Crime and Punishment by Fyodor Dostoevsky(page 12)

‘What nonsense he is talking! Why, you are in a
sentimental mood to-day, are you?’ shouted Razumihin.
If he had had more penetration he would have seen
that there was no trace of sentimentality in him, but
something indeed quite the opposite. But Avdotya
Romanovna noticed it. She was intently and uneasily
watching her brother.
‘As for you, mother, I don’t dare to speak,’ he went on,
as though repeating a lesson learned by heart. ‘It is only
to-day that I have been able to realise a little how
distressed you must have been here yesterday, waiting for
me to come back.’
When he had said this, he suddenly held out his hand
to his sister, smiling without a word. But in this smile
there was a flash of real unfeigned feeling. Dounia caught
it at once, and warmly pressed his hand, overjoyed and
thankful. It was the first time he had addressed her since
their dispute the previous day. The mother’s face lighted
up with ecstatic happiness at the sight of this conclusive
unspoken reconciliation. ‘Yes, that is what I love him for,’
Razumihin, exaggerating it all, muttered to himself, with a
vigorous turn in his chair. ‘He has these movements.’
‘And how well he does it all,’ the mother was thinking
to herself. ‘What generous impulses he has, and how
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simply, how delicately he put an end to all the
misunderstanding with his sister—simply by holding out
his hand at the right minute and looking at her like that….
And what fine eyes he has, and how fine his whole face is!
… He is even better looking than Dounia…. But, good
heavens, what a suit —how terribly he’s dressed! … Vasya,
the messenger boy in Afanasy Ivanitch’s shop, is better
dressed! I could rush at him and hug him … weep over
him—but I am afraid…. Oh, dear, he’s so strange! He’s
talking kindly, but I’m afraid! Why, what am I afraid of?
…’
‘Oh, Rodya, you wouldn’t believe,’ she began
suddenly, in haste to answer his words to her, ‘how
unhappy Dounia and I were yesterday! Now that it’s all
over and done with and we are quite happy again—I can
tell you. Fancy, we ran here almost straight from the train
to embrace you and that woman—ah, here she is! Good
morning, Nastasya! … She told us at once that you were
lying in a high fever and had just run away from the
doctor in delirium, and they were looking for you in the
streets. You can’t imagine how we felt! I couldn’t help
thinking of the tragic end of Lieutenant Potanchikov, a
friend of your father’s— you can’t remember him,
Rodya—who ran out in the same way in a high fever and
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fell into the well in the court-yard and they couldn’t pull
him out till next day. Of course, we exaggerated things.
We were on the point of rushing to find Pyotr Petrovitch
to ask him to help…. Because we were alone, utterly
alone,’ she said plaintively and stopped short, suddenly,
recollecting it was still somewhat dangerous to speak of
Pyotr Petrovitch, although ‘we are quite happy again.’
‘Yes, yes…. Of course it’s very annoying….’
Raskolnikov muttered in reply, but with such a
preoccupied and inattentive air that Dounia gazed at him
in perplexity.
‘What else was it I wanted to say?’ He went on trying
to recollect. ‘Oh, yes; mother, and you too, Dounia,
please don’t think that I didn’t mean to come and see you
to-day and was waiting for you to come first.’
‘What are you saying, Rodya?’ cried Pulcheria
Alexandrovna. She, too, was surprised.
‘Is he answering us as a duty?’ Dounia wondered. ‘Is he
being reconciled and asking forgiveness as though he were
performing a rite or repeating a lesson?’
‘I’ve only just waked up, and wanted to go to you, but
was delayed owing to my clothes; I forgot yesterday to ask
her … Nastasya … to wash out the blood … I’ve only just
dressed.’
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‘Blood! What blood?’ Pulcheria Alexandrovna asked in
alarm.
‘Oh, nothing—don’t be uneasy. It was when I was
wandering about yesterday, rather delirious, I chanced
upon a man who had been run over … a clerk …’
‘Delirious? But you remember everything!’ Razumihin
interrupted.
‘That’s true,’ Raskolnikov answered with special
carefulness. ‘I remember everything even to the slightest
detail, and yet—why I did that and went there and said
that, I can’t clearly explain now.’
‘A familiar phenomenon,’ interposed Zossimov,
‘actions are sometimes performed in a masterly and most
cunning way, while the direction of the actions is
deranged and dependent on various morbid impressions—
it’s like a dream.’
‘Perhaps it’s a good thing really that he should think me
almost a madman,’ thought Raskolnikov.
‘Why, people in perfect health act in the same way
too,’ observed Dounia, looking uneasily at Zossimov.
‘There is some truth in your observation,’ the latter
replied. ‘In that sense we are certainly all not infrequently
like madmen, but with the slight difference that the
deranged are somewhat madder, for we must draw a line.
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A normal man, it is true, hardly exists. Among dozens—
perhaps hundreds of thousands—hardly one is to be met
with.’
At the word ‘madman,’ carelessly dropped by Zossimov
in his chatter on his favourite subject, everyone frowned.
Raskolnikov sat seeming not to pay attention, plunged
in thought with a strange smile on his pale lips. He was
still meditating on something.
‘Well, what about the man who was run over? I
interrupted you!’ Razumihin cried hastily.
‘What?’ Raskolnikov seemed to wake up. ‘Oh … I got
spattered with blood helping to carry him to his lodging.
By the way, mamma, I did an unpardonable thing
yesterday. I was literally out of my mind. I gave away all
the money you sent me … to his wife for the funeral.
