De: Crime and Punishment
IV
At that moment the door quietly opened, and a young woman entered the room, looking around timidly. Everyone turned to her with surprise and curiosity. Raskolnikov did not recognize her at first glance. It was Sofya Semyonovna Marmeladova. He had seen her for the first time yesterday, but at such a moment, in such circumstances and in such attire, that in his memory there remained an image of quite a different person. Now this was a modestly and even poorly dressed young woman, very young still, almost like a girl, with a modest and proper manner, with a clear but seemingly somewhat frightened face. She wore a very simple house dress, an old, outdated hat on her head; only in her hands was an umbrella, as yesterday. Seeing unexpectedly a room full of people, she became not so much embarrassed as completely lost, frightened like a small child, and even made a movement to go back.
"Ah... is it you?" said Raskolnikov in extreme surprise, and suddenly became confused himself.
It immediately occurred to him that his mother and sister already knew vaguely, from Luzhin's letter, about a certain young woman of "notorious" behavior. Just now he had protested against Luzhin's slander and mentioned that he had seen this young woman for the first time, and suddenly she enters herself. He also remembered that he had not protested at all against the expression "notorious behavior." All this passed unclearly and in a flash through his head. But, looking more intently, he suddenly saw that this humiliated creature was already so humiliated that he suddenly felt sorry for her. When she made a movement to flee in fear—something seemed to turn over inside him.
"I didn't expect you at all," he hurried, stopping her with his gaze. "Please, sit down. You must be from Katerina Ivanovna. Allow me, not here, sit here..."
At Sonya's entrance, Razumikhin, who had been sitting on one of Raskolnikov's three chairs, right by the door, half rose to let her in. At first Raskolnikov had indicated to her a place in the corner of the sofa where Zosimov had been sitting, but remembering that this sofa was too familiar a place and served as his bed, he hastened to indicate Razumikhin's chair to her.
"And you sit here," he said to Razumikhin, seating him in the corner where Zosimov had been sitting.
Sonya sat down, almost trembling with fear, and timidly glanced at both ladies. It was evident that she herself did not understand how she could sit beside them. Realizing this, she became so frightened that she suddenly rose again and in complete confusion turned to Raskolnikov.
"I... I... stopped by for just a minute, forgive me for disturbing you," she began, stammering. "I'm from Katerina Ivanovna, and she had no one to send... And Katerina Ivanovna ordered me to ask you very much to be at the funeral service tomorrow, in the morning... at the mass... at Mitrofanievsky, and then at our place... at hers... to have some refreshment... To do her the honor... She told me to ask."
Sonya faltered and fell silent.
"I will certainly try... certainly," answered Raskolnikov, also rising and also stammering and not finishing... "Please, sit down," he said suddenly, "I need to talk with you. Please—you may be in a hurry—please, give me two minutes..."
And he moved a chair toward her. Sonya sat down again and again timidly, in a lost manner, quickly glanced at both ladies and suddenly looked down.
Raskolnikov's pale face flushed; something seemed to shudder through him; his eyes flashed.
"Mother," he said firmly and insistently, "this is Sofya Semyonovna Marmeladova, the daughter of that unfortunate Mr. Marmeladov who was run over by horses before my eyes yesterday and about whom I already told you..."
Pulcheria Alexandrovna glanced at Sonya and narrowed her eyes slightly. Despite all her confusion before Rodya's insistent and challenging gaze, she could not deny herself this pleasure. Dunechka stared seriously, intently, directly into the poor girl's face and examined her with perplexity. Sonya, hearing the introduction, raised her eyes again, but became even more embarrassed than before.
"I wanted to ask you," Raskolnikov quickly addressed her, "how things were arranged for you today? You weren't troubled?... for example, by the police."
"No, everything went well... It's too obvious what the cause of death was; they didn't trouble us; only the tenants are angry."
"Why?"
"That the body is standing there so long... it's hot now, the smell... so today, by vespers, they'll move it to the cemetery, until tomorrow, to the chapel. Katerina Ivanovna didn't want to at first, but now she sees herself that it's impossible..."
"So today?"
"She asks you to do us the honor of being at the funeral service in the church tomorrow, and then to come to her place, for the memorial meal."
"She's arranging a memorial meal?"
"Yes, some refreshments; she told me to thank you very much for helping us yesterday... without you there would have been nothing to bury him with." And her lips and chin suddenly began to quiver, but she controlled herself and restrained it, quickly lowering her eyes to the ground again.
