The same day, about seven o'clock in the evening, Raskolnikov was on his way to his mother's and sister's lodging--the lodging in Bakaleyev's 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 doesn't 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 night's 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. "Don't 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 I've got into such a stupid habit of shedding tears. I've been like that ever since your father's 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; don't be anxious, I understand, I understand it all: now I've learned the ways here and truly I see for myself that they are better. I've 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 it's 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, 'that's what he is busy about; that's 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 that's only natural--how 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 leading--if not the leading man--in the world of Russian thought. And they dared to think you were mad! You don't know, but they really thought that. Ah, the despicable creatures, how could they understand genius! And Dounia, Dounia was all but believing it--what do you say to that? Your father sent twice to magazines--the first time poems (I've 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 taken--they weren't! 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 don't care about that for the present and you are occupied with much more important matters. . . ."
"Dounia's not at home, mother?"
"No, Rodya. I often don't see her; she leaves me alone. Dmitri Prokofitch comes to see me, it's so good of him, and he always talks about you. He loves you and respects you, my dear. I don't say that Dounia is very wanting in consideration. I am not complaining. She has her ways and I have mine; she seems to have got some secrets of late and I never have any secrets from you two. Of course, I am sure that Dounia has far too much sense, and besides she loves you and me . . . but I don't know what it will all lead to. You've made me so happy by coming now, Rodya, but she has missed you by going out; when she comes in I'll tell her: 'Your brother came in while you were out. Where have you been all this time?' You mustn't spoil me, Rodya, you know; come when you can, but if you can't, it doesn't matter, I can wait. I shall know, anyway, that you are fond of me, that will be enough for me. I shall read what you write, I shall hear about you from everyone, and sometimes you'll come yourself to see me. What could be better? Here you've come now to comfort your mother, I see that."
Here Pulcheria Alexandrovna began to cry.
"Here I am again! Don't mind my foolishness. My goodness, why am I sitting here?" she cried, jumping up. "There is coffee and I don't offer you any. Ah, that's the selfishness of old age. I'll get it at once!"
"Mother, don't trouble, I am going at once. I haven't come for that. Please listen to me."
Pulcheria Alexandrovna went up to him timidly.
"Mother, whatever happens, whatever you hear about me, whatever you are told about me, will you always love me as you do now?" he asked suddenly from the fullness of his heart, as though not thinking of his words and not weighing them.
"Rodya, Rodya, what is the matter? How can you ask me such a question? Why, who will tell me anything about you? Besides, I shouldn't believe anyone, I should refuse to listen."
"I've come to assure you that I've always loved you and I am glad that we are alone, even glad Dounia is out," he went on with the same impulse. "I have come to tell you that though you will be unhappy, you must believe that your son loves you now more than himself, and that all you thought about me, that I was cruel and didn't care about you, was all a mistake. I shall never cease to love you. . . . Well, that's enough: I thought I must do this and begin with this. . . ."
Pulcheria Alexandrovna embraced him in silence, pressing him to her bosom and weeping gently.
"I don't know what is wrong with you, Rodya," she said at last. "I've been thinking all this time that we were simply boring you and now I see that there is a great sorrow in store for you, and that's why you are miserable. I've foreseen it a long time, Rodya. Forgive me for speaking about it. I keep thinking about it and lie awake at nights. Your sister lay talking in her sleep all last night, talking of nothing but you. I caught something, but I couldn't make it out. I felt all the morning as though I were going to be hanged, waiting for something, expecting something, and now it has come! Rodya, Rodya, where are you going? You are going away somewhere?"
"Yes."
"That's what I thought! I can come with you, you know, if you need me. And Dounia, too; she loves you, she loves you dearly--and Sofya Semyonovna may come with us if you like. You see, I am glad to look upon her as a daughter even . . . Dmitri Prokofitch will help us to go together. But . . . where . . . are you going?"
"Good-bye, mother."
"What, to-day?" she cried, as though losing him for ever.
"I can't stay, I must go now. . . ."
"And can't I come with you?"
"No, but kneel down and pray to God for me. Your prayer perhaps will reach Him."
"Let me bless you and sign you with the cross. That's right, that's right. Oh, God, what are we doing?"
Yes, he was glad, he was very glad that there was no one there, that he was alone with his mother. For the first time after all those awful months his heart was softened. He fell down before her, he kissed her feet and both wept, embracing. And she was not surprised and did not question him this time. For some days she had realised that something awful was happening to her son and that now some terrible minute had come for him.
