2

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.

He was ill for a long time. But it was not the horrors of prison life that crushed him. It was not the hard labor, the bad food, the shaved head, or the patched clothes. What did he care about those hardships? He was even glad of the hard work. When physically exhausted, he could at least count on a few hours of peaceful sleep. And what did he care about the food, the thin cabbage soup with beetles floating in it? As a student, he had often gone without even that. His clothes were warm and suited to his way of life. He did not even feel the shackles. Was he ashamed of his shaved head and his coat of many colors? In front of whom? Sonia? Sonia was afraid of him. How could he be ashamed in front of her? And yet he was ashamed even in front of Sonia. Because of that shame, he tormented her with his contemptuous, rough manner. But it was not his shaved head and shackles that shamed him. His pride had been deeply hurt. It was wounded pride that made him ill. Oh, how happy he would have been if he could have blamed himself! Then he could have borne anything, even shame and disgrace. But he judged himself harshly. His frustrated conscience found no particularly terrible fault in his past, only a simple blunder that could happen to anyone. He was ashamed because he, Raskolnikov, had come to ruin so hopelessly and stupidly through some decree of blind fate. If he was ever to find peace, he had to humble himself and submit to “the idiocy” of his sentence.

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.

All that lay before him was a vague, aimless anxiety in the present and endless sacrifice leading nowhere in the future. What comfort was it that, after eight years, he would be only thirty-two and could start a new life? What did he have to live for? What did he have to look forward to? Why should he try? Just to go on existing? A thousand times before, he had been ready to give up his existence for an idea, a hope, or even a passing fancy. Simply existing had always been too little for him. He had always wanted more. Perhaps it was the strength of his desires that had made him think he was allowed to do more than 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.

If only fate had brought him remorse, a burning remorse that would tear his heart apart and keep him awake. Its terrible agony could bring visions of hanging or drowning! Oh, he would have welcomed it! At least tears and agony would have been life. But he felt no remorse for 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.

At least he might have found relief in raging at his stupidity. He had raged that way at the ridiculous mistakes that had brought him to prison. But now, in prison, in freedom, he thought over and judged all his actions again. He no longer found them nearly as clumsy or ridiculous as they had seemed at that 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!”

“How,” he asked himself, “was my theory any more foolish than the others that have swarmed and clashed since the world began? Just look at it independently and broadly, without being influenced by common ideas. Then my idea will not seem so... strange. Oh, skeptics and cheap philosophers, why do you stop halfway!”

“Why does my action strike them as so horrible?” he said to himself. “Is it because it was a crime? What is meant by crime? My conscience is at rest. Of course, it was a legal crime, of course, the letter of the law was broken and blood was shed. Well, punish me for the letter of the law... and that’s enough. Of course, in that case many of the benefactors of mankind who snatched power for themselves instead of inheriting it ought to have been punished at their first steps. But those men succeeded and so they were right, and I didn’t, and so I had no right to have taken that step.”

“Why does what I did seem so horrible to them?” he asked himself. “Is it because it was a crime? What does ‘crime’ mean? My conscience is clear. Of course, it was a crime under the law. Of course, I broke the letter of the law and shed blood. Well, punish me for breaking the letter of the law... and that’s enough. Of course, by that reasoning, many of humanity’s benefactors should have been punished when they first seized power instead of inheriting it. But those men succeeded, so they were right. I didn’t succeed, so I had no right to take that step.”

It was only in that that he recognised his criminality, only in the fact that he had been unsuccessful and had confessed it.

He saw his crime only in the fact that he had failed and confessed.

He suffered too from the question: why had he not killed himself? Why had he stood looking at the river and preferred to confess? Was the desire to live so strong and was it so hard to overcome it? Had not Svidrigaïlov overcome it, although he was afraid of death?

He was also troubled by a question: Why hadn't he killed himself? Why had he stood looking at the river and chosen to confess instead? Was the desire to live so strong? Was it so hard to overcome? Hadn't Svidrigaïlov overcome it, even though he was afraid of death?

In misery he asked himself this question, and could not understand that, at the very time he had been standing looking into the river, he had perhaps been dimly conscious of the fundamental falsity in himself and his convictions. He didn’t understand that that consciousness might be the promise of a future crisis, of a new view of life and of his future resurrection.