During the conversation Raskolnikov examined her intently. It was a thin, very thin and pale little face, rather irregular, somehow pointed, with a small pointed nose and chin. She could not even be called pretty, but her blue eyes were so clear, and when they became animated, the expression of her face became so kind and simple-hearted that one was involuntarily drawn to her. In her face, and indeed in her whole figure, there was besides one particular characteristic feature: despite her eighteen years, she still seemed almost a child, much younger than her years, quite almost a child, and this sometimes even manifested itself comically in some of her movements.
"But could Katerina Ivanovna really manage with such small means, even intending to have refreshments?..." asked Raskolnikov, insistently continuing the conversation.
"The coffin will be simple... and everything will be simple, so it won't be expensive... Katerina Ivanovna and I calculated everything just now, so there will even be something left over to remember him by... and Katerina Ivanovna very much wants it to be so. After all, one can't... it's a consolation for her... she's like that, you know..."
"I understand, I understand... of course... Why are you looking at my room? Mother says too that it looks like a coffin."
"You gave us everything yesterday!" Sonechka suddenly said in response, in some kind of strong and quick whisper, suddenly looking down again intently. Her lips and chin quivered again. She had long been struck by Raskolnikov's poor surroundings, and now these words suddenly burst out by themselves. Silence followed. Dunechka's eyes somehow brightened, and Pulcheria Alexandrovna even looked at Sonya kindly.
"Rodya," she said, rising, "we will, of course, dine together. Dunechka, let's go... And you, Rodya, should go for a walk, and then rest, lie down for a while, and then come quickly... But I'm afraid we've tired you..."
"Yes, yes, I'll come," he answered, rising and hurrying... "I have some business, though..."
"But surely you won't dine separately?" cried Razumikhin, looking at Raskolnikov with surprise, "what's this about?"
"Yes, yes, I'll come, of course, of course... And you stay for a minute. You don't need him right now, do you, mother? Or am I perhaps taking him away from you?"
"Oh, no, no! And you, Dmitry Prokofych, will you come to dinner, will you be so kind?"
"Please, do come," asked Dunya.
Razumikhin bowed and beamed all over. For one moment everyone somehow strangely became embarrassed all at once.
"Goodbye, Rodya, that is, see you later; I don't like to say 'goodbye.' Goodbye, Nastasya... oh, I said 'goodbye' again!..."
Pulcheria Alexandrovna wanted to bow to Sonechka too, but somehow it didn't work out, and, hurrying, she left the room.
But Avdotya Romanovna seemed to wait her turn and, passing her mother, walking past Sonya, bowed to her with an attentive, polite and full bow. Sonechka became confused, bowed somehow hurriedly and fearfully, some kind of even painful sensation reflected in her face, as if Avdotya Romanovna's courtesy and attention were burdensome and tormenting to her.
"Dunya, goodbye!" shouted Raskolnikov, already in the hallway, "give me your hand!"
"But I already did, have you forgotten?" answered Dunya, turning to him tenderly and awkwardly.
"Well then, give it again!"
And he squeezed her fingers tightly. Dunechka smiled at him, blushed, quickly pulled her hand away and left after her mother, also somehow all happy for some reason.
"Well, that's wonderful!" he said to Sonya, returning to his room and looking at her clearly, "may God grant peace to the dead, and the living must still live! Isn't that so? Isn't that so? Isn't it?"
Sonya even looked with surprise at his suddenly brightened face; he gazed at her silently and intently for several moments: the whole story about her from her late father flashed suddenly through his memory at that moment...
"Good Lord, Dunechka!" Pulcheria Alexandrovna began at once, as soon as they came out into the street, "you know, now I'm almost glad that we left: it's somehow easier. Well, did I think yesterday, in the train, that I would even be glad of this!"
"I tell you again, mother, he's still very ill. Don't you see? Perhaps suffering on our account, he upset himself. One must be indulgent and much, much can be forgiven."
"But you weren't indulgent!" Pulcheria Alexandrovna interrupted at once, hotly and jealously. "You know, Dunya, I was looking at you both, you're his perfect portrait, and not so much in face as in soul: you're both melancholic, both gloomy and quick-tempered, both haughty and both generous... Surely he can't be an egoist, Dunechka? eh?... And when I think what will happen this evening, my whole heart fails me!"
"Don't worry, mother, what should be will be."
"Dunechka! But just think what situation we're in now! What if Pyotr Petrovich refuses?" poor Pulcheria Alexandrovna suddenly said incautiously.
