Chapter Text
Avdotya Romanovna Razumikhina had been lying awake in bed for a long time, kept in this state by a single thought. Tomorrow, her brother would return from eight years of hard labor in Siberia. The following day (can you believe it—tomorrow!), dearest Rodya would finally—finally—be home.
Oh, the self-indulgent hours she spent dreaming of the moment they would reunite—joyous, perfect. Rodya rushing into her arms, kissing her, thanking her, praising her—Sonya with tears in her eyes—and—oh.
And how she would despair, knowing these fantasies would never become reality. For there wasn’t a doubt: Rodya wouldn’t be in the least happy to see her. Though changed by years of labor and his love for Sonya, Rodya would undoubtedly still return with sullen eyes. Sonya’s letters all but confirmed it. He would no more than briskly walk in and set down his cloak as if nothing had changed, lie on the couch for how unfamiliar a bed was to him, and refuse to wake for days.
But Dunya would love him so much. Dunya would love him so much, and love would make everything beautiful. She held onto that belief as if it were the last good thing in the world, for it might as well have been.
It was not yet sunrise, but certainly well past midnight. Dunya turned around in bed, facing the single window in the bedroom. She could see the waxing crescent moon, falling slightly to the western horizon, as if in preparation to retire.
Mitya rustled beside her. There was no doubt that he, too, was awake, but even Razumikhin, the humblest of humble men, was too proud to admit such a thing. She would have looked at him, but where she lay she could not see him, and she did not wish to take her eyes from the window.
There was some good, she thought, of lying here in silence. There was some peace to be found in the ever-shifting night.
When the first rays of daybreak finally shone through, Dunya was still awake, but she was deeply troubled. A restlessness filled her heart, a terrible anguish that could only be described as pure love. It welled in her—she tossed and turned, this way and that, in an attempt to shake off this terrible feeling.
At once, she could not bear it anymore! She stood up abruptly, her pale sheets falling off of her as she rose, and, though she was certain she looked foolish in doing so, walked briskly to the small armchair in the corner and sat down, her head resting in her left hand.
From this angle, she could see her husband Dmitri, who was unmistakably awake.
Mitya was the one who broke the awkward silence.
“Good morning,” he offered, rather glumly.
Dunya looked up. She nodded back and put her head back into her hand, as if deep in thought.
“Well, why don’t you say something! Certainly you have something to say. To me, at least!” Mitya grumbled. Harsh as he sounded, it was good that his usual spark was back.
Dunya sighed and got up. Still wordless, she walked back to the bed and gently caressed Mitya’s head—surprisingly, he accepted the affection without protest. Then she climbed back to the left side of the bed, and, facing away from Mitya, finally began to speak.
“I can’t believe it’s today,” was the first and only thing she said. Mitya mumbled some indistinct expression of agreement.
Dunya had much more to say, but couldn’t find the words to continue, and Mitya, clearly thinking the same thing, did not speak either.
They watched the sunrise in silence.
The two spent the early morning cleaning the house.
Dunya swept the guest room twice, washed the dishes, and hung up the linens to dry. Then she arranged and re-arranged the dinner table. The air was thick with dust, as it usually was, but today, it didn’t deter Dunya’s efforts.
Razumikhin ran and jumped from room to room, dusting what he could and opening shutters—and then, deciding he was too cold, closing them again. He was still deciding on whether the shutters belonged open or closed when Dunya finished her cleaning.
When there was no work in the house that could possibly be done, they resolved to set out for their walk: to the market to pick up the day’s food, then to see the blossoms, and then the Little Neva, then back to their residence to drop off the bread and fish, then around and out again. And so they went, hand in hand, at the pace they normally walk, to the places they normally go.
Someplace near the blossoming trees, Mitya opened his mouth, as if to propose something.
“Do you think he…” he began, but he cut off as soon as he caught Dunya’s absent look.
She wasn’t deep in thought, but rather wasn’t thinking at all, lest she fall back into sadness. But Mitya couldn’t know this; he saw only her empty face.
They passed by a cherry blossom tree. Dunya reached up absently and plucked a small white blossom, twirling it between her thumb and index finger, eyes fixed on it as she was led by Mitya through the streets.
The rest of the morning passed like this. Since they were given no hour of return, only the date, they spent every minute full of a sort of gloomy anxiety, strolling up and down in a sort of obliged silence.
At midday, when the couple strolled past the pothouses by the Haymarket for the third (fourth?) time that day, Mitya would start and stop phrases. Dunya still walked in near silence, so much so that by the time they settled back at their residence, her voice was already hoarse from disuse.
