Crime and Punishment (33 page)

‘Forget about the police station and go straight to Porfiry!' shouted Razumikhin, quite unusually excited. ‘That's made my day! We may as well go now. It's just round the corner – he's bound to be there!'

‘All right . . . let's go . . .'

‘He'll be very, very, very pleased to meet you! He's heard a lot about you from me, at various times . . . Yesterday, too. Off we go! . . . So you knew the old crone, eh? Well I never! . . . Isn't it marvellous how it's all turned out? . . . Oh yes . . . Sofya Ivanovna . . .'

‘Sofya Semyonovna,' Raskolnikov corrected him. ‘Sofya Semyonovna, this is my friend Razumikhin, and a good man, too . . .'

‘If you need to be going now . . . ,' Sonya began, without even a glance in Razumikhin's direction, which only made her more embarrassed.

‘Off we go, then!' Raskolnikov decided. ‘I'll call by later today, Sofya Semyonovna. Just tell me: where do you live?'

The words came out clearly enough, but he seemed to be rushing and avoiding her gaze. Sonya gave her address and blushed as she did so. They all went out together.

‘Don't you lock up?' asked Razumikhin, following them down the stairs.

‘Never! . . . Though I've been meaning to buy a lock for two years,' he added nonchalantly. ‘Happy are those with no need to lock, eh?' he laughed, turning to Sonya.

Outside, they stopped beneath the arch.

‘You're turning right here, Sofya Semyonovna? How did you find me, by the way?' he asked, as though wishing to say something completely different to her. All this time he'd been wanting to look into her quiet, clear eyes, but somehow he never quite managed it . . .

‘You gave your address to Polechka yesterday.'

‘Polya? Ah yes . . . Polechka . . . the little one . . . She's your sister? So I gave her my address?'

‘Have you really forgotten?'

‘No . . . I remember . . .'

‘And I'd already heard about you from the dear departed . . . Only I didn't know your surname yet, and he didn't know either . . . And when I came just now . . . and seeing as I found out your surname yesterday . . . So today I asked: does Mr Raskolnikov live around
here? . . . I didn't know you were sub-renting too . . . Goodbye, sir . . . I'll let Katerina Ivanovna . . .'

She was terribly relieved to get away at last. She walked off, head down, hurrying along, anything so as to get out of sight as quickly as possible, to put these twenty paces behind her, turn right and be alone at last, and then, walking along quickly, not seeing anyone, not noticing anything, to think, recall, consider every spoken word, every circumstance. Never before had she felt anything like it. A whole new world – obscurely, out of nowhere – had entered her soul. She suddenly remembered: Raskolnikov wanted to come to see her today, perhaps even this morning, perhaps right now!

‘Just not today, please, not today!' she muttered, her heart skipping a beat, as if she were begging someone, like a frightened child. ‘Heavens! Coming . . . to my room . . . He'll see . . . Lord!'

And, of course, there was no chance of her noticing at that moment a certain gentleman, a stranger, who was watching her closely and following in her footsteps. He'd been trailing her ever since she'd turned out of the gates. At that moment, when Razumikhin, Raskolnikov and she had paused for a few words on the pavement, this man, passing by, happened to catch Sonya's words – ‘so I asked: does Mr Raskolnikov live around here?' – and gave a sudden start. He looked all three of them over quickly but thoroughly, especially Raskolnikov, to whom Sonya was speaking; then he glanced at the building and noted that, too. All this was done in a flash, on the go, and the passer-by, trying not to draw the slightest attention to himself, carried on, while slowing his pace, almost expectantly. He was waiting for Sonya. He saw that they were saying goodbye and that Sonya was about to go home, wherever that was.

‘But where's home for her? I've seen her somewhere before . . . ,' he thought, recalling Sonya's face. ‘I must find out.'

