Part 6 · Chapter 7

That day, around seven in the evening, Raskolnikov was heading to his mom and sister’s place - the apartment Razumihin found in Bakaleyev’s building. The stairs went straight up from the street. Raskolnikov walked with dragging steps, like he was still debating whether to even go.

But there was no turning back; he’d made up his mind.

"Besides, it doesn’t even matter; they still don’t know anything," he thought, "and they’re used to thinking I’m just a little weird."

He looked totally wrecked: his clothes were ripped and filthy, soaked from a night in the rain. His face was almost unrecognizable from exhaustion, being out in the elements, and the internal struggle that had been going on for twenty-four hours straight.

He’d spent the whole previous night alone, who knows where. But he’s reached a decision, for sure.

He knocked on the door, and his mom opened it. Dounia wasn’t home. Even the maid was out. At first, Pulcheria Alexandrovna was speechless with joy and surprise; then she grabbed his hand and pulled him into the room.

"There you are!" she started, her voice trembling with happiness.

"Don’t be mad at me for greeting you like a total mess with tears; I’m laughing, not crying. Did you think I was crying? No, I’m so happy, but I’ve gotten into this dumb habit of tearing up. I’ve been like that ever since Dad died. I cry over everything."

"Sit down, sweetie, you must be beat; I can see it. Ugh, you're covered in mud."

"I was out in the rain yesterday, Mom..." Raskolnikov began.

"No, no," Pulcheria Alexandrovna rushed to interrupt, "you thought I was going to grill you like a nagging mom; don’t worry, I get it. I’ve learned the ropes here, and I can see things are better."

I’ve made up my mind, once and for all: how could I understand your plans and expect you to explain them? God knows what you're up to, or what crazy ideas you’re cooking up; so it’s not my place to keep pestering you, asking what’s on your mind? But, seriously!

why am I running around like I’m losing it...? I’m reading your article in the magazine for the third time, Rodya. Dmitri Prokofitch brought it to me. As soon as I saw it, I yelled to myself: ‘There, you goofball,’ I thought, ‘that’s what he’s been busy with; that’s the solution to the puzzle!

"Smart people are always like that. He probably has some new ideas swirling around in his head right now; he’s thinking them over, and I'm stressing him out.’ I read it, dear, and of course there was a ton I didn’t understand"

"But that’s just natural - how could I? Show me, Mom."

Raskolnikov grabbed the magazine and skimmed his article. Even though it felt totally out of place with his mood and situation, he felt that weird, bittersweet feeling every writer gets the first time they see themselves in print; plus, he was only twenty-three. It was just a brief moment.

After reading a few lines, he frowned and his heart pounded with pain. He remembered all the internal conflict from the past few months. He slammed the article on the table with disgust and anger.

"But seriously, Rodya, I can totally see you becoming a big deal - like, the big deal - in Russian thought. And they actually thought you were crazy! Can you believe it? They really did! Ugh, those people, they just didn’t get genius."

And Dounia, she almost started to believe it too - what do you think about that?

Your dad sent poems to magazines twice (I’m holding the manuscript, I’ll show you) and a whole novel the second time (I begged him to let me type it up) and we were practically praying they’d publish them - but they didn't!

"I was stressing about your food and clothes and how you were living, like, six or seven days ago. But now I realize how silly I was, because you can achieve anything you want with your brains and talent. You probably don't even care about that right now, you've got bigger stuff on your mind..."

"Dounia’s not home, Mom?"

"Nope, Rodya. I barely see her these days; she leaves me alone a lot. Dmitri Prokofitch comes by, which is really nice of him, and he always talks about you. He thinks you're awesome and respects you, honey. I’m not saying Dounia’s always super thoughtful, I’m not complaining."

We all have our ways; she’s been keeping secrets lately, and you guys never keep secrets from me. Of course, I know Dounia’s smart and she loves me and you... but I don’t know where things are headed. You’re making me so happy just by showing up, Rodya, but she missed you because she was out.

When she gets back, I’ll say, ‘Your brother stopped by while you were out. Where have you been? Don't spoil me, Rodya, you know that. Come when you can, but if you can’t, it’s okay, I can wait. I'll know you care about me, that's all I need.