In misery, he asked himself this question. He did not realize that, as he stood looking into the river, he may have dimly sensed a fundamental falseness in himself and his beliefs. He did not understand that this awareness might promise a future crisis, a new view of life, and his eventual resurrection.

He preferred to attribute it to the dead weight of instinct which he could not step over, again through weakness and meanness. He looked at his fellow prisoners and was amazed to see how they all loved life and prized it. It seemed to him that they loved and valued life more in prison than in freedom. What terrible agonies and privations some of them, the tramps for instance, had endured! Could they care so much for a ray of sunshine, for the primeval forest, the cold spring hidden away in some unseen spot, which the tramp had marked three years before, and longed to see again, as he might to see his sweetheart, dreaming of the green grass round it and the bird singing in the bush? As he went on he saw still more inexplicable examples.

He preferred to blame it on the dead weight of instinct, which he was too weak and base to overcome. He looked at his fellow prisoners and was amazed at how they all loved and valued life. It seemed to him that they valued life more in prison than they had in freedom. Some of them, the tramps for instance, had endured terrible suffering and hardship! Could they care so much for a ray of sunshine, for the ancient forest, or for a cold spring hidden away? A tramp might have found such a spring three years before and longed to see it again like a sweetheart. He would dream of the green grass around it and the bird singing in the bush. As he went on, he saw still more examples he could not explain.

In prison, of course, there was a great deal he did not see and did not want to see; he lived as it were with downcast eyes. It was loathsome and unbearable for him to look. But in the end there was much that surprised him and he began, as it were involuntarily, to notice much that he had not suspected before. What surprised him most of all was the terrible impossible gulf that lay between him and all the rest. They seemed to be a different species, and he looked at them and they at him with distrust and hostility. He felt and knew the reasons of his isolation, but he would never have admitted till then that those reasons were so deep and strong. There were some Polish exiles, political prisoners, among them. They simply looked down upon all the rest as ignorant churls; but Raskolnikov could not look upon them like that. He saw that these ignorant men were in many respects far wiser than the Poles. There were some Russians who were just as contemptuous, a former officer and two seminarists. Raskolnikov saw their mistake as clearly. He was disliked and avoided by everyone; they even began to hate him at last—why, he could not tell. Men who had been far more guilty despised and laughed at his crime.

In prison, of course, there was a great deal he did not see and did not want to see. He lived as if his eyes were downcast. Looking was hateful and unbearable to him. But in the end, much surprised him. Almost without meaning to, he began to notice things he had never suspected. What surprised him most was the terrible, impossible gulf between him and everyone else. They seemed to be a different species. He looked at them with distrust and hostility, and they looked at him the same way. He felt and understood the reasons for his isolation. But until then, he would never have admitted that those reasons were so deep and strong. Some Polish exiles, political prisoners, were among them. They simply looked down on everyone else as ignorant brutes. But Raskolnikov could not see them that way. He saw that these ignorant men were wiser than the Poles in many ways. Some Russians were just as contemptuous: a former officer and two seminary students. Raskolnikov saw their mistake just as clearly. Everyone disliked and avoided him. Eventually, they even began to hate him. He could not say why. Men who had been far more guilty despised his crime and laughed at it.

“You’re a gentleman,” they used to say. “You shouldn’t hack about with an axe; that’s not a gentleman’s work.”

“You’re a gentleman,” they used to say. “You shouldn’t work with an axe. That’s not a gentleman’s work.”

The second week in Lent, his turn came to take the sacrament with his gang. He went to church and prayed with the others. A quarrel broke out one day, he did not know how. All fell on him at once in a fury.

In the second week of Lent, it was his turn to take communion with his gang. He went to church and prayed with the others. One day a quarrel broke out, though he did not know how it started. Everyone attacked him at once in a fury.

“You’re an infidel! You don’t believe in God,” they shouted. “You ought to be killed.”

“You’re a nonbeliever! You don’t believe in God,” they shouted. “You should be killed.”

