“Beat me? How can you! Beat me—Lord! And even if she did beat me, what of it! Well, what of it! You know nothing, nothing...She's so unhappy; ah, how unhappy she is! And sick...She wants justice...She's pure. She believes so much that there should be justice in everything, and she demands it...Even if you tortured her, she wouldn't act unjustly. She herself doesn't notice how impossible it all is that there should be justice in people, and it vexes her... Like a child, like a child! She's a just woman!”
“And what will become of you?”
Sonya looked at him questioningly.
“They're all on your hands. True, it was all on you before as well, and it was to you that your late father came to beg for the hair of the dog. Well, what will become of you now?”
“I don't know,” Sonya said sadly.
“Will they stay there?”
“I don't know, they owe rent for the apartment; only I heard today that the landlady said she wants to turn them out, and Katerina Ivanovna says herself that she won't stay a moment longer.”
“How is she so brave? She's counting on you?”
“Ah, no, don't talk like that! ... We're all one, we live as one.” Sonya again became all excited and even vexed, just like a canary or some other little bird getting angry. “And what is she to do? What, what is she to do?” she repeated, hotly and excitedly. “And how she cried, how she cried today! She's losing her mind, did you notice? She is; she keeps worrying like a little girl that everything should be done properly tomorrow, the meal and everything...then she wrings her hands, coughs up blood, cries, and suddenly starts beating her head against the wall as if in despair. And then she gets comforted again; she keeps hoping in you; she says you'll be her helper now, and that she'll borrow a little money somewhere, and go back with me to her town, and start an institution for noble girls, and she'll make me a supervisor, and a completely new, beautiful life will begin for us, and she kisses me, embraces me, comforts me, and she really believes it! She really believes in her fantasies! Well, how can one contradict her? And she spent the whole day today washing, cleaning, mending; she brought the tub into the room by herself, with her weak strength, out of breath, and just collapsed on the bed; and she and I also went to the market in the morning to buy shoes for Polechka and Lenya, because theirs fell to pieces, only we didn't have enough money, it was much more than we could spend, and she had picked out such lovely shoes, because she has taste, you don't know...She just cried right there in the shop, in front of the shopkeepers, because there wasn't enough...Ah, it was such a pity to see!”
“Well, after that one can understand why you...live as you do,” Raskolnikov said, with a bitter smirk.
“And don't you pity her? Don't you?” Sonya heaved herself up again. “You, I know, you gave her all you had, and you hadn't even seen anything. And if you'd seen everything, oh, Lord! And so many times, so many times I've brought her to tears! Just last week! Ah, me! Only a week before his death. I acted cruelly! And I've done it so many times, so many times. Ah, it's been so painful to remember it all day long today!”
Sonya even wrung her hands as she spoke, so painful was it to remember.
“You, cruel?”
“Yes, me, me! I came then,” she continued, weeping, “and my father said, 'Read to me, Sonya,' he said, 'there's an ache in my head, read to me...here's a book'—he had some book, he got it from Andrei Semyonovich, he lives here, Lebezyatnikov, he was always getting such funny books. And I said, 'It's time I was going,' I just didn't want to read, because I stopped by mainly to show Katerina Ivanovna the collars; Lizaveta, the dealer, had brought me some cheap collars and cuffs, pretty, new ones, with a pattern. And Katerina Ivanovna liked them very much, she put them on and looked at herself in the mirror, and she liked them very, very much. 'Sonya, please,' she said, 'give them to me.' She said please,and she wanted them so much. But where would she go in them? She was just remembering her former happy days! She looked in the mirror, admired herself, and she's had no dresses, no dresses at all, no things, for so many years now! And she never asks anything from anybody; she's proud, she'd sooner give away all she has, but this time she asked—she liked them so much! And I was sorry to think of giving them away; I said, 'But what for, Katerina Ivanovna?' I said that: 'what for?' I should never have said that to her. She just looked at me, and she took it so hard, so hard, that I refused, and it was such a pity to see...And it wasn't because of the collars, but because I refused, I could see that. Ah, if only I could take it all back now, do it over again, all those past words...Oh, I...but why am I talking about it! ... it's all the same to you!”
“So you knew Lizaveta, the dealer?”
“Yes...Why, did you?” Sonya asked in return, with some surprise.
“Katerina Ivanovna has consumption, a bad case; she'll die soon,” Raskolnikov said after a pause, and without answering the question.
“Oh, no, no, no!” And with an unconscious gesture, Sonya seized both his hands, as if pleading that it be no.
“But it's better if she dies.”
“No, it's not better, not better, not better at all!” she repeated, fearfully and unwittingly.
“And the children? Where will they go, if you don't take them?”
“Oh, I really don't know!” Sonya cried out, almost in despair, and clutched her head. One could see that the thought had already flashed in her many, many times, and that he had only scared it up again.
“Well, and what if you get ill now, while Katerina Ivanovna is still with you, and you're taken to the hospital—what then?” he insisted mercilessly.
“Ah, don't, don't! That simply can't be!” And Sonya's face became distorted with terrible fright.
“Why can't it?” Raskolnikov went on, with a cruel grin. “You're not insured against it, are you? What will happen to them then? They'll wind up in the street, the lot of them; she'll cough and beg and beat her head against the wall, like today, and the children will cry... Then she'll collapse, then the police station, the hospital, she'll die, and the children...”
“Oh, no! God won't let it happen!” burst at last from Sonya's straining breast. She listened, looking at him in supplication, her hands clasped in mute entreaty, as if it were on him that everything depended.
Raskolnikov got up and began pacing the room. About a minute passed. Sonya stood with arms and head hanging, in terrible anguish.
“But can't you save? Put something aside for a rainy day?” he asked suddenly, stopping in front of her.
“No,” whispered Sonya.
“No, naturally! And have you tried?” he added, all but in mockery.
“I have.”
“But it didn't work! Naturally! Why even ask!”
And he began pacing again. Another minute or so passed.
“You don't get money every day?”
Sonya became more embarrassed than before, and color rushed to her face again.
“No,” she whispered, with painful effort.
“It's bound to be the same with Polechka,” he said suddenly.
“No, no! It can't be! No!” Sonya cried loudly, desperately, as if she had suddenly been stabbed with a knife. “God, God won't allow such horror! . . .”
“He allows it with others.”
“No, no! God will protect her! God! . . .” she repeated, beside herself.
“But maybe there isn't any God,” Raskolnikov replied, even almost gloatingly, and he looked at her and laughed.
Sonya's face suddenly changed terribly: spasms ran over it. She looked at him with inexpressible reproach, was about to say something, but could not utter a word and simply began sobbing all at once very bitterly, covering her face with her hands.
“You say Katerina Ivanovna is losing her mind, but you're losing your mind yourself,” he said, after a pause.
About five minutes passed. He kept pacing up and down, silently and without glancing at her. Finally he went up to her; his eyes were flashing. He took her by the shoulders with both hands and looked straight into her weeping face. His eyes were dry, inflamed, sharp, his lips were twitching...With a sudden, quick movement he bent all the way down, leaned towards the floor, and kissed her foot. Sonya recoiled from him in horror, as from a madman. And, indeed, he looked quite mad.