Crime and Punishment (32 page)

‘N-no,' replied Dunechka, livening up a bit. ‘I could see perfectly well that this was very artlessly put and that perhaps he is simply no great writer . . . You put that very well, brother. I wasn't expecting it . . .'

‘It's said like a lawyer, and in legal-speak there's no other way of putting it, so it came out sounding more vulgar than perhaps he intended. But I have to disappoint you a little: in this letter there's one other expression, an aspersion cast on me, and a fairly shabby one at that. The money I gave away yesterday went to a widow, a consumptive, devastated widow, and not “on the pretext of the funeral”, but for the funeral itself, and I gave it not to the daughter – a girl, as he writes, “of notorious conduct” (whom, by the way, I had never seen before) – but to the widow herself. In all this I see a great haste to sully me and set us against each other. Once again, it's said like a lawyer: the purpose is far too blatant and the haste is artless in the extreme. He's an intelligent man, but to act intelligently you need more than that. It all goes to show what he's like . . . and I doubt he esteems you all that much. I'm telling you this simply for your own edification, because I sincerely want what's best for you . . .'

Dunechka made no reply. She'd already taken her decision earlier, and now she was just waiting for the evening.

‘So what have you decided, Rodya?' asked Pulkheria Alexandrovna, even more worried than before by his sudden, new,
business-
like
tone.

‘What do you mean – “decided”?'

‘Well, here's Pyotr Petrovich writing that you mustn't be at ours this evening and that he'll leave . . . if you are. So what have you . . . will you come?'

‘That, of course, is not for me to decide, but, firstly, for you, if Pyotr Petrovich's demand does not offend you, and secondly, for Dunya, if she, too, is not offended. And I'll do whatever suits you best,' he added tersely.

‘Dunechka has already decided, and I fully agree with her,' Pulkheria Alexandrovna hastened to say.

‘I've decided to ask you, Rodya, in the most forceful terms, to be present at our meeting at all costs,' said Dunya. ‘Will you come?'

‘I will.'

‘I'm asking you, too, to be at ours at eight,' she turned to Razumikhin. ‘I am inviting the gentleman as well, Mama.'

‘Marvellous, Dunechka. Well then, if you've all decided,' said Pulkheria Alexandrovna, ‘then that's how it will be. It's a relief for me, too. I don't like pretending and lying. We're better off telling the whole truth . . . Be angry all you like, Pyotr Petrovich!'

At that moment the door opened softly. Looking timidly about her, a girl entered the room. Everyone turned to her in surprise and curiosity. At first, Raskolnikov didn't recognize her. It was Sofya Semyonovna Marmeladova. He'd seen Sonya yesterday for the first time, but at such a moment, in such circumstances and in such an outfit, that the image imprinted on his memory was of a quite different person. Before him now was a modestly, even poorly dressed girl, still very young, much like a child, with a modest and decorous manner and a clear yet somewhat frightened-looking face. She was wearing a very simple little house dress and a worn, old-fashioned little hat; only the parasol in her hands was the same. Seeing the room so unexpectedly full of people, she was not so much disconcerted as utterly lost and girlishly shy; she even made as if to go back out.

‘Ah . . . it's you?' said Raskolnikov in the greatest astonishment, and suddenly became embarrassed himself.

It had immediately occurred to him that his mother and sister already knew in passing, from Luzhin's letter, about a certain girl of ‘notorious' conduct. Just now he'd objected to Luzhin's slander and mentioned having seen this girl for the first time, when suddenly here she was. He also recalled making no objection at all to the expression ‘notorious conduct'. All this passed through his mind in a flash and a blur. But, after a closer look, he saw just how low this lowly creature had been brought, and felt a sudden pity. And when she made as if to run away in terror, something seemed to turn over inside him.

‘I wasn't expecting you at all,' he hurried, stopping her with his look. ‘Please, kindly take a seat. Katerina Ivanovna sent you, I suppose. Not there, if you don't mind – why not here . . . ?'

When Sonya came in, Razumikhin, who had been sitting on one of Raskolnikov's three chairs right next to the door, had got up to let her
pass. At first, Raskolnikov had wanted to seat her on the corner of the couch where Zosimov was sitting, but remembering that this was too
familiar
a place and served as his bed, he rushed to point her towards Razumikhin's chair.

‘And you sit here,' he told Razumikhin, seating him in the corner where Zosimov had been sitting.

Sonya sat down, almost trembling with fear, and glanced timidly at both ladies. It was obvious that she herself did not understand how she could ever sit next to them. Realizing this, she had such a fright that she suddenly got up again and turned in complete embarrassment to Raskolnikov.

‘I . . . I . . . won't stay long, and I'm very sorry to disturb,' she stammered. ‘Katerina Ivanovna sent me. There was no one else . . . Katerina Ivanovna told me to ask you most kindly to attend the funeral service tomorrow, in the morning . . . during the liturgy . . . at Mitrofanievsky Cemetery,
9
and then come to us . . . to her . . . to eat . . . To do her the honour . . . She told me to ask.'