She’s a widow now, in consumption, a poor creature …
three little children, starving … nothing in the house …
there’s a daughter, too … perhaps you’d have given it
yourself if you’d seen them. But I had no right to do it I
admit, especially as I knew how you needed the money
yourself. To help others one must have the right to do it,
or else Crevez, chiens, si vous n’êtes pas contents. ’ He
laughed, ‘That’s right, isn’t it, Dounia?’
‘No, it’s not,’ answered Dounia firmly.
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‘Bah! you, too, have ideals,’ he muttered, looking at
her almost with hatred, and smiling sarcastically. ‘I ought
to have considered that…. Well, that’s praiseworthy, and
it’s better for you … and if you reach a line you won’t
overstep, you will be unhappy … and if you overstep it,
maybe you will be still unhappier…. But all that’s
nonsense,’ he added irritably, vexed at being carried away.
‘I only meant to say that I beg your forgiveness, mother,’
he concluded, shortly and abruptly.
‘That’s enough, Rodya, I am sure that everything you
do is very good,’ said his mother, delighted.
‘Don’t be too sure,’ he answered, twisting his mouth
into a smile.
A silence followed. There was a certain constraint in all
this conversation, and in the silence, and in the
reconciliation, and in the forgiveness, and all were feeling
it.
‘It is as though they were afraid of me,’ Raskolnikov
was thinking to himself, looking askance at his mother and
sister. Pulcheria Alexandrovna was indeed growing more
timid the longer she kept silent.
‘Yet in their absence I seemed to love them so much,’
flashed through his mind.
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‘Do you know, Rodya, Marfa Petrovna is dead,’
Pulcheria Alexandrovna suddenly blurted out.
‘What Marfa Petrovna?’
‘Oh, mercy on us—Marfa Petrovna Svidrigaïlov. I
wrote you so much about her.’
‘A-a-h! Yes, I remember…. So she’s dead! Oh, really?’
he roused himself suddenly, as if waking up. ‘What did she
die of?’
‘Only imagine, quite suddenly,’ Pulcheria
Alexandrovna answered hurriedly, encouraged by his
curiosity. ‘On the very day I was sending you that letter!
Would you believe it, that awful man seems to have been
the cause of her death. They say he beat her dreadfully.’
‘Why, were they on such bad terms?’ he asked,
addressing his sister.
‘Not at all. Quite the contrary indeed. With her, he
was always very patient, considerate even. In fact, all those
seven years of their married life he gave way to her, too
much so indeed, in many cases. All of a sudden he seems
to have lost patience.’
‘Then he could not have been so awful if he controlled
himself for seven years? You seem to be defending him,
Dounia?’
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‘No, no, he’s an awful man! I can imagine nothing
more awful!’ Dounia answered, almost with a shudder,
knitting her brows, and sinking into thought.
‘That had happened in the morning,’ Pulcheria
Alexandrovna went on hurriedly. ‘And directly afterwards
she ordered the horses to be harnessed to drive to the
town immediately after dinner. She always used to drive
to the town in such cases. She ate a very good dinner, I
am told….’
‘After the beating?’
‘That was always her … habit; and immediately after
dinner, so as not to be late in starting, she went to the
bath-house…. You see, she was undergoing some
treatment with baths. They have a cold spring there, and
she used to bathe in it regularly every day, and no sooner
had she got into the water when she suddenly had a
stroke!’
‘I should think so,’ said Zossimov.
‘And did he beat her badly?’
‘What does that matter!’ put in Dounia.
‘H’m! But I don’t know why you want to tell us such
gossip, mother,’ said Raskolnikov irritably, as it were in
spite of himself.
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‘Ah, my dear, I don’t know what to talk about,’ broke
from Pulcheria Alexandrovna.
‘Why, are you all afraid of me?’ he asked, with a
constrained smile.
‘That’s certainly true,’ said Dounia, looking directly
and sternly at her brother. ‘Mother was crossing herself
with terror as she came up the stairs.’
His face worked, as though in convulsion.
‘Ach, what are you saying, Dounia! Don’t be angry,
please, Rodya…. Why did you say that, Dounia?’
Pulcheria Alexandrovna began, overwhelmed—‘You see,
coming here, I was dreaming all the way, in the train, how
we should meet, how we should talk over everything
together…. And I was so happy, I did not notice the
journey! But what am I saying? I am happy now…. You
should not, Dounia…. I am happy now—simply in seeing
you, Rodya….’
‘Hush, mother,’ he muttered in confusion, not looking
at her, but pressing her hand. ‘We shall have time to speak
freely of everything!’
As he said this, he was suddenly overwhelmed with
confusion and turned pale. Again that awful sensation he
had known of late passed with deadly chill over his soul.
Again it became suddenly plain and perceptible to him
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that he had just told a fearful lie—that he would never
now be able to speak freely of everything—that he would
never again be able to speak of anything to anyone. The
anguish of this thought was such that for a moment he
almost forgot himself. He got up from his seat, and not
looking at anyone walked towards the door.
‘What are you about?’ cried Razumihin, clutching him
by the arm.
He sat down again, and began looking about him, in
silence. They were all looking at him in perplexity.
‘But what are you all so dull for?’ he shouted, suddenly
and quite unexpectedly. ‘Do say something! What’s the
use of sitting like this? Come, do speak. Let us talk…. We
meet together and sit in silence…. Come, anything!’