At the turning, he crossed to the opposite side of the street, looked back and saw that Sonya was following him, going exactly the same way, not noticing a thing. At the turning, she also took the very same street. He followed, training his gaze on her from the opposite pavement; after fifty paces or so he crossed back onto the side on which Sonya was walking and almost caught up with her, keeping five paces between them.

He was a man of about fifty, above average in height, stout, with broad, sloping shoulders, which gave him a somewhat stooped
appearance. He was foppishly and affluently dressed, looking every bit the country lord. In his hand was a handsome cane, which he tapped at every step against the pavement, and his gloves looked new. His broad, high-boned face was pleasant enough, with a fresh complexion rarely seen in Petersburg. His hair, still very thick, was blond through and through, with just the merest fleck of grey, and his broad, thick, spade-shaped beard was even fairer than the hair on his head. His eyes were light blue, and their gaze cold, intent and thoughtful; his lips, crimson. On the whole, he was a marvellously well-preserved man, who looked far younger than his years.

When Sonya came out by the Ditch, they found themselves alone on the pavement. Observing her, he had time to note her pensive, distracted air. On reaching her building, Sonya turned into the arch; he followed, as if somewhat surprised. On entering the courtyard, she turned right, towards the corner, where there were stairs leading up to her apartment. ‘Ha!' muttered the stranger and began climbing up after her. Only now did Sonya notice him. She carried on up to the third floor, turned off along the gallery and rang at Number
9
, on the door of which
Kapernaumov
,
Tailor
had been written in chalk. ‘Ha!' the gentleman repeated, surprised by the peculiar coincidence, and rang at Number
8
next door. The doors were half a dozen paces apart.

‘You lodge at Kapernaumov's!' he said, looking at Sonya and laughing. ‘He altered a waistcoat for me yesterday. I'm right next door, at Madam Resslich's, Gertruda Karlovna. Fancy that!'

Sonya looked at him closely.

‘Neighbours,' he continued, in a particularly cheerful kind of way. ‘This is only my third day in the city. Well, goodbye ma'am.'

Sonya did not reply; someone opened the door and she slipped through to her room. She felt ashamed for some reason, almost frightened . . .

 • • • 

Going to see Porfiry, Razumikhin was unusually animated.

‘This is splendid, brother,' he said several times. ‘I'm so glad! So glad!'

‘What have you got to be so glad about?' Raskolnikov thought to himself.

‘I'd no idea you were also pawning items with the old woman. So . . . so . . . was that a while ago? I mean, was it a while ago that you last visited her?'

(‘Naive idiot!')

‘When was it?' Raskolnikov stopped for a moment to remember. ‘Well, about three days before her death, I suppose. But anyway, I'm not about to try to redeem them now,' he went on with some kind of hasty, emphatic concern for his items. ‘I'm down to my last silver rouble again . . . All because of yesterday's damned delirium!'

He laid particular stress on that last phrase.

‘Yes, yes, yes,' said Razumikhin, though it was unclear what he was assenting to in such a hurry. ‘So that's why you were . . . a bit shocked at the time . . . You know, even when you were raving you kept mentioning rings, chains and what have you! . . . Yes, yes . . . Now it's all clear, perfectly clear.'

(‘Ha! That idea of theirs has certainly done the rounds! I mean, this man would go to the cross for my sake, but look how glad he is that the reason I kept mentioning the rings has been
cleared up
! None of them can get it out of their heads!')

‘Will he be in?' he asked out loud.

‘Of course he will. You know, brother, he's a smashing lad . . . You'll see! A bit awkward – not that he's lacking in social graces, but awkward in a different way. He's not stupid, that's for sure – in fact, he's pretty damn clever – but he's got a very particular way of thinking . . . He's mistrustful, sceptical, cynical . . . likes playing tricks on people, or rather, making fools of them . . . Then there's that old, material method of his . . . But he knows what he's doing, that's for sure . . . There was one murder case last year, you should have seen what he dug up – nearly all the trails had gone cold! He's very, very, very eager to meet you!'

‘Very? I can't see why.'

