VII
That same day, only later on, in the evening, some time after six, Raskolnikov was approaching the building where his mother and sister were staying – the apartment in Bakaleyev’s house, which Razumikhin had found for them.
The staircase was reached directly from the street. As he approached, Raskolnikov checked his step, hesitating whether or not to go in. But nothing would have made him turn back now; he’d taken his decision. ‘Besides, they still don’t know anything,’ he thought, ‘and they’re used to thinking me a bit odd . . .’ His clothes were in a dreadful state: filthy after a whole night in the rain, tattered and frayed. His face was almost disfigured by tiredness, foul weather, physical exhaustion and almost twenty-four hours of inner struggle. He’d spent this whole night alone, God knows where. But at least he’d made his mind up.
He knocked at the door; it was opened by his mother.
Dunechka was out. Even the maid was not around. At first, Pulkheria Alexandrovna was speechless with joy and amazement, then she seized him by the hand and pulled him into the room. ‘So it’s you!’ she rejoiced, stutteringly. ‘Don’t be cross with me, Rodya, for greeting you in this silly way, with tears in my eyes: I’m laughing, not crying. You think I’m crying?
No, I’m rejoicing and this is just a silly habit of mine – this tearfulness. Ever since your father died everything makes me cry. Sit down, my darling. You must be tired. I can see.
But look how filthy you are!’ ‘Yesterday I got caught in the rain, Mama . . . ,’ Raskolnikov began. ‘No, no, no!’ Pulkheria Alexandrovna broke in. ‘Don’t worry, I’m not about to start asking endless questions like I
used to in that silly, womanish way of mine. I understand everything, everything. Now I’ve learned how things are done here and I can see myself it makes more sense. I’ve finally realized: who am I to understand your reasons or hold you to account? God knows you must have plenty on your mind, plans for the future, new thoughts taking shape.
Is it for me to keep nagging you, asking what you’re thinking? You know, I . . . Good heavens! What on earth am I doing, pacing around like a lunatic . . . ? You know, Rodya, I’ve been reading your article in the journal, for the third time already – Dmitry Prokofich brought it to me. I just gasped when I saw it. “You silly woman,” I thought to myself. “So this is what he gets up to! This explains everything! I expect he’s mulling over some new ideas and here am I tormenting and bothering him.” I read, my darling, and there’s plenty I don’t understand, but that’s just how it should be: who am I to understand?’ ‘Show me, Mama.’ Raskolnikov took the journal and cast a cursory glance at his article. Ill-matched though it was with his situation and his state of mind, he experienced that strange and caustically sweet sensation which every author feels on seeing himself published for the first time, especially at only twenty-three years of age. It was gone in a flash. After reading several lines he frowned and a terrible anguish gripped his heart. All the struggles of his soul in these past few months came back to him at once. Disgusted and annoyed, he threw the article down on the table. ‘All I’ll say, Rodya, is this: I may be silly, but I can see that in the very near future you’ll become one of our foremost scholars, if not our first and foremost. And people had the nerve to think you’d gone crazy. Ha-ha-ha! You’re not to know, but that’s what they thought! Ah, the pathetic worms – who are they to understand what real intelligence is?
Even Dunechka was on the verge of believing it . . .
Whatever next? Your father, when he was still alive, twice
tried sending work to the journals: first some poems (I still have the notebook – I’ll show it to you one day), then a whole novella (I begged him to let me copy it out for him), and you should have seen how we prayed for them to be accepted . . . They weren’t! A week or so ago, Rodya, I was simply devastated to see how you live, what you eat, what you wear. But now I realize I was just being silly again: with your mind and your talent you can get whatever you want, whenever you want. You just don’t want to yet, that’s all, and you’ve far more important things to worry about . . .’ ‘Is Dunya out, Mama?’ ‘Yes, Rodya. She’s been going out a lot and leaves me here on my own. Thank goodness for Dmitry Prokofich. He comes by to see me and tells me everything about you. He loves and respects you, my darling. As for your sister, I can’t say that she’s particularly disrespectful towards me.
I’m not complaining. She has her character, I have mine.
She has her secrets, too, all of a sudden. Well, I don’t keep any secrets from either of you. Of course, I’m quite convinced that Dunya is far too intelligent, and besides, she loves us both . . . but I’ve no idea where all this will end.