‘Thank God; I was afraid the same thing as yesterday
was beginning again,’ said Pulcheria Alexandrovna,
crossing herself.
‘What is the matter, Rodya?’ asked Avdotya
Romanovna, distrustfully.
‘Oh, nothing! I remembered something,’ he answered,
and suddenly laughed.
‘Well, if you remembered something; that’s all right! …
I was beginning to think …’ muttered Zossimov, getting
up from the sofa. ‘It is time for me to be off. I will look in
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again perhaps … if I can …’ He made his bows, and went
out.
‘What an excellent man!’ observed Pulcheria
Alexandrovna.
‘Yes, excellent, splendid, well-educated, intelligent,’
Raskolnikov began, suddenly speaking with surprising
rapidity, and a liveliness he had not shown till then. ‘I
can’t remember where I met him before my illness…. I
believe I have met him somewhere—— … And this is a
good man, too,’ he nodded at Razumihin. ‘Do you like
him, Dounia?’ he asked her; and suddenly, for some
unknown reason, laughed.
‘Very much,’ answered Dounia.
‘Foo!—what a pig you are!’ Razumihin protested,
blushing in terrible confusion, and he got up from his
chair. Pulcheria Alexandrovna smiled faintly, but
Raskolnikov laughed aloud.
‘Where are you off to?’
‘I must go.’
‘You need not at all. Stay. Zossimov has gone, so you
must. Don’t go. What’s the time? Is it twelve o’clock?
What a pretty watch you have got, Dounia. But why are
you all silent again? I do all the talking.’
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‘It was a present from Marfa Petrovna,’ answered
Dounia.
‘And a very expensive one!’ added Pulcheria
Alexandrovna.
‘A-ah! What a big one! Hardly like a lady’s.’
‘I like that sort,’ said Dounia.
‘So it is not a present from her fiancé ’ thought
Razumihin, and was unreasonably delighted.
‘I thought it was Luzhin’s present,’ observed
Raskolnikov.
‘No, he has not made Dounia any presents yet.’
‘A-ah! And do you remember, mother, I was in love
and wanted to get married?’ he said suddenly, looking at
his mother, who was disconcerted by the sudden change
of subject and the way he spoke of it.
‘Oh, yes, my dear.’
Pulcheria Alexandrovna exchanged glances with
Dounia and Razumihin.
‘H’m, yes. What shall I tell you? I don’t remember
much indeed. She was such a sickly girl,’ he went on,
growing dreamy and looking down again. ‘Quite an
invalid. She was fond of giving alms to the poor, and was
always dreaming of a nunnery, and once she burst into
tears when she began talking to me about it. Yes, yes, I
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remember. I remember very well. She was an ugly little
thing. I really don’t know what drew me to her then—I
think it was because she was always ill. If she had been
lame or hunchback, I believe I should have liked her
better still,’ he smiled dreamily. ‘Yes, it was a sort of spring
delirium.’
‘No, it was not only spring delirium,’ said Dounia, with
warm feeling.
He fixed a strained intent look on his sister, but did not
hear or did not understand her words. Then, completely
lost in thought, he got up, went up to his mother, kissed
her, went back to his place and sat down.
‘You love her even now?’ said Pulcheria Alexandrovna,
touched.
‘Her? Now? Oh, yes…. You ask about her? No …
that’s all now, as it were, in another world … and so long
ago. And indeed everything happening here seems
somehow far away.’ He looked attentively at them. ‘You,
now … I seem to be looking at you from a thousand miles
away … but, goodness knows why we are talking of that!
And what’s the use of asking about it?’ he added with
annoyance, and biting his nails, fell into dreamy silence
again.
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‘What a wretched lodging you have, Rodya! It’s like a
tomb,’ said Pulcheria Alexandrovna, suddenly breaking the
oppressive silence. ‘I am sure it’s quite half through your
lodging you have become so melancholy.’
‘My lodging,’ he answered, listlessly. ‘Yes, the lodging
had a great deal to do with it…. I thought that, too…. If
only you knew, though, what a strange thing you said just
now, mother,’ he said, laughing strangely.
A little more, and their companionship, this mother
and this sister, with him after three years’ absence, this
intimate tone of conversation, in face of the utter
impossibility of really speaking about anything, would
have been beyond his power of endurance. But there was
one urgent matter which must be settled one way or the
other that day—so he had decided when he woke. Now
he was glad to remember it, as a means of escape.
‘Listen, Dounia,’ he began, gravely and drily, ‘of course
I beg your pardon for yesterday, but I consider it my duty
to tell you again that I do not withdraw from my chief
point. It is me or Luzhin. If I am a scoundrel, you must
not be. One is enough. If you marry Luzhin, I cease at
once to look on you as a sister.’
‘Rodya, Rodya! It is the same as yesterday again,’
Pulcheria Alexandrovna cried, mournfully. ‘And why do
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you call yourself a scoundrel? I can’t bear it. You said the
same yesterday.’
‘Brother,’ Dounia answered firmly and with the same
dryness. ‘In all this there is a mistake on your part. I
thought it over at night, and found out the mistake. It is
all because you seem to fancy I am sacrificing myself to
someone and for someone. That is not the case at all. I am
simply marrying for my own sake, because things are hard
for me. Though, of course, I shall be glad if I succeed in
being useful to my family. But that is not the chief motive
for my decision….’
