بخش 03 - فصل 04

CHAPTER FOUR

AT THAT MOMENT THE door was softly opened, and a young girl walked into the room, looking timidly around her. Everyone turned towards her with surprise and curiosity. At first sight, Raskolnikov did not recognize her. It was Sofia Semionovna Marmeladov. He had seen her yesterday for the first time, but at such a moment, in such surroundings and in such clothing, that his memory retained a very different image of her. Now she was a modestly and poorly-dressed young girl, very young, almost like a child, in fact, with a modest and refined manner, with a candid but somewhat frightened-looking face. She was wearing a very plain indoor dress and a shabby old-fashioned hat, but she was still carrying 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 behavior.” He had only just been protesting against Luzhin’s slander 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 behavior.” 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, Razumikhin, 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 he used as a bed was a little too intimate, he hurriedly motioned her to Razumikhin’s chair.

“You sit here,” he said to Razumikhin, 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 came from Katerina Ivanovna’s, 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 honor . . . she told me to beg you . . . ” Sonia stammered and ceased speaking.

“I will try, certainly, for certain,” 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. Maybe you’re in a hurry, but please 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 Sofia Semionovna Marmeladov, the daughter of the unfortunate Mr. Marmeladov who was run over yesterday in front of me, the man who I was just telling you about.” Pulcheria Alexandrovna glanced at Sonia, and screwed up her eyes a little. In spite of her embarrassment before Rodia’s urgent and challenging gaze, she could not deny herself that satisfaction. Dunia gazed gravely and intently into the poor girl’s face, and scrutinized her, perplexed. 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 weren’t bothered by the police, for instance?”

“No, that was all right . . . it was too evident, the cause of death . . . they didn’t bother us . . . only the lodgers are angry.”

“Why?”

“Because the body has remained there for so long. You see, it is hot now. So today they will carry it to the cemetery, into the chapel, until tomorrow. At first Katerina Ivanovna was unwilling, but now she sees herself that it’s necessary . . . ” “Today, then?”

“She wanted to ask you to do us the honor of being in the church tomorrow for the service and then to come to 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. If it weren’t for you, we would 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 lit up there was such a kindliness and simplicity in her expression that one could not help being attracted. Her face, and her whole figure in fact, had another peculiar characteristic. In spite of the fact that she was eighteen years old, she looked almost like a little girl—almost like a child. And in some of her gestures this childishness seemed almost absurd.

“But has Katerina Ivanovna been able to manage with such a small amount of money? Does she even intend 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 worked it all out so there’ll be enough left . . . and Katerina Ivanovna was very anxious that’s how it should be. You know we can’t . . . it’s a comfort to her . . . she is like that, you know . . . ” “I understand, I understand . . . of course . . . why are you looking at my room like that? My mother has just said it looks 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 Dunia’s eyes, and even Pulcheria Alexandrovna looked kindly at Sonia.

“Rodia,” she said, getting up, “we shall have dinner together, of course. Come on, Dunia . . . And, Rodia, you 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’re going to have dinner together?” cried Razumikhin, looking in surprise at Raskolnikov. “What do you mean?”

“Yes, yes, I’m coming . . . of course, of course! And you stay a minute. You don’t want him just now, do you, Mother? Or maybe I’m taking him from you?”

“Oh, no, no. And please, Dmitri Prokofich, will you have dinner with us?”

“Please do,” added Dunia.

Razumikhin bowed, absolutely radiant. For a moment, they were all strangely embarrassed.

“Goodbye, Rodia, that is, until we meet: I don’t like saying goodbye. Goodbye, Nastasia. Ah, I have said goodbye again.”

Pulcheria Alexandrovna meant to say goodbye to Sonia, too; but it somehow failed to come off, and she went in a flutter out of the room.

But Avdotia Romanovna seemed to wait 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 Avdotia Romanovna’s courtesy and attention were oppressive and painful to her.

“Dunia, goodbye,” called Raskolnikov, in the passage. “Give me your hand.”

“Why, I did give it to you. Have you forgotten?” said Dunia, turning warmly and awkwardly to him.

“Never mind, give it to me again.” And he squeezed her fingers warmly.

Dunia smiled, flushed, pulled her hand away, and went off happy.

“Come, that’s wonderful,” he said to Sonia, going back and looking brightly at her. “God give peace to the dead; the living still have to live. That’s 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 in his memory at those moments . . .

