7. CHAPTER VII
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.