‘She is lying,’ he thought to himself, biting his nails
vindictively. ‘Proud creature! She won’t admit she wants
to do it out of charity! Too haughty! Oh, base characters!
They even love as though they hate…. Oh, how I … hate
them all!’
‘In fact,’ continued Dounia, ‘I am marrying Pyotr
Petrovitch because of two evils I choose the less. I intend
to do honestly all he expects of me, so I am not deceiving
him…. Why did you smile just now?’ She, too, flushed,
and there was a gleam of anger in her eyes.
‘All?’ he asked, with a malignant grin.
‘Within certain limits. Both the manner and form of
Pyotr Petrovitch’s courtship showed me at once what he
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wanted. He may, of course, think too well of himself, but
I hope he esteems me, too…. Why are you laughing
again?’
‘And why are you blushing again? You are lying, sister.
You are intentionally lying, simply from feminine
obstinacy, simply to hold your own against me…. You
cannot respect Luzhin. I have seen him and talked with
him. So you are selling yourself for money, and so in any
case you are acting basely, and I am glad at least that you
can blush for it.’
‘It is not true. I am not lying,’ cried Dounia, losing her
composure. ‘I would not marry him if I were not
convinced that he esteems me and thinks highly of me. I
would not marry him if I were not firmly convinced that I
can respect him. Fortunately, I can have convincing proof
of it this very day … and such a marriage is not a vileness,
as you say! And even if you were right, if I really had
determined on a vile action, is it not merciless on your
part to speak to me like that? Why do you demand of me
a heroism that perhaps you have not either? It is
despotism; it is tyranny. If I ruin anyone, it is only
myself…. I am not committing a murder. Why do you
look at me like that? Why are you so pale? Rodya, darling,
what’s the matter?’
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‘Good heavens! You have made him faint,’ cried
Pulcheria Alexandrovna.
‘No, no, nonsense! It’s nothing. A little giddiness—not
fainting. You have fainting on the brain. H’m, yes, what
was I saying? Oh, yes. In what way will you get
convincing proof to-day that you can respect him, and
that he … esteems you, as you said. I think you said today?’
‘Mother, show Rodya Pyotr Petrovitch’s letter,’ said
Dounia.
With trembling hands, Pulcheria Alexandrovna gave
him the letter. He took it with great interest, but, before
opening it, he suddenly looked with a sort of wonder at
Dounia.
‘It is strange,’ he said, slowly, as though struck by a
new idea. ‘What am I making such a fuss for? What is it all
about? Marry whom you like!’
He said this as though to himself, but said it aloud, and
looked for some time at his sister, as though puzzled. He
opened the letter at last, still with the same look of strange
wonder on his face. Then, slowly and attentively, he
began reading, and read it through twice. Pulcheria
Alexandrovna showed marked anxiety, and all indeed
expected something particular.
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‘What surprises me,’ he began, after a short pause,
handing the letter to his mother, but not addressing
anyone in particular, ‘is that he is a business man, a lawyer,
and his conversation is pretentious indeed, and yet he
writes such an uneducated letter.’
They all started. They had expected something quite
different.
‘But they all write like that, you know,’ Razumihin
observed, abruptly.
‘Have you read it?’
‘Yes.’
‘We showed him, Rodya. We … consulted him just
now,’ Pulcheria Alexandrovna began, embarrassed.
‘That’s just the jargon of the courts,’ Razumihin put in.
‘Legal documents are written like that to this day.’
‘Legal? Yes, it’s just legal—business language—not so
very uneducated, and not quite educated—business
language!’
‘Pyotr Petrovitch makes no secret of the fact that he
had a cheap education, he is proud indeed of having made
his own way,’ Avdotya Romanovna observed, somewhat
offended by her brother’s tone.
‘Well, if he’s proud of it, he has reason, I don’t deny it.
You seem to be offended, sister, at my making only such a
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frivolous criticism on the letter, and to think that I speak
of such trifling matters on purpose to annoy you. It is
quite the contrary, an observation apropos of the style
occurred to me that is by no means irrelevant as things
stand. There is one expression, ‘blame yourselves’ put in
very significantly and plainly, and there is besides a threat
that he will go away at once if I am present. That threat to
go away is equivalent to a threat to abandon you both if
you are disobedient, and to abandon you now after
summoning you to Petersburg. Well, what do you think?
Can one resent such an expression from Luzhin, as we
should if he (he pointed to Razumihin) had written it, or
Zossimov, or one of us?’
‘N-no,’ answered Dounia, with more animation. ‘I saw
clearly that it was too naïvely expressed, and that perhaps
he simply has no skill in writing … that is a true criticism,
brother. I did not expect, indeed …’
‘It is expressed in legal style, and sounds coarser than
perhaps he intended. But I must disillusion you a little.
There is one expression in the letter, one slander about
me, and rather a contemptible one. I gave the money last
night to the widow, a woman in consumption, crushed
with trouble, and not ‘on the pretext of the funeral,’ but
simply to pay for the funeral, and not to the daughter—a
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young woman, as he writes, of notorious behaviour
(whom I saw last night for the first time in my life)—but
to the widow. In all this I see a too hasty desire to slander
me and to raise dissension between us. It is expressed again
in legal jargon, that is to say, with a too obvious display of
the aim, and with a very naïve eagerness. He is a man of
intelligence, but to act sensibly, intelligence is not enough.
It all shows the man and … I don’t think he has a great
esteem for you. I tell you this simply to warn you, because
I sincerely wish for your good …’
Dounia did not reply. Her resolution had been taken.