“Goodness, Dunia,” Pulcheria Alexandrovna began, as soon as they were in the street, “I really feel relieved myself at coming away—more at ease. How little did I think yesterday in the train that was something I could ever be glad about!” “I’m telling you again, Mother, he is still very ill. Don’t you see it? Perhaps worrying about us upset him. We must be patient, and there is a lot that can be forgiven.” “Well, you weren’t very patient!” Pulcheria Alexandrovna caught her up, hotly and jealously. “Do you know, Dunia, I was looking at you two. You are the very portrait of him, and not so much in face as in soul. You are both melancholy, both gloomy and hot-tempered, both proud and both generous . . . Surely he can’t be an egoist, Dunia. Eh? When I think of what is in store for us this evening, my heart sinks!” “Don’t be uneasy, Mother. What will be will be.”

“Dunia, just think what a position we are in! What if Peter Petrovich breaks it off?” poor Pulcheria Alexandrovna blurted out, incautiously.

“He won’t be worth much if he does,” answered Dunia, sharply and contemptuously.

“We did well to leave,” Pulcheria Alexandrovna hurriedly broke in. “He was in a hurry about some business or other. If he gets out and has a breath of fresh air . . . it is horribly close in his room . . . But where can you get a breath of fresh air here? Even the streets here feel like shut-up rooms. Goodness! What a town! . . . Stay . . . this side . . . they will crush you—they’re carrying something. It is a piano they have got . . . look how they are pushing . . . I am very much afraid of that young woman, too.” “What young woman, Mother?

“That Sofia Semionovna, who was there just now.”

“Why?”

“I have a presentiment, Dunia. Well, believe it or not, as soon as she came in, that very minute, I felt that she was the chief cause of the problem . . . ”

“Nothing of the sort!” cried Dunia, in vexation. “What nonsense, with your presentiments, Mother! He only first met her the evening before, and he did not recognize her when she came in.” “Well, you will see . . . She worries me; but you will see, you will see! I was so frightened. She was gazing at me with those eyes. I could scarcely sit still in my chair when he began introducing her, do you remember? It seems so strange, but Peter Petrovich writes like that about her, and he introduces her to us—to you! So he must think a great deal of her.” “People will write anything. We were talked about and written about, too. Have you forgotten? I am sure that she’s a good girl and that it’s all nonsense.”

“God grant it may be!”

“And Peter Petrovich is a despicable slanderer,” Dunia snapped out, suddenly.

Pulcheria Alexandrovna was crushed; the conversation was not resumed.—

“I will tell you what I want with you,” said Raskolnikov, drawing Razumikhin to the window.

“Then I will tell Katerina Ivanovna that you are coming,” Sonia said hurriedly, preparing to depart.

“One moment, Sofia Semionovna. We have no secrets. You are not in our way. I want to have another word or two with you. Listen!” he turned suddenly to Razumikhin again. “You know that . . . what’s his name . . . Porfiry Petrovich?” “I should think so! He’s a relation. Why?” added Razumikhin, with interest.

“Isn’t he managing that case . . . you know about that murder? . . . You were talking about it yesterday.”

“Yes . . . well?” Razumikhin’s eyes opened wide.

“He was asking about people who had pawned things, and I have some pledges there, too—trinkets—a ring my sister gave me as a keepsake when I left home, and my father’s silver watch—they are only worth five or six rubles altogether . . . but I value them. So what should I do now? I do not want to lose the things, especially the watch. I was trembling just now in case my mother would ask to look at it, when we were talking about Dunia’s watch. It’s the only thing of my father’s left. She’d be ill if it were lost. You know what women are like. So tell me what to do. I know I ought to have given notice at the police station, but would it not be better to go straight to Porfiry? What do you think? We might get it over with more quickly. You see, Mother may ask for it before dinner.” “Certainly not to the police station. We should see Porfiry,” Razumikhin shouted in extraordinary excitement. “I’m so happy about that! Let’s go now. It’s a couple of steps. We’ll definitely be able find him.” “Good, let’s go.”

“And he will be very, very pleased to meet you. I have often talked to him about you; I was speaking to him about you yesterday. Let’s go. So you knew the old woman? So that’s it! It’s all turning out wonderfully . . . Oh, yes, Sofia Ivanovna . . . ” “Sofia Semionovna,” corrected Raskolnikov. “Sofia Semionovna, this is my friend Razumikhin. He’s a good person.”

“If you have to go now,” Sonia was beginning, not looking at Razumikhin at all, and even more embarrassed.

