“Dunya's not home, mother?”
“No, Rodya. I quite often don't see her at home; she leaves me by myself. Dmitri Prokofych, bless him, comes to sit with me, and keeps talking about you. He loves and respects you, my dear. I'm not saying that your sister is so very inconsiderate of me. I'm not complaining. She has her character, I have mine; she's got some sort of secrets now; well, I don't have any secrets from either of you. Of course, I'm firmly convinced that Dunya is far too intelligent and, besides, she loves both you and me...but I really don't know where it will all end. You've made me happy by coming, Rodya, but she has missed seeing you; she'll come and I'll say: your brother stopped by while you were out, and where, may I ask, have you been spending your time? Don't spoil me too much, Rodya: stop by if you can, and if you can't—there's no help for it, I'll just wait. I'll know that you love me even so, and that's enough for me. I'll read your writings, I'll hear about you from everyone, and once in a while you'll stop by to see me yourself—what could be better? For you did come now to comfort your mother, I see that . . .”
Here Pulcheria Alexandrovna suddenly started to cry.
“Me again! Don't look at your foolish mother! Ah, Lord, but why am I sitting here like this,” she exclaimed, jumping up from her place. “There's coffee, and I haven't offered you any! That's what it means to be a selfish old woman. Just a moment, just a moment!”
“Forget it, mama, I'm going now. I didn't come for that. Please listen to me.”
Pulcheria Alexandrovna timidly went up to him.
“Mama, whatever happens, whatever you hear about me, whatever they tell you about me, will you still love me as you do now?” he asked suddenly, from the fullness of his heart, as if not thinking about his words or weighing them.
“Rodya, Rodya, what's the matter with you? How can you ask me that! And who is going to tell me anything about you? No, I won't believe anyone at all, and whoever comes to me I'll simply chase away.”
“I've come to assure you that I have always loved you, and I'm glad we're alone now, I'm even glad that Dunechka isn't here,” he went on with the same impulsiveness. “I've come to tell you straight out that, although you will be unhappy, you must know all the same that your son loves you right now more than himself, and whatever you may have thought about me being cruel and not loving you, it's all untrue. I'll never cease to love you...Well, and enough; I thought I had to do this, to begin with this . . .”
Pulcheria Alexandrovna was silently embracing him, pressing him to her, and weeping softly.
“What's the matter with you, Rodya, I don't know,” she said at last. “I thought all this time that we were simply bothering you, but now I see every sign that there is a great grief ahead of you, and that's why you are in anguish. I've foreseen it for a long time, Rodya. Forgive me for beginning to speak of it; I think about it all the time and don't sleep nights. Your sister, too, spent the whole of last night in delirium, and kept mentioning you. I heard something but understood none of it. I went around all morning as if I were facing execution, waiting for something, anticipating—and here it is! Rodya, Rodya, what is it? Are you going away somewhere, or what?”
“I'm going away.”
“That's what I thought! But I can come with you, too, if you want. And Dunya; she loves you, she loves you very much, and Sofya Semyonovna, maybe she can come with us if you want; you see, I'll willingly take her like a daughter. Dmitri Prokofych will help us all get ready...but...where are you...going?”
“Good-bye, mama.”
“What! This very day!” she cried out, as if she were losing him forever.
“I can't, I have to go, I must . . .”
“And I can't go with you?”
“No, but kneel and pray to God for me. Maybe your prayer will be heard.”
“Let me cross you, let me bless you! So, so. Oh, God, what are we doing?”
Yes, he was glad, he was very glad that no one was there, that he and his mother were alone. It was as if his heart softened all at once, to make up for all that terrible time. He fell down before her, he kissed her feet, and they both wept, embracing each other. And this time she was not surprised and did not ask any questions. She had long understood that something terrible was happening with her son, and now some awful moment had come round for him.
“Rodya, my dear, my first-born,” she said, sobbing, “you're the same now as when you were little and used to come to me in the same way and embrace me and kiss me in the same way; when your father was still alive and times were hard, you gave us comfort simply by being with us; and when I buried your father—how often we used to weep over his grave, embracing each other as we're doing now. And if I've been weeping for so long, it's because my mother's heart foreboded calamity. As soon as I saw you that first time, in the evening—remember, when we'd only just arrived?—I understood everything from your eyes alone, and my heart shook within me, and today, as I opened the door to you, I looked and thought, well, the fatal hour must be here. Rodya, Rodya, you're not going now?”
“No.”
“You'll come again?”
“Yes...I'll come.”
“Rodya, don't be angry, I daren't even ask any questions, I know I daren't, but all the same tell me just two words, are you going somewhere far away?”
“Very far.”
“What is there, some job, a career for you, or what?”
“Whatever God sends...only pray for me . . .”
Raskolnikov went to the door, but she clutched at him and looked desperately in his eyes. Her face became distorted with terror.
“Enough, mama,” Raskolnikov said, deeply regretting his decision to come.
“Not forever? It's not forever yet? You will come, will you come tomorrow?”
“I'll come, I'll come, good-bye.”
He finally tore himself away.
The evening was fresh, warm, and bright; the weather had cleared that morning. Raskolnikov was going to his apartment; he was hurrying. He wished to be done with everything before sundown. And until then he had no wish to meet anyone. Going up to his apartment, he noticed that Nastasya tore herself away from the samovar and watched him intently, following him with her eyes. “I hope nobody's there,” he thought. With loathing, he imagined Porfiry. But when he reached his room and opened the door, he saw Dunechka. She was sitting there all by herself, deep in thought, and seemed to have been waiting for him a long time. He stopped on the threshold. She rose from the sofa in alarm and stood up straight before him. The look she fixed upon him showed horror and unappeasable grief. And from that look alone he understood immediately that she knew everything.
“Well, shall I come in or go away?” he asked mistrustfully.
“I've been sitting the whole day with Sofya Semyonovna; we were both waiting for you. We thought you would surely come there.”
Raskolnikov went into the room and sat down on a chair in exhaustion.
“I'm somehow weak, Dunya; very tired, really; and I wished to be in full possession of myself at least at this moment.”
He quickly raised his mistrustful eyes to her.
“But where were you all night?”
“I don't remember very well; you see, sister, I wanted to make my mind up finally, and walked many times by the Neva; that I remember. I wanted to end it there, but...I couldn't make up my mind...” he whispered, again glancing mistrustfully at Dunya.
“Thank God! We were so afraid of just that, Sofya Semyonovna and I! So you still believe in life—thank God, thank God!”
Raskolnikov grinned bitterly.
“I didn't believe, but just now, with mother, I wept as we embraced each other; I don't believe, but I asked her to pray for me. God knows how these things work, Dunechka, I don't understand any of it.”
“You went to see mother? And you told her?” Dunya exclaimed in horror. “Could you possibly dare to tell her?”
“No, I didn't tell her...in words; but she understood a great deal. She heard you raving last night. I'm sure she already understands half of it. Maybe it was a bad thing that I went. I don't even know why I did it. I'm a vile man, Dunya.”
“A vile man, yet you're ready to go and suffer! You are going, aren't you?”
“I am. Right now. Yes, it was to avoid this shame that I wanted to drown myself, Dunya, but I thought, as I was already standing over the water, that if I've considered myself a strong man all along, then let me not be afraid of shame now,” he said, getting ahead of himself. “Is that pride, Dunya?”