"Rodya, my darling, my first born," she said sobbing, "now you are just as when you were little. You would run like this to me and hug me and kiss me. When your father was living and we were poor, you comforted us simply by being with us and when I buried your father, how often we wept together at his grave and embraced, as now. And if I've been crying lately, it's that my mother's heart had a foreboding of trouble. The first time I saw you, that evening, you remember, as soon as we arrived here, I guessed simply from your eyes. My heart sank at once, and to-day when I opened the door and looked at you, I thought the fatal hour had come. Rodya, Rodya, you are not going away to-day?"
"No!"
"You'll come again?"
"Yes . . . I'll come."
"Rodya, don't be angry, I don't dare to question you. I know I mustn't. Only say two words to me--is it far where you are going?"
"Very far."
"What is awaiting you there? Some post or career for you?"
"What God sends . . . only pray for me." Raskolnikov went to the door, but she clutched him and gazed despairingly into his eyes. Her face worked with terror.
"Enough, mother," said Raskolnikov, deeply regretting that he had come.
"Not for ever, it's not yet for ever? You'll come, you'll come to-morrow?"
"I will, I will, good-bye." He tore himself away at last.
It was a warm, fresh, bright evening; it had cleared up in the morning. Raskolnikov went to his lodgings; he made haste. He wanted to finish all before sunset. He did not want to meet anyone till then. Going up the stairs he noticed that Nastasya rushed from the samovar to watch him intently. "Can anyone have come to see me?" he wondered. He had a disgusted vision of Porfiry. But opening his door he saw Dounia. She was sitting alone, plunged in deep thought, and looked as though she had been waiting a long time. He stopped short in the doorway. She rose from the sofa in dismay and stood up facing him. Her eyes, fixed upon him, betrayed horror and infinite grief. And from those eyes alone he saw at once that she knew.
"Am I to come in or go away?" he asked uncertainly.
"I've been all day with Sofya Semyonovna. We were both waiting for you. We thought that you would be sure to come there."
Raskolnikov went into the room and sank exhausted on a chair.
"I feel weak, Dounia, I am very tired; and I should have liked at this moment to be able to control myself."
He glanced at her mistrustfully.
"Where were you all night?"
"I don't remember clearly. You see, sister, I wanted to make up my mind once for all, and several times I walked by the Neva, I remember that I wanted to end it all there, but . . . I couldn't make up my mind," he whispered, looking at her mistrustfully again.
"Thank God! That was just what we were afraid of, Sofya Semyonovna and I. Then you still have faith in life? Thank God, thank God!"
Raskolnikov smiled bitterly.
"I haven't faith, but I have just been weeping in mother's arms; I haven't faith, but I have just asked her to pray for me. I don't know how it is, Dounia, I don't understand it."
"Have you been at mother's? Have you told her?" cried Dounia, horror- stricken. "Surely you haven't done that?"
"No, I didn't tell her . . . in words; but she understood a great deal. She heard you talking in your sleep. I am sure she half understands it already. Perhaps I did wrong in going to see her. I don't know why I did go. I am a contemptible person, Dounia."
"A contemptible person, but ready to face suffering! You are, aren't you?"
"Yes, I am going. At once. Yes, to escape the disgrace I thought of drowning myself, Dounia, but as I looked into the water, I thought that if I had considered myself strong till now I'd better not be afraid of disgrace," he said, hurrying on. "It's pride, Dounia."
"Pride, Rodya."
There was a gleam of fire in his lustreless eyes; he seemed to be glad to think that he was still proud.
"You don't think, sister, that I was simply afraid of the water?" he asked, looking into her face with a sinister smile.
"Oh, Rodya, hush!" cried Dounia bitterly. Silence lasted for two minutes. He sat with his eyes fixed on the floor; Dounia stood at the other end of the table and looked at him with anguish. Suddenly he got up.
"It's late, it's time to go! I am going at once to give myself up. But I don't know why I am going to give myself up."
Big tears fell down her cheeks.
"You are crying, sister, but can you hold out your hand to me?"
"You doubted it?"
She threw her arms round him.
"Aren't you half expiating your crime by facing the suffering?" she cried, holding him close and kissing him.