"What will he be worth after that!" Dunechka answered sharply and contemptuously.
"We did well to leave now," Pulcheria Alexandrovna hurried, interrupting, "he was hurrying somewhere on business; let him walk, breathe some air at least... it's terribly stuffy at his place... and where can one breathe air here? Even on the streets it's like in rooms without windows. Lord, what a city!... Wait, step aside, they'll crush you, they're carrying something! Why, that's a piano they're carrying, really... how they push... I'm also very afraid of that young woman..."
"What young woman, mother?"
"Why, that Sofya Semyonovna who was just there..."
"But why?"
"I have such a premonition, Dunya. Well, believe it or not, as soon as she came in, at that very moment I thought, that's where the main thing lies..."
"Nothing lies there at all!" Dunya cried out with vexation. "And what nonsense with your premonitions, mama! He's only known her since yesterday, and now, when she came in, he didn't recognize her."
"Well, you'll see!... She troubles me, you'll see, you'll see! And I was so frightened: she looks at me, looks, such eyes, I could hardly stay in my chair, remember, when he began introducing her? And it's strange to me: Pyotr Petrovich writes about her like that, and he introduces her to us, and to you as well! So she must be dear to him!"
"Whatever he writes! About us too they talked, and wrote, have you forgotten? And I'm sure that she's... excellent and that all this is—nonsense!"
"God grant it!"
"And Pyotr Petrovich is a vile gossip," Dunechka suddenly cut off.
Pulcheria Alexandrovna positively shrank. The conversation broke off.
"Here's what, here's the business I have with you..." said Raskolnikov, leading Razumikhin to the window...
"So I'll tell Katerina Ivanovna that you'll come..." Sonya hurried, bowing to leave.
"One moment, Sofya Semyonovna, we have no secrets, you're not in the way... I'd like to say another couple of words to you... Well then," he suddenly turned, not finishing, as if he'd broken off, to Razumikhin. "You know this... What's his name!.. Porfiry Petrovich?"
"Of course! He's a relative. What about it?" he added with some kind of explosion of curiosity.
"He's now handling this case... well, about this murder... you were talking about yesterday... is he handling it?"
"Yes... well?" Razumikhin suddenly goggled his eyes.
"He was questioning people who pawned things, and I also have pawned items there, trash really, but still my sister's little ring, which she gave me as a keepsake when I was coming here, and my father's silver watch. They're only worth five or six rubles altogether, but they're dear to me, for memory. So what should I do now? I don't want the things to be lost, especially the watch. I was trembling just now that mother would ask to look at them, when we started talking about Dunechka's watch. It's the only thing that survived from father. She'll fall ill if they're lost! Women! So what should I do, advise me! I know I should report to the police station. But wouldn't it be better to go to Porfiry myself, eh? What do you think? The matter should be settled quickly. You'll see, mother will ask before dinner!"
"By no means to the station, and certainly to Porfiry!" cried Razumikhin in some kind of extraordinary agitation. "Well, how glad I am! Why wait here, let's go now, it's two steps, we'll certainly find him!"
"All right... let's go..."
"And he'll be very, very, very, very glad to meet you! I've talked to him a lot about you, at different times... And yesterday I was talking. Let's go!.. So you knew the old woman? There you are!.. This has all turned out mag-nif-i-cent-ly!.. Oh yes... Sofya Ivanovna..."
"Sofya Semyonovna," Raskolnikov corrected. "Sofya Semyonovna, this is my friend, Razumikhin, and he's a good man..."
"If you need to go now..." Sonya began, not even looking at Razumikhin, and becoming even more confused because of it.
"Let's go then!" Raskolnikov decided, "I'll stop by to see you today, Sofya Semyonovna, just tell me where you live?"
He wasn't so much confused as somehow hurrying and avoiding her gaze. Sonya gave her address and blushed while doing so. They all went out together.
"Don't you lock up?" asked Razumikhin, going down the stairs after them.
"Never!.. Though I've been wanting to buy a lock for two years now," he added carelessly. "Lucky people who have nothing to lock up, aren't they?" he turned to Sonya, laughing.
On the street they stopped at the gate.
"You go right, Sofya Semyonovna? By the way: how did you find me?" he asked, as if wishing to say something completely different to her. He kept wanting to look into her quiet, clear eyes, and somehow it wasn't working out...
"Why, you gave Polechka your address yesterday."
"Polya? Oh yes... Polechka! That's... the little one... that's your sister? So I gave her my address?"
"Have you really forgotten?"
