Thus, having to bear the twin burdens of shame and disaffection, Raskolnikov weighs his options. The only paths he can take are either to humbly attempt to rejoin society, which he rejects, or to show that he is above society once and for all and has no need for it. It is clear which road he takes. He sees the murder as a tool to re-establish his own self-worth. He gives an outline of his philosophy and attitude towards the law as follows:
“An extraordinary man has the right…to allow his conscience to…step over certain obstacles, and then only in the event that the fulfillment of his idea – sometimes perhaps salutary for the whole of mankind – calls for it…In short, I deduce that all, not only great men, but even those…who are a tiny bit capable of saying something new – by their very nature cannot fail to be criminals…” (260)
From a utilitarian point of view, he believes that his murder of the pawnbroker is a good deed, as “for one life, thousands of lives [are] saved from decay and corruption” (65), and the only reason that it has not been done is that the masses of people are simply too weak, too ordinary to do so. He imagines himself to be a great man in the mould of “the Muhammads, the Napoleans, and so forth” (260). He thus latches on to the metaphysical ideals of the murder and what it can do for his own self-perception. As he confesses later, his primary goal was to elevate himself – “I simply killed – killed for myself, for myself alone…I wanted to find out…whether I was a louse like all the rest, or a man?” (419). Just before he leaves his room to commit the crime, he starts dreaming of being “in some oasis” (67), a testament to the peace that he believes the transgression will bring him.
Yet, it quickly becomes clear soon after the murder that Raskolnikov is nowhere near the great man he thinks he is. Here an important distinction must be drawn between shame and guilt. Shame, as defined earlier, arises from an individual’s feelings of inadequacy or disaffection, whereas guilt is derived from one’s regret of one’s actions. As he seeks to prove his greatness through his crime, he is always wary of feelings of guilt, for according to his philosophy such feelings detract from one’s true greatness. After all, as he reasons, true “Napoleans” are able to bypass their conscience in transgressing, and not be tormented by guilt. This lays the framework for his behavior after the crime as we witness his psychological collapse, as he struggles to suppress his natural feelings of guilt to fit into his fantasies of greatness. Eventually, however, he accepts that it is all a farce, and confesses to Sonya that “because I tormented myself for so many days…it means I must already have felt clearly that I was not Napolean” (419).
His abject failure comes to the fore in his bizarre dream at the end of Part Three. He dreams of himself once again committing the murder, but this time he is impotent – no matter how many times he strikes the pawnbroker on the head, “she did not stir under his blows, as though she were made of wood” (277). He sees the old woman laughing at him for his failure, and as he tries to make his escape, pictures a whole crowd that witnesses his fiasco. Here it is once more his latent feelings of inadequacy that are aroused. His psychology here again displays the shame/guilt divide. By dreaming of a scene which so vividly displays his impotence, instead of one which revolves around feelings of regret, it is clear that shame is the primary burden on him. Once more he feels alone, alienated from society as he pictures the masses laughing at him. He has tried to project himself as having no need for them but it is clear he is not the man he thought he was. His experiment has failed, and this realization is apparent in his confession to Sonya, when he tells her that, “I killed myself, not the old crone!” (420).
Midway through the book he understands that one of the driving factors behind his decay is his need to belong. He has accepted that his rejection of society and the solitude he sought has failed, and seeks to warn Sonya of the dangers of doing the same. He sees her as a kindred spirit who has been forced to live by the sidelines of society due to her disgraceful occupation, and senses that, with such nascent alienation, she may soon self-destruct in the same way he has. He tries to warn her of the need for community and social support, telling her that “But you can’t endure it, and if you remain alone, you’ll lose your mind, like me…its impossible to remain like this…” (329). But what he fails to recognize is that Sonya, though seemingly alone, has comfort in a greater source not known to him – religion. In this way, Dostoevsky maintains the uniqueness of our protagonist’s situation, while at the same time giving him someone whom he feels can empathize with him and provide a possible way out.
And ultimately, it is Sonya who delivers that salvation. The similarities that bind them make her the ideal choice to do so. Both of them are clearly torn by the schisms that exist between their realities and their beliefs – Raskolnikov between his intrinsic kindness and his murderous act, and Sonya between her religious beliefs and her prostitution. Her selfless love eventually persuades him to return to the community, to re-embrace his family, society and God. It is not his confession that eventually delivers him from his suffering, but rather his acceptance that he is part of a greater whole. His mother is a symbol of family and those who actually care about him, and throughout the novel he has felt estranged from them. When they finally reconcile, “he fell down before her, he kissed her feet, and they both wept, embracing each other” (515), the first of three major similarly symbolic reunions.
The religious overtones here prepare us for him later reuniting with Sonya, who seems to function as a bridge to, or representation of God. Her exhortation to him to “go to the crossroads, bow down to people, [and] kiss the earth” leads to his reconciliation with society at large, as he manages to endure all the heckling he receives during his symbolic act. Her dramatic reading of the tale of Lazarus also serves to provide a glimmer of hope for Raskolnikov by emphasizing that it is never too late for redemption, and the way he finally achieves salvation at her feet strongly suggests that as well. Dostoevsky’s depiction of the latter has strong Christian symbolism:
“How it happened he himself did not know, but suddenly it was as if something lifted him and flung him down at her feet. He wept and embraced her knees…in those pale, sick faces there already shone the dawn of a renewed future, of a complete resurrection into a new life. They were resurrected by love…” (549)
Soon after Sonya’s love renews his life, Raskolnikov is finally able to reconcile himself with God and accept that the presence of a greater, omniscient being, far greater than even the heroes he had once wanted so much to be. In this way he thus makes his peace with society and with God. Thereafter, his spirits are lifted to such an extent that he is ready to “look at those seven years [left of his sentence] as if they were seven days” (551) – a far cry from how his life must have seemed, especially after his ‘experiment’ in murdering the pawnbroker.
In conclusion, Raskolnikov’s relationship with shame and his disaffection towards society are two of the main themes that are traced out in Crime & Punishment. From once refusing to partake in communal life and living life as an outcast, cowering in shame, hiding in his “corner like a spider” (417), always hoping to somehow find within himself a latent greatness and destiny that would justify his inability to fit in, he finally finds peace in submission.
Works Cited
Dostoevsky, Fyodor. Crime and Punishment.
Trans. R. Pevear and L. Volokhonsky. Vintage Books, 1993.