She was only awaiting the evening.
‘Then what is your decision, Rodya?’ asked Pulcheria
Alexandrovna, who was more uneasy than ever at the
sudden, new businesslike tone of his talk.
‘What decision?’
‘You see Pyotr Petrovitch writes that you are not to be
with us this evening, and that he will go away if you
come. So will you … come?’
‘That, of course, is not for me to decide, but for you
first, if you are not offended by such a request; and
secondly, by Dounia, if she, too, is not offended. I will do
what you think best,’ he added, drily.
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‘Dounia has already decided, and I fully agree with
her,’ Pulcheria Alexandrovna hastened to declare.
‘I decided to ask you, Rodya, to urge you not to fail to
be with us at this interview,’ said Dounia. ‘Will you
come?’
‘Yes.’
‘I will ask you, too, to be with us at eight o’clock,’ she
said, addressing Razumihin. ‘Mother, I am inviting him,
too.’
‘Quite right, Dounia. Well, since you have decided,’
added Pulcheria Alexandrovna, ‘so be it. I shall feel easier
myself. I do not like concealment and deception. Better let
us have the whole truth…. Pyotr Petrovitch may be angry
or not, now!’
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Chapter IV
At that moment the door was softly opened, and a
young girl walked into the room, looking timidly about
her. Everyone turned towards her with surprise and
curiosity. At first sight, Raskolnikov did not recognise her.
It was Sofya Semyonovna Marmeladov. He had seen her
yesterday for the first time, but at such a moment, in such
surroundings and in such a dress, that his memory retained
a very different image of her. Now she was a modestly and
poorly-dressed young girl, very young, indeed, almost like
a child, with a modest and refined manner, with a candid
but somewhat frightened-looking face. She was wearing a
very plain indoor dress, and had on a shabby oldfashioned
hat, but she still carried a parasol. Unexpectedly
finding the room full of people, she was not so much
embarrassed as completely overwhelmed with shyness, like
a little child. She was even about to retreat. ‘Oh … it’s
you!’ said Raskolnikov, extremely astonished, and he, too,
was confused. He at once recollected that his mother and
sister knew through Luzhin’s letter of ‘some young
woman of notorious behaviour.’ He had only just been
protesting against Luzhin’s calumny and declaring that he
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had seen the girl last night for the first time, and suddenly
she had walked in. He remembered, too, that he had not
protested against the expression ‘of notorious behaviour.’
All this passed vaguely and fleetingly through his brain, but
looking at her more intently, he saw that the humiliated
creature was so humiliated that he felt suddenly sorry for
her. When she made a movement to retreat in terror, it
sent a pang to his heart.
‘I did not expect you,’ he said, hurriedly, with a look
that made her stop. ‘Please sit down. You come, no
doubt, from Katerina Ivanovna. Allow me—not there. Sit
here….’
At Sonia’s entrance, Razumihin, who had been sitting
on one of Raskolnikov’s three chairs, close to the door,
got up to allow her to enter. Raskolnikov had at first
shown her the place on the sofa where Zossimov had been
sitting, but feeling that the sofa which served him as a bed,
was too familiar a place, he hurriedly motioned her to
Razumihin’s chair.
‘You sit here,’ he said to Razumihin, putting him on
the sofa.
Sonia sat down, almost shaking with terror, and looked
timidly at the two ladies. It was evidently almost
inconceivable to herself that she could sit down beside
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them. At the thought of it, she was so frightened that she
hurriedly got up again, and in utter confusion addressed
Raskolnikov.
‘I … I … have come for one minute. Forgive me for
disturbing you,’ she began falteringly. ‘I come from
Katerina Ivanovna, and she had no one to send. Katerina
Ivanovna told me to beg you … to be at the service … in
the morning … at Mitrofanievsky … and then … to us …
to her … to do her the honour … she told me to beg you
…’ Sonia stammered and ceased speaking.
‘I will try, certainly, most certainly,’ answered
Raskolnikov. He, too, stood up, and he, too, faltered and
could not finish his sentence. ‘Please sit down,’ he said,
suddenly. ‘I want to talk to you. You are perhaps in a
hurry, but please, be so kind, spare me two minutes,’ and
he drew up a chair for her.
Sonia sat down again, and again timidly she took a
hurried, frightened look at the two ladies, and dropped her
eyes. Raskolnikov’s pale face flushed, a shudder passed
over him, his eyes glowed.
‘Mother,’ he said, firmly and insistently, ‘this is Sofya
Semyonovna Marmeladov, the daughter of that
unfortunate Mr. Marmeladov, who was run over yesterday
before my eyes, and of whom I was just telling you.’
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Pulcheria Alexandrovna glanced at Sonia, and slightly
screwed up her eyes. In spite of her embarrassment before
Rodya’s urgent and challenging look, she could not deny
herself that satisfaction. Dounia gazed gravely and intently
into the poor girl’s face, and scrutinised her with
perplexity. Sonia, hearing herself introduced, tried to raise
her eyes again, but was more embarrassed than ever.
‘I wanted to ask you,’ said Raskolnikov, hastily, ‘how
things were arranged yesterday. You were not worried by
the police, for instance?’
‘No, that was all right … it was too evident, the cause
of death … they did not worry us … only the lodgers are
angry.’
‘Why?’
‘At the body’s remaining so long. You see it is hot
now. So that, to-day, they will carry it to the cemetery,
into the chapel, until to-morrow. At first Katerina
Ivanovna was unwilling, but now she sees herself that it’s
necessary …’
‘To-day, then?’
