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!'
'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, hu
rrying 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 Lazarus11 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.
V
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.
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