Crime and Punishment (90 page)

He knocked at the door; it was opened to him by his mother. Dunya was not there. Not even the servant-girl happened to be around at that moment. Pulkheria Aleksandrovna was at first speechless with joy and bewilderment; then she seized him by the hand and dragged him into the room.

‘Well, here you are!’ she began, stammering with joy. ‘Rodya, you mustn't be angry at me for greeting you in this stupid fashion, with tears: I'm laughing, not crying. Did you think I was crying? No, I'm overjoyed, but I have this bad habit of getting tears in my eyes. It's ever since your father died, the slightest thing makes me cry. Sit down, my dear, you must be tired, I can see it. Oh, how muddy you've got yourself.’

‘I was out in the rain last night, mother…’ Raskolnikov began.

‘No, oh no!’ Pulkheria Aleksandrovna exclaimed, flinging
herself towards him and breaking him off. ‘You thought I was going to start asking you questions in that old mother's way of mine; there's no need to worry. I mean, I understand, I understand everything, I've already learned to see things the way people here do, and I really do think it's more sensible. I've decided once and for all that it's not for me to try to understand all your reasons for doing what you do, or to bring you to account for them. God knows what deeds and plans you may have in your head, or what thoughts may be taking shape there; is it for me to nudge your elbow and ask you what you're thinking about? I mean I… Oh, merciful Lord! Why am I rushing about like a scalded cat?… Look, Rodya, I've been reading your article, the one you had in the journal, for the third time now, Dmitry Prokofich brought me it. I fairly gasped aloud when I saw it; what a fool I am, I thought to myself, that's what he's doing with his time, that's the answer to the riddle! Men of learning are always like that. It's quite probable that he has some new ideas in his head just now; he's thinking them over, and I'm just bothering him and distracting him. I've been reading it, my dear, and of course I don't understand much of it; but that's how it's bound to be, really: how could I expect to?’

‘Show me it, mother.’

Raskolnikov took the periodical and gave his article a cursory glance. However much counter it ran to his present situation and state of mind, he experienced none the less that strange and mordant sensation an author feels upon seeing himself in print for the first time; in addition, his twenty-three years were not without effect. This lasted one single moment. Having read a few lines, he frowned, and a terrible anguish clawed at his heart. The whole of his mental and emotional struggle of the last few months suddenly came back to him in a flood. With revulsion and annoyance he threw the article on to the table.

‘All I know is, Rodya, that stupid though I may be, I can still see that very soon you're going to be one of the leading lights, if not
the
leading light in our intellectual world. And they dared to suppose you were mad. Ha-ha-ha! Don't you know? I mean, that's what they thought! Oh, the miserable worms, how could they ever recognize intellect? And I mean Dunya, Dunya also
nearly believed them – what a terrible thing! Your dead father sent two submissions to journals – first some poems (I still have the notebook, I'll show it you some time), and then a whole novella (I'd asked him to let me copy it out for him), and then how we both prayed they'd be accepted – but they weren't! You know, Rodya, six or seven days ago I felt simply destroyed as I looked at your clothes, at the way you were living, at what you were eating and what you were going around in. But now I can see how silly that was of me, because whatever you want you'll now be able to get for yourself by virtue of your intelligence and talent. The explanation of all this is simply that for the time being you don't want it, because you're preoccupied with far more important matters…’

‘Isn't Dunya here, mother?’

‘No, Rodya. It's not very often that she is, she leaves me here on my own. Dmitry Prokofich, and I'm grateful to him for it, looks in to sit with me for a while now and then – he's forever talking about you. He's truly fond of you, my dear, and he has such respect for you. As far as your sister's concerned, I don't want to imply that she's being really inconsiderate to me, or anything like that. I mean, I'm not complaining. She has her temperament, and I have mine; now she's got some secrets she wants to keep; well, I don't have any secrets from either of you. Of course, I'm firmly convinced that Dunya's extremely clever and that, what's more, she loves both you and me… but I really don't know what all this is going to lead to. I mean, look how happy you've made me by coming to see me just now; yet off she's gone on some rounds or other; when she gets back I'll say to her: your brother was here while you were out – where have you been passing the time? Now you mustn't spoil me, Rodya: if you can, come and see me, but if you can't, there's nothing to be done, and I'll wait. For you see, I'll know all the same that you love me, and that will be enough for me. I shall read these literary works of yours, I shall hear everyone talking about you, and after a bit you'll come and see me yourself – what could be better? Why I do believe you've looked in just now in order to console your mother, yes, I can see it…’

At this point Pulkheria Aleksandrovna suddenly burst into tears.