You’ve made me so happy, Rodya, by coming here now, but trust her to waltz off somewhere. When she comes, I’ll tell her, “You know, you missed your brother while you were out, and where were you, may I ask?” There’s no need to spoil me, Rodya: come by if you can, but if you can’t, don’t worry – I’ll wait. After all, I know you love me and that’s enough for me. I’ll read what you write, hear about you from all and sundry, and every so often you’ll visit me yourself – what could be better? After all, haven’t you come over now to comfort your mother? I can see you have . . .’ Here, Pulkheria Alexandrovna suddenly burst into tears. ‘Here I go again! What a fool! Just ignore me! But look at me sitting here,’ she cried, leaping to her feet, ‘without even offering you some coffee! The selfishness of old age, as they say! Won’t be a minute!’
‘Mama, never mind that – I’ll be off in a second. That’s not why I came. Please, hear what I have to say.’ Pulkheria Alexandrovna timidly walked over to him. ‘Mama, whatever happens, whatever you hear about me, whatever you’re told about me, will you still love me as you do now?’ he suddenly asked, his heart bursting, as if he were speaking without thinking and without weighing his words. ‘Rodya, Rodya, what’s the matter? How can you even ask such a thing? And who could ever tell me anything bad about you? I won’t believe anyone, whoever they are – I’ll just throw them out.’ ‘I came to assure you that I have always loved you, and I’m glad we’re alone now, glad even that Dunechka is out,’ he continued with the same surge of feeling. ‘I came to tell you frankly that, unhappy though you will be, you ought to know that your son loves you now more than he loves himself, and that everything you thought about me – that I’m cruel and don’t love you – is untrue, all of it. I’ll never stop loving you . . . Well, that’ll do. I felt I had to do this, begin with this . . .’ Without a word, Pulkeria Alexandrovna embraced him, pressed him to her bosom and softly wept. ‘If only I knew what the matter was, Rodya,’ she said at last. ‘All this time I thought you were simply fed up with us, but now everything tells me that a great woe lies in store for you – and that’s why you’re miserable. I’ve seen it coming for a while now, Rodya. Forgive me for talking about it now. I keep thinking about it and can’t sleep at night. And your sister, too: all last night she was raving in her sleep, and it was you she kept mentioning. I caught the odd word, but couldn’t understand a thing. All morning long it was as if I were preparing to face my punishment, my death. I was expecting something, had a feeling – and now look! Rodya, Rodya, where are you off to? Are you going away somewhere?’
‘Yes.’ ‘Just as I thought! But I can go with you, too, if you need me. And Dunya. She loves you, loves you very much. And Sofya Semyonovna, she can come with us, too, if you need her. Look, I’m even prepared to take her instead of my daughter. Dmitry Prokofich will help us get ready . . . but . .
. where . . . will you be going?’ ‘Goodbye, Mama.’ ‘What? Today!’ she shrieked, as if losing him forever. ‘I can’t . . . I have to go now, I really do . . .’ ‘And I can’t go with you?’ ‘No. You should kneel and pray to God for me. Your prayer, perhaps, will be heard.’ ‘Let me bless you with the sign of the cross! There. O God, what are we doing?’ Yes, he was glad, very glad, that there was no one else, that he was alone with his mother. As if, after this long and dreadful time, his heart had suddenly softened, all at once.
He fell before her and kissed her feet; embracing, they wept. And she wasn’t surprised and she asked no questions. She had long understood that something dreadful was happening to her son, and now the terrible moment, whatever it was, had come. ‘Rodya, darling, my first-born child,’ she said through her sobs, ‘now you’re just as you were as a little boy, when you came to me and hugged and kissed me just like now; back when your father and I hadn’t a rouble between us, you comforted us just by being there; and then, when your father died, how often, hugging each other like this, did we weep together by his grave? And if I’ve been crying all this time, it’s because a mother’s heart can sense misfortune.
The minute I saw you that first evening – remember? – when we’d just arrived, I could tell everything just from your eyes, and my heart jumped; and then today, when I opened the door and took one look at you, I thought: “So,
the hour of destiny has come.” Rodya, Rodya, you’re not
going away right now are you?’
‘No.’
‘You’ll come again?’ ‘Yes . . . I will.’ ‘Rodya, please don’t be cross. I won’t ask too many questions. I don’t dare. Just one little thing: is it far away,
this place?’ ‘Very.’ ‘What is it? A posting somewhere, your career?’ ‘Whatever God sends . . . Just pray for me . . .’ Raskolnikov made for the door, but she grabbed him and looked despairingly into his eyes. Her face was disfigured with dread. ‘That’ll do, Mama,’ said Raskolnikov, deeply sorry he’d come. ‘It’s not forever? I mean, it’s not forever yet, is it? I
mean, you’ll come again, tomorrow?’