"No... I remember..."
"And I heard about you from the deceased back then... Only I didn't know your surname yet, and he himself didn't know... And now I came... and when I found out your surname yesterday... I asked today: where does Mr. Raskolnikov live?.. I didn't know that you also live as a lodger... Goodbye... I'll tell Katerina Ivanovna..."
She was terribly glad that she was finally leaving; she walked looking down, hurrying to somehow get out of their sight as quickly as possible, to somehow get through these twenty steps as quickly as possible to the turn to the right into the street and to finally be alone, and there, walking, hurrying, not looking at anyone, not noticing anything, to think, to remember, to consider every word spoken, every circumstance. Never, never had she felt anything like this. A whole new world had descended unknown and vaguely into her soul. She suddenly remembered that Raskolnikov himself wanted to visit her today, perhaps in the morning, perhaps right now!
"Only not today, please, not today!" she murmured with a sinking heart, as if pleading with someone, like a child in fright. "Lord! To me... into that room... he'll see... oh Lord!"
And, of course, she could not notice at that moment a certain gentleman unknown to her, diligently following her and shadowing her steps. He had been following her from the moment she left the gate. At the moment when all three, Razumikhin, Raskolnikov and she, stopped for a couple of words on the sidewalk, this passerby, going around them, suddenly seemed to start, accidentally catching in flight Sonya's words: "and I asked: where does Mr. Raskolnikov live?" He quickly but attentively looked over all three, especially Raskolnikov, to whom Sonya was addressing herself; then looked at the building and noted it. All this was done in an instant, in passing, and the passerby, trying not even to show any sign, walked on, slowing his pace and as if waiting. He was waiting for Sonya; he saw that they were saying goodbye and that Sonya would now go somewhere home.
"So where is home? I've seen that face somewhere," he thought, recalling Sonya's face... "must find out."
Reaching the turn, he crossed to the opposite side of the street, turned around and saw that Sonya was already walking after him, along the same road, noticing nothing. Reaching the turn, she too turned into this same street. He followed, not taking his eyes off her from the opposite sidewalk; after walking about fifty paces, he crossed again to the side where Sonya was walking, caught up with her and followed her, staying five paces behind.
This was a man of about fifty, taller than average height, corpulent, with broad and steep shoulders, which gave him a somewhat stooped appearance. He was dressed fashionably and comfortably and looked like a dignified gentleman. In his hands was a beautiful cane, with which he tapped the sidewalk with each step, and his hands were in fresh gloves. His broad, high-cheekboned face was quite pleasant, and his complexion was fresh, not Petersburg. His hair, still very thick, was quite blond and barely graying, and his broad, thick beard, hanging down like a spade, was even lighter than his head hair. His eyes were blue and looked coldly, intently and thoughtfully; his lips were crimson. Generally this was an excellently preserved man who seemed much younger than his years.
When Sonya came out onto the canal, they found themselves alone on the sidewalk. Observing her, he had managed to notice her pensiveness and distraction. Reaching her building, Sonya turned into the gate, he after her and as if somewhat surprised. Entering the courtyard, she turned right, into the corner, where the stairs to her apartment were. "Well!" the unknown gentleman murmured and began climbing after her up the steps. Only then did Sonya notice him. She went to the third floor, turned into the gallery and rang at number nine, on whose door was written in chalk: "Kapernaumov, tailor." "Well!" the stranger repeated again, surprised at the strange coincidence, and rang at the adjacent number eight. The two doors were about six paces from each other.
"You're staying at Kapernaumov's!" he said, looking at Sonya and laughing. "He altered a waistcoat for me yesterday. And I'm here, next to you, at Madame Resslich's, Gertrude Karlovna's. What a coincidence!"
Sonya looked at him attentively.
"Neighbors," he continued somehow especially cheerfully. "I've only been in town for three days. Well, goodbye for now."
Sonya didn't answer; the door opened, and she slipped inside. She felt ashamed for some reason, and as if she had become timid...
On the way to Porfiry's, Razumikhin was in a particularly excited state.
"This, brother, is splendid," he repeated several times, "and I'm glad! I'm glad!"
"What are you glad about?" thought Raskolnikov to himself.
"I didn't even know that you also pawned things at the old woman's. And... and... was it long ago? That is, was it long ago that you were at her place?"
"What a naive fool!"
"When?..." Raskolnikov paused, recalling, "I was at her place about three days before her death, I think. However, I'm not going now to redeem the things," he picked up with some kind of hurried and particular concern about the things, "I only have a silver ruble again... because of that accursed delirium yesterday!.."