"I'll read what you write, I'll hear about you from everyone, and sometimes you’ll come see me. What could be better? You're here now, comforting your mom, I see that."

Here Pulcheria Alexandrovna started to cry.

"I’m back! Don’t worry about me being dramatic. Seriously, why am I even sitting here?" she cried, jumping up. "There’s coffee and I didn’t even offer you any. Oh my gosh, that’s just getting old. I’ll grab it, just a sec!"

"Mom, don’t worry about it, I’m heading out anyway. I didn’t come for that. Please, listen to me."

Pulcheria Alexandrovna approached him hesitantly.

"Mom, no matter what happens, no matter what you hear about me, no matter what people tell you, will you always love me like you do now?" he asked suddenly, from the bottom of his heart, without really thinking about it or considering the words.

"Rodya, Rodya, what’s wrong? How can you even ask me that? Who’s going to tell me anything about you? Besides, I wouldn’t believe anyone, I wouldn’t even listen."

"I came to tell you that I’ve always loved you and I’m glad we’re alone, even glad Dounia’s out," he continued, driven by the same impulse.

"I came to tell you that even though you might be unhappy, you have to believe that your son loves you more than himself, and that everything you thought about me - that I was cold and didn’t care - was wrong. I’ll never stop loving you..."

"Okay, that’s enough: I just needed to say that and get it off my chest..."

Pulcheria Alexandrovna hugged him silently, holding him close and crying softly.

"I don’t know what’s up with you, Rodya," she said finally. "I’m starting to think I’m just boring you, and now I see there's some big trouble coming your way, and that's why you’re so down. I've been feeling it for a while, Rodya. Sorry for bringing it up."

I keep thinking about it and can't sleep at night. Your sister was talking in her sleep all night, just rambling about you. I caught a few words, but couldn’t make them out. I felt like I was gonna be hanged all morning, waiting for something, expecting something, and now it’s here!

"Rodya, Rodya, where are you going? Are you just leaving?"

"Yeah, I am. I am leaving."

"That’s what I thought! I can come with you, you know, if you need me. And Dounia, too; she’s crazy about you - and Sofya Semyonovna could come with us if you want."

"See, I think of her like a daughter, even... Dmitri Prokofitch will help us out. But... where... are you going?" "Good-bye, Mom."

"What, today?" she cried, like she was losing him forever.

"I can’t stay, I gotta go now..."

"And I can’t come with you?"

"No, but kneel down and pray to God for me. Maybe your prayers will reach Him."

"Let me bless you and cross you. That’s right, that’s right. Oh, God, what are we even doing?"

Yeah, he was relieved, really relieved that nobody else was there, that he was alone with his mom. For the first time in months, his heart felt a little softer. He dropped to his knees, kissed her feet, and they both cried, hugging each other. And she didn’t question him this time.

She’s known for a few days that something awful was happening to her son and that some terrible moment had arrived.

"Rodya, my darling, my firstborn," she sobbed, "you’re just like when you were little. You’d run to me and hug me and kiss me. When your dad was alive and we were broke, you comforted us just by being with us."

And when I buried your dad, how many times did we cry together at his grave and hug, like now. And if I’ve been crying lately, it’s because my mom’s heart knew something bad was coming. The first time I saw you, that evening, remember, as soon as we got here, I knew it just from your eyes.

"My heart sank. And today when I opened the door and looked at you, I thought the bad time had arrived. Rodya, Rodya, you’re not leaving today?"

"No!"

"You’ll come back?"

"Yeah... I’ll come."

"Rodya, don’t be mad, I don’t even dare to ask you. I know I shouldn’t."

"Just tell me two things - is it far where you’re going?" "Yes, really far."

"What’s waiting for you there? Some job or career?"

"Whatever God sends... just pray for me."

Raskolnikov went to the door, but she grabbed his arm and stared desperately into his eyes. Her face was a mess with fear.

"Okay, Mom," said Raskolnikov, already regretting coming.

"Not forever, it’s not forever yet? You’ll come, you’ll come tomorrow?"

"I will, I will, good-bye."