‘Oh, it's just me again! Don't pay any attention to me, silly woman that I am! Oh, for heaven's sake, what am I doing sitting around like this,’ she exclaimed, ‘after all, I've made coffee, yet I haven't given you any! That's what they mean when they talk about old women's selfishness. It'll be ready in a moment, in a moment!’

‘Mother, please stop it, I'm going in a moment. I didn't come here for that. Please listen to what I have to say.’

Pulkheria Aleksandrovna timidly went over to him.

‘Mother, whatever may happen, whatever you may hear about me, whatever people may tell you about me, will you go on loving me as you do now?’ he asked suddenly out of the fullness of his heart, almost without thinking what he was saying or weighing it over.

‘Rodya, Rodya, what's got into you? How can you ask such a thing? And who's going to tell me things about you? Why, I shan't listen to anyone, no matter who they are, I shall just chase them away.’

‘I've come to make it clear to you that I've always loved you, and that I'm glad we're alone now, even glad that Dunya's not here,’ he continued with the same impetuosity. ‘I've come to tell you straight out that even though you're going to be unhappy, you must always remember that your son now loves you more than himself and that all the things you're thought about me, that I'm cruel and don't love you, all those things are false. I'll never ever stop loving you… Well, I've said enough; I thought it was the right thing to do, to begin with that…’

Pulkheria Aleksandrovna put her arms round him without saying anything, pressed him to her bosom and quietly wept.

‘Whatever's the matter with you, Rodya, I don't know what it is,’ she said, at last. ‘All this time I've thought it was just that we were making you bored, but now all the signs tell me that you're some great trouble ahead of you, and that's why you're so miserable. I've seen this coming for a long time, Rodya. Please forgive me for mentioning it; I think about nothing else, and I can't sleep at nights because of it. All last night your sister, too, lay in a delirium, and it was you she kept talking about. I managed to pick out some of it, but I couldn't make any sense
of it. I spent all morning walking around as though I was going to my execution, waiting for something, and now here it is. Rodya, Rodya, where is it you're going? Are you going to make a journey somewhere?’

‘Yes, I am.’

‘It's as I thought! But look, I mean, I can come with you, if you need me to. So can Dunya; she loves you, she loves you very much, and Sonya Semyonovna could easily come with us too if necessary; I'd be glad to take her under my wing as though she were my own daughter. Dmitry Prokofich will help us to make the necessary preparations together… but… where is it you’re… going?’

‘Goodbye, mother.’

‘What? Today?’ she exclaimed, as though she were about to lose him for ever.

‘I can't remain here, I've no time, it's very urgent…’

‘And I can't go with you?’

‘No, but you can get down on your knees and say a prayer for me. Perhaps your prayer will be heeded.’

‘Let me make the sign of the cross over you, and bless you! There, like that, like that. O God, what are we doing?’

Yes, he was glad, he was very glad that there was no one else there, that he and his mother were alone together. It was as though after all this horrible time his heart had suddenly softened. He fell down before her, he kissed her feet, and both of them, clasping each other in their arms, wept. On this occasion she was not even surprised, nor did she ask him any questions. She had known for a long time that something terrible was happening to her son, and that now some fearsome moment had ripened for him.

‘Rodya, my dear boy, my first-born,’ she said, sobbing. ‘Now you're just the way you were when you were little, that's how you used to hug me and kiss me; back in the days when your father was still alive and we were struggling by you used to console us by the mere fact of being with us, and after I'd buried your father how many times we used to weep over his grave, with our arms about each other the way they are now. All this crying I've been doing is just because my mother's heart was
able to sense trouble in advance. The first time I saw you that evening, do you remember, when we'd only just got here, I fathomed everything by the look in your eyes, and my heart fairly missed a beat; and today, when I opened the door to you, I looked and thought, yes, it's obvious, his hour of destiny is here. Rodya, Rodya, I mean, you're not going away right this very moment, are you?’