"Crime? What crime?" he cried in sudden fury. "That I killed a vile noxious insect, an old pawnbroker woman, of use to no one! . . . Killing her was atonement for forty sins. She was sucking the life out of poor people. Was that a crime? I am not thinking of it and I am not thinking of expiating it, and why are you all rubbing it in on all sides? 'A crime! a crime!' Only now I see clearly the imbecility of my cowardice, now that I have decided to face this superfluous disgrace. It's simply because I am contemptible and have nothing in me that I have decided to, perhaps too for my advantage, as that . . . Porfiry . . . suggested!"
"Brother, brother, what are you saying? Why, you have shed blood?" cried Dounia in despair.
"Which all men shed," he put in almost frantically, "which flows and has always flowed in streams, which is spilt like champagne, and for which men are crowned in the Capitol and are called afterwards benefactors of mankind. Look into it more carefully and understand it! I too wanted to do good to men and would have done hundreds, thousands of good deeds to make up for that one piece of stupidity, not stupidity even, simply clumsiness, for the idea was by no means so stupid as it seems now that it has failed. . . . (Everything seems stupid when it fails.) By that stupidity I only wanted to put myself into an independent position, to take the first step, to obtain means, and then everything would have been smoothed over by benefits immeasurable in comparison. . . . But I . . . I couldn't carry out even the first step, because I am contemptible, that's what's the matter! And yet I won't look at it as you do. If I had succeeded I should have been crowned with glory, but now I'm trapped."
"But that's not so, not so! Brother, what are you saying?"
"Ah, it's not picturesque, not aesthetically attractive! I fail to understand why bombarding people by regular siege is more honourable. The fear of appearances is the first symptom of impotence. I've never, never recognised this more clearly than now, and I am further than ever from seeing that what I did was a crime. I've never, never been stronger and more convinced than now."
The colour had rushed into his pale exhausted face, but as he uttered his last explanation, he happened to meet Dounia's eyes and he saw such anguish in them that he could not help being checked. He felt that he had, anyway, made these two poor women miserable, that he was, anyway, the cause . . .
"Dounia darling, if I am guilty forgive me (though I cannot be forgiven if I am guilty). Good-bye! We won't dispute. It's time, high time to go. Don't follow me, I beseech you, I have somewhere else to go. . . . But you go at once and sit with mother. I entreat you to! It's my last request of you. Don't leave her at all; I left her in a state of anxiety, that she is not fit to bear; she will die or go out of her mind. Be with her! Razumihin will be with you. I've been talking to him. . . . Don't cry about me: I'll try to be honest and manly all my life, even if I am a murderer. Perhaps I shall some day make a name. I won't disgrace you, you will see; I'll still show. . . . Now good-bye for the present," he concluded hurriedly, noticing again a strange expression in Dounia's eyes at his last words and promises. "Why are you crying? Don't cry, don't cry: we are not parting for ever! Ah, yes! Wait a minute, I'd forgotten!"
He went to the table, took up a thick dusty book, opened it and took from between the pages a little water-colour portrait on ivory. It was the portrait of his landlady's daughter, who had died of fever, that strange girl who had wanted to be a nun. For a minute he gazed at the delicate expressive face of his betrothed, kissed the portrait and gave it to Dounia.
"I used to talk a great deal about it to her, only to her," he said thoughtfully. "To her heart I confided much of what has since been so hideously realised. Don't be uneasy," he returned to Dounia, "she was as much opposed to it as you, and I am glad that she is gone. The great point is that everything now is going to be different, is going to be broken in two," he cried, suddenly returning to his dejection. "Everything, everything, and am I prepared for it? Do I want it myself? They say it is necessary for me to suffer! What's the object of these senseless sufferings? shall I know any better what they are for, when I am crushed by hardships and idiocy, and weak as an old man after twenty years' penal servitude? And what shall I have to live for then? Why am I consenting to that life now? Oh, I knew I was contemptible when I stood looking at the Neva at daybreak to-day!"
At last they both went out. It was hard for Dounia, but she loved him. She walked away, but after going fifty paces she turned round to look at him again. He was still in sight. At the corner he too turned and for the last time their eyes met; but noticing that she was looking at him, he motioned her away with impatience and even vexation, and turned the corner abruptly.
"I am wicked, I see that," he thought to himself, feeling ashamed a moment later of his angry gesture to Dounia. "But why are they so fond of me if I don't deserve it? Oh, if only I were alone and no one loved me and I too had never loved anyone! /Nothing of all this would have happened./ But I wonder shall I in those fifteen or twenty years grow so meek that I shall humble myself before people and whimper at every word that I am a criminal? Yes, that's it, that's it, that's what they are sending me there for, that's what they want. Look at them running to and fro about the streets, every one of them a scoundrel and a criminal at heart and, worse still, an idiot. But try to get me off and they'd be wild with righteous indignation. Oh, how I hate them all!"
