“Zo vat do you vant here?” he said, still without moving or changing his position.

“Nothing, brother. Good morning!” Svidrigailov replied.

“It's de wrong place.”

“I'm off to foreign lands, brother.”

“To foreign lands?”

“To America.”

“America?”

Svidrigailov took out the revolver and cocked it. Achilles raised his eyebrows.

“Zo vat's dis, a choke? It's de wrong place!”

“But why is it the wrong place?”

“Because it's de wrong place!”

“Well, never mind, brother. It's a good place. If they start asking you, just tell them he went to America.”

He put the revolver to his right temple.

“Oi, dat's not allowed, it's de wrong place!” Achilles roused himself, his pupils widening more and more.

Svidrigailov pulled the trigger.

VII

That same day, but in the evening, past six o'clock, Raskolnikov was approaching the apartment of his mother and sister—the apartment in Bakaleev's house where Razumikhin had placed them. The entrance to the stairway was from the street. Raskolnikov was still slowing his steps and as if hesitating whether to go in or not. But he would not have turned back for anything in the world; his decision had been taken. “Besides, it doesn't matter, they still don't know anything,” he was thinking, “and they're already used to considering me an odd man...” His clothes were terrible: everything was dirty, torn, tattered, after a whole night out in the rain. His face was almost disfigured by weariness, bad weather, physical exhaustion, and the nearly twenty-four-hour struggle with himself. He had spent the whole night alone, God knows where. But at least he had made up his mind.

He knocked at the door; his mother opened. Dunechka was not there. Even the serving-girl happened not to be there. Pulcheria Alexandrovna was speechless at first from joyful amazement; then she seized him by the hand and pulled him into the room.

“So here you are!” she began, faltering with joy. “Don't be angry with me, Rodya, for greeting you so foolishly, with tears: I'm laughing, not crying. You think I'm crying? No, I'm rejoicing, but I have this foolish habit: tears pour out of me. I've had it ever since your father's death; I cry at everything. Sit down, darling, you must be tired, I can see. Ah, how dirty you've gotten.”

“I was out in the rain yesterday, mama . . .” Raskolnikov tried to begin.

“Don't, oh, don't!” Pulcheria Alexandrovna burst out, interrupting him. “You thought I'd just up and start questioning you, from my former woman's habit, but don't worry. I do understand, I understand everything now, I now know how things are done here, and really, I can see for myself that it's more intelligent here. I've judged once and for all: is it for me to understand your considerations and demand reports from you? God knows what affairs and plans you may have in your head, or what ideas may be born there; so why should I nudge your arm and ask what you're thinking about? And now I'm...Ah, Lord! But why am I rushing up and down like a lunatic?... Now I'm reading your article in the magazine, Rodya; Dmitri Prokofych brought it. I just gasped when I saw it: fool that I am, I thought to myself, this is what he's busy with, this is the solution to it all! Perhaps he has new ideas in his head right now; he's thinking them over, and I'm tormenting and confusing him. Well, I'm reading it, my dear, and of course there are many things I don't understand; however, that's as it must be: how could I?”

“Show it to me, mother!”

Raskolnikov took the little journal and glanced briefly at his article. Contradictory as it was to his situation and condition, he still felt that strange and mordantly sweet sensation an author experiences on seeing himself in print for the first time; besides, his twenty-three years showed themselves. This lasted only a moment. Having read a few lines, he frowned and a terrible anguish wrung his heart. The whole of his soul's struggle over the past months came back to him all at once. In disgust and vexation, he flung the article down on the table.

“But, foolish as I am, Rodya, I'm able to judge all the same that you will soon be one of the foremost men, if not the very foremost, in our learned world. And they dared to think you were mad. Ha, ha, ha! You don't know, but they did think that! Ah, base worms, how can they understand what intelligence is! And Dunechka nearly believed it, too—fancy that! Your late father twice sent things to magazines— poems first (I still have the notebook, I'll show it to you someday), and then a whole long story (I begged to be the one to copy it out), and how we both prayed it would be accepted—but it wasn't! It grieved me so, six or seven days ago, Rodya, to look at your clothes, the way you live, what you eat, how you dress. But now I see that I was being foolish again, because if you wanted, you could get everything for yourself at once, with your mind and talent. It means that for the time being you don't want to, and are occupied with far more important matters...”

“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?”