|
||||||||
Chapter 7 The same day, about seven oclock in the evening, Raskolnikov was on his way to his mothers and sisters lodgingthe lodging in Bakaleyevs house which Razumihin had found for them. The stairs went up from the street. Raskolnikov walked with lagging steps, as though still hesitating whether to go or not. But nothing would have turned him back: his decision was taken. Besides, it doesnt matter, they still know nothing, he thought, and they are used to thinking of me as eccentric. He was appallingly dressed: his clothes torn and dirty, soaked with a nights rain. His face was almost distorted from fatigue, exposure, the inward conflict that had lasted for twenty-four hours. He had spent all the previous night alone, God knows where. But anyway he had reached a decision. He knocked at the door which was opened by his mother. Dounia was not at home. Even the servant happened to be out. At first Pulcheria Alexandrovna was speechless with joy and surprise; then she took him by the hand and drew him into the room. Here you are! she began, faltering with joy. Dont be angry with me, Rodya, for welcoming you so foolishly with tears: I am laughing not crying. Did you think I was crying? No, I am delighted, but Ive got into such a stupid habit of shedding tears. Ive been like that ever since your fathers death. I cry for anything. Sit down, dear boy, you must be tired; I see you are. Ah, how muddy you are. I was in the rain yesterday, mother. Raskolnikov began. No, no, Pulcheria Alexandrovna hurriedly interrupted, you thought I was going to cross-question you in the womanish way I used to; dont be anxious, I understand, I understand it all: now Ive learned the ways here and truly I see for myself that they are better. Ive made up my mind once for all: how could I understand your plans and expect you to give an account of them? God knows what concerns and plans you may have, or what ideas you are hatching; so its not for me to keep nudging your elbow, asking you what you are thinking about? But, my goodness! why am I running to and fro as though I were crazy ? I am reading your article in the magazine for the third time, Rodya. Dmitri Prokofitch brought it to me. Directly I saw it I cried out to myself: There, foolish one, I thought, thats what he is busy about; thats the solution of the mystery! Learned people are always like that. He may have some new ideas in his head just now; he is thinking them over and I worry him and upset him. I read it, my dear, and of course there was a great deal I did not understand; but thats only naturalhow should I? Show me, mother. Raskolnikov took the magazine and glanced at his article. Incongruous as it was with his mood and his circumstances, he felt that strange and bitter sweet sensation that every author experiences the first time he sees himself in print; besides, he was only twenty-three. It lasted only a moment. After reading a few lines he frowned and his heart throbbed with anguish. He recalled all the inward conflict of the preceding months. He flung the article on the table with disgust and anger. But, however foolish I may be, Rodya, I can see for myself that you will very soon be one of the leadingif not the leading manin the world of Russian thought. And they dared to think you were mad! You dont know, but they really thought that. Ah, the despicable creatures, how could they understand genius! And Dounia, Dounia was all but believing itwhat do you say to that? Your father sent twice to magazinesthe first time poems (Ive got the manuscript and will show you) and the second time a whole novel (I begged him to let me copy it out) and how we prayed that they should be takenthey werent! I was breaking my heart, Rodya, six or seven days ago over your food and your clothes and the way you are living. But now I see again how foolish I was, for you can attain any position you like by your intellect and talent. No doubt you dont care about that for the present and you are occupied with much more important matters. Dounias not at home, mother? |
||||||||
|
||||||||
|
||||||||
Copyright: All texts on Bibliomania are © Bibliomania.com Ltd, and may not be reproduced in any form without our written permission. See our FAQ for more details. | ||||||||