He fell to musing by what process it could come to pass, that he could be humbled before all of them, indiscriminately--humbled by conviction. And yet why not? It must be so. Would not twenty years of continual bondage crush him utterly? Water wears out a stone. And why, why should he live after that? Why should he go now when he knew that it would be so? It was the hundredth time perhaps that he had asked himself that question since the previous evening, but still he went.
就在那一天，不过已经是晚上六点多钟的时候，拉斯科利尼科夫来到了母亲和妹妹的住处，——就是拉祖米欣给她们找的、巴卡列耶夫房子里的那套房间。楼梯直接通到街上。拉斯科利尼科夫来到门口，一直还在逡巡不前，仿佛犹豫不决：是进去呢，还是不进去？不过他无论如何也不能回去；他的决心已经下定了。“何况她们反正还什么也不知道，”他想，“已经一习一惯把我看作一个怪人了……”他的衣服十分可怕：淋了一一夜雨，衣服全都脏了，破了，很不像样了。由于疲倦，下雨，体力消耗殆尽，再加上差不多一昼夜的内心斗争，他的脸几乎变得十分难看。整整这一一夜天知道他是独自在哪儿度过的。不过至少他已经拿定了主意。
他敲了敲门；给他开门的是母亲。杜涅奇卡不在家。就连女仆，那时也不在家里。起初普莉赫里娅·亚历山德罗芙娜又惊又喜，一句话也说不出来，随后抓住他的一只手，把他拉进屋里。
“啊，你到底来了！”她高兴得讷讷地说。“你别生我的气，罗佳，你看我竟这么傻，流着泪来迎接你：我这是笑，不是哭。你以为我哭了吗？我这是高兴，可我就是有这么个傻一习一惯：动不动就流泪。从你父亲死后，不论遇到什么事，我就总是哭。你坐啊，亲一爱一的，你准是累了，我看得出来。哎哟，你弄得多么脏啊。”
“昨天我淋了雨，一妈一妈一……”拉斯科利尼科夫开始说。
“啊，不，不！”普莉赫里娅·亚历山德罗芙娜打断了他的话，高声惊呼，“你以为，我这就要照女人的老一习一惯问长问短吗，你放心好了。我明白了，什么都明白了，现在我已经学会照这儿的人那样行一事了，真的，我自己也看出，这儿的人聪明些。我已经一下子彻底得出结论：我哪能懂得你的想法，怎么能要求你给我解释呢？也许，天知道你头脑里在考虑什么事情，有些什么计划，或者是产生了什么想法；我却老是催促你，问你：你在想什么！我真是……唉，上帝啊！我干吗老是毫无意义地问这问那呢……你瞧，罗佳，你在杂志上发表的那篇文章，我已经看过三遍了，德米特里·普罗科菲伊奇给我拿来的。我一看到，就啊了一声；我心想，我真是个傻瓜，瞧他在干什么啊，这就是谜底！说不定那时候他脑子里有了新的想法；他正在思考这些想法，我却折磨他，打搅他。我在看，我的孩子，当然我有很多地方看不懂；不过应该如此：我哪能懂呢？”
“让我看看，一妈一妈一。”
拉斯科利尼科夫拿起报纸①，浏览了一下自己的那篇文章，不管这和他的处境与心情是多么矛盾，但他还是和所有作者第一次看到自己的作品发表时一样，心里有一种奇怪的、苦中有甜的感觉，更何况他才只有二十三岁呢。这种感觉只持续了极短暂的一会儿工夫。才看了几行，他就皱起眉头，可怕的忧愁揪紧了他的心。最近几个月来的内心斗争，一下子全都想起来了。他厌恶而懊恼地把那篇文章扔到了桌子上。
