Part VI
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Chapter I
A
strange period began for Raskolnikov: it was as though
a fog had fallen upon him and wrapped him in a dreary
solitude from which there was no escape. Recalling that pe-
riod long after, he believed that his mind had been clouded
at times, and that it had continued so, with intervals, till
the final catastrophe. He was convinced that he had been
mistaken about many things at that time, for instance as to
the date of certain events. Anyway, when he tried later on to
piece his recollections together, he learnt a great deal about
himself from what other people told him. He had mixed up
incidents and had explained events as due to circumstanc-
es which existed only in his imagination. At times he was
a prey to agonies of morbid uneasiness, amounting some-
times to panic. But he remembered, too, moments, hours,
perhaps whole days, of complete apathy, which came upon
him as a reaction from his previous terror and might be
compared with the abnormal insensibility, sometimes seen
in the dying. He seemed to be trying in that latter stage to
escape from a full and clear understanding of his position.
Certain essential facts which required immediate consider-
ation were particularly irksome to him. How glad he would
have been to be free from some cares, the neglect of which
would have threatened him with complete, inevitable ruin.
He was particularly worried about Svidrigaïlov, he might
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be said to be permanently thinking of Svidrigaïlov. From
the time of Svidrigaïlov’s too menacing and unmistakable
words in Sonia’s room at the moment of Katerina Ivanov-
na’s death, the normal working of his mind seemed to break
down. But although this new fact caused him extreme un-
easiness, Raskolnikov was in no hurry for an explanation
of it. At times, finding himself in a solitary and remote part
of the town, in some wretched eating-house, sitting alone
lost in thought, hardly knowing how he had come there, he
suddenly thought of Svidrigaïlov. He recognised suddenly,
clearly, and with dismay that he ought at once to come to an
understanding with that man and to make what terms he
could. Walking outside the city gates one day, he positive-
ly fancied that they had fixed a meeting there, that he was
waiting for Svidrigaïlov. Another time he woke up before
daybreak lying on the ground under some bushes and could
not at first understand how he had come there.
But during the two or three days after Katerina Ivanov-
na’s death, he had two or three times met Svidrigaïlov at
Sonia’s lodging, where he had gone aimlessly for a moment.
They exchanged a few words and made no reference to the
vital subject, as though they were tacitly agreed not to speak
of it for a time.
Katerina Ivanovna’s body was still lying in the coffin,
Svidrigaïlov was busy making arrangements for the funeral.
Sonia too was very busy. At their last meeting Svidrigaïlov
informed Raskolnikov that he had made an arrangement,
and a very satisfactory one, for Katerina Ivanovna’s chil-
dren; that he had, through certain connections, succeeded
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in getting hold of certain personages by whose help the
three orphans could be at once placed in very suitable insti-
tutions; that the money he had settled on them had been of
great assistance, as it is much easier to place orphans with
some property than destitute ones. He said something too
about Sonia and promised to come himself in a day or two
to see Raskolnikov, mentioning that ‘he would like to con-
sult with him, that there were things they must talk over….’
This conversation took place in the passage on the stairs.
Svidrigaïlov looked intently at Raskolnikov and suddenly,
after a brief pause, dropping his voice, asked: ‘But how is
it, Rodion Romanovitch; you don’t seem yourself? You look
and you listen, but you don’t seem to understand. Cheer up!
We’ll talk things over; I am only sorry, I’ve so much to do
of my own business and other people’s. Ah, Rodion Roma-
novitch,’ he added suddenly, ‘what all men need is fresh air,
fresh air … more than anything!’
He moved to one side to make way for the priest and
server, who were coming up the stairs. They had come for
the requiem service. By Svidrigaïlov’s orders it was sung
twice a day punctually. Svidrigaïlov went his way. Raskol-
nikov stood still a moment, thought, and followed the priest
into Sonia’s room. He stood at the door. They began quietly,
slowly and mournfully singing the service. From his child-
hood the thought of death and the presence of death had
something oppressive and mysteriously awful; and it was
long since he had heard the requiem service. And there was
something else here as well, too awful and disturbing. He
looked at the children: they were all kneeling by the cof-
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fin; Polenka was weeping. Behind them Sonia prayed, softly
and, as it were, timidly weeping.