‘I’ll come, I’ll come. Goodbye.’ Finally, he escaped.
The evening was fresh, warm and bright; the sun had been out since the morning. Raskolnikov was on his way to his room; he was hurrying. He wanted to get it all over and done with by sunset. And in the meantime, he didn’t want to meet anyone. Going up to his garret he noticed that Nastasya, having torn herself away from the samovar, was watching him intently, following him with her eyes. ‘Is there someone in my room?’ he wondered. With disgust, he imagined Porfiry. But on reaching his room and opening the door he saw Dunechka. She was sitting there all alone, deep in thought, and looked like she’d been waiting for some time. He stopped on the threshold. Startled, she rose from the couch and straightened up before him. Her unwavering gaze expressed horror and unassuageable sorrow. And from her gaze alone he instantly realized she knew everything.
‘Well, should I come in or should I go?’ he asked, mistrustfully. ‘I’ve been at Sofya Semyonovna’s all day. We were both waiting for you there. We thought you’d be bound to come by.’ Raskolnikov entered the room and sat down, exhausted, on a chair. ‘I feel weak, Dunya, and very tired, but now, of all times, I want to be in full control of myself.’
He glanced at her with mistrust. ‘But where were you all night?’ ‘I don’t really remember. You see, sister, I wanted to take that final step and kept coming back to the Neva, again and again – that much I remember. I wanted to end it all there, but . . . I didn’t take it . . . ,’ he whispered, stealing another mistrustful glance at Dunya. ‘And thank God! That’s exactly what we feared most, Sofya Semyonovna and I! So you still believe in life. Thank
God! Thank God!’ Raskolnikov gave a bitter grin. ‘I didn’t believe, but just now Mother and I were hugging and crying; I don’t believe, but I asked her to pray for me. I suppose only God can explain that, Dunechka. I don’t understand a thing about it.’ ‘You went to see Mother? You mean you told her?’ Dunya exclaimed in horror. ‘Could you really bring yourself to tell her?’ ‘No, I didn’t tell her . . . in words; but she understood a great deal. She heard you raving at night. I’m sure she already understands at least half of it. Perhaps I shouldn’t have gone. I don’t even know why I went. I’m despicable, Dunya.’ ‘Despicable, but ready to go and suffer! You are going, aren’t you?’ ‘I am. Now. Yes, it was to avoid such disgrace that I wanted to drown myself, Dunya, but then, when I was
already standing over the water, I thought: “If I’ve always considered myself strong, even disgrace should hold no fear for me now,”’ he said, running ahead. ‘Is that pride,
Dunya?’ ‘Yes, Rodya.’ Fire seemed to flash in his faded eyes, as if he were pleased at still being proud. ‘You don’t think I was just scared of the water, sister?’ he asked with a hideous grin, peering into her face. ‘Oh, Rodya, that’s enough!’ came Dunya’s bitter cry.
For a couple of minutes neither spoke. He sat there, staring at the floor. Dunya stood at the other end of the table, looking at him with anguish. Suddenly, he got up: ‘It’s late. Time to go. I’m off to give myself up. But why I’m going off to give myself up I do not know.’ Large tears ran down her cheeks. ‘You’re crying, sister, but can you give me your hand?’
‘How could you doubt it?’ She hugged him close. ‘And by going off to suffer are you not already washing away half your crime?’ she cried, squeezing him in her arms and kissing him. ‘Crime? What crime?’ he cried in a sudden surge of fury. ‘I murdered a vile, noxious louse, some hag of a moneylender of no use to anyone, whose murder makes up 40 for forty sins,who sucked the juice from the poor, and that’s a crime? I don’t even think about it. I don’t even think about washing it away. I don’t care that you’re all prodding me with your “Crime! Crime!” Only now do I see the full absurdity of my petty cowardice. Now, when I’ve already decided to accept this pointless disgrace! I’m despicable and talentless, that’s the only reason I’ve decided, and maybe also because it’s in my own interests, as that man suggested . . . that Porfiry!’
‘Brother, brother, what are you saying? You shed blood!’ cried Dunya in despair. ‘Which everyone sheds,’ he rejoined in a kind of frenzy, ‘which has always poured like a waterfall, which people pour like champagne, and for which they’re crowned in the 41 Capitoland remembered as benefactors of humanity.
Look closer, you’ll see! I, too, wanted to do good. I’d have done hundreds, thousands of good deeds in exchange for this single stupidity, which in any case was more cack- handedness than it was stupidity, because this whole idea was nowhere near as stupid as it now seems, in the light of failure . . . (Everything seems stupid in the light of failure!) All I wanted was to ensure my independence, to take the first step, to get what I needed and let the immeasurable benefits, relatively speaking, smooth everything over . . .