He pulled away. It was a warm, fresh, bright evening; the weather had cleared up that morning.

Raskolnikov went to his apartment; he hurried. He wanted to get everything done before sunset. He didn’t want to see anyone until then.

Going up the stairs, he noticed Nastasya rushing from the samovar, watching him intently.

"Did someone come to see me?" he wondered.

He had a bad feeling about Porfiry. But opening his door, he saw Dounia. She was sitting alone, deep in thought, and looked like she’s been waiting a long time. He stopped in the doorway. She jumped up from the couch in surprise and stood facing him.

Her eyes, fixed on him, showed horror and so much sadness. And from those eyes alone, he knew.

"Am I supposed to come in or go?" he asked, unsure.

"I’m telling you, I’m spent, seriously. Sofya Semyonovna and I were both waiting for you. We figured you’d show up."

Raskolnikov stumbled into the room and practically collapsed into a chair, totally drained.

"I feel weak, Dounia, I’m so tired. I wish I could just get a grip on myself right now."

He looked at her, kinda suspicious.

"Tell me, where were you all night?"

"Honestly, I don’t really remember. You know, sis, I was trying to make a decision, for real. I walked by the Neva a bunch of times. I remember thinking about just ending it all there, but... I couldn’t pull the trigger," he whispered, glancing at her with that same look of suspicion.

"Thank goodness! That’s exactly what Sofya Semyonovna and I were worried about. So, you still have a little hope left? Thank goodness, thank goodness!"

Raskolnikov gave a bitter smile.

"I don’t have faith, but I just was crying in Mom’s arms. I don’t have faith, but I just asked her to pray for me. I don’t know, Dounia, I don’t get it."

"You went to see Mom? You told her?" Dounia gasped, horrified.

"You didn’t do that, did you?"

"No, I didn’t tell her... in words. But she picked up on a lot. She heard you talking in your sleep. I’m sure she half understands it already. Maybe I shouldn't have gone. I don’t even know why I did. I’m a loser, Dounia."

"A loser, but ready to take a beating! You are, right?"

"Yeah, I’m going. Now. Yeah, to escape the embarrassment, I thought about drowning myself, Dounia, but when I looked at the water, I thought if I’d thought I was strong all this time, I shouldn’t be afraid of embarrassment now ," he rushed on.

"It’s pride, Dounia."

"Pride, Rodya." There was a flicker of fire in his dull eyes.

He seemed kinda relieved to think he was still proud.

"You don’t think I was just scared of the water, do you?" he asked, looking at her with a creepy little smile.

"Oh, Rodya, stop it!" Dounia cried, her voice cracking.

Silence hung in the air for a couple of minutes. He stared at the floor; Dounia stood at the other end of the table, looking at him with a ton of sadness. Suddenly, he jumped up.

"It’s late, time to go! I’m going straight to turn myself in. But I don’t even know why I’m turning myself in."

Big tears rolled down her cheeks.

"You’re crying, sis, but can you reach out and take my hand?"

"Did you even doubt it?"

She wrapped her arms around him.

"Aren’t you already paying for your mistake by facing this suffering?" she cried, holding him tight and kissing him.

"Mistake? What mistake?" he shouted, suddenly furious. "That I killed a disgusting bug, an old pawnbroker who was useless to anyone! Killing her was paying for forty sins. She was sucking the life out of poor people. Was that a mistake?"

I’m not thinking about it, and I’m not thinking about paying for it, and why are you all hammering it into me? ‘A mistake! a mistake! It’s only now that I see how pathetic my cowardice was, now that I’ve decided to face this pointless embarrassment.

"It’s just because I’m a loser and there’s nothing in me that I’ve decided to, maybe even for my own benefit, as that... Porfiry... suggested!"

"Brother, brother, what are you saying? Why, you spilled blood?" Dounia cried in despair.

"That’s what everyone does," he blurted out, almost panicking, "it’s flowing, it’s always been flowing, like champagne spilled everywhere, and that’s what people get crowned for in the Capitol - they’re called heroes after that. Seriously, look into it!"

I wanted to do good too, I would have done a million, a million good things to make up for one dumb mistake, not even a mistake, just a total screw-up. The idea wasn’t even that bad, now that it failed... (Everything looks dumb when it fails.)

