Well, I’m far beyond posting for every chapter now. I am exactly 62% through the book (the glory of having a Kindle is that I know this) and I am disheartened; there’s now so much I want to say that I’m not even sure where to begin.  So before I get into my main topic, just a few updates on wrong assumptions.

1. I don’t think Raskolnikov’s mother is manipulative after all. I think that, if we can trust anyone, we can trust the omniscient narrator. These are the facts that Dostoyevsky wants to share with us about his plot.  And omniscience says that Pulcheria “had only that morning thought rupture with Luzhin a terrible misfortune” before the family gives him the boot at dinner.  So Pulcheria, I believe, really is just a hand-wringing babbler who wears her heart on her sleeve. She did, in fact want the marriage to Luzhin to happen.

2. The reoccurring theme of power vs powerlessness manifests itself with the discussion in Sonia’s room.  Raskolnikov fluctuates wildly, first bowing to all the suffering of humanity/kissing Sonia’s feet and then scorning her immense sacrifices, which provide no real solution at all to her family’s problems. Sonia is still unable to alter her family’s destiny, and Raskolnikov rubs her helplessness in her face. Once again, it’s the pull of two Raskolnikovs–one that wants to give every last penny away as he starves (like Sonia) and one that is like his father that advises avoiding trying to help others because, well, what can he do? Indeed, what can Sonia do?

3. I was wrong in assuming the men in the bar just planted the thought of murdering with the excuse of justice in Raskolnikov’s brain. I had forgotten about one of the most important parts of Crime and Punishment: Raskolnikov’s article that was of such interest to Porfiry. Raskolnikov had the idea of justified killing far before it was suggested at that bar, so it really was as if circumstance was eerily setting up the murder of the pawnbroker and poor Lizaveta. Oh, I have so much to say about that article he wrote…oh well, another time.

And now for the topic at hand: Raskolnikov’s rather sinister but more suave twin, Svidrigailov.

The first time I read this book, I thought Svidrigailov was pure evil. I especially thought that after the rather dramatic scene with Dounia near the end. He was conniving, devious, a little rapey, terrifying…what isn’t pointing to evil? But every re-read, I have liked Svidrigailov more and more (and Luzhin less and less). Certainly I’d noticed that Svidrigailov had said he and Raskolnikov were alike before, but only this time do I realize how right he his.

The way Raskolnikov reacts to Svidrigailov when they first speak is quite like how others react to Raskolnikov (specifically, “He is a madman” and “‘You are certainly mad'”). Svidrigailov has the same awkward laughter, as if he has inside jokes with himself. He daydreams aloud without thinking, alarming those around him (think of Raskolnikov scaring off the friendly stranger after handing money to the young girl singing at the market).  He’s significantly introspective and forces people into conversations that make them uncomfortable.  He believes he sees ghosts, just as Raskolnikov sees things in delirium. He speaks of being ill, and he imagines that eternity might be one little corner filled with spiders (this tiny space to inhabit is a reoccurring theme in Raskolnikov’s thoughts, though the spiders seem to be lacking in his version, thankfully). Raskolnikov cries about the justice of Svidrigailov’s described eternity, but really only one manifestation of Raskolnikov is concerned with justice–the little boy that wants to kiss the dead horse and come to blows with its owner. The other manifestation of Raskolnikov believes Sonia’s stepsiblings will be left helpless and all her sacrifices will be for nothing, and he has no trouble confronting the injustice head on. This version of Raskolnikov, to me, sounds very much like the cynic who would picture a corner of eternity with spiders.

Svidrigailov “rarely lies,” and he’s so blunt I’m prepared to believe him. Think of the sentence “‘What do I mean? I really don’t know…’ Svidrigailov muttered ingenuously, as though he, too, were puzzled.” 1. It’s quite clear that he is honest, and perhaps too muddled in the brain to be otherwise, and 2. wow, how easily could that line be coming from Raskolnikov? But, while being honest, Svidrigailov avoids full disclosure.  He must. So his speech is full of phrases that he knows bear a heavy significance to him and him only, and, understanding others cannot know what is in his mind, he playfully hints at a larger picture. An example of this is Svidrigailov’s abstractly described “journey” (proving, in my mind, he has planned to kill himself before even getting to St. Petersburg).  Raskolnikov does this constantly as well–he loves to talk about the murder with people and chuckle and hint at things of great significance, but only for his own personal enjoyment–or masochism.