“不过，罗佳，不管我多么傻，可我还是能够作出判断，你很快就会成为第一流的人物，即使还不是我们学术界的头号人物。他们竟敢以为你疯了！哈——哈—— 哈！你不知道——他们都这么认为！唉，这些卑微的、微不足道的人啊，他们哪会懂得，聪明人像什么样子！就连杜涅奇卡也几乎相信了——你看！你的亡父给杂志投过两次稿——起初寄了一首诗去（笔记本我还保存着呢，什么时候拿给你看看），后来又寄去一篇中篇小说（我自己要求他让我来抄写），我们俩都祈祷上帝，希望能够采用，——可是没有采用！罗佳，六、七天前，我看到你的衣服，看到你是怎么生活的，吃的是什么，穿的是什么，我心里难过极了。可现在明白，这我又是傻了，因为只要你愿意，现在就能靠自己的智慧和天才立刻获得一切。这就是说，暂时你还不想这么做，现在你正在从事一些重要得多的工作……”
--------
①前面说是“杂志”。
“杜尼娅不在家吗，一妈一妈一？”
“不在，罗佳。家里经常见不到她，老是把我一个人丢在家里。德米特里·普罗科菲伊奇，我要谢谢他，他常来看我，陪我坐一会儿，总是谈你的情况。他一爱一你，尊敬你，我的孩子。至于你妹妹，我倒不是说她很不尊敬我。我可没有抱怨。她有她的一性一格，我有我的一性一格；她已经有了她自己的秘密；唉，可对于你们，我什么秘密也没有。当然啦，我坚决相信，杜尼娅聪明过人，此外，她一爱一我，也一爱一你……不过我不知道，这一切会带来什么结果。罗佳，现在你来了，让我感到非常幸福，她却出去散步了；等她回来，我告诉她：你不在家的时候，你哥哥来过了，你刚刚去哪儿了？罗佳，你可不要太顺着我：你能来就来，不能来，也没办法，我可以等着。因为我还是会知道，你是一爱一我的，对我来说，这也就够了。我会看你的文章，从大家那里听到你的消息，有时你自己也会来看看我，还要怎么样呢？现在你不是来安慰母亲了吗？这我明白……”
这时普莉赫里娅·亚历山德罗芙娜突然哭了。
“我又哭了！别管我这个傻瓜！哎呀，上帝啊，我怎么光坐着啊，”她喊了一声，很快站起来，“有咖啡呀，我竟不给你喝咖啡！瞧，这就是老太婆的自私自利。我这就去拿，这就去拿来！”
“一妈一妈一，你别去弄了，我这就要走了。我不是为喝咖啡来的。请您听我说。”
普莉赫里娅·亚历山德罗芙娜走到他跟前。
“一妈一妈一，不管会出什么事，不管您听到关于我的什么消息，也不管别人对您怎样谈论我，您会不会还像现在这样一爱一我？”他突然十分激动地问，仿佛没仔细考虑自己的话，也没斟酌过所用的词句。
“罗佳，罗佳，你怎么了？你怎么能问这样的话！谁会对我谈论你呢？而且我也不会相信任何人的话，不管谁来，我都要把他赶出去。”
“我来是要请您相信，我一向一爱一您，现在我很高兴，因为只有我们两个人，杜涅奇卡不在家，我甚至也为此感到高兴，”他还是那样激动地接着说下去，“我来坦率地告诉您，尽管您会遭到不幸，不过您还是应该知道，现在您的儿子一爱一您胜过一爱一他自己，您以前认为我冷酷无情，我不一爱一您，这全都不是事实。我永远也不会不一爱一您……好，够了；我觉得，应该这样做，就这样开始……”
普莉赫里娅·亚历山德罗芙娜默默地拥抱了他，把他紧紧搂在胸前，轻轻地哭了。
“罗佳，我不知道你是怎么了，”最后她说，“这些时候我一直以为，你只不过是对我们感到厌烦了，现在，根据一切情况来看，我明白，你是准备经受一场极大的灾难，所以你在发愁。这一点我早就预见到了，罗佳。原谅我谈起这件事来；我一直在想着这件事，每天夜里都睡不着。昨天夜里你妹妹躺在一床一上，也一一夜都在说一胡一话，一直在想着你。我用心听着，听到了一些话，可是什么也听不懂。整整一早上，我一直像是要赴刑场一样，坐立不安，等待着什么，预感到会出事，瞧，这不是等到了！罗佳，罗佳，你要去哪里？你是要上什么地方去吗？”
