be wearing... But I’m rambling and forgetting what’s important; I’m totally spacing out...

"You see, I came to warn you, Sonia, so you’d know... that’s it - that’s all I came for. But I thought I had more to say. You wanted me to go, right? Well, now I’m heading to prison, and you’ll get your way. Why are you crying? You too? Don’t. Stop it! Ugh, I hate all of this!"

But he felt something stirring inside him; his heart ached as he looked at her.

"Why is she upset too?" he thought.

"What am I to her? Why is she crying? Why is she looking after me, like my mom or Dounia? She’s gonna be my nurse."

"Cross yourself, say at least one prayer," Sonia begged in a quiet, shaky voice.

"Oh, definitely, as much as you want! And seriously, Sonia, really seriously..."

But he wanted to say something totally different.

He crossed himself a bunch of times. Sonia grabbed her shawl and pulled it over her head. It was the green shawl Marmeladov had talked about, "the family shawl." Raskolnikov thought about that, looking at it, but he didn’t ask.

He started feeling like he was forgetting stuff and was totally freaked out. He was scared by this. He suddenly realized Sonia wanted to go with him.

"What are you doing? Where are you going? Stay here, stay! I’ll go alone," he cried out in a cowardly, annoyed way, and almost resentfully, he moved towards the door. "What’s the point of going in a procession?" he muttered as he went out.

Sonia stood there in the middle of the room. He hadn’t even said goodbye to her; he’s forgotten her. A sharp, rebellious doubt hit him.

"Was it right, was it right, all of this?" he thought again as he went down the stairs.

"Couldn’t he stop and take it all back... and not go?"

But still, he went. He suddenly felt like he couldn’t ask himself questions anymore. As he turned onto the street, he remembered he hadn't said goodbye to Sonia, that he’d left her in the middle of the room in her green shawl, too scared to move after he's yelled at her, and he stopped for a moment.

At the same instant, another thought popped into his head, like it had been waiting for that exact moment.

"Why, what was the point of going to her just now? I told her - on business; what business? I had no business! To tell her I was going; but why? Do I love her? No, no, I brushed her off just now like a stray dog. Did I want her crosses? Oh, how low I’ve sunk!"

"No, I wanted her tears, I wanted to see her terrified, to see her heart breaking! I needed something to cling to, something to put off the inevitable, some friendly face to see! And I actually dared to believe in myself, to dream about what I’d do! I’m a pathetic, worthless loser, pathetic!"

He walked along the canal bank, and he wasn’t far from his destination now. But when he reached the bridge, he stopped and, turning out of his way, went along it towards the Hay Market.

He looked around, eyes darting everywhere, totally zoning out. Nothing seemed to stick - everything just slipped away.

"In a week, a month, I’ll be hauled off in a prison van over this bridge, how will I even look at the canal then? I gotta remember this!"

It popped into his head.

"Look at that sign! How will I even read those letters then? It says ‘Campany’ - that’s something to remember, that ‘a,’ and to look at it again in a month - how will I see it then? What will I be feeling and thinking then?... How pointless it all seems, what I’m stressing about right now!"

Of course it’s gotta be interesting... in its own way... (Ha-ha-ha! What am I even thinking about? I’m acting like a baby, showing off to myself; why am I embarrassed? Seriously! People are shoving! That dude - a German, probably - who bumped into me, does he even know who he pushed?

"There’s a woman, a peasant, with a baby, begging. It’s weird she thinks I’m happier than her. I could give her something, just for the irony of it. Here’s a five-copeck piece left in my pocket, where’s it from? Here, here... take it, my good woman!"

"God bless you," the beggar chanted in a super sad voice.

He headed into the Hay Market. Being in a crowd was seriously unpleasant, but he just walked where there were the most people. He’d give anything to be alone, but he knew he couldn't even handle being alone for a minute. There was a guy, totally wasted, trying to dance and falling down.

Everyone was watching. Raskolnikov pushed his way through the crowd, stared at the drunk for a while, and then suddenly let out a short, weird laugh. A minute later, he’d totally forgotten about him and didn’t even see him, even though he was still staring.

He moved on, not even remembering where he was; but when he got to the middle of the square, a wave of feeling hit him, overwhelming him completely.

He suddenly remembered Sonia’s words: "Go to the cross-roads, bow down to the people, kiss the ground, because you’ve sinned against it too, and tell the whole world out loud, ‘I’m a murderer.’" He shuddered, remembering that.

And the hopeless misery and anxiety from all that time, especially those last few hours, had weighed so heavily on him that he was practically grabbing at the chance for this new, totally fresh, complete feeling.

It hit him like a jolt; it was like a single spark ignited in his soul, spreading fire through him. Everything in him softened at once, and tears welled up in his eyes. He fell to the ground right there...

He knelt in the middle of the square, bowed down to the ground, and kissed that gross earth with pure bliss and joy. He got up and bowed down again.

"He’s drunk," a young guy nearby said.