‘I don't mean . . . Recently, you see, ever since you fell ill, I've had reason to mention you often . . . Well, he'd listen . . . and when he heard that you were reading law and couldn't complete the course, due to your circumstances, he said, “What a shame!” So I came to the conclusion . . . on the basis of everything, not just of that. Yesterday Zametov . . . You see, Rodya, I blurted out something to you yesterday under the influence, when we were walking home . . . and I'm worried you might have made too much of it . . .'

‘Of what? That people think I'm mad? Perhaps they're right.'

He forced a grin.

‘Yes . . . yes . . . I mean, no, dammit! . . . Whatever I may have said
(and about other things too) it was all poppycock, because I was drunk.'

‘Why do you keep apologizing? I'm so sick of all this!' shouted Raskolnikov with immense irritation. He was partly putting it on.

‘I know, I know. I understand. Rest assured, I understand. I'm even ashamed to say it . . .'

‘Then don't!'

Both fell silent. Razumikhin could barely contain his excitement, and this disgusted Raskolnikov. He was also troubled by what Razumikhin had just said about Porfiry.

‘I'll have to play Lazarus
11
for him as well,' he thought with a hammering heart, ‘and make it look natural. It would be more natural not to pretend anything. Go out of my way not to pretend! No,
going out of my way
wouldn't be natural either . . . Well, let's see how it goes . . . Let's see . . . Right now . . . Am I sure this is such a good idea? A moth making straight for the flame. My heart's thumping – that's bad . . .'

‘This grey building here,' said Razumikhin.

(‘Above all, does Porfiry know that I went to that witch's apartment yesterday, or doesn't he . . . and that I asked about the blood? I have to find out the second I walk in, from his face. Or else . . . I'll find out if it kills me!')

‘Know what?' he suddenly said to Razumikhin with a roguish smile. ‘I've noticed that you've been unusually restless all day. Haven't you?'

‘Restless? I'm not remotely restless,' replied Razumikhin, flinching.

‘Really, brother, it's very noticeable. I've never seen you sit on a chair like you were doing before, perched on the edge, your whole body convulsing. Jumping up for no reason. Angry one minute, a face like treacle the next. You even blushed; especially when they invited you to lunch . . . My, how you blushed!'

‘Complete rubbish! . . . What's your point?'

‘Just look at you – wriggling about like a schoolboy! Damned if you're not blushing again!'

‘You really are a swine!'

‘What are you so embarrassed about, Romeo? I'll have to find someone to share this with today. Ha-ha-ha! I'll make Mama laugh . . . and not just her . . .'

‘Listen, listen, I say, this is serious, this is . . . And then what, dammit?' Razumikhin, cold with fear, could no longer make sense. ‘What will you tell them? Brother, I . . . Ugh, what a swine!'

‘Like a rose in spring! And how it becomes you, if only you knew: a seven-foot Romeo! Just look how you've scrubbed up today, even cleaned your nails, eh? When was the last time that happened? Goodness me, you've even pomaded your hair! Bend down, then!'

‘Swine!!!'

Raskolnikov was laughing so hard he seemed quite out of control, and so it was that they entered Porfiry Petrovich's apartment. It was just what Raskolnikov needed: from inside, they could be heard laughing as they came in and still guffawing in the entrance hall.

‘Not another word or I'll . . . smash your face in!' Razumikhin whispered in wild fury, grabbing Raskolnikov by the shoulder.

The latter was already entering the main room. He entered with the air of a man doing all he could not to explode with laughter. Following him in, with a thoroughly downcast, scowling countenance, as red as a peony, all lanky and awkward, came a sheepish Razumikhin. There really was, at that moment, something comical about his face and entire appearance that warranted Raskolnikov's laughter. Raskolnikov, yet to be introduced, bowed to their host, who was standing in the middle of the room and looking at them quizzically, then shook the latter's hand while continuing to make apparently desperate efforts to suppress his gaiety and at least string a few words together by way of an introduction. But no sooner did he manage to assume a serious expression and mumble something than suddenly, as if unable to help himself, he glanced at Razumikhin again, and that was that: the suppressed laughter, held in for so long and with such effort, burst out uncontrollably. The ferocity of the scowls which this ‘heartfelt' laughter drew from Razumikhin gave to the whole scene an air of the sincerest gaiety and, most importantly, spontaneity. Razumikhin, as if on cue, gave another helping hand.