He had never talked to them about God nor his belief, but they wanted to kill him as an infidel. He said nothing. One of the prisoners rushed at him in a perfect frenzy. Raskolnikov awaited him calmly and silently; his eyebrows did not quiver, his face did not flinch. The guard succeeded in intervening between him and his assailant, or there would have been bloodshed.

He had never talked to them about God or his beliefs, but they wanted to kill him as an unbeliever. He said nothing. One of the prisoners rushed at him in a frenzy. Raskolnikov waited calmly and silently. His eyebrows did not move, and his face did not flinch. The guard managed to step between Raskolnikov and his attacker. Otherwise, there would have been bloodshed.

There was another question he could not decide: why were they all so fond of Sonia? She did not try to win their favour; she rarely met them, sometimes only she came to see him at work for a moment. And yet everybody knew her, they knew that she had come out to follow him, knew how and where she lived. She never gave them money, did them no particular services. Only once at Christmas she sent them all presents of pies and rolls. But by degrees closer relations sprang up between them and Sonia. She would write and post letters for them to their relations. Relations of the prisoners who visited the town, at their instructions, left with Sonia presents and money for them. Their wives and sweethearts knew her and used to visit her. And when she visited Raskolnikov at work, or met a party of the prisoners on the road, they all took off their hats to her. “Little mother Sofya Semyonovna, you are our dear, good little mother,” coarse branded criminals said to that frail little creature. She would smile and bow to them and everyone was delighted when she smiled. They even admired her gait and turned round to watch her walking; they admired her too for being so little, and, in fact, did not know what to admire her most for. They even came to her for help in their illnesses.

There was another question he could not answer: why did they all like Sonia so much? She did not try to win their favor. She rarely saw them, except when she sometimes came to see him briefly at work. Yet everyone knew her. They knew she had come to follow him, and they knew how and where she lived. She never gave them money or did them any special favors. Only once, at Christmas, did she send them all gifts of pies and rolls. But gradually, they grew closer to Sonia. She wrote and mailed letters to their families for them. When prisoners’ relatives came to town, they left gifts and money for them with Sonia, as the prisoners had instructed. Their wives and sweethearts knew her and used to visit her. When Sonia visited Raskolnikov at work or met a group of prisoners on the road, they all took off their hats to her. “Little mother Sofya Semyonovna, you are our dear, good little mother,” rough, branded criminals said to that frail little creature. She would smile and bow to them, and everyone was delighted when she smiled. They even admired the way she walked and turned to watch her. They admired her for being so small, too. In fact, they did not know what they admired most about her. They even came to her for help when they were ill.

He was in the hospital from the middle of Lent till after Easter. When he was better, he remembered the dreams he had had while he was feverish and delirious. He dreamt that the whole world was condemned to a terrible new strange plague that had come to Europe from the depths of Asia. All were to be destroyed except a very few chosen. Some new sorts of microbes were attacking the bodies of men, but these microbes were endowed with intelligence and will. Men attacked by them became at once mad and furious. But never had men considered themselves so intellectual and so completely in possession of the truth as these sufferers, never had they considered their decisions, their scientific conclusions, their moral convictions so infallible. Whole villages, whole towns and peoples went mad from the infection. All were excited and did not understand one another. Each thought that he alone had the truth and was wretched looking at the others, beat himself on the breast, wept, and wrung his hands. They did not know how to judge and could not agree what to consider evil and what good; they did not know whom to blame, whom to justify. Men killed each other in a sort of senseless spite. They gathered together in armies against one another, but even on the march the armies would begin attacking each other, the ranks would be broken and the soldiers would fall on each other, stabbing and cutting, biting and devouring each other. The alarm bell was ringing all day long in the towns; men rushed together, but why they were summoned and who was summoning them no one knew. The most ordinary trades were abandoned, because everyone proposed his own ideas, his own improvements, and they could not agree. The land too was abandoned. Men met in groups, agreed on something, swore to keep together, but at once began on something quite different from what they had proposed. They accused one another, fought and killed each other. There were conflagrations and famine. All men and all things were involved in destruction. The plague spread and moved further and further. Only a few men could be saved in the whole world. They were a pure chosen people, destined to found a new race and a new life, to renew and purify the earth, but no one had seen these men, no one had heard their words and their voices.

