Crime and Punishment
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 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.
“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!”
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 old-fashioned 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 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 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.”
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?”
“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 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?”
“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.
“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.