‘She begs you to do us the honour to be in the church
to-morrow for the service, and then to be present at the
funeral lunch.’
‘She is giving a funeral lunch?’
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‘Yes … just a little…. She told me to thank you very
much for helping us yesterday. But for you, we should
have had nothing for the funeral.’
All at once her lips and chin began trembling, but, with
an effort, she controlled herself, looking down again.
During the conversation, Raskolnikov watched her
carefully. She had a thin, very thin, pale little face, rather
irregular and angular, with a sharp little nose and chin. She
could not have been called pretty, but her blue eyes were
so clear, and when they lighted up, there was such a
kindliness and simplicity in her expression that one could
not help being attracted. Her face, and her whole figure
indeed, had another peculiar characteristic. In spite of her
eighteen years, she looked almost a little girl—almost a
child. And in some of her gestures, this childishness
seemed almost absurd.
‘But has Katerina Ivanovna been able to manage with
such small means? Does she even mean to have a funeral
lunch?’ Raskolnikov asked, persistently keeping up the
conversation.
‘The coffin will be plain, of course … and everything
will be plain, so it won’t cost much. Katerina Ivanovna
and I have reckoned it all out, so that there will be enough
left … and Katerina Ivanovna was very anxious it should
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be so. You know one can’t … it’s a comfort to her … she
is like that, you know….’
‘I understand, I understand … of course … why do
you look at my room like that? My mother has just said it
is like a tomb.’
‘You gave us everything yesterday,’ Sonia said
suddenly, in reply, in a loud rapid whisper; and again she
looked down in confusion. Her lips and chin were
trembling once more. She had been struck at once by
Raskolnikov’s poor surroundings, and now these words
broke out spontaneously. A silence followed. There was a
light in Dounia’s eyes, and even Pulcheria Alexandrovna
looked kindly at Sonia.
‘Rodya,’ she said, getting up, ‘we shall have dinner
together, of course. Come, Dounia…. And you, Rodya,
had better go for a little walk, and then rest and lie down
before you come to see us…. I am afraid we have
exhausted you….’
‘Yes, yes, I’ll come,’ he answered, getting up fussily.
‘But I have something to see to.’
‘But surely you will have dinner together?’ cried
Razumihin, looking in surprise at Raskolnikov. ‘What do
you mean?’
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‘Yes, yes, I am coming … of course, of course! And
you stay a minute. You do not want him just now, do
you, mother? Or perhaps I am taking him from you?’
‘Oh, no, no. And will you, Dmitri Prokofitch, do us
the favour of dining with us?’
‘Please do,’ added Dounia.
Razumihin bowed, positively radiant. For one
moment, they were all strangely embarrassed.
‘Good-bye, Rodya, that is till we meet. I do not like
saying good-bye. Good-bye, Nastasya. Ah, I have said
good-bye again.’
Pulcheria Alexandrovna meant to greet Sonia, too; but
it somehow failed to come off, and she went in a flutter
out of the room.
But Avdotya Romanovna seemed to await her turn,
and following her mother out, gave Sonia an attentive,
courteous bow. Sonia, in confusion, gave a hurried,
frightened curtsy. There was a look of poignant discomfort
in her face, as though Avdotya Romanovna’s courtesy and
attention were oppressive and painful to her.
‘Dounia, good-bye,’ called Raskolnikov, in the passage.
‘Give me your hand.’
‘Why, I did give it to you. Have you forgotten?’ said
Dounia, turning warmly and awkwardly to him.
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‘Never mind, give it to me again.’ And he squeezed her
fingers warmly.
Dounia smiled, flushed, pulled her hand away, and
went off quite happy.
‘Come, that’s capital,’ he said to Sonia, going back and
looking brightly at her. ‘God give peace to the dead, the
living have still to live. That is right, isn’t it?’
Sonia looked surprised at the sudden brightness of his
face. He looked at her for some moments in silence. The
whole history of the dead father floated before his memory
in those moments….
*****
‘Heavens, Dounia,’ Pulcheria Alexandrovna began, as
soon as they were in the street, ‘I really feel relieved
myself at coming away—more at ease. How little did I
think yesterday in the train that I could ever be glad of
that.’
‘I tell you again, mother, he is still very ill. Don’t you
see it? Perhaps worrying about us upset him. We must be
patient, and much, much can be forgiven.’
‘Well, you were not very patient!’ Pulcheria
Alexandrovna caught her up, hotly and jealously. ‘Do you
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know, Dounia, I was looking at you two. You are the
very portrait of him, and not so much in face as in soul.
You are both melancholy, both morose and hottempered,
both haughty and both generous…. Surely he
can’t be an egoist, Dounia. Eh? When I think of what is in
store for us this evening, my heart sinks!’
‘Don’t be uneasy, mother. What must be, will be.’
‘Dounia, only think what a position we are in! What if
Pyotr Petrovitch breaks it off?’ poor Pulcheria
Alexandrovna blurted out, incautiously.
‘He won’t be worth much if he does,’ answered
Dounia, sharply and contemptuously.
‘We did well to come away,’ Pulcheria Alexandrovna
hurriedly broke in. ‘He was in a hurry about some
business or other. If he gets out and has a breath of air …
it is fearfully close in his room…. But where is one to get
a breath of air here? The very streets here feel like shut-up
rooms. Good heavens! what a town! … stay … this side
… they will crush you—carrying something. Why, it is a
piano they have got, I declare … how they push! … I am
very much afraid of that young woman, too.’