Dunya cooked the fish and Mitya made some tea for lunch, and they ate with few words.
Lunch passed, and still no sign of Rodya.
Dunya and Mitya set out to walk again, the second time that day, and started to hold full conversations. Nothing about the situation, no, but trivial things—re-emerging flowers, the drunkards at the alehouses, assortments of clothes at the market, the glassy Little Neva…
Dunya hated it. She hated every second of it. She hated Razumikhin’s cheerfully clipped sentences, she hated his dry, bland intonation. She hated how she, too, was starting to adopt a tone of manufactured joy.
The conversations pressed on, but neither could bear it, not at all.
After an hour of pointless ambling, Dunya might have off-handedly said something pointed, or otherwise failed to respond, and Mitya soon wandered away, leaving Dunya alone with her thoughts.
She walked around alone for a long time; she couldn’t help thinking how she surely looked like Rodya right now, and whether she was talking to herself too… she nearly laughed aloud.
After wandering a while, it became clear that Mitya would not return.
Dunya slowly ambled back to their landlord’s house, turned the key, and entered. She made her way up the stairs.
As she approached their room, she smelled a faint scent of meat—Mitya had likely purchased it from the Haymarket after he left. Dunya was grateful, for she had forgotten.
The meal was being prepared as well (albeit sloppily) and for that, Dunya could not deny herself a kiss on Mitya’s cheek.
She set her coat down and got to work in the kitchen, silently joining her husband’s efforts.
The sun was setting fast, and each empty gust of wind only brought a quicker heartbeat. Not to mention the vibration of footsteps on the stairs of the landlord’s house, the creak of carriages stopping, rowdy commotion from the street below—invariably, they would almost stop two anxious hearts.
A knock sounded at the door. Dunya, who was sitting on the armchair, felt herself nearly pass away. She exchanged a quick, desperate glance with Mitya, who, seeing that Dunya was so afraid, went to answer the door himself.
Only to slam it shut immediately, curses flying from under his breath. “Ah. Of course. Certainly! Why would it be anything else?”
Mitya sighed.
“The mailman,” he informed Dunya, a certain exasperation in his voice.
The latter, who was frozen in her half-standing position above her seat, sank down with such force that the chair protested beneath her.
Mitya took a deep breath.
Then, he opened the door again to reveal a very disheveled and bewildered mailman.
“I do apologize for the unfitting greeting, good sir. Is there a delivery for us?” Mitya asked in his best voice.
“Y-yes, there is…” the young man stammered. He fumbled as he pulled a neatly sealed envelope out of his sack. “I believe this is addressed to Dmitri Prokofych Razumikhin and Avdotya Romanovna Razumikhina?”
“That would be us,” Mitya nodded courteously and opened the letter. He read it carefully, line by line, something he rarely did.
And—God, no. Dunya could see his face darken as his eyes scanned down the letter’s contents.
“Thank you,” he looked up from the creased paper briskly, his tone cut short, as if curt.
The mailman—bless him—took the hint and left.
“What was it?” Dunya rushed forward to ask. “Did something happen to Rodya?”
Razumikhin donned a surprised and apologetic look. “Oh—no. I’m sorry if I made it seem that way. No, nothing happened. It’s—nothing… it’s just…”
“What? What happened? Oh, you must tell me,” Dunya cried.
“Dear, don’t fret and raise your voice like that,” Mitya replied in a stern but soothing half whisper, “the tenants upstairs will complain again.”
Dunya nodded, vaguely aware that her mouth was held slightly open.
Mitya then gestured at the letter. “This is an official notice from the government, stating that due to delays in the bureaucratic process, the return of Rodya and his inmates will be delayed until tomorrow morning.”
Dunya was speechless for a second. In the next moments she all but collapsed on the floor, entirely unaware of her physical surroundings.
It was so small a piece of news, so insignificant, so frustratingly mundane—yet all the stress… it was suddenly too much for her.
Mitya didn’t speak, only caught her mid-fall and stroked her hair and spoke in whispers and guided her to their chambers. He set her down to her place on the bed, and he himself climbed in.
He knew she wouldn’t sleep tonight, just like she had not slept the night before, but he would ignore her fretful sighs like he had always done.
Tomorrow, tomorrow. Again, tomorrow! Another night of waiting, another day of waiting.
At the thought, a strange exhaustion came over him. But he cautiously clung to the weariness as he tried to drift off to sleep.
It was not until an hour later that he realized they had forgotten to eat their dinner.