'There was no need to get involved!' he suddenly decided with an oppressive, spiteful feeling. 'How stupid!' Annoyed, he took the candle, so as to find the ragamuffin come what may and get out of there as soon as possible. 'Ah, silly girl!' he thought with a silent curse, his hand already on the doorknob, but he went back to take one more look at her: was she sleeping, and was she sleeping well? He carefully lifted the blanket. She was fast asleep, blissfully so. She'd warmed up beneath the blanket and the colour was already returning to her pale cheeks. But how strange: this colour now seemed somehow brighter and deeper than one would expect of a child. 'Feverish,' thought Svidrigailov. 'It's the kind of flush you get from drinking, as if someone had given her a whole glass of wine.' Her scarlet lips seemed to be burning, blazing. But what was this? He had the sudden impression that her long black eyelashes were quivering and blinking, even lifting, and from beneath there peeked a sly, sharp, winking and unchildlike eye, as if she were only pretending to sleep. Yes, that was it: her lips were parting in a smile, the edges quivering, as if still holding back. But now she wasn't even trying to restrain herself; this was laughter, unconcealed laughter; something brazen, provocative shone in this thoroughly unchildlike face; here was depravity, the face of a 'camellia',37 the brazen face of one of those French ladies of the night. And now, both eyes were opening: they were appraising him with a fiery and shameless gaze, they were calling to him, laughing . . . There was something infinitely hideous and offensive about this laughter, about these eyes, about this vileness in the face of a child. 'What? A five-year-old?' whispered Svidrigailov in genuine horror. 'What . . . ? What on earth?' But now she was turning right round to face him, her little cheeks ablaze, her arms stretched out . . . 'Damn you!' cried Svidrigailov in horror, raising his arm over her . . . But at that very moment he woke.
He was in the same bed, still wrapped up in the blanket, the candle unlit, white daylight already pouring through the windows.
'One nightmare after another, all night long!' He lifted himself up, angry, broken; his bones were aching. Outside in the thick fog nothing was visible. Nearly five already. He'd overslept! He got up and put on his jacket and coat, both still damp. Feeling in his pocket for the revolver, he took it out and adjusted the cap. Then he sat down, took a notebook from his pocket and wrote several lines in a large hand on the first, most conspicuous page. He reread them and sank into thought, resting his elbows on the table. The revolver and notebook lay right there, at his elbow. Waking up, flies attached themselves to the untouched portion of veal on the table next to him. He looked at them for a long time and eventually began trying to catch one with his free right hand. He tried and tried, but with no success. Finally, catching himself at this peculiar task, he came to his senses, shuddered, got up and walked straight out of the room. A minute later he was already outside.
A milky thick fog covered the city. Svidrigailov set off along the slippery, dirty wooden pavement in the direction of the Lesser Neva. He had visions of the now swollen waters of the Lesser Neva, of Petrovsky Island, of wet paths, wet grass, wet trees and bushes and, finally, that very bush . . . Annoyed, he began studying the buildings, just to distract himself. He met not a single pedestrian or cab along the avenue. There was something dismal and dirty about the bright-yellow wooden houses with their closed shutters. The cold and the damp got into his bones and he started to shiver. Occasionally, he passed a shop sign and diligently read each one. But the wooden pavement was already coming to an end. He was drawing level with a large stone house. A dirty dog, shivering to the bone, its tail between its legs, crossed the road in front of him. A man, dead drunk, lay face down in his greatcoat across the pavement. He glanced at him and walked on. To his left, he glimpsed a tall watch tower.38 'Ha!' he thought. 'Just the place! Why go to Petrovsky? At least here there'll be an official witness . . .' He almost grinned at his new idea and turned into ----skaya Street. The big building with the tower was on this very street. Leaning against the big closed gates stood a short man huddled up in a grey soldier's coat, with a bronze 'Achilles' helmet. He cast a sleepy, cold glance at the approaching Svidrigailov. His face betrayed that sempiternal, peevish sorrow which has left such a sour trace on each and every face of the Jewish tribe. For a while, both men, Svidrigailov and Achilles, silently studied each other. Eventually, Achilles felt there was something amiss: the man was sober and standing three paces away, staring at him and not saying a word.
'Vat you vant here, s-sir?' he said, still not moving or changing his position.
'Nothing much, brother. Good morning to you!' Svidrigailov replied.
'Dis is not de place.'
'I'm off to foreign lands, brother.'
'Foreign lands?'
'America.'
'America?'
Svidrigailov took out the revolver and cocked it. Achilles raised his eyebrows.
'Dis is not de place for choking [joking]!'
'But why's it not the place?'
'Vai, because dis is not.'
'Well, brother, never mind that. It's a nice place, and if someone asks you, tell them I've gone to America.'39
He put the revolver to his right temple.
'Stop, dis is not de place!' Achilles suddenly roused himself, his pupils opening wider and wider.
Svidrigailov pulled the trigger.
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 ever
y 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 enter
ed 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?'
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