His own enjoyment or masochism. That’s the clincher. That’s why Svidrigailov and Raskolnikov are the most alike.  And it’s why I think I like Svidrigailov no matter what a knave he is. They never bother to think about what others think of them. They simply do not care an iota. They’re so lost in their own psyche that other people only play a fringe role. Sure, Raskolnikov cares if the police know what he’s done–when they’re around, and only because it concerns his future.  What he never thought of until recently in the book is what Razumihin will think when he finds out. And Razumihin has furiously defended Raskolnikov throughout the book, so it’s rather a surprise to think Raskolnikov never had a moment of “if only you knew!” Likewise, Svidrigailov says “I am certainly idle and depraved” and makes no apology for it or show any concern that Raskolnikov thinks it. In fact, he plainly says, “I am not particularly interested in anyone’s opinion” when Raskolnikov talks about how others view him, and from the bluntness of the entire conversation, it’s hard for me to think he isn’t telling the truth.

For someone trying prove he is Napoleon, Raskolnikov sure cares little about how others see him. He is possible the least self-conscious character I’ve read, at least as far as his awareness of how he comes off to others and his concern as such. It’s all about proving his thoughts internally harmonious–with proving himself to himself. He is the opposite of Luzhin, seeking affirmation and flattery everywhere he goes. So Svidrigailov is the opposite of Luzhin, too. It’s what I like about Raskolnikov and Svidrigailov–in that way, as well as others, they are very alike.

Consider with me the contents of chapters four and five of Crime and Punishment. (See, I’m not going to do a post per chapter after all.)

Short summary: Raskolnikov goes wandering and musing, as he is apt to do. He thinks about his mother’s letter and of his murderous plans and becomes extremely upset, as he is apt to become. He then sees a young girl with her clothes torn, completely drunk and unaware of her surroundings, and he perceives that a man following her has designs on her in this state. Raskolnikov attacks the man, determined to save this young girl from any further trauma, and he gives a policeman a great deal of his remaining money to get her a ride home. Then, as quickly as it came, his sympathy dissolves and he laughingly tells the policeman to just let the man do as he will. No use interfering with fate. The policeman thinks he’s crazy. He’s probably right.

Raskolnikov falls asleep in the bushes and has a terrible dream about being a child walking with his father and watching a helpless old horse be beat to death. It’s one of the worst parts of the book, but it’s so important. Then he walks home, swearing off all murderous thoughts and feeling better for having made the decision. He takes a long route home and stumbles upon the pawnbroker’s sister, Lizaveta, in conversation. He learns Lizaveta will be away from the house tomorrow evening, and he, in despair, decides this opportunity to catch the pawnbroker alone means that his fate is sealed. He must kill the old woman.

End summary.

Here come the contradictions that make Raskolnikov so human and so interesting. He believes that, if he doesn’t make a decision about the murder, he must resign himself to an entire life of helplessness. “He must decide on something, or else…’Or throw up life altogether!’ he cried, suddenly in a frenzy–‘accept one’s lot humbly, as it is, once and for all…'” Raskolnikov will later claim that the murder was an assertion of power, an expression of his supremacy and control.  Yet, when he makes a decision in chapter five–a decision not to kill–it seems to him as though fate then takes away this ability to make decisions and assert his agency. Killing the pawnbroker means powerlessness to Raskolnikov in this moment, not power.

After he decided to renounce his “dream,” as he calls it, of killing the pawnbroker, his meanderings bring him through the haymarket, which he claims to like to visit. Despite that the chapter gives a reason for him to be there–he likes it there–he thinks of the detour from the route home as a cruel magnetic pull of fate and nothing else. To him, it is as if some bizarre circumstance for which no one could possibly account cursed him and sent him to that place, sealing his future actions without his permission. Dostoyevsky says Raskolnikov felt “superstitiously impressed” that this route was the “predestined turning point of his fate,” and it was “as though it had been lying in wait for him on purpose.” He hears of Lizaveta’s impending absence and “he felt suddenly in his whole being that he had no more freedom of thought, no will, and that everything was suddenly and irrevocably decided.”

It’s strange because it takes much more choice to actually go out and kill someone, or even to take a different route home because you like the area.  Yet these are the things that strip Raskolnikov of his feelings of agency. Deciding to take no action against the pawnbroker–to let fate decide her path and to not intervene–made Raskolnikov feel free. After dreaming of the horse’s violent death and hearing his father say “it’s not our business” and encouraging Raskolnikov to take no action, you would think that it would be the opposite–that it would be action that gave Raskolnikov relief. He could certainly (outwardly) justify killing the pawnbroker. Doesn’t she act as a symbol of all the abusive and greedy monsters Raskolnikov has encountered in life? Isn’t she like the fat woman, rich and gluttonous, cracking nuts and laughing as the poor horse is struck with an axe? (Well, no, but that’s another post. I’m saying he could certainly convince himself that this is righteous vigilantism.)