‘What young woman, mother?
‘Why, that Sofya Semyonovna, who was there just
now.’
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‘Why?’
‘I have a presentiment, Dounia. Well, you may believe
it or not, but as soon as she came in, that very minute, I
felt that she was the chief cause of the trouble….’
‘Nothing of the sort!’ cried Dounia, in vexation. ‘What
nonsense, with your presentiments, mother! He only made
her acquaintance the evening before, and he did not know
her when she came in.’
‘Well, you will see…. She worries me; but you will
see, you will see! I was so frightened. She was gazing at
me with those eyes. I could scarcely sit still in my chair
when he began introducing her, do you remember? It
seems so strange, but Pyotr Petrovitch writes like that
about her, and he introduces her to us—to you! So he
must think a great deal of her.’
‘People will write anything. We were talked about and
written about, too. Have you forgotten? I am sure that she
is a good girl, and that it is all nonsense.’
‘God grant it may be!’
‘And Pyotr Petrovitch is a contemptible slanderer,’
Dounia snapped out, suddenly.
Pulcheria Alexandrovna was crushed; the conversation
was not resumed.
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*****
‘I will tell you what I want with you,’ said
Raskolnikov, drawing Razumihin to the window.
‘Then I will tell Katerina Ivanovna that you are
coming,’ Sonia said hurriedly, preparing to depart.
‘One minute, Sofya Semyonovna. We have no secrets.
You are not in our way. I want to have another word or
two with you. Listen!’ he turned suddenly to Razumihin
again. ‘You know that … what’s his name … Porfiry
Petrovitch?’
‘I should think so! He is a relation. Why?’ added the
latter, with interest.
‘Is not he managing that case … you know, about that
murder? … You were speaking about it yesterday.’
‘Yes … well?’ Razumihin’s eyes opened wide.
‘He was inquiring for people who had pawned things,
and I have some pledges there, too—trifles—a ring my
sister gave me as a keepsake when I left home, and my
father’s silver watch—they are only worth five or six
roubles altogether … but I value them. So what am I to
do now? I do not want to lose the things, especially the
watch. I was quaking just now, for fear mother would ask
to look at it, when we spoke of Dounia’s watch. It is the
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only thing of father’s left us. She would be ill if it were
lost. You know what women are. So tell me what to do. I
know I ought to have given notice at the police station,
but would it not be better to go straight to Porfiry? Eh?
What do you think? The matter might be settled more
quickly. You see, mother may ask for it before dinner.’
‘Certainly not to the police station. Certainly to
Porfiry,’ Razumihin shouted in extraordinary excitement.
‘Well, how glad I am. Let us go at once. It is a couple of
steps. We shall be sure to find him.’
‘Very well, let us go.’
‘And he will be very, very glad to make your
acquaintance. I have often talked to him of you at
different times. I was speaking of you yesterday. Let us go.
So you knew the old woman? So that’s it! It is all turning
out splendidly…. Oh, yes, Sofya Ivanovna …’
‘Sofya Semyonovna,’ corrected Raskolnikov. ‘Sofya
Semyonovna, this is my friend Razumihin, and he is a
good man.’
‘If you have to go now,’ Sonia was beginning, not
looking at Razumihin at all, and still more embarrassed.
‘Let us go,’ decided Raskolnikov. ‘I will come to you
to-day, Sofya Semyonovna. Only tell me where you live.’
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He was not exactly ill at ease, but seemed hurried, and
avoided her eyes. Sonia gave her address, and flushed as
she did so. They all went out together.
‘Don’t you lock up?’ asked Razumihin, following him
on to the stairs.
‘Never,’ answered Raskolnikov. ‘I have been meaning
to buy a lock for these two years. People are happy who
have no need of locks,’ he said, laughing, to Sonia. They
stood still in the gateway.
‘Do you go to the right, Sofya Semyonovna? How did
you find me, by the way?’ he added, as though he wanted
to say something quite different. He wanted to look at her
soft clear eyes, but this was not easy.
‘Why, you gave your address to Polenka yesterday.’
‘Polenka? Oh, yes; Polenka, that is the little girl. She is
your sister? Did I give her the address?’
‘Why, had you forgotten?’
‘No, I remember.’
‘I had heard my father speak of you … only I did not
know your name, and he did not know it. And now I
came … and as I had learnt your name, I asked to-day,
‘Where does Mr. Raskolnikov live?’ I did not know you
had only a room too…. Good-bye, I will tell Katerina
Ivanovna.’
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She was extremely glad to escape at last; she went away
looking down, hurrying to get out of sight as soon as
possible, to walk the twenty steps to the turning on the
right and to be at last alone, and then moving rapidly
along, looking at no one, noticing nothing, to think, to
remember, to meditate on every word, every detail.
Never, never had she felt anything like this. Dimly and
unconsciously a whole new world was opening before her.
She remembered suddenly that Raskolnikov meant to
come to her that day, perhaps at once!
‘Only not to-day, please, not to-day!’ she kept
muttering with a sinking heart, as though entreating
someone, like a frightened child. ‘Mercy! to me … to that
room … he will see … oh, dear!’
She was not capable at that instant of noticing an
unknown gentleman who was watching her and following
at her heels. He had accompanied her from the gateway.