That screw-up was just me trying to get on my own feet, take the first step, get some money, and then everything would have been smooth sailing, with benefits beyond belief... But I... I couldn’t even finish that first step, because I’m worthless, that’s the problem!

"And yet, I’m not going to see it the way you do. If I’d succeeded, I’d have been a legend, but now I’m trapped."

"But that’s not true! Not at all! Dude, what are you saying?"

"Ugh, it’s not pretty, not aesthetically pleasing! I don’t get why slowly surrounding people with a siege is somehow more honorable. Being afraid of what people think is the first sign of weakness."

"I’ve never, never realized that more than I do right now, and I'm more convinced than ever that what I did wasn’t a crime."

His pale, exhausted face flushed with color, but when he met Dounia’s eyes and saw such pain in them, he stopped himself. He felt like he’d made these two women miserable, that he was the reason...

"Dounia, darling, if I’m guilty, forgive me (though I can’t be forgiven if I am guilty). Later. We’re not going to argue. It’s time to go, seriously time to go. Don’t follow me, please, I need to go somewhere... You go sit with Mom. I’m begging you! It’s my last request."

Don’t leave her alone; I left her in a state of total freak-out, she can’t handle it; she’ll die or lose her mind. Be with her! Razumihin will be there. I’ve been talking to him... Don’t cry about me: I’m going to try to be honest and strong my whole life, even if I’m a murderer.

"Maybe I’ll make a name for myself someday. I won’t embarrass you, you’ll see; I’ll still prove myself... Later," he finished quickly, noticing that strange look in Dounia’s eyes again at his last words and promises.

"Why are you crying? Don’t cry, don’t cry: we’re not saying goodbye forever! Ah, yeah! Hold on, I forgot!"

He went to the table, picked up a thick, dusty book, opened it, and took a small watercolor portrait on ivory from between the pages. It was the portrait of his landlady’s daughter, the girl who died of fever, the one who wanted to be a nun.

For a minute, he stared at her delicate, expressive face, kissed the portrait, and gave it to Dounia.

"I used to talk to her a lot, only to her," he thought out loud.

"I confided in her heart, shared so much of what’s been so horribly realized since then. Don’t worry," he said to Dounia, "she was just as against it as you are, and I’m glad she’s gone."

The important thing is that everything now is going to be different, going to be broken in half," he cried, suddenly falling back into despair. "Everything, everything, and am I ready for it? Do I even want it? They say I need to suffer! What’s the point of all this pointless suffering?

"Will I even understand what it’s all for when I’m crushed by hardship and stupidity, weak as an old man after twenty years in prison? And what will I even live for then? Why am I agreeing to that life now? Oh, I knew I was worthless when I stood looking at the Neva at dawn today!"

They finally both headed out. It was tough for Dounia, but she totally loved him. She walked away, but after like fifty steps, she turned back to look at him again. He was still in sight. At the corner, he turned too, and for the last time, their eyes met.

But when he noticed she was looking, he waved her off with impatience, even a little annoyed, and turned the corner fast.

"I’m a total jerk, I get that," he thought, feeling embarrassed a sec later about his angry wave to Dounia.

"But why do they all like me so much if I don’t even deserve it? Ugh, if only I was alone, and nobody loved me, and I’d never loved anyone either! None of this would’ve happened."

But will I be so chill in like fifteen or twenty years that I’m begging people for forgiveness and whining every time they say I’m a criminal? Yeah, that’s it, that’s what they’re sending me there for, that’s what they want.

"Look at them all hustling around the streets, every single one of them a shady character and a criminal deep down, and even worse, a total airhead. But try to get me off the hook, and they’ll flip out with righteous fury. Ugh, I hate them all!"

He started thinking about how it could possibly happen that he’d be groveling in front of all of them, no exceptions - humiliated by their judgment. But why not? It had to happen. Would twenty years of being locked up totally crush him? Water wears away stone, you know?

And why, why should he even keep living after that? Why should he go now when he knew it was going to be like that? It was probably the hundredth time he's asked himself that question since last night, but he still went.