He was in the hospital from the middle of Lent until after Easter. When he got better, he remembered the dreams he had while feverish and delirious. He dreamed that the whole world was doomed by a terrible, strange new plague. It had come to Europe from the depths of Asia. Everyone was to be destroyed except a very few chosen people. New kinds of microbes were attacking people’s bodies. These microbes had intelligence and will. People they attacked immediately became mad and furious. Yet they had never thought themselves so intelligent or so certain that they possessed the truth. They had never been so convinced that their decisions, scientific conclusions, and moral beliefs were infallible. Whole villages, towns, and peoples went mad from the infection. Everyone was agitated, and no one understood anyone else. Each person thought that he alone had the truth. He was miserable at the sight of the others. He beat his chest, wept, and wrung his hands. People did not know how to judge. They could not agree on what was evil and what was good. They did not know whom to blame or whom to defend. People killed one another out of senseless spite. They gathered in armies to fight one another. But even as they marched, the soldiers in each army began attacking one another. Their ranks broke apart, and they fell on one another, stabbing, cutting, biting, and devouring one another. In the towns, the alarm bells rang all day. People rushed together, but no one knew why they had been summoned or who was summoning them. The most ordinary trades were abandoned. Everyone proposed his own ideas and improvements, and they could not agree. The land was abandoned too. People met in groups, agreed on something, and swore to stay together. But then they immediately began doing something quite different from what they had proposed. They accused one another, fought, and killed one another. Fires and famine followed. Everyone and everything was caught up in the destruction. The plague spread farther and farther. Only a few people in the whole world could be saved. They were a pure, chosen people, destined to found a new race and a new life. They were to renew and purify the earth. But no one had seen them or heard their words or their voices.

Raskolnikov was worried that this senseless dream haunted his memory so miserably, the impression of this feverish delirium persisted so long. The second week after Easter had come. There were warm bright spring days; in the prison ward the grating windows under which the sentinel paced were opened. Sonia had only been able to visit him twice during his illness; each time she had to obtain permission, and it was difficult. But she often used to come to the hospital yard, especially in the evening, sometimes only to stand a minute and look up at the windows of the ward.

Raskolnikov was troubled by how miserably that senseless dream lingered in his memory. The impression left by his feverish delirium lasted so long. The second week after Easter had come. The spring days were warm and bright. In the prison ward, the barred windows were open, and a guard paced beneath them. Sonia had only been able to visit him twice during his illness. Each time, she had to get permission, which was difficult. But she often came to the hospital yard, especially in the evening. Sometimes she stood there for only a minute, looking up at the ward windows.

One evening, when he was almost well again, Raskolnikov fell asleep. On waking up he chanced to go to the window, and at once saw Sonia in the distance at the hospital gate. She seemed to be waiting for someone. Something stabbed him to the heart at that minute. He shuddered and moved away from the window. Next day Sonia did not come, nor the day after; he noticed that he was expecting her uneasily. At last he was discharged. On reaching the prison he learnt from the convicts that Sofya Semyonovna was lying ill at home and was unable to go out.

One evening, when he was almost well again, Raskolnikov fell asleep. When he woke, he happened to go to the window. He immediately saw Sonia in the distance, at the hospital gate. She seemed to be waiting for someone. Something stabbed him in the heart. He shuddered and moved away from the window. Sonia did not come the next day or the day after. He noticed that he was waiting for her anxiously. At last, he was discharged. When he reached the prison, the convicts told him that Sofya Semyonovna was ill at home and could not go out.

He was very uneasy and sent to inquire after her; he soon learnt that her illness was not dangerous. Hearing that he was anxious about her, Sonia sent him a pencilled note, telling him that she was much better, that she had a slight cold and that she would soon, very soon come and see him at his work. His heart throbbed painfully as he read it.

He was very worried and sent someone to ask how she was. He soon learned that her illness was not dangerous. When Sonia heard he was worried about her, she sent him a note written in pencil. She said she was much better and had a slight cold. She would come to see him at work soon, very soon. His heart ached as he read her note.