About the delirium he spoke particularly impressively.
"Well yes, yes, yes," Razumikhin hurried, agreeing to heaven knows what, "so that's why you were then... struck partly... and you know, in your delirium you kept mentioning some rings and chains!.. Well yes, yes... This is clear, everything's clear now."
"There! How this thought has spread among them! Why, this man would go to crucifixion for me, and yet he's very glad that it's been explained why I mentioned rings in my delirium! How it's taken hold with all of them!.."
"And will we find him?" he asked aloud.
"We'll find him, we'll find him," Razumikhin hurried. "This, brother, is a splendid fellow, you'll see! A bit clumsy, that is, he's a man of society, but I'm saying clumsy in another sense. A clever fellow, clever, very far from stupid indeed, only has some kind of particular cast of thought... Distrustful, skeptical, cynical... likes to fool people, that is, not to fool but to play the fool... Well, and the old material method... But he knows the business, knows it... Last year he investigated one murder case in which almost all the traces were lost! He very, very, very, very much wants to meet you!"
"But why so very much?"
"That is, not that... you see, recently, since you fell ill, I often had to mention you a lot... Well, he listened... and when he found out that you're in law and can't finish your course, due to circumstances, he said: 'What a pity!' So I concluded... that is, all this together, not just this; yesterday Zametov... You see, Rodya, I babbled something to you yesterday when drunk, as we were going home... so I, brother, am afraid you're exaggerating it, you see..."
"What is it? That they consider me mad? Well, maybe it's true."
He smiled tensely.
"Yes... yes... that is, pah, no!.. Well, but everything I said (and about other things too), it was all nonsense and from a hangover."
"Why are you apologizing! How tired I am of all this!" cried Raskolnikov with exaggerated irritability. He was, however, partly pretending.
"I know, I know, I understand. Be assured that I understand. I'm ashamed even to speak of it..."
"And if you're ashamed, then don't speak!"
Both fell silent. Razumikhin was more than delighted, and Raskolnikov felt this with disgust. What Razumikhin had just said about Porfiry also troubled him.
"I'll have to sing Lazarus to this one too," he thought, turning pale and with his heart pounding, "and sing it naturally. Most natural would be not to sing anything at all. Pointedly not sing anything! No, pointedly would be unnatural again... Well, we'll see how it turns out... we'll see... right now... is it good or not good that I'm going? The butterfly flies to the candle itself. My heart's pounding, that's what's not good!.."
"In this gray building," said Razumikhin.
"Most important of all, does Porfiry know or not that I was at that witch's apartment yesterday... and asked about the blood? I must find this out in an instant, from the very first step, as I enter, know by his face; other-wise... I'll perish, but I'll find out!"
"You know what?" he suddenly turned to Razumikhin with a roguish smile, "I, brother, noticed today that you've been in some kind of extraordinary agitation since morning? Is it true?"
"What agitation? Not in any agitation at all," Razumikhin was jolted.
"No, brother, it's really noticeable. You were sitting in your chair earlier in a way you never sit, somehow on the edge, and kept having some kind of spasm. Jumping up for no reason at all. Now angry, and then suddenly your mug becomes like the sweetest candy, for some reason. You even blushed; especially when they invited you to dinner, you blushed terribly."
"Nothing of the sort; you're lying!.. What are you talking about?"
"What are you doing, exactly like a schoolboy, wriggling! Ugh, damn, he's blushing again!"
"What a swine you are, really!"
"Why are you embarrassed? Romeo! Wait, I'll repeat this somewhere today, ha-ha-ha! I'll make mother laugh... and someone else too..."
"Listen, listen, listen, but this is serious, this is... What will come of this, damn!" Razumikhin finally became confused, going cold with horror. "What will you tell them? I, brother... Ugh, what a swine you are!"
"Just a spring rose! And how it suits you, if you only knew; Romeo ten vershoks tall! And how you washed up today, you even cleaned your nails, eh? When did that ever happen? Why, by God, you pomaded yourself! Bend down!"
"Swine!!!"
Raskolnikov laughed so hard that it seemed he could no longer restrain himself, and so laughing they entered Porfiry Petrovich's apartment. This was just what Raskolnikov needed: from the rooms it could be heard that they entered laughing and were still guffawing in the hallway.
"Not a word here, or I'll... pulverize you!" Razumikhin whispered furiously, grabbing Raskolnikov by the shoulder.