Sonya broke off and fell silent.

‘I'll certainly try . . . certainly . . . ,' replied Raskolnikov, also getting up and also stuttering and not finishing his sentence. ‘Kindly take a seat,' he said suddenly, ‘I need to have a word with you. Please – I expect you're in a hurry – be so kind, give me two minutes . . .'

He drew up a chair for her. Again Sonya sat down and again, as if lost, shot a timid, hasty glance at the two ladies and suddenly looked down.

Raskolnikov's pale face suddenly flushed; his whole body seemed to convulse; his eyes caught fire.

‘Mama,' he said firmly and insistently, ‘this is Sofya Semyonovna Marmeladova, the daughter of that same unfortunate Mr Marmeladov, who yesterday was trampled by horses before my very eyes. I've already told you about her . . .'

Pulkheria Alexandrovna glanced at Sonya and narrowed her eyes a little. For all her discomfort beneath Rodya's insistent and defiant gaze, she was simply unable to deny herself this satisfaction. Dunechka stared straight into the poor girl's face, seriously and intently, examining her in bewilderment. On hearing this introduction, Sonya briefly looked up again, but became even more embarrassed than before.

‘I wanted to ask you,' Raskolnikov quickly addressed her, ‘how it all went today. Did anyone bother you? . . . The police, for example?'

‘No sir, everything was fine . . . The cause of death was very clear, and no one bothered us. The tenants are cross, that's all.'

‘What about?'

‘About the body lying there so long . . . in this heat, smelling . . . So today, before Vespers, they'll move it to the cemetery, until tomorrow, in the chapel. Katerina Ivanovna didn't want to at first, but now she can see for herself it's not . . .'

‘Today, then?'

‘She asks you to do us the honour of attending the service tomorrow, in the church, and then invites you to her, for the funeral banquet.'
10

‘She's putting on a funeral banquet?'

‘Yes, sir, a small one. She gave strict instructions to thank you for helping us yesterday . . . If it wasn't for you we'd have nothing at all for the funeral.' Her lips and chin suddenly began to twitch, but she steeled herself and held firm, quickly lowering her eyes again to the floor.

While they were talking, Raskolnikov studied her closely. She had a terribly thin, terribly pale little face, quite irregular and somehow sharp, with a sharp little nose and chin. You couldn't even call her pretty, but her light-blue eyes were so clear, and her whole expression became so kind and guileless when they lit up, that it was impossible not to be drawn towards her. In addition, her face, and indeed her whole figure, had one special, characteristic trait: despite her eighteen years, she still looked like a little girl, all but a child, and at times there was even something comical about the way her gestures betrayed this.

‘But how could Katerina Ivanovna make do with such a small sum – and there'll even be a bite to eat, you say?' asked Raskolnikov, determined to keep the conversation going.

‘But the coffin will be simple enough, sir . . . and everything will be simple, so it won't cost much . . . Katerina Ivanovna and I worked it all out yesterday, and there'll be enough left over for the banquet . . . and Katerina Ivanovna badly wants there to be one. After all, sir, one can't just . . . She'll feel better for it . . . You know how she is . . .'

‘Yes, I understand . . . of course . . . Why are you studying my room like that? And there's Mama saying it looks like a coffin.'

‘But yesterday you gave us all you had!' Sonechka shot back in a loud and rapid whisper, suddenly looking down at the floor again. And again her lips and chin began to twitch. She'd been struck straight
away by the poverty of Raskolnikov's circumstances, and now these words suddenly burst from her lips. Silence followed. Dunechka's eyes became somehow brighter, while Pulkheria Alexandrovna looked at Sonya almost with warmth.

‘Rodya,' she said, getting up, ‘we'll have lunch together, of course. Off we go now, Dunechka . . . And you go out, too, Rodya, have a little walk, then a rest and a lie-down, and come as soon as you can . . . I fear we've tired you out . . .'

‘Yes, yes, I'll come,' he replied, getting up in a hurry . . . ‘Though actually, there's something I have to do . . .'

‘Don't tell me you're not even going to eat together?' yelled Razumikhin, looking at Raskolnikov in astonishment. ‘What are you saying?'

‘Yes, yes, I'll come, of course I will . . . And you stay here for a minute. After all, you don't need him now, do you, Mama? Or perhaps you do?'

‘Oh, no, no! But do come and have lunch, Dmitry Prokofich, won't you?'

‘Yes, do come,' asked Dunya.

Razumikhin bowed, beaming all over. For a second, everyone became strangely embarrassed.

‘Goodbye, Rodya, till soon, I mean. I don't like the word “goodbye”. Goodbye, Nastasya . . . Dearie me, I said it again!'

Pulkheria Alexandrovna was about to bow to Sonechka as well, but somehow she didn't quite manage, and hurried out of the room.

Dunya, though, seemed to be waiting her turn and, as she, too, passed Sonya on her way out, she bowed to her attentively and courteously, bending fully. Sonechka was embarrassed and returned the bow in a somewhat rushed, frightened manner; there was even a look of pain on her face, as if Avdotya Romanovna's courtesy and attention were a burden and a torment to her.