“Let’s go,” Raskolnikov decided. “I’ll visit you today, Sofia Semionovna. Just tell me where you live.”

He was not exactly uneasy, but he seemed hurried and avoided her eyes. Sonia gave him her address, and blushed as she did so. They all went out together.

“Don’t you lock up?” asked Razumikhin, following him onto the stairs.

“Never,” answered Raskolnikov. “I’ve been meaning to buy a lock for the last two years. People who don’t need any locks are happy,” he said, laughing, to Sonia. They stood still in the gateway.

“Do you go right here, Sofia Semionovna? How did you find me, by the way?” he added, as though he wanted to say something different. He wanted to look at her soft clear eyes, but this was not easy.

“You gave your address to Polenka yesterday.”

“Polenka? Oh, yes; Polenka, that’s the little girl. She’s your sister? Did I give her the address?”

“Why, had you forgotten?”

“No, I remember.”

“I’d heard my father mention you . . . only I did not know your name, and he did not know it. And now I came . . . and as I had learnt your name, I asked today, ‘Where does Mr. Raskolnikov live?’ I did not know you only had a room too . . . Goodbye, I will tell Katerina Ivanovna.” She was extremely glad to escape at last; she went away looking down, hurrying to get out of sight as soon as possible, to walk the twenty steps to the turning on the right and to be at last alone, and then moving rapidly along, looking at no-one, noticing nothing, to think, to remember, to meditate on every word, every detail. Never, never had she felt anything like this. Dimly and unconsciously a whole new world was opening in front of her. She remembered suddenly that Raskolnikov meant to come to see her that day, perhaps at once!

“Only not today, please, not today!” she kept muttering with a sinking heart, as though entreating someone, like a frightened child. “Mercy! To see me . . . to that room . . . he will find . . . oh, dear!” She was incapable at that instant of noticing the stranger who was watching her and following at her heels. He had accompanied her from the gateway. At the moment when Razumikhin, Raskolnikov and she were standing still as they said goodbye on the pavement, this gentleman, who was just passing, started when he heard Sonia’s words: “and I asked where Mr. Raskolnikov lived?” He cast a rapid but attentive glance at all three of them, especially at Raskolnikov, to whom Sonia was speaking; then looked back and noted the house. All this was done in an instant as he passed, and trying not to betray his interest, he walked on more slowly as though he were waiting for something. He was waiting for Sonia; he saw that they were leaving, and that Sonia was going back home.

“Home? Where? I’ve seen that face somewhere,” he thought. “I must find out.”

At the turning he crossed over, looked round, and saw Sonia coming the same way without noticing anything. She turned the corner. He followed her on the other side. After about fifty paces he crossed over again, overtook her and kept two or three yards behind her.

He was a man of about fifty, rather tall and thickly set, with broad high shoulders which made him look as if he stooped a little. He wore good, fashionable clothes, and looked like he had some kind of standing in society. He carried a handsome cane, which he tapped on the pavement every step he took; his gloves were spotless. He had a broad, rather pleasant face with high cheek-bones and a fresh color not often seen in Petersburg. His flaxen hair was still thick, and only touched here and there with gray, and his thick square beard was even lighter than his hair. His eyes were blue and had a cold and thoughtful look; his lips were crimson. He was a remarkably well-preserved man and looked much younger than his years.

When Sonia came out on the canal bank, they were the only two people on the pavement. He noticed that she was dreamy and lost in her thoughts. On reaching the house where she lodged, Sonia turned in at the gate; he followed her, seeming rather surprised. In the courtyard she turned to the right corner. “Bah!” muttered the unknown gentleman, and mounted the stairs behind her. Only then did Sonia notice him. She reached the third storey, turned down the passage, and rang at No. 9. On the door was inscribed in chalk, “Kapernaumov, Tailor.” “Bah!” the stranger repeated again, wondering at the strange coincidence, and he rang next door, at No. 8. The doors were two or three yards apart.

“You lodge at Kapernaumov’s,” he said, looking at Sonia and laughing. “He altered a waistcoat for me yesterday. I am staying close by here at Madame Resslich’s. How odd!” Sonia looked at him attentively.

“We are neighbors,” he went on gaily. “I only came to town the day before yesterday. Anyway, goodbye for now.”

Sonia made no reply; the door opened and she slipped in. She felt for some reason ashamed and uneasy.

On the way to Porfiry’s, Razumikhin was obviously excited.

“That’s wonderful, my friend,” he repeated several times, “I’m glad! I’m glad!”