There was a burst of laughter.

"He’s going to Jerusalem, guys, saying good-bye to his family and his country. He’s bowing down to the whole world and kissing the streets of St. Petersburg and the sidewalk," a drunk worker added.

"He’s a young guy, too!" a third person observed.

"And a gentleman," someone said seriously.

"You never know who’s a gentleman these days."

These comments and remarks shook Raskolnikov, and the words, "I’m a murderer," that he felt were about to spill out, died on his lips. He stayed quiet, though, and without looking around, he turned down a street leading to the police station.

He caught a glimpse of something on the way that didn’t surprise him; he’s known it was coming. The second time he bowed in the Hay Market, he saw Sonia standing fifty paces away on the left. She was hiding behind one of the wooden shacks in the marketplace.

She’s been following him on this tough journey! At that moment, Raskolnikov felt and knew for sure that Sonia was with him forever and would follow him to the ends of the earth, no matter what happened. It broke his heart... but he was almost at the place where everything would go down.

He walked into the courtyard with some determination. He had to go up three floors.

"I’m going to be a while getting up there," he thought.

He felt like the big moment was still far off, like he had plenty of time to think.

Again, the same junk, the same eggshells lying around on the spiral staircase, again the open doors to the apartments, again the same kitchens and the same fumes and stink coming from them. Raskolnikov hadn’t been here since that day. His legs were numb and gave way, but they kept moving.

He stopped for a moment to catch his breath, to get himself together, so he could walk in like a normal person.

"But why? What’s the point?" he wondered.

"If I have to drink this, what difference does it make? The more awful, the better."

He pictured the "explosive lieutenant," Ilya Petrovitch, for a moment. Was he really going to see him? Couldn't he go to someone else? To Nikodim Fomitch? Couldn’t he turn back and go straight to Nikodim Fomitch’s place? At least then it would be done privately... No, no!

To the "explosive lieutenant"! If he had to drink it, just get it over with.

Feeling cold and barely conscious, he opened the office door. There weren’t many people inside this time - just a doorman and a peasant. The doorkeeper didn't even peek out from behind his screen. Raskolnikov walked into the next room.

"Maybe I still don’t have to say anything," flashed through his mind.

A clerk, not in uniform, was settling down at a desk to write. Another clerk was sitting down in a corner. Zametov wasn't there, and of course, Nikodim Fomitch wasn't either.

"No one here?" Raskolnikov asked, addressing the person at the desk.

"Who do you need?"

"A-ah! Nothing was heard, nothing was seen, but I smell the Russian... how does it go in the fairy tale... I’ve forgotten! ‘At your service!’" a familiar voice suddenly cried out.

Raskolnikov shuddered. The Explosive Lieutenant stood before him. He had just come in from the third room.

"It’s fate," thought Raskolnikov.

"Why is he here?"

"You’ve come to see us? What’s up?" cried Ilya Petrovitch.

He was obviously in a really good mood and maybe a little excited.

"If it’s business, you’re a bit early. It’s just a coincidence that I’m here... still, I’ll do what I can."

"I have to admit, I... what is it, what is it? Excuse me..." "Raskolnikov."

"Of course, Raskolnikov. You didn’t think I’d forget? Don’t think I’m like that..."

"Rodion Ro Ro Rodionovitch, that’s it, isn’t it?" "Rodion Romanovitch."

"Yeah, yeah, totally! That’s what I was getting at. I did some digging about you. Seriously, I’m so sorry about how I acted... it was explained to me later that you’re a writer... and really smart too... like, the first steps, you know? Mercy!"

What writer or scientist doesn't start with a little drama? My wife and I really respect literature, it’s a huge thing for her! Literature and art! If you’re a decent person, the rest can be earned with talent, brains, smarts, genius. As for a hat - what’s the big deal?

"I can buy a hat as easily as I can a donut; but what’s under the hat, what the hat hides, you can’t buy that! I was even planning to come over and apologize, but I figured maybe you’d... But I’m forgetting to ask, is there anything you need? I hear your family’s here."

"Yeah, my mom and sister."

"I even got to meet your sister - she’s super cultured and charming. I feel bad I got so heated with you earlier. There it is! But about me staring at you when you fainted - that’s all been cleared up! Bigotry and fanaticism! I get why you’re ticked off."

"Maybe you’re moving because your family’s arriving?"

"Nah, I just stopped by... I came to ask... I thought I’d find Zametov here."

"Oh, yeah! Of course, you’ve made friends, I heard. Well, actually, Zametov’s not here. Yeah, we lost Zametov. He hasn’t been around since yesterday... he totally blew up at everyone when he left... in the rudest way."

He’s just a clueless kid, honestly; you’d think he’d amount to something, but whatever, you know how these brilliant young people are. He wanted to take some exam, but it's just talk and bragging, nothing will come of it. It’s totally different with you or your friend, Mr. Razumihin.