“是的。”
“我就这么想嘛！我也能跟你一道去，如果你需要的话。还有杜尼娅；她一爱一你，她非常一爱一你，还有索菲娅·谢苗诺芙娜，让她也跟我们一道去，如果需要的话；你要知道，我甚至乐意收她做我的女儿。德米特里·普罗科菲伊奇会帮助我们一道做好准备……不过……你到底……要上哪儿去？”
“别了，一妈一妈一。”
“怎么！今天就走！”她高声惊呼，好像会永远失去他。
“我不能，我该走了，我非常需要……”
“连我也不能跟你一起去吗？”
“不，请您跪下，为我向上帝祈祷吧。也许您的祈祷上帝会听得到的。”
“让我给你画个十字，为你祝福！对了，就这样，就是这样。噢，天哪，我们这是在做什么啊！”
是的，他觉得高兴，非常高兴，因为家里没有别人，只有他和母亲两个人。在这些可怕的日子里，他好像头一次变得心软一了。他俯身跪倒在她面前，吻她的脚，母子俩抱头痛哭。这一次她并不觉得惊讶，也不详细询问他了。她早已明白，儿子发生了某种可怕的事，现在，对他来说，可怕的时刻到了。
“罗佳，我亲一爱一的，你是我的头生子，”她哭着说，“现在你又像小时候那样来到我跟前，像那时候那样拥抱我，吻我了；还在我和你父亲一起过穷日子的时候，单是有你和我们在一起，就使我们感到宽慰了，等到我安葬了你父亲，我和你曾经有多少次像现在这样互相拥抱着，坐在坟前痛哭啊。我早就在哭了，这是因为母亲的心早就预感到了这场灾难。那天晚上我第一次看到你，你记得吗，我们刚一来到这里的那天，我一看到你的目光，就猜到了，当时我的心猛然颤一动了一下，今天一给你开门，朝你看了一眼，唉，我就想，看来，决定命运的时刻到了。罗佳，罗佳，你不是马上就走，是吗？”
“不是。”
“你还会来吗？”
“是的……会来。”
“罗佳，你别生气，我也不敢问你。我知道，我不敢问，不过你只要对我说一声，你要去的地方远吗？”
“很远。”
“去那里做什么，有什么工作，关系你的前途，还是怎么呢？”
“听天由命吧……只不过请您为我祈祷……”
拉斯科利尼科夫向门口走去，但是她一把抓住了他，用绝望的目光瞅着他的眼睛。她的脸吓得变了样。
“够了，一妈一妈一，”拉斯科利尼科夫说，他竟忽然想要到这里来，对此他深感后悔。
“不是永别吧？还不是永别，不是吗？你还会来的，明天你还要来，不是吗？”
“我来，我来，别了。”
他终于挣脱了。
晚上空气清新，一温一暖，明亮；还从早晨起，天就已经晴了。拉斯科利尼科夫往自己的住处走去；他走得很快。他希望在日落前把一切全都结束。在那时以前他不希望遇到任何人。上楼去自己住的房子的时候，他发觉，娜斯塔西娅丢下了茶炊，凝神注视着他，一直目送着他上楼去。“不是我屋里有人吧？”他想。他怀着厌恶的心情，仿佛看到了波尔菲里。但是走到自己的房间，推开房门，他却看到了杜涅奇卡。她独自坐在屋里，陷入沉思，看来，早已在等着他了。他在门口站住了。她惊恐地从沙发上站起来，笔直地站在他面前。她的目光一动不动地凝望着他，露出恐惧和无限悲哀的神情。单看这目光，他立刻明白，她已经什么都知道了。
“我该进去呢，还是走开？”他疑虑地问。
“我在索菲娅·谢苗诺芙娜家坐了整整一天，我们俩都在等着你。我们以为，你一定会到那里去。”
拉斯科利尼科夫走进屋里，疲惫不堪地坐到椅子上。
“我有点儿虚弱，杜尼娅；已经很累了；可我希望至少在这个时候能够完全控制住自己。”
他怀疑地瞅了她一眼。
“这一一夜你是在哪里度过的？”
“记不清了；你要知道，妹妹，我想彻底解决，好多次从涅瓦河附近走过；这我记得。我想在那儿结束生命，可是……
我下不了决心……”他喃喃地说，又怀疑地看看杜尼娅。
“谢天谢地！我们担心的就正是这一点，我和索菲娅·谢苗诺芙娜！这么说，你对生活还有信心：谢天谢地，谢天谢地！”
拉斯科利尼科夫痛苦地笑了笑。