‘No.’

‘Will you come again?’

‘Yes… I will.’

‘Rodya, please don't be angry with me, I don't even dare to ask you any questions. I know I don't have any right to, but even so, can't you just tell me in a couple of words – is it far away you're going?’

‘Very far away.’

‘What is it that's taking you there – a job, your career, or what?’

‘Whatever God will send… Only you must pray for me…’

Raskolnikov walked to the door, but she caught hold of him and looked into his eyes with a desperate gaze. Her face was contorted with horror.

‘That's enough, mother,’ Raskolnikov said, deeply regretting that he had ever had the idea of coming here.

‘It's not for ever? Say it's not for ever? Say you'll come again, come tomorrow?’

‘Yes, yes, I will – now goodbye.’

He finally managed to tear himself free.

The evening was fresh, warm and clear; the weather had brightened up since morning. Raskolnikov set off for his lodgings; he was in a hurry. He wanted to get it all over with by sunset. Until that time he was anxious to avoid meeting anyone. As he climbed the staircase to his lodgings he observed that Nastasya, having torn herself away from the samovar, was watching him closely and following him with her eyes. ‘I wonder if there's someone up in my room?’ he thought. In his mind's eye he saw with loathing an image of Porfiry. When, however, he arrived at his room and opened the door, he saw Dunya there. She was sitting utterly alone, in deep reflection, and had
apparently been waiting for him for a long time. He paused on the threshold. She raised herself from the sofa in alarm and stood erect before him. Her gaze, motionlessly fixed upon him, displayed horror and inconsolable grief. By this gaze alone he could tell at once that she knew everything.

‘What do you want me to do, come in or go away?’ he asked her, uncertainly.

‘I've spent the whole day at Sofya Semyonovna's; we were both waiting for you. We thought you'd be sure to go there.’

Raskolnikov entered the room and sat down on a chair in a state of exhaustion.

‘I don't feel all that strong, Dunya; I'm very tired; but at this moment at least I'd like to regain complete control of myself.’ He looked up at her with distrust in his eyes.

‘Where were you all night?’

‘I don't really remember; you see, sister, I wanted to make a clean break and kept going down to the Neva time after time; that I remember. I wanted to end it all there, but… I couldn't bring myself to do it…’ he whispered, again casting a distrustful glance at Dunya.

‘God be praised! That was the very thing we were afraid of, Sofya Semyonovna and I! That means you still believe in life; God be praised, God be praised!’

Raskolnikov smiled a bitter, ironic smile.

‘I've never been a believer, yet just now as mother and I had our arms around each other, we wept; I have no faith, yet I asked her to pray for me. God knows how that can happen, Dunya, I don't understand it at all.’

‘You went to see mother? You told her?’ Dunya exclaimed in horror. ‘Surely you can't have done that?’

‘No, I didn't tell her… not in words; but she sensed a lot of it. She'd heard the things you said in your sleep when you were delirious. I'm convinced she already half understands. It may have been a mistake on my part to go and see her. I really don't know why I did it. I'm a rotten person, Dunya.’

‘A rotten person, yet you're ready to go and take your suffering! I mean, you are going to do that, aren't you?’

‘Yes, I am. Right now. Yes, in order to avoid this shame I
wanted to drown myself, Dunya, but as I stood looking down at the water it occurred to me that if I really still believed I was strong, then I oughtn't to be afraid of shame either,’ he said, forestalling her. ‘Is that pride, Dunya?’

‘Yes, Rodya, it's pride.’

A light seemed to flash in his deadened eyes; it was as though he took pleasure in still being proud.

‘And you don't think it's simply because I was scared of the water?’ he asked with an ugly, ironic smile, peering into her face.

‘Oh, Rodya, that's enough!’ Dunya exclaimed bitterly.

For about two minutes there was silence between them. He sat with his head lowered, looking at the floor; Dunya stood at the other end of the table, watching him in torment. Suddenly he rose:

‘It's late, it's time. I'm going to turn myself in now. But I don't know why I'm going to do it.’