"Why are you crying?
Don't cry, don't cry: we are not parting for ever!
Ah, yes!
Wait a minute, I'd forgotten!"
He went to the table, took up a thick dusty book, opened it and took from between the pages a little water-colour portrait on ivory.
It was the portrait of his landlady's daughter, who had died of fever, that strange girl who had wanted to be a nun.
For a minute he gazed at the delicate expressive face of his betrothed, kissed the portrait and gave it to Dounia.
"I used to talk a great deal about it to her, only to her," he said thoughtfully. "To her heart I confided much of what has since been so hideously realised.
Don't be uneasy," he returned to Dounia, "she was as much opposed to it as you, and I am glad that she is gone.
The great point is that everything now is going to be different, is going to be broken in two," he cried, suddenly returning to his dejection. "Everything, everything, and am I prepared for it?
Do I want it myself?
They say it is necessary for me to suffer!
What's the object of these senseless sufferings? shall I know any better what they are for, when I am crushed by hardships and idiocy, and weak as an old man after twenty years' penal servitude? And what shall I have to live for then?
Why am I consenting to that life now?
Oh, I knew I was contemptible when I stood looking at the Neva at daybreak to-day!"
At last they both went out.
It was hard for Dounia, but she loved him.
She walked away, but after going fifty paces she turned round to look at him again.
He was still in sight.
At the corner he too turned and for the last time their eyes met; but noticing that she was looking at him, he motioned her away with impatience and even vexation, and turned the corner abruptly.
"I am wicked, I see that," he thought to himself, feeling ashamed a moment later of his angry gesture to Dounia.
"But why are they so fond of me if I don't deserve it?
Oh, if only I were alone and no one loved me and I too had never loved anyone! _Nothing of all this would have happened._ But I wonder shall I in those fifteen or twenty years grow so meek that I shall humble myself before people and whimper at every word that I am a criminal?
Yes, that's it, that's it, that's what they are sending me there for, that's what they want.
Look at them running to and fro about the streets, every one of them a scoundrel and a criminal at heart and, worse still, an idiot.
But try to get me off and they'd be wild with righteous indignation.
Oh, how I hate them all!"
He fell to musing by what process it could come to pass, that he could be humbled before all of them, indiscriminately--humbled by conviction.
And yet why not?
It must be so.
Would not twenty years of continual bondage crush him utterly?
Water wears out a stone.
And why, why should he live after that? Why should he go now when he knew that it would be so?
It was the hundredth time perhaps that he had asked himself that question since the previous evening, but still he went.
CHAPTER VIII
When he went into Sonia's room, it was already getting dark.
All day Sonia had been waiting for him in terrible anxiety.
Dounia had been waiting with her.
She had come to her that morning, remembering Svidrigailov's words that Sonia knew.
We will not describe the conversation and tears of the two girls, and how friendly they became.
Dounia gained one comfort at least from that interview, that her brother would not be alone. He had gone to her, Sonia, first with his confession; he had gone to her for human fellowship when he needed it; she would go with him wherever fate might send him.
Dounia did not ask, but she knew it was so.
She looked at Sonia almost with reverence and at first almost embarrassed her by it.
Sonia was almost on the point of tears. She felt herself, on the contrary, hardly worthy to look at Dounia.
Dounia's gracious image when she had bowed to her so attentively and respectfully at their first meeting in Raskolnikov's room had remained in her mind as one of the fairest visions of her life.
Dounia at last became impatient and, leaving Sonia, went to her brother's room to await him there; she kept thinking that he would come there first.
When she had gone, Sonia began to be tortured by the dread of his committing suicide, and Dounia too feared it.
But they had spent the day trying to persuade each other that that could not be, and both were less anxious while they were together.
As soon as they parted, each thought of nothing else.
Sonia remembered how Svidrigailov had said to her the day before that Raskolnikov had two alternatives--Siberia or...