“我没有信心了，可是刚刚和母亲抱头痛哭了一场，我没有信心，可是我请求她为我祈祷。天晓得这是怎么回事，杜涅奇卡，我什么也不明白。”
“你去过母亲那里？你也告诉她了？”杜尼娅惊恐地高声说。“难道你决心告诉她了？”
“不，我没说……没用语言说；不过有很多事情她都明白了。夜里她听到你在说一胡一话。我相信，有一半她已经明白了。我去那里，也许做得不对。就连为什么要去，我也不知道。我是个卑鄙的人，杜尼娅。”
“卑鄙的人，可是情愿去受苦！你会去的，不是吗？”
“我去。这就去。是的，为了逃避这种耻辱，我也曾想投河自尽，杜尼娅，可是已经站在河边的时候，我想，既然在此以前我自认为是坚强的，那么现在就也不要骇怕耻辱，”他抢先说。“这是自尊心吗，杜尼娅？”
“是自尊心，罗佳。”
他那双黯然无神的眼睛仿佛突然一亮；他还有自尊心，他似乎为此感到高兴了。
“妹妹，你不认为，我只不过是看到水觉得害怕了吗？”他问，看着她的脸，怪难看地笑了笑。
“噢，罗佳，够了！”杜尼娅痛苦地高声说。
有两分钟光景，谁都没有说话。他坐着，垂下头，眼睛看着地下；杜涅奇卡站在桌子的另一头，痛苦地看着他，突然他站了起来：
“晚了，该走了。我这就去自首。不过我不知道，我为什么要去自首。”
大滴大滴的泪珠顺着她的面颊流了下来。
“你哭了，妹妹，你能和我握握手吗？”
“连这你也怀疑吗？”
她紧紧拥抱了他。
“你去受苦，难道不是已经把你的一半罪行洗刷掉了吗？”
她高声呼喊，紧紧拥抱他，吻他。
“罪行？什么罪行？”他突然出乎意外地发疯似地高声叫喊，“我杀了一个可恶的、极端有害的虱子，杀了一个谁也不需要的、放高利贷的老太婆，杀了一个吸穷人血的老太婆，杀了她，四十桩罪行都可以得到宽恕，这也叫犯罪？我不认为这是罪行，也不想洗刷它。为什么四面八方，大家都跟我纠缠不休，提醒我说：‘罪行，罪行！’现在我才清清楚楚看出，我的意志薄弱是多么荒谬，正是现在，在我决心要去承受这一不必要的耻辱的时候，这才明白过来！只不过是由于卑鄙和无能，我才作出了这样的决定，也许还为了这个……波尔菲里表示愿意提供的好处！……”
“哥哥，哥哥，你这是说的什么话！要知道，你杀了人，让人流了血呀！”杜尼娅绝望地叫喊。
“大家都在杀人，让人流血，”他几乎发狂似地接着话茬说，“全世界都在流血，从前也一直在流血，血像瀑布样奔腾直泻，像香槟样汩一汩地流淌，为此才在卡皮托利丘上给他加冕①，后来还把他叫作人类的恩人！你只要较为留心看一看，就会看得清清楚楚！我想为人们造福，我要做千万件好事来弥补这一件蠢事，这甚至不是蠢事，只不过是笨事，因为这个想法完全不像现在已经失败了的时候看起来那么蠢……（失败了的时候，什么事情看起来都是愚蠢的！）我做这件蠢事，只不过是想让自己获得独立自主的地位，迈出第一步，弄到钱，然后就可以用无比的好处来改正一切……可是我，我连第一步都不能坚持，因为我是个卑鄙的人！这就是问题所在！可我还是不会用你们的观点来看问题：如果我成功的话，就会给我戴上桂冠，现在我却落入了圈套！”
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①卡皮托利丘，在罗马，丘上建有宫殿，古罗马时，此丘起过堡垒的作用。这里指曾在卡皮托利丘上为获得军一团一指挥官称号的尤里·凯撒（纪元前一○○——纪元前四四）加冕。
“可是这不是那么回事，完全不是那么回事，你这是说的什么话！”
“啊！不是那种方式，从美学角度来看，方式不那么优美！哼，我根本不懂：为什么用炸弹杀人，正面围攻，是更值得尊敬的方式？对美学的畏惧就是无能为力的最初征兆！……我还从来，从来没有比现在更清楚地意识到这一点，而且比以往任何时候都更不理解我的罪行！我还从来，从来也没像现在这样坚强，深信不疑！……”