‘Dunya, goodbye!' shouted Raskolnikov, when they were already by the door. ‘Give me your hand, then!'

‘But I already did – or have you forgotten?' answered Dunya, turning round to him warmly and awkwardly.

‘So give it to me again!'

He gave her little fingers a firm squeeze. Dunechka smiled to him, turned bright red, hurriedly wrenched her hand free and followed her mother out – she, too, for some reason, a picture of happiness.

‘Well, isn't that splendid?' he said to Sonya, returning to his room
and looking at her brightly. ‘May the dead rest in peace and may the living live! Isn't that right? Isn't it? Isn't it?'

Sonya was astonished to see his face brighten so suddenly. For several seconds he studied her in silence: at that moment, everything her late father had said about her suddenly flashed through his mind . . .

 • • • 

‘Goodness gracious, Dunechka!' began Pulkheria Alexandrovna the second they were outside. ‘Now I'm almost happy we've left – relieved, in a way. Could I ever have thought yesterday, in the train, that such a thing could make me happy?'

‘I keep telling you, Mama, he's still very sick. Can't you see that? Perhaps it was our suffering that upset him. We mustn't be too hard on him, and then a great deal can be forgiven.'

‘But you
were
hard on him!' Pulkheria Alexandrovna immediately interrupted, hotly and jealously. ‘You know, Dunya, I was looking at you both and you're his spitting image, and I don't mean your face so much as your soul: both of you are melancholics, both of you are moody and quick-tempered, both haughty and high-minded . . . After all, it's impossible that he could be selfish, isn't it, Dunechka? Isn't it? . . . And when I think what's going to happen at our place this evening, my heart goes numb!'

‘Don't worry, Mama, what has to be will be.'

‘Dunechka! Just think about our situation! What if Pyotr Petrovich refuses?' poor Pulkheria Alexandrovna suddenly ventured.

‘And what will he be worth after that?' Dunechka snapped back with contempt.

‘It's a good thing we left just now,' Pulkheria Alexandrovna hurriedly interrupted. ‘He was rushing off somewhere; a walk will do him good . . . some fresh air at least . . . It's dreadfully stuffy up there . . . But where can you find fresh air here? Even the streets are like rooms without windows. Heavens, what a town! . . . Watch out or they'll crush you – they're carrying something! Well I never, it's a piano . . . How they push and shove . . . This young girl scares me as well . . .'

‘Which young girl, Mama?'

‘That one, you know, Sofya Semyonovna, we saw her just now . . .'

‘But why?'

‘I have this premonition, Dunya. You won't believe me, but the moment she came in it occurred to me that this is the crux of it all . . .'

‘It's not the crux of anything!' Dunya cried in vexation. ‘Really,
Mama, you and your premonitions! He's only known her since yesterday and when she came in just now he didn't recognize her.'

‘Well, wait and see! . . . She troubles me . . . You'll see, you'll see! I got such a fright: the way she was looking at me, those eyes of hers – I nearly fell off my chair – and the way he began introducing her, remember? How strange: Pyotr Petrovich writing all those things about her, and there he is introducing her to us like that, and even to you! So she must be dear to him!'

‘He can write what he likes! People have said – and even written – things about us as well, or have you forgotten? But I'm quite sure that she is a . . . beautiful person and that all this is just nonsense!'

‘God help her!'

‘And Pyotr Petrovich is a wretched gossip,' Dunechka suddenly snapped.

At this, Pulkheria Alexandrovna simply wilted. The conversation broke off.

 • • • 

‘Now then, here's what I want to ask you about . . . ,' said Raskolnikov, leading Razumikhin away towards the window . . .

‘So I can tell Katerina Ivanovna you'll come . . . ?' Sonya put in, hastily bowing and preparing to leave.

‘Just a minute, Sofya Semyonovna. We've no secrets here and you're not in the way . . . There's something else I'd like to tell you . . . Now then,' he said without finishing, turning very abruptly to Razumikhin. ‘You know that – what's his name again? – Porfiry Petrovich?'

‘Too right I do! We're related. Why do you ask?' he added, bursting with curiosity.

‘Well, he . . . that business, you know, the murder . . . Weren't you saying yesterday . . . he's in charge?'

‘Yes . . . and?' Razumikhin's eyes suddenly bulged from their sockets.

‘He wanted to see the pawners and, well, I left pledges there, too – just junk really, but still: my sister's ring, which she gave me as a memento when I moved here, and my dad's silver watch. The whole lot's only worth five or six roubles, but it's dear to me, for the memory. So what should I do now? I don't want the things to disappear, especially not the watch. I was worried just now that Mother would ask to see them when Dunechka's watch was mentioned. It's the only thing of my father's that's survived. She'll take to her bed if it disappears! Women! So what should I do? Tell me! I suppose I should go down to
the police station and declare them. But wouldn't I be better off going straight to Porfiry? Eh? What d'you think? The sooner I do it, the better. Mama will have asked by lunchtime, you'll see!'