At the moment when Razumihin, Raskolnikov, and she
stood still at parting on the pavement, this gentleman, who
was just passing, started on hearing Sonia’s words: ‘and I
asked where Mr. Raskolnikov lived?’ He turned a rapid
but attentive look upon all three, especially upon
Raskolnikov, to whom Sonia was speaking; then looked
back and noted the house. All this was done in an instant
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as he passed, and trying not to betray his interest, he
walked on more slowly as though waiting for something.
He was waiting for Sonia; he saw that they were parting,
and that Sonia was going home.
‘Home? Where? I’ve seen that face somewhere,’ he
thought. ‘I must find out.’
At the turning he crossed over, looked round, and saw
Sonia coming the same way, noticing nothing. She turned
the corner. He followed her on the other side. After about
fifty paces he crossed over again, overtook her and kept
two or three yards behind her.
He was a man about fifty, rather tall and thickly set,
with broad high shoulders which made him look as
though he stooped a little. He wore good and fashionable
clothes, and looked like a gentleman of position. He
carried a handsome cane, which he tapped on the
pavement at each step; his gloves were spotless. He had a
broad, rather pleasant face with high cheek-bones and a
fresh colour, not often seen in Petersburg. His flaxen hair
was still abundant, and only touched here and there with
grey, and his thick square beard was even lighter than his
hair. His eyes were blue and had a cold and thoughtful
look; his lips were crimson. He was a remarkedly wellpreserved
man and looked much younger than his years.
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When Sonia came out on the canal bank, they were
the only two persons on the pavement. He observed her
dreaminess and preoccupation. On reaching the house
where she lodged, Sonia turned in at the gate; he followed
her, seeming rather surprised. In the courtyard she turned
to the right corner. ‘Bah!’ muttered the unknown
gentleman, and mounted the stairs behind her. Only then
Sonia noticed him. She reached the third storey, turned
down the passage, and rang at No. 9. On the door was
inscribed in chalk, ‘Kapernaumov, Tailor.’ ‘Bah!’ the
stranger repeated again, wondering at the strange
coincidence, and he rang next door, at No. 8. The doors
were two or three yards apart.
‘You lodge at Kapernaumov’s,’ he said, looking at
Sonia and laughing. ‘He altered a waistcoat for me
yesterday. I am staying close here at Madame Resslich’s.
How odd!’ Sonia looked at him attentively.
‘We are neighbours,’ he went on gaily. ‘I only came to
town the day before yesterday. Good-bye for the present.’
Sonia made no reply; the door opened and she slipped
in. She felt for some reason ashamed and uneasy.
*****
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On the way to Porfiry’s, Razumihin was obviously
excited.
‘That’s capital, brother,’ he repeated several times, ‘and
I am glad! I am glad!’
‘What are you glad about?’ Raskolnikov thought to
himself.
‘I didn’t know that you pledged things at the old
woman’s, too. And … was it long ago? I mean, was it long
since you were there?’
‘What a simple-hearted fool he is!’
‘When was it?’ Raskolnikov stopped still to recollect.
‘Two or three days before her death it must have been.
But I am not going to redeem the things now,’ he put in
with a sort of hurried and conspicuous solicitude about the
things. ‘I’ve not more than a silver rouble left … after last
night’s accursed delirium!’
He laid special emphasis on the delirium.
‘Yes, yes,’ Razumihin hastened to agree—with what
was not clear. ‘Then that’s why you … were stuck …
partly … you know in your delirium you were continually
mentioning some rings or chains! Yes, yes … that’s clear,
it’s all clear now.’
‘Hullo! How that idea must have got about among
them. Here this man will go to the stake for me, and I find
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him delighted at having it cleared up why I spoke of rings
in my delirium! What a hold the idea must have on all of
them!’
‘Shall we find him?’ he asked suddenly.
‘Oh, yes,’ Razumihin answered quickly. ‘He is a nice
fellow, you will see, brother. Rather clumsy, that is to say,
he is a man of polished manners, but I mean clumsy in a
different sense. He is an intelligent fellow, very much so
indeed, but he has his own range of ideas…. He is
incredulous, sceptical, cynical … he likes to impose on
people, or rather to make fun of them. His is the old,
circumstantial method…. But he understands his work …
thoroughly…. Last year he cleared up a case of murder in
which the police had hardly a clue. He is very, very
anxious to make your acquaintance!’
‘On what grounds is he so anxious?’
‘Oh, it’s not exactly … you see, since you’ve been ill I
happen to have mentioned you several times…. So, when
he heard about you … about your being a law student and
not able to finish your studies, he said, ‘What a pity!’ And
so I concluded … from everything together, not only that;
yesterday Zametov … you know, Rodya, I talked some
nonsense on the way home to you yesterday, when I was
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drunk … I am afraid, brother, of your exaggerating it, you
see.’
‘What? That they think I am a madman? Maybe they
are right,’ he said with a constrained smile.
‘Yes, yes…. That is, pooh, no! … But all that I said
(and there was something else too) it was all nonsense,
drunken nonsense.’
‘But why are you apologising? I am so sick of it all!’
Raskolnikov cried with exaggerated irritability. It was
partly assumed, however.
‘I know, I know, I understand. Believe me, I
understand. One’s ashamed to speak of it.’
‘If you are ashamed, then don’t speak of it.’
Both were silent. Razumihin was more than ecstatic
and Raskolnikov perceived it with repulsion. He was
alarmed, too, by what Razumihin had just said about
Porfiry.