‘These last two days she hasn’t said a word to me, she
hasn’t glanced at me,’ Raskolnikov thought suddenly. The
sunlight was bright in the room; the incense rose in clouds;
the priest read, ‘Give rest, oh Lord….’ Raskolnikov stayed
all through the service. As he blessed them and took his
leave, the priest looked round strangely. After the service,
Raskolnikov went up to Sonia. She took both his hands and
let her head sink on his shoulder. This slight friendly ges-
ture bewildered Raskolnikov. It seemed strange to him that
there was no trace of repugnance, no trace of disgust, no
tremor in her hand. It was the furthest limit of self-abnega-
tion, at least so he interpreted it.
Sonia said nothing. Raskolnikov pressed her hand and
went out. He felt very miserable. If it had been possible to
escape to some solitude, he would have thought himself
lucky, even if he had to spend his whole life there. But al-
though he had almost always been by himself of late, he
had never been able to feel alone. Sometimes he walked out
of the town on to the high road, once he had even reached
a little wood, but the lonelier the place was, the more he
seemed to be aware of an uneasy presence near him. It did
not frighten him, but greatly annoyed him, so that he made
haste to return to the town, to mingle with the crowd, to
enter restaurants and taverns, to walk in busy thorough-
fares. There he felt easier and even more solitary. One day
at dusk he sat for an hour listening to songs in a tavern and
he remembered that he positively enjoyed it. But at last he
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had suddenly felt the same uneasiness again, as though his
conscience smote him. ‘Here I sit listening to singing, is that
what I ought to be doing?’ he thought. Yet he felt at once
that that was not the only cause of his uneasiness; there was
something requiring immediate decision, but it was some-
thing he could not clearly understand or put into words. It
was a hopeless tangle. ‘No, better the struggle again! Better
Porfiry again … or Svidrigaïlov…. Better some challenge
again … some attack. Yes, yes!’ he thought. He went out of
the tavern and rushed away almost at a run. The thought of
Dounia and his mother suddenly reduced him almost to a
panic. That night he woke up before morning among some
bushes in Krestovsky Island, trembling all over with fever;
he walked home, and it was early morning when he arrived.
After some hours’ sleep the fever left him, but he woke up
late, two o’clock in the afternoon.
He remembered that Katerina Ivanovna’s funeral had
been fixed for that day, and was glad that he was not pres-
ent at it. Nastasya brought him some food; he ate and drank
with appetite, almost with greediness. His head was fresh-
er and he was calmer than he had been for the last three
days. He even felt a passing wonder at his previous attacks
of panic.
The door opened and Razumihin came in.
‘Ah, he’s eating, then he’s not ill,’ said Razumihin. He took
a chair and sat down at the table opposite Raskolnikov.
He was troubled and did not attempt to conceal it. He
spoke with evident annoyance, but without hurry or rais-
ing his voice. He looked as though he had some special fixed
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determination.
‘Listen,’ he began resolutely. ‘As far as I am concerned,
you may all go to hell, but from what I see, it’s clear to me
that I can’t make head or tail of it; please don’t think I’ve
come to ask you questions. I don’t want to know, hang it! If
you begin telling me your secrets, I dare say I shouldn’t stay
to listen, I should go away cursing. I have only come to find
out once for all whether it’s a fact that you are mad? There
is a conviction in the air that you are mad or very nearly so.
I admit I’ve been disposed to that opinion myself, judging
from your stupid, repulsive and quite inexplicable actions,
and from your recent behavior to your mother and sister.
Only a monster or a madman could treat them as you have;
so you must be mad.’
‘When did you see them last?’
‘Just now. Haven’t you seen them since then? What have
you been doing with yourself? Tell me, please. I’ve been to
you three times already. Your mother has been seriously ill
since yesterday. She had made up her mind to come to you;
Avdotya Romanovna tried to prevent her; she wouldn’t hear
a word. ‘If he is ill, if his mind is giving way, who can look af-
ter him like his mother?’ she said. We all came here together,
we couldn’t let her come alone all the way. We kept begging
her to be calm. We came in, you weren’t here; she sat down,
and stayed ten minutes, while we stood waiting in silence.
She got up and said: ‘If he’s gone out, that is, if he is well, and
has forgotten his mother, it’s humiliating and unseemly for
his mother to stand at his door begging for kindness.’ She
returned home and took to her bed; now she is in a fever. ‘I
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see,’ she said, ‘that he has time for his girl. ‘ She means by
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