But even the first step was too much for me to cope with . . . because I’m scum! And that’s all there is to it! And I refuse to look at it your way: if I’d pulled it off, I’d have been crowned; instead, I’m trapped!’ ‘But that’s all wrong! Brother, what are you saying?’ ‘The wrong form, you mean – the aesthetics aren’t right!
I just can’t understand it: why is raining down bombs on 42 people, during a regular siege,a more honourable way of doing things? Fear of aesthetics is the first sign of weakness! Never, never have I understood this as clearly as now, and never have I understood my crime less! Never, never have I been stronger and more convinced than now!’ The colour even rushed to his pale, haggard face. But as he uttered this final cry his eyes happened to meet Dunya’s and there was such torment for him in her gaze, such pain, that he came to his senses despite himself. If nothing else, he felt, he’d made these two poor women unhappy. He was the cause . . . ‘Dunya, dearest! If I’m guilty, forgive me (although if I’m guilty, I cannot be forgiven). Goodbye! Let’s not argue! I
can’t stay a moment longer. Don’t come after me, I beg you.
I’ve another visit to make . . . Go now and be with mother.
Please, I beg you! It’s the last and biggest thing I ask you.
Don’t leave her for a moment. I’ve left her too worried to cope: she’ll either die or go mad. Stay with her! You’ll have Razumikhin with you. I told him . . . Don’t weep for me: I’ll try to be a man, and honest, for the rest of my life, even though I’m a murderer. One day, perhaps, you’ll hear my name. I won’t shame you, you’ll see. I’ll still prove . . . but for the time being, goodbye,’ he hurriedly concluded, noticing once again a strange expression in Dunya’s eyes at these final words and promises. ‘Why are you crying like that? Don’t cry, don’t! We’re not parting forever . . . Oh yes, wait! I forgot!’ He went over to the table, picked up a fat, dusty book, opened it and took out from between its pages a small little portrait, done in watercolour on ivory. It was a portrait of the landlady’s daughter, to whom he’d once been engaged and who died of fever, that same strange girl who wanted to be a nun. He spent a minute or so studying this expressive and sickly face, kissed the portrait and passed it to Dunechka. ‘You know, I talked to her a lotabout this, to her and no one else,’ he mused. ‘All those hideous things that happened later I’d already confided to her heart. Don’t worry,’ he said, turning to Dunya, ‘she didn’t go along with it any more than you do and I’m glad she’s not alive now.
What really matters is that now everything will start afresh, everything will snap in two,’ he suddenly cried, returning once more to his own pain, ‘everything, everything, and am I ready for that? Is that what I want? They say it’s a test I have to endure! But what’s the point of all these senseless tests? What? Am I really going to understand any of this any better after twenty years’ hard labour, when I’m old and feeble, crushed by suffering and idiocy, than I do now?
And what would I be living for then? And why am I
agreeing to live like this now? Oh, I knew I was scum today, at dawn, standing there over the Neva!’ Finally, they both went out. It was hard for Dunya, but she loved him! She set off, but, having gone some fifty paces, turned back to take one more look at him. She could still see him. Reaching the corner, he turned back, too, and their eyes met for the last time; but seeing that she was looking at him, he waved her on her way with impatience, even anger, and turned sharply around the corner. ‘I’m being spiteful, I can see it myself,’ he thought a minute later, ashamed of his petulant gesture towards Dunya. ‘But why must they love me so much if I don’t deserve it? Oh, if only I’d been on my own and no one had loved me and I’d never loved anyone!None of this would have happened! It’s a curious thing, though: will these fifteen or twenty years ahead of me really humble me to such an extent that I’ll go round bowing and scraping, calling myself a criminal at the first opportunity? Yes, that’s exactly what’ll happen! That’s why they’re banishing me; that’s what they want from me . . . Just look at them all scurrying around, every one of them a scoundrel and a criminal by his very nature; worse – an idiot! Try not banishing me and they’ll go wild with righteous indignation! Oh, how I hate them!’ One thought absorbed him: ‘What kind of process will be needed for me to end up humbling myself before them, without a single objection, with total conviction? But then, why not? That’s exactly how it should be. As if twenty years beneath the yoke won’t finish you off! Water wears out stone. So why live? Why? Why am I going there now, when I know myself that this is exactly how it will be, as it is writ?’ It was probably the hundredth time he’d asked himself this question since the previous evening, but he was going all the same.