‘Damn you!' he roared with a great swing of his arm, which smacked straight into a little round table bearing an emptied glass of tea. Everything went flying with a clink and a tinkle.

‘No need to break the chairs, gentlemen – there's the public purse to think about!'
12
shouted Porfiry Petrovich gaily.

The scene was as follows: Raskolnikov, his hand forgotten in that of his host, was still laughing, but, not wishing to overdo it, was
waiting for the right moment to stop. Razumikhin, hopelessly embarrassed by the toppled table and broken glass, glowered at the fragments, spat and turned around sharply to face the window, with his back to his audience and his face all furrowed, looking out of the window and seeing nothing. Porfiry Petrovich was laughing and was eager to do so, but it was also clear that he was waiting for an explanation. On a chair in the corner sat Zametov, who had half-risen when the guests came in and was waiting expectantly, his lips parted to form a smile, though he was looking at the whole scene with bewilderment, not to say scepticism, and at Raskolnikov even with a certain discomfort. Zametov's presence came as an unpleasant shock to Raskolnikov.

‘What's he doing here?' went through his mind.

‘Please forgive me,' he began, with a great show of embarrassment, ‘Raskolnikov . . .'

‘Don't mention it. It's my pleasure, sir, and a pleasure to see you make such an entrance . . . But isn't he even going to say hello?' said Porfiry Petrovich, with a nod in the direction of Razumikhin.

‘I can't think why he's so mad at me. I merely said to him, on the way over, that he's like Romeo and . . . and proved it, and that's really all there was to it.'

‘Swine!' Razumikhin shot back, without turning round.

‘He must have had good reason to get so upset about one little word,' laughed Porfiry.

‘Look at you – investigator! . . . Well, to hell with you all anyway!' snapped Razumikhin, before he, too, suddenly burst out laughing and, with a cheerful expression, as if nothing had happened, walked up to Porfiry Petrovich.

‘Enough of this! We're idiots, the lot of us. Now then: my friend, Rodion Romanovich Raskolnikov, has heard a lot about you and was keen to meet you, that's the first thing; secondly, he's here on a bit of business. Ha! Zametov! What are you doing here? Don't tell me you know each other? When did that happen?'

‘Now what?' thought Raskolnikov anxiously.

Zametov seemed embarrassed, though only a little.

‘We met yesterday, at your place,' was his nonchalant reply.

‘Oh well, that's one less job for me, then. All last week he was pestering me to arrange an introduction with you, Porfiry, but I see you're already in cahoots . . . Now where's your tobacco?'

Porfiry Petrovich was dressed for indoors – a dressing gown, immaculate linen and soft, down-at-heel shoes. He was a man of about thirty-five, of somewhat less than average height, plump and even with a bit of a belly, clean-shaven, with neither a moustache nor whiskers, and with thick cropped hair on a big round head, its roundness somehow especially marked from behind. His puffy, round and slightly snub-nosed face was of a sickly, dark-yellow hue, but lively enough and with a touch of mockery about it. It might even have been good-natured, were it not for the expression of the eyes, with their vaguely watery sheen and lashes that were almost white and kept blinking, as if winking at someone. This expression was somehow strangely at odds with his general appearance, which even had something womanish about it, and imparted a far more serious aspect than might have been expected at first glance.

