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- Федор Достоевский
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- Преступление и наказание
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- Стр. 449/453
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Sonia
wrote
simply
that
he
had
at
first
shown
no
interest
in
her
visits
,
had
almost
been
vexed
with
her
indeed
for
coming
,
unwilling
to
talk
and
rude
to
her
.
But
that
in
the
end
these
visits
had
become
a
habit
and
almost
a
necessity
for
him
,
so
that
he
was
positively
distressed
when
she
was
ill
for
some
days
and
could
not
visit
him
.
She
used
to
see
him
on
holidays
at
the
prison
gates
or
in
the
guard
-
room
,
to
which
he
was
brought
for
a
few
minutes
to
see
her
.
On
working
days
she
would
go
to
see
him
at
work
either
at
the
workshops
or
at
the
brick
kilns
,
or
at
the
sheds
on
the
banks
of
the
Irtish
.
About
herself
,
Sonia
wrote
that
she
had
succeeded
in
making
some
acquaintances
in
the
town
,
that
she
did
sewing
,
and
,
as
there
was
scarcely
a
dressmaker
in
the
town
,
she
was
looked
upon
as
an
indispensable
person
in
many
houses
.
But
she
did
not
mention
that
the
authorities
were
,
through
her
,
interested
in
Raskolnikov
;
that
his
task
was
lightened
and
so
on
.
At
last
the
news
came
(
Dounia
had
indeed
noticed
signs
of
alarm
and
uneasiness
in
the
preceding
letters
)
that
he
held
aloof
from
everyone
,
that
his
fellow
prisoners
did
not
like
him
,
that
he
kept
silent
for
days
at
a
time
and
was
becoming
very
pale
.
In
the
last
letter
Sonia
wrote
that
he
had
been
taken
very
seriously
ill
and
was
in
the
convict
ward
of
the
hospital
.
He
was
ill
a
long
time
.
But
it
was
not
the
horrors
of
prison
life
,
not
the
hard
labour
,
the
bad
food
,
the
shaven
head
,
or
the
patched
clothes
that
crushed
him
.
What
did
he
care
for
all
those
trials
and
hardships
!
he
was
even
glad
of
the
hard
work
.
Physically
exhausted
,
he
could
at
least
reckon
on
a
few
hours
of
quiet
sleep
.
And
what
was
the
food
to
him
—
the
thin
cabbage
soup
with
beetles
floating
in
it
?
In
the
past
as
a
student
he
had
often
not
had
even
that
.
His
clothes
were
warm
and
suited
to
his
manner
of
life
.
He
did
not
even
feel
the
fetters
.
Was
he
ashamed
of
his
shaven
head
and
parti
-
coloured
coat
?
Before
whom
?
Before
Sonia
?
Sonia
was
afraid
of
him
,
how
could
he
be
ashamed
before
her
?
And
yet
he
was
ashamed
even
before
Sonia
,
whom
he
tortured
because
of
it
with
his
contemptuous
rough
manner
.
But
it
was
not
his
shaven
head
and
his
fetters
he
was
ashamed
of
:
his
pride
had
been
stung
to
the
quick
.
It
was
wounded
pride
that
made
him
ill
.
Oh
,
how
happy
he
would
have
been
if
he
could
have
blamed
himself
!
He
could
have
borne
anything
then
,
even
shame
and
disgrace
.
But
he
judged
himself
severely
,
and
his
exasperated
conscience
found
no
particularly
terrible
fault
in
his
past
,
except
a
simple
blunder
which
might
happen
to
anyone
.
He
was
ashamed
just
because
he
,
Raskolnikov
,
had
so
hopelessly
,
stupidly
come
to
grief
through
some
decree
of
blind
fate
,
and
must
humble
himself
and
submit
to
“
the
idiocy
”
of
a
sentence
,
if
he
were
anyhow
to
be
at
peace
.
Vague
and
objectless
anxiety
in
the
present
,
and
in
the
future
a
continual
sacrifice
leading
to
nothing
—
that
was
all
that
lay
before
him
.
And
what
comfort
was
it
to
him
that
at
the
end
of
eight
years
he
would
only
be
thirty
-
two
and
able
to
begin
a
new
life
!
What
had
he
to
live
for
?
What
had
he
to
look
forward
to
?
Why
should
he
strive
?
To
live
in
order
to
exist
?
Why
,
he
had
been
ready
a
thousand
times
before
to
give
up
existence
for
the
sake
of
an
idea
,
for
a
hope
,
even
for
a
fancy
.
Mere
existence
had
always
been
too
little
for
him
;
he
had
always
wanted
more
.
Perhaps
it
was
just
because
of
the
strength
of
his
desires
that
he
had
thought
himself
a
man
to
whom
more
was
permissible
than
to
others
.
And
if
only
fate
would
have
sent
him
repentance
—
burning
repentance
that
would
have
torn
his
heart
and
robbed
him
of
sleep
,
that
repentance
,
the
awful
agony
of
which
brings
visions
of
hanging
or
drowning
!
Oh
,
he
would
have
been
glad
of
it
!
Tears
and
agonies
would
at
least
have
been
life
.
But
he
did
not
repent
of
his
crime
.
At
least
he
might
have
found
relief
in
raging
at
his
stupidity
,
as
he
had
raged
at
the
grotesque
blunders
that
had
brought
him
to
prison
.
But
now
in
prison
,
in
freedom
,
he
thought
over
and
criticised
all
his
actions
again
and
by
no
means
found
them
so
blundering
and
so
grotesque
as
they
had
seemed
at
the
fatal
time
.
“
In
what
way
,
”
he
asked
himself
,
“
was
my
theory
stupider
than
others
that
have
swarmed
and
clashed
from
the
beginning
of
the
world
?
One
has
only
to
look
at
the
thing
quite
independently
,
broadly
,
and
uninfluenced
by
commonplace
ideas
,
and
my
idea
will
by
no
means
seem
so
.
.
.
strange
.
Oh
,
sceptics
and
halfpenny
philosophers
,
why
do
you
halt
half
-
way
!