“What are you glad about?” Raskolnikov thought to himself.

“I didn’t know you pledged things at the old woman’s as well. And . . . was it long ago? I mean, was it long since you were there?”

“What a simple-hearted fool he is!”

“When was it?” Raskolnikov stopped still to recollect. “Two or three days before her death, it must have been. But I am not going to redeem the things now,” he put in with a sort of hurried and conspicuous concern about his possessions. “I’ve not more than a silver ruble left . . . after last night’s accursed delirium!” He laid special emphasis on the delirium.

“Yes, yes,” Razumikhin hastened to agree—with what was not clear. “Then that’s why you . . . were struck . . . partly . . . you know in your delirium you kept mentioning some rings or chains! Yes, yes . . . that’s clear, it’s all clear now.” “My God! The idea must have really spread far. This man will go to the stake for me, and now he’s delighted that we cleared up the fact that I mentioned rings when I was delirious! What a hold the idea must have on all of them!” “Shall we find him?” he asked suddenly.

“Oh, yes,” Razumikhin answered quickly. “He’s a nice person, you’ll see, my friend. Pretty clumsy—that’s to say, he has real manners, but I mean clumsy in a different sense. He’s intelligent, very intelligent, in fact, but he has his own range of ideas . . . He is incredulous, skeptical, cynical . . . he likes to impose on people, or rather to make fun of them. His method is old, circumstantial . . . But he understands his work . . . thoroughly . . . Last year he cleared up a murder case the police had hardly a clue about. He is very, very anxious to meet you.” “On what grounds is he so anxious?”

“Oh, it’s not exactly . . . you see, since you’ve been ill I happen to have mentioned you several times . . . So, when he heard about you . . . about the fact that you were a law student and that you were unable to finish your studies, he said, ‘What a pity!’ And so I concluded . . . from everything together, not only that; yesterday, Zametov . . . you know, Rodia, I talked some nonsense on the way home to you yesterday, when I was drunk . . . I’m afraid, my friend, that you will exaggerate it, you see.” “What? That they think I am a madman? Maybe they are right,” he said with a constrained smile.

“Yes, yes . . . I mean, no! . . . But everything I said (and there was something else too) was all nonsense, drunken nonsense.”

“But why are you apologizing? I am so sick of it all!” Raskolnikov cried with exaggerated irritability. It was partly false, however.

“I know, I know, I understand. Believe me, I understand. I’m ashamed to talk about it.”

“If you’re ashamed to talk about it, then don’t.”

Both were silent. Razumikhin was more than ecstatic and Raskolnikov perceived it with repulsion. He was alarmed, too, by what Razumikhin had just said about Porfiry.

“I shall have to put on a show for him too,” he thought, with a beating heart, and he turned white, “and do it naturally. But the most natural thing would be to do nothing at all. Carefully do nothing at all! No, carefully would not be natural again . . . Oh, well, we’ll see how it turns out . . . We’ll see . . . right now. Is it a good thing to go or not? The butterfly flies to the light. My heart is beating, that’s what’s bad!” “In this gray house,” said Razumikhin.

“The most important thing is, does Porfiry know that I was at the old hag’s apartment yesterday . . . and did he ask about the blood? I must find that out immediately, as soon as I go in, find out from his face; otherwise . . . I’ll find out, if it destroys me.” “I was wondering, my friend,” he said suddenly, addressing Razumikhin with a sly smile, “I’ve been noticing all day that you seem to be strangely excited. Isn’t that so?” “Excited? Not at all,” said Razumikhin, deeply embarrassed.

“Yes, my friend, I can tell you, it’s noticeable. You sat on your chair in a way I’ve never seen you sit, on the edge somehow, and you seemed to be wriggling all the time. You kept jumping up for no reason. One moment you were angry, and the next your face looked like candy. You even blushed; especially when you were invited to dinner, you blushed terribly.” “Nothing of the sort, nonsense! What do you mean?”

“But why are you wriggling out of it, like a schoolboy? My God, he’s blushing again.”

“What a pig you are!”

“But why are you so shamefaced about it? Romeo! Stay, I’ll tell of you today. Ha-ha-ha! I’ll make mother laugh, and someone else, too . . . ”

“Listen, listen, listen, this is serious . . . What next, you fiend!” Razumikhin was utterly overwhelmed, turning cold with horror. “What will you tell them? Come on . . . God, what a pig you are!” “You are like a summer rose. And if only you knew how it suits you; a Romeo over six foot high! And how