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- CRIME AND PUNISHMENT 415
singing the service. From his childhood the thought of death
and the presence of death had something oppressive and mysteri-
ously awful; and it was long since he had heard the requiem
service. And there was something else here as well, too awful
and disturbing. He looked at the children: they were all kneel-
ing by the cofi&n; Polenka was weeping. Behind them Sonia
prayed, softly, and, as it were, timidly weeping.
"These last two days she hasn't said a word to me, she hasn't
glanced at me," Raskolnikov thought suddenly. The sunlight
was bright in the room; the incense rose in clouds; the priest
read, "Give rest, oh Lord. . . ." Raskolnikov stayed all through
the service. As he blessed them and took his leave, the priest
looked round strangely. After the service, Raskolnikov went up
to Sonia. She took both his hands and let her head sink on his
shoulder. This slight friendly gesture bewildered Raskolnikov.
It seemed strange to him that there was no trace of repugnance,
no trace of disgust, no tremor in her hand. It was the furthest
limit of self-abnegation, at least so he interpreted it.
Sonia said nothing. Raskolnikov pressed her hand and went
out. He felt very miserable. If it had been possible to escape to
some solitude, he would have thought himself lucky, even if he
had to spend his whole life there. But although he had almost
always been by himself of late, he had never been able to feel
alone. Sometimes he walked out of the town on to the high road,
once he had even reached a little wood, but the lonelier the place
was, the more he seemed to be aware of an uneasy presence near
him. It did not frighten him, but greatly annoyed him, so that
he made haste to return to the town, to mingle with the crowd,
to enter restaurants and taverns, to walk in busy thoroughfares.
There he felt easier and even more solitary. One day at dusk he
sat for an hour listening to songs in a tavern and he remembered
that he positively enjoyed it. But at last he had suddenly felt the
same uneasiness again, as though his conscience smote him.
"Here I sit listening to singing, is that what I ought to be
doing?" he thought. Yet he felt at once that that was not the
only cause of his uneasiness; there was something requiring im^
mediate decision, but it was something he could not clearly un-
derstand orput into words. It was a hopeless tangle. "No, better
the struggle again! Better Porfiry again ... or Svidrigailov. . . .
Better some challenge again . . . some attack. Yes, yes!" he
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