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- CRIME AND PUNISHMENT 483
I cry for anything. Sit down, dear boy, you must be tired; I see
you are. Ah, how muddy you are."
"I vras in the rain yesterday, mother. . . ." Raskolnikov began.
"No, no," Pulcheria Alexandrovna hurriedly interrupted,
"you thought I was going to cross-question you in the woman-
ish way I used to; don't be anxious, I understand, I understan 1
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 nudg-
ing 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. Di-
rectly Isaw 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 p>eople 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 lead-
ing 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
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