“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?”

“Yes, it's pride, Rodya.”

It was as if fire flashed in his extinguished eyes, as if he were pleased to think there was still pride in him.

“And you don't think, sister, that I simply got scared of the water?” he asked, with a hideous smirk, peeking into her face.

“Oh, Rodya, enough!” Dunya exclaimed bitterly.

The silence lasted for about two minutes. He sat downcast, staring at the ground; Dunechka stood at the other end of the table and looked at him with suffering. Suddenly he stood up.

“It's late, it's time. I'm now going to give myself up. But why I'm going to give myself up, I don't know.”

Big tears were rolling down her cheeks.

“You're crying, sister, but can you give me your hand?”

“Did you doubt it?”

She embraced him tightly.

“By going to suffer, haven't you already washed away half your crime?” she cried out, pressing him in her arms and kissing him.

“Crime? What crime?” he suddenly cried out in some unexpected rage. “I killed a vile, pernicious louse, a little old money-lending crone who was of no use to anyone, to kill whom is worth forty sins forgiven, who sucked the life-sap from the poor—is that a crime? I'm not thinking of it, nor am I thinking of washing it away. And why is everyone jabbing at me from all sides: 'Crime! Crime!' Only now do I see clearly all the absurdity of my faintheartedness, now that I've already decided to go to this needless shame! I decided on it simply from my own vileness and giftlessness, and perhaps also for my own advantage, as was suggested by this...Porfiry!”

“Brother, brother, what are you saying! You shed blood!” Dunya cried out in despair.

“Which everyone sheds,” he picked up, almost in a frenzy, “which is and always has been shed in torrents in this world, which men spill like champagne, and for which they're crowned on the Capitoline and afterwards called benefactors of mankind.^[156] But just look closer and try to see! I wished people well and would have done hundreds, thousands of good deeds, instead of this one stupidity—or not even stupidity, but simply clumsiness, because the whole idea was by no means as stupid as it seems now that it failed (everything that fails seems stupid!). By this stupidity, I merely wanted to put myself in an independent position, to take the first step, to acquire means, and later everything would be made up for by the—comparatively—immeasurable usefulness...But I, I could not endure even the first step, because I'm a scoundrel! That's the whole point! But even so I won't look at it with your eyes: if I'd succeeded, I'd have been crowned, but now I'm walking into the trap!”