As soon as Porfiry Petrovich heard that his visitor had come ‘on a bit of business', he immediately offered him a seat on the couch, sat himself down at the other end and stared at his guest, eagerly waiting for him to explain what this business was, with that emphatically and excessively serious attention which can be quite oppressive and disconcerting when first encountered, especially in a stranger and especially when what you are explaining is, in your own opinion, completely incommensurate with the unusual solicitude being shown to you. But Raskolnikov, in a few brief and coherent sentences, lucidly and precisely explained the matter and was so satisfied with his efforts that he even managed to take a good look at Porfiry. Nor did Porfiry Petrovich take his eyes off Raskolnikov, during all this time. Razumikhin, who had sat down opposite them at the same table, was following Raskolnikov's summary with a burning impatience, constantly shifting his eyes from one to the other and back again, which seemed a little excessive.

‘Idiot!' Raskolnikov swore to himself.

‘You ought to submit a statement to the police,' Porfiry responded with the most business-like air, ‘to the effect, sir, that being apprised of such-and-such an incident – the murder, I mean – you are requesting, in your turn, that the investigator entrusted with this matter be informed that items such-and-such belong to you and that you wish to redeem them . . . or whatever . . . but they'll write it for you themselves, in any case.'

‘The problem is,' said Raskolnikov, with as much embarrassment
as he could muster, ‘that I'm a bit out of pocket right now . . . and I can't even stump up the petty cash for . . . You see, for the moment all I wish to do is declare that the items are mine, and when the money comes in . . .'

‘Makes no odds, sir,' replied Porfiry Petrovich, unmoved by this clarification about the state of his finances, ‘but if you prefer you may write directly to me to the same effect, namely, that being apprised of such-and-such and declaring items such-and-such to be mine, I request . . .'

‘Ordinary paper
13
will do, I take it?' Raskolnikov hastened to interrupt, expressing his interest once again in the financial side of the matter.

‘Oh, as ordinary as you like, sir!' – and Porfiry Petrovich suddenly looked at him with a sort of blatant mockery, narrowing his eyes and even winking at him. Or perhaps this was just Raskolnikov's impression, for it lasted no more than an instant. In any case, something of the sort occurred. Raskolnikov could have sworn he winked at him, the devil only knew why.

‘He knows!' flashed through him like lightning.

‘Forgive me for bothering you with such trifles,' he went on, somewhat knocked off his stride. ‘My items are only worth five roubles, but they're especially dear to me, as a memento of who they came from, and I admit I had a real fright when I heard . . .'

‘So that's why you got in such a flap yesterday when I blurted out to Zosimov that Porfiry was questioning the pawners?' Razumikhin put in, with obvious intent.

This was too much to bear and Raskolnikov's black eyes flashed fire in the direction of Razumikhin. But he instantly came to his senses.

‘You seem to be making fun of me, brother?' he said to him with artfully affected irritation. ‘I understand that in your eyes a bit of junk may not be worth all this fuss, but that's no reason to think me either selfish or greedy, and in my eyes these two paltry little things might not be junk at all. Didn't I tell you just now that the silver watch, which is barely worth a copeck, is the only thing of my father's to have survived? Laugh all you like, but my mother has come to see me' – he suddenly turned to Porfiry – ‘and if she were to find out' – he turned back sharply to Razumikhin, trying his best to make his voice tremble – ‘that the watch has vanished, she'd be distraught, I swear! Women!'

‘No! That's not what I meant at all! Quite the opposite!' cried an aggrieved Razumikhin.

‘Any good? Natural enough? Not over the top?' Raskolnikov asked himself anxiously. ‘Why did I go and say “women”?'

‘So your mother has come to see you, has she?' Porfiry Petrovich enquired for some reason.

‘Yes.'

‘And she arrived when, sir?'

‘Yesterday evening.'

Porfiry fell silent, as if working something out.

‘There's no way your items could have vanished, no way at all,' he continued calmly and coldly. ‘After all, I've been expecting you here for some time.'

And then, as if nothing had happened, he set about offering an ashtray to Razumikhin, who was scattering ash all over the rug. Raskolnikov flinched, but Porfiry, still preoccupied with Razumikhin's papirosa, appeared not to notice.