Your career is all about thinking and learning, and you won’t be stopped by failure. For you, you could say, all the attractions of life aren’t a big deal - you’re an ascetic, a monk, a hermit!... A book, a pen behind your ear, some serious research - that’s where your spirit takes off!

"I’ve got it too... Have you read Livingstone’s Travels?"

"No." "Oh, I have. There are a ton of Nihilists around these days, you know, and it’s not surprising."

"What kind of days are these? I ask you. But we thought... you’re not a Nihilist, right?"

Answer me honestly! "No no..." "Seriously, you can tell me anything like you’re talking to yourself!"

"Official duty is one thing but... you’re thinking I meant to say friendship is something else? No, you’re wrong! It’s not friendship, but the feeling of a man and a citizen, the feeling of humanity and love for everyone."

I might be an official, but I always feel like a man and a citizen... You were asking about Zametov. Zametov will cause a scandal in the French style in a shady house, over a glass of champagne... that’s all your Zametov’s good for!

While I’m, so to speak, burning with devotion and big feelings, and I have rank, status, a job! I’m married and have kids, I do what a man and a citizen should do, but who is he, may I ask? I’m appealing to you as a person who’s been shaped by education...

Then these midwives, too, have become incredibly common. Raskolnikov raised his eyebrows quizzically. The words of Ilya Petrovitch, who had clearly been eating out, were mostly just noise to him. But some of it he understood. He looked at him thoughtfully, not sure how this was going to end."

"I mean those crop-headed chicks," the chatty Ilya Petrovitch continued.

"Midwives is what I call them. I think it’s a really good name, ha-ha! They go to college, study anatomy. If I get sick, am I supposed to call a girl to treat me? What do you think? Ha-ha!"

Ilya Petrovitch laughed, feeling pretty clever.

"It’s a little over the top with the education thing, but once you’re educated, that’s enough. Why show off? Why trash-talk good people, like that jerk Zametov does? Why did he mess with me, I ask you? Look at all the suicides, too, it’s insane!"

"People blow their last dollar and end it all, guys and girls and old folks. Just this morning we heard about a dude who just came to town. Nil Pavlitch, I think... what was the name of that guy who shot himself?"

"Svidrigaïlov," someone mumbled from the other room, sounding totally out of it.

Raskolnikov jumped.

"Svidrigaïlov! Svidrigaïlov shot himself!" he blurted out.

"You know Svidrigaïlov?"

"Yeah... I knew him... He hadn’t been around long."

"Right, that’s messed up. He lost his wife, was a total loose cannon, and then just randomly shot himself, and in such a dramatic way... He left a note saying he was totally in control and that nobody was to blame for his death. They say he had money. How’d you know him?"

"I... knew him a bit... my sister used to work for his family."

"Bah-bah-bah! So you must have some dirt on him. Did you have any idea something was up?"

"I saw him yesterday... he was drinking wine; I didn’t know anything else."

Raskolnikov felt like something was crushing him, suffocating him.

"You’re looking pale again. It’s so stuffy in here..."

"Yeah, I gotta go," Raskolnikov mumbled.

"Sorry to bother you..."

"Oh, don’t worry about it, come by whenever you want. It’s awesome to see you, and I’m saying it!"

Ilya Petrovitch held out his hand.

"I just wanted... I came to see Zametov."

"I get it, I get it, and it’s a pleasure to see you."

"I... am really glad... bye," Raskolnikov managed to smile.

He headed out; he stumbled, he felt dizzy and didn’t know what he was doing. He started going down the stairs, holding onto the wall with his right hand.

He thought he saw a porter rush past him on the stairs to the police station, a dog barking like crazy on a lower floor, and a woman throwing a rolling pin at it and yelling. He went down and out into the yard. There, not far from the entrance, stood Sonia, pale and terrified.

She stared at him wildly. He stood still in front of her. There was a look of pure agony, total despair, in her face. She clasped her hands together. His lips twisted into a weird, meaningless grin. He stood still for a minute, smirked, and went back to the police station.

Ilya Petrovitch was sitting down and shuffling through some papers. In front of him stood the same peasant who had bumped into him on the stairs.

"Hey! Back already! Did you forget something? What’s up?"

Raskolnikov, with white lips and wide, staring eyes, slowly got closer. He walked right up to the table, put his hand on it, tried to say something, but couldn’t; only a jumble of sounds came out.

"You look sick, grab a chair! Here, have some water!"

Raskolnikov plopped down into a chair, but he kept staring at Ilya Petrovitch’s face, which looked totally shocked. They stared at each other for a minute and waited. Water was brought.

"It was me..." began Raskolnikov.

"Here, drink some water."

Raskolnikov pushed the water away with his hand, and softly, brokenly, but clearly said:

"It was me who killed the old pawnbroker lady and her sister Lizaveta with an axe and robbed them."

Ilya Petrovitch’s mouth dropped open. People rushed over from all sides.

Raskolnikov repeated his statement.