He has such intense bouts of empathy for others, and he very much wants to intervene. The situation with the young girl and the horse are completely parallel. Something helpless is in trouble and Raskolnikov will do anything for them: fight for them, give them every last penny. In his dream, his father encourages him not to interfere in these injustices. With the young girl, you can almost see the father figure rise up and overcome child-Raskolnikov as he turns 180 degrees, claiming no one should intervene–it isn’t anyone’s business what happens but the girl’s and her stalker’s.

What Raskolnikov seeks is power, but all he sees–and some of this is probably self-imposed martyrdom–is his helplessness at every turn. This is Raskolnikov’s struggle. He wants to do something good in a world that makes him feel powerless to do good. Or he wants to at least avoid the pain of trying to change things and being helpless to make a difference. He can’t make either one happen.

Chapter three. It continues.

I had always thought of Raskolnikov’s mother as simply sincere, sentimental (to a fault), and a little batty. But after reading her letter to Raskolnikov, I’ve decided to explore a new theory and see how much water it holds for the rest of the novel.

Perhaps Raskolnikov’s mother is more deliberate than I’ve given her credit to be. In her letter, she describes an existence where Dounia and she are constantly thinking of him and would do anything for him–in fact, everything they currently do is for him.  She seems so much in earnest, to the point of blathering, in her letter, so it seems like an outpouring of love. But for the first time, I’m entertaining the idea that Raskolnikov is not her favorite child after all.  That puts quite a different spin on things.

Her is the narrative of the letter in one light–the light in which I’ve always read the letter in before:

• I haven’t written because I couldn’t–you would come marching up here with guns blazing to defend your sister*
• Dounia has undergone terrible suffering and slander but now everything is going to be great!
• Her future husband will take care of the whole family, get you a job, etc. He’s kinda pompous, but please don’t judge him–give him a chance, because all our hopes are with him, and I’m sure he’s really a great guy.
• Heck, when they get married, maybe I’ll even try to strike out on my own! Me, an independent woman–picture that!

*Question: Would he have, though?  Would Raskolnikov have really come in a fury to defend Dounia’s honor? Maybe. He’s such a moody guy that I’d say it depends on the day.

Now, here is the narrative of the letter in a new light, reading between the lines:

• I haven’t written because I couldn’t–you would come marching up here with guns blazing, or at least I’d like to make it clear that that’s my expectation of your character and I’m hoping you’ll take the hint and match those expectations, should future circumstances like this arrive and we need you.
• Dounia has undergone terrible suffering, and it’s all for you, really.
• She’s done all this and now she’s about to marry a self-important, insulting, disgusting person she doesn’t even like, and guess why–FOR YOU.
• If you let her marry this guy for your own benefit, God have mercy on your soul.
• Also, I don’t think that he’s going to make me feel welcome in their house and I’m too poor too make it alone

Does this new reading hold water? Well, I’ll look for it as I read on. But I noticed this time around that she says things she certainly knows will prejudice him against Luhzin (like “it did strike me as very rude,” or “Of course, there is no great love either on his side, or on hers…but Dounia…will make it her duty to make her husband happy,” or “it must be admitted the matter has been arranged in great haste,” or “he seems a little conceited”). And she certainly makes it clear that Dounia (her favorite, perhaps?) is making endless sacrifices for him (she isn’t sleeping, she’s in a fever over dreams of what this connection could mean for her brother, etc.).

I always thought that Raskolnikov’s mother was just overly chatty and says whatever comes into her mind without thinking to censor herself. But writing vs speaking is very different. Mom has a chance to really think about what she’s saying, and she can always throw out a paper on which she’s written things too hastily. She knows her son. She knows how he will read all the things she’s said, how he’ll interpret all of her words.

On a broader scale, this could be an author technique to prejudice the reader in certain ways as well, and I’m just being overly, umm, invested. Perhaps my initial reads of Mom are accurate. But I’m going to explore the manipulation angle this read-around, just for fun.

Chapter II, and it’s time for another post. I promise to not post on every chapter in Crime and Punishment.

Maybe.

I promise to maybe not post on every chapter in Crime and Punishment. I think that’s fair.