‘What did you say? Expecting him? But how could you know he'd been pawning things
there
too?' Razumikhin shouted.

Porfiry Petrovich addressed Raskolnikov directly:

‘Both your items, the ring and the watch, were found
at
hers
wrapped up in the same piece of paper, and your name was clearly marked on the paper in pencil, as was the day of the month when she received them from you . . .'

‘How very perceptive of you . . . ,' said Raskolnikov, forcing an awkward grin and trying his best to look him straight in the eye; but he couldn't restrain himself and suddenly added: ‘I said that just now because there must have been a great number of pawners . . . and it would have been hard for you to remember them all . . . Yet you remember them all so clearly and . . . and . . .'

(‘How stupid! How pathetic! Why did I go and say that?')

‘Nearly all the pawners have now been identified – you alone did not see fit to visit,' Porfiry replied, with a barely discernible hint of mockery.

‘I wasn't entirely well.'

‘So I heard, sir. I even heard that you were terribly upset about something. You seem somewhat pale even now?'

‘I'm not remotely pale . . . in fact, I'm perfectly well!' Raskolnikov snapped back, suddenly changing his tone. The spite was bubbling up inside him and he couldn't keep it down. ‘I'll end up saying something I regret!' flashed through his mind once more. ‘But why must they torment me?'

‘Perfectly well, did he say?' Razumikhin jumped in. ‘Poppycock! Even yesterday you were still raving, almost out of your mind . . . Consider this, Porfiry: he could barely stand, but the second Zosimov and I turned our backs yesterday he got dressed, made off and gadded about somewhere until it was nearly midnight, and all this, let me tell you, when he was completely and utterly delirious. Can you imagine? A most extraordinary case!'

‘
Completely and utterly delirious
!
Really? Well I never!' said Porfiry, with a womanish shake of the head.

‘What nonsense! Don't believe him! Though actually, you don't believe a word of this anyway!' Raskolnikov let slip in his anger. But Porfiry Petrovich appeared not to hear these strange words.

‘But how could you have gone out if you weren't delirious?' asked Razumikhin with a sudden rush of excitement. ‘Why did you go out? What for? . . . And why so secretly? You can't have been thinking straight, can you? I can be frank with you now the danger's passed!'

‘I was sick to death of them yesterday,' Raskolnikov suddenly told Porfiry with an insolent, defiant sneer, ‘so I ran off to rent a place where they couldn't find me, and took a pile of money with me. Mr Zametov over there saw the cash. Well, Mr Zametov: was I delirious yesterday or was I clever? You settle the argument.'

He could have strangled Zametov there and then. The way he was looking at him without saying anything was more than he could stand.

‘If you ask me, you were speaking perfectly sensibly and even cunningly, sir, only you were much too irritable,' came Zametov's dry response.

‘And today,' Porfiry Petrovich put in, ‘Nikodim Fomich was telling me that he met you yesterday, at a terribly late hour, in the apartment of a man who'd been trampled by horses, a civil servant . . .'

‘There you go – that civil servant!' Razumikhin exclaimed. ‘I mean, what was that if not crazy? You gave away your every last copeck to a widow for the funeral! All right, you felt like helping out – so give her fifteen roubles, give her twenty, or at least leave yourself three, but no, you had to fork out all twenty-five!'

‘What if I've found a hidden treasure somewhere and you don't know? Wouldn't that explain my fit of generosity yesterday? . . . Mr Zametov over there knows all about it! . . . Please excuse us,' he said to Porfiry, lips trembling, ‘for bothering you with half an hour of such silliness. I expect you've had quite enough of us, eh?'

‘The very idea, sir! On the contrary, on the contrary! If only you knew how much you intrigue me! How interesting it is to observe you and listen to you . . . and, I must admit, I'm so glad you've seen fit to visit at last . . .'

‘You might at least offer us some tea! I'm parched!' cried Razumikhin.