Again it was a warm bright day. Early in the morning, at six o’clock, he went off to work on the river bank, where they used to pound alabaster and where there was a kiln for baking it in a shed. There were only three of them sent. One of the convicts went with the guard to the fortress to fetch a tool; the other began getting the wood ready and laying it in the kiln. Raskolnikov came out of the shed on to the river bank, sat down on a heap of logs by the shed and began gazing at the wide deserted river. From the high bank a broad landscape opened before him, the sound of singing floated faintly audible from the other bank. In the vast steppe, bathed in sunshine, he could just see, like black specks, the nomads’ tents. There there was freedom, there other men were living, utterly unlike those here; there time itself seemed to stand still, as though the age of Abraham and his flocks had not passed. Raskolnikov sat gazing, his thoughts passed into day-dreams, into contemplation; he thought of nothing, but a vague restlessness excited and troubled him. Suddenly he found Sonia beside him; she had come up noiselessly and sat down at his side. It was still quite early; the morning chill was still keen. She wore her poor old burnous and the green shawl; her face still showed signs of illness, it was thinner and paler. She gave him a joyful smile of welcome, but held out her hand with her usual timidity. She was always timid of holding out her hand to him and sometimes did not offer it at all, as though afraid he would repel it. He always took her hand as though with repugnance, always seemed vexed to meet her and was sometimes obstinately silent throughout her visit. Sometimes she trembled before him and went away deeply grieved. But now their hands did not part. He stole a rapid glance at her and dropped his eyes on the ground without speaking. They were alone, no one had seen them. The guard had turned away for the time.

Once again, it was a warm, bright day. At six in the morning, he went to work on the riverbank. There they pounded alabaster and baked it in a kiln inside a shed. Only three convicts were sent there. One went with the guard to the fortress to fetch a tool. Another began preparing the wood and putting it in the kiln. Raskolnikov came out of the shed onto the riverbank. He sat on a pile of logs beside the shed and gazed at the wide, deserted river. From the high bank, a broad landscape stretched out before him. He could faintly hear singing from the opposite bank. On the vast, sunlit steppe, he could just make out the nomads’ tents, like black specks. There was freedom there. Other men lived there, utterly unlike the men here. Time itself seemed to stand still there, as if the age of Abraham and his flocks had never passed. Raskolnikov sat gazing, his thoughts drifting into daydreams and contemplation. He thought of nothing, but a vague restlessness stirred and troubled him. Suddenly, he found Sonia beside him. She had come up quietly and sat down at his side. It was still very early, and the morning chill was sharp. She wore her shabby old burnous and green shawl. Her face still showed signs of illness. It was thinner and paler. She greeted him with a joyful smile, but held out her hand with her usual shyness. She was always hesitant to offer him her hand, and sometimes did not offer it at all. It was as if she feared he would reject it. He always took her hand as if he disliked doing so. He always seemed annoyed to see her, and sometimes stubbornly stayed silent throughout her visit. At times she trembled before him and left deeply hurt. But now their hands did not part. He glanced quickly at her, then lowered his eyes to the ground without speaking. They were alone, and no one had seen them. The guard had turned away for the moment.

How it happened he did not know. But all at once something seemed to seize him and fling him at her feet. He wept and threw his arms round her knees. For the first instant she was terribly frightened and she turned pale. She jumped up and looked at him trembling. But at the same moment she understood, and a light of infinite happiness came into her eyes. She knew and had no doubt that he loved her beyond everything and that at last the moment had come....

He did not know how it happened. But suddenly, something seemed to seize him and throw him at her feet. He wept and wrapped his arms around her knees. At first, she was terrified and turned pale. She jumped up and looked at him, trembling. But at that same moment, she understood. A light of infinite happiness came into her eyes. She knew, without a doubt, that he loved her more than anything. At last, the moment had come....

They wanted to speak, but could not; tears stood in their eyes. They were both pale and thin; but those sick pale faces were bright with the dawn of a new future, of a full resurrection into a new life. They were renewed by love; the heart of each held infinite sources of life for the heart of the other.

They wanted to speak, but they could not. Tears filled their eyes. Both were pale and thin. But their sickly faces glowed with the dawn of a new future, a full resurrection into a new life. Love had renewed them. Each heart held an endless source of life for the other.