Here’s the story behind the topic of today’s post. Marmeladov has lost his job. He and his family live in crushing poverty. He loves them terribly. Things are very bad. His wife is coughing up blood, His children are starving. His oldest daughter, a tiny, pious thing, has been forced into prostitution, which takes an enormous psychological toll on her. But Marmeladov gets his job back. Everything is going to be okay. He comes home with money from work that night. The family is feverishly manic with hope. He talks of the amazing transformation in the atmosphere of the apartment, of the real cream they’ve gotten for his coffee. That night, Marmeladov takes the money he has earned, sells his work uniform, and goes on a five day bender. The only reason he is still able to drink after spending all the money is because he went to his daughter and begged her to give her all she had, which she did. And there he is, at the end of his last pint (which he almost proudly said was bought with her money), telling his story to Raskolnikov at the bar.

There is an elephant-in-room-sized question here. Marmeladov never says why he snuck off in the night to drink instead of going back to work. He has plenty of self-loathing to vocalize, but he never says why he did it. Instead he just says that he stole his wife’s key in the night, took the money, and has been drinking for five days. Raskolnikov never asks why, and, frankly, I never thought to ask either until now.

Just about everyone in Crime and Punishment has a delusion of some sort. I used to think the Marmeladov family all had different delusions, but I realized today that they are all just different flavors of the same delusion. Or maybe delusion is the wrong word for it because of how unverified by experience and fact delusions are, ipso facto. It’s perhaps more that the family has coping mechanisms that reflect Marmeladov’s delusion–for make no mistake, his way of thinking is certainly a delusion. They all express faith that God will understand their sin and misery and forgive them for it, and their justification for all the things poverty drives them to do is that their suffering will be redeem them from their sin. The only one who wavers from this hope for a moment (in my favorite line of the novel) is Marmeladov’s wife Katerina, saying that if God doesn’t forgive her, she doesn’t care. But the quintessential Marmeladov family delusion is that suffering = redemption in the afterlife. They have to believe it–they don’t have much more to hold onto.

Of course, this isn’t necessarily a bad or harmful way of thinking for everyone. I think that Sonia’s (Marmeladov’s daughter’s) faith that God sees her intentions and not her actions is the only thing that stops her from falling into the kind of despair we see in Raskolnikov–the kind of despair that drives him to madness. But Marmeladov…his beliefs are delusions to the core. He claims he drinks his family’s money away because he seeks the suffering at the bottom of the glass. He wants to feel the weight of all he’s done, he wants his wife to pull his hair and beat him (which he claims is an absolute pleasure to him). He wants to be “judged” and “crucified,” daydreaming about how God will say that though his sins are many, he has loved much, and that it’s Marmeladov’s very knowledge that he is unworthy that will cause God to receive him. 

Marmeladov is stuck in a wretched cycle. He has to do things that make him worthy of punishment so that he can be punished and feel redeemed. The more terrible the thing, the deeper the punishment that will be inflicted upon him, as he sees it. The “crucified” implies that he might see himself as a martyr, and it is guilt that is his primary source of suffering. So what must he do? Things that make him feel guilty. I think that’s why he didn’t return to the job and instead spent the money on a five-day drinking spree instead of, say, helping his children not starve to death. But there are problems with this. There are some forms of suffering he chooses to avoid.  

If Marmeladov truly wanted to suffer, he would dwell on his daughter’s occupation. This is clearly what troubles him the most. He explains enough of it to make Raskolnikov understand that she has had to become a prostitute, but often the conversation, when it turns to her, wanders on to other topics.

Take this:

“She has a room at the Kapernaumovs’ the tailors, she lodges with them; Kapernaumov is a lame man with a cleft palate and all of his numerous family have cleft palates too. And his wife, too, has a cleft palate. They all live in one room, but Sonia has her own, partitioned off…. Hm… yes… very poor people and all with cleft palates… yes.”

And that’s the end of Sonia talk. 

Marmeladov’s theory–that he is such a wretch and so thoroughly, wonderfully punished for it that God can’t help but have pity on him–falls short, I think. He believes emphatically that he suffers as much as one possibly can, yet he avoids thinking for long on what hurts him the most about what he’s done. He revels in the rest of his sins, feeling as terrible about it all as he possibly can, but he falters when he thinks on Sonia for too long.

The other explanation is that he’s an alcoholic, which is probably also true. (However, I’d like to point out that he stopped drinking when he married Katerina. That isn’t to say alcoholics can’t stop drinking for a time. But he’d done it once, meaning he could probably do it again. But perhaps he’d reached the point where he figured he would always return to drinking and no longer had the will to fight it.)

Anyway, Marmeladov’s masochism and the world of sin-cycle he’s built his life theories upon are heartily felt and thoroughly believed. But, like any delusion, there are holes in his beliefs.