一阵红潮甚至涌上他那苍白和神情疲惫的脸。但是说完最后这几句情绪激昂的话，他的目光无意中碰到了杜尼娅的眼睛，从她的眼神里，他看出她为他感到多么痛苦，不由得清醒了过来。他感到，他毕竟使这两个可怜的女人变得那样不幸。她们的痛苦毕竟是他造成的……
“杜尼娅，亲一爱一的！如果我有罪，请你原谅我（虽说我是不能原谅的，如果我有罪的话）。别了！我们不要争论了！时候到了，是该走了。你别跟着我，我求求你，我还得去……现在你去吧，立刻去坐到母亲身边。我恳求你这样做！这是我对你，最后的、也是最大的请求。永远也别离开她，我使她为我担忧，她未必能经受得住这样的忧愁：她会愁死，或者会发疯。你要和她在一起！拉祖米欣会陪伴着你们；我跟他说过……不要为我哭泣：我要努力做一个既勇敢而又正直的人，终生如此，尽管我是个杀人凶手。说不定有朝一日你会听到我的名字。我决不会给你们丢脸，你瞧着吧；我还要让人看到……现在暂时再见了，”他赶紧结束了自己的话，在他说最后几句话并许下诺言的时候，又看到杜尼娅眼里有一种奇怪的神情。“你这样痛哭做什么？别哭，别哭了；我们并不是永别，不是吗！……啊，对了！等等，我忘了！……”
他走到桌边，拿起一本尘封的厚书，把它打开，取出夹在书中的一幅小小的肖像，肖像是用水彩颜料画在象牙上的。这是房东女儿的肖像，她就是那个想进修道院的古怪的姑一娘一，也就是死于热病的、他以前的未婚妻。他对着这张富于表情的病态的脸细细端详了一会儿，把它一交一给了杜涅奇卡。
“关于这件事，我和她商量过很多次了，只跟她一个人商量过，”他沉思地说，“后来如此荒谬地成为现实的这一切，有很多我都告诉过她。你别担心，”他对杜尼娅说，“她也和你一样，不同意我的看法，我很高兴她已不在人世了。主要的，主要的是，现在一切都将走上新的轨道，一切都将突然改变，仿佛折作两半，”他突然高声说，重又陷入烦恼之中，“一切的一切都会发生变化，可我对此是不是已经作好了准备？我自己是不是希望这样？据说，我需要经受这样的锻炼！干吗，干吗需要这些毫无意义的锻炼？这些锻炼有什么用处，服完二十年苦役以后，苦难和愚蠢的劳役会把我压垮，身一体会衰弱得像一个老人，到那时我会比现在更有觉悟吗，到那时候我还活着干什么？现在我为什么同意这样活着？噢，今天早晨，黎明时分，我站在涅瓦河边的时候，就已经知道，我是个卑鄙的人了！”
他们两人终于出来了。杜尼娅心情沉重，可是她一爱一他！她走了，可是走了五十来步，回过头来，再一次望了望他。还可以看得到他。不过，走到拐角上，他也回过头来；他们的目光最后一次碰到了一起；可是他发觉她在望着他，于是不耐烦地、甚至是恼怒地挥了挥手，叫她走，自己也急遽地拐了个弯走了。
“我太狠心了，这我明白，”他暗自想，过了一会儿，他为自己恼怒地向杜尼娅挥手感到羞愧了。“不过她们为什么这样一爱一我呢，既然我不配让她们一爱一！啊，如果我孑然一身，谁也不一爱一我，我永远也不一爱一任何人，那该多好！那就不会有这一切了！真想知道，难道在这未来的十五年到二十年里，我的心会变得那么一温一顺，我会恭恭敬敬地向人诉苦，开口闭口自称强盗吗？是的，正是这样，正是这样！正是为此，他们现在才要流放我，他们需要的就是这个……瞧，他们一个个在街上匆匆来来往往，而就其天一性一来说，他们个个都是卑鄙的家伙，都是强盗；甚至更糟——都是白痴！如果不流放我，他们准会义愤填膺，气得发狂！噢，我是多么恨他们啊，恨他们所有的人！”
他陷入沉思，在想：“要经过一个什么样的过程，才能终于使他在他们大家面前俯首贴耳，不再考虑什么，深信理应如此！那又怎样呢，为什么不呢？当然应该这样。难道二十年不断的压迫不会完全达到这样的目的吗？水滴石穿。而在这以后，为什么，为什么还要活着，既然我知道，一切都一定是这样，完全像书本上写的那样，而不会是另一个样子，那我现在为什么要去自首呢！”
从昨晚起，他也许已经成百次向自己提出这一问题了，可他还是去了。