They resolved to wait and be patient. They had another seven years to wait, and what terrible suffering and what infinite happiness before them! But he had risen again and he knew it and felt it in all his being, while she—she only lived in his life.

They decided to wait and be patient. They had seven more years to wait, with terrible suffering and endless happiness ahead of them! But he had come back to life. He knew it and felt it with his whole being, while she lived only in his life.

On the evening of the same day, when the barracks were locked, Raskolnikov lay on his plank bed and thought of her. He had even fancied that day that all the convicts who had been his enemies looked at him differently; he had even entered into talk with them and they answered him in a friendly way. He remembered that now, and thought it was bound to be so. Wasn’t everything now bound to be changed?

That evening, after the barracks were locked, Raskolnikov lay on his plank bed and thought of her. Earlier that day, he had even imagined that all the convicts who had been his enemies looked at him differently. He had even talked with them, and they had answered him in a friendly way. He remembered this now and thought it was bound to happen. Wasn’t everything bound to change now?

He thought of her. He remembered how continually he had tormented her and wounded her heart. He remembered her pale and thin little face. But these recollections scarcely troubled him now; he knew with what infinite love he would now repay all her sufferings. And what were all, all the agonies of the past! Everything, even his crime, his sentence and imprisonment, seemed to him now in the first rush of feeling an external, strange fact with which he had no concern. But he could not think for long together of anything that evening, and he could not have analysed anything consciously; he was simply feeling. Life had stepped into the place of theory and something quite different would work itself out in his mind.

He thought of her. He remembered how constantly he had tormented her and hurt her. He remembered her pale, thin little face. But these memories hardly troubled him now. He knew he would repay all her suffering with infinite love. And what did all, all the agonies of the past matter? In his first rush of feeling, everything seemed like an external, strange fact that had nothing to do with him. Even his crime, his sentence, and his imprisonment seemed that way. But that evening he could not think about anything for long. He could not consciously analyze anything either. He was simply feeling. Life had taken the place of theory, and something quite different would work itself out in his mind.

Under his pillow lay the New Testament. He took it up mechanically. The book belonged to Sonia; it was the one from which she had read the raising of Lazarus to him. At first he was afraid that she would worry him about religion, would talk about the gospel and pester him with books. But to his great surprise she had not once approached the subject and had not even offered him the Testament. He had asked her for it himself not long before his illness and she brought him the book without a word. Till now he had not opened it.

The New Testament lay under his pillow. He picked it up without thinking. The book belonged to Sonia. It was the one she had read to him from, telling him about the raising of Lazarus. At first, he had been afraid she would bother him about religion. He thought she would talk about the gospel and pester him with books. But to his great surprise, she had never once brought up the subject. She had not even offered him the New Testament. He had asked her for it himself shortly before his illness, and she had brought it without a word. Until now, he had not opened it.

He did not open it now, but one thought passed through his mind: “Can her convictions not be mine now? Her feelings, her aspirations at least....”

He did not open it now, but one thought crossed his mind: “Can her beliefs be mine now too? At least her feelings and hopes....”

She too had been greatly agitated that day, and at night she was taken ill again. But she was so happy—and so unexpectedly happy—that she was almost frightened of her happiness. Seven years, only seven years! At the beginning of their happiness at some moments they were both ready to look on those seven years as though they were seven days. He did not know that the new life would not be given him for nothing, that he would have to pay dearly for it, that it would cost him great striving, great suffering.

She too had been deeply upset that day, and that night she became ill again. But she was so happy, and so unexpectedly happy, that her happiness almost frightened her. Seven years, only seven years! At the beginning of their happiness, they were both sometimes ready to see those seven years as seven days. He did not know that his new life would not come for free. He would have to pay dearly for it, with great effort and great suffering.

But that is the beginning of a new story—the story of the gradual renewal of a man, the story of his gradual regeneration, of his passing from one world into another, of his initiation into a new unknown life. That might be the subject of a new story, but our present story is ended.

But that is the beginning of a new story. It is the story of a man gradually finding new life and becoming a new person. He passes from one world into another and begins a new, unknown life. That might be the subject of a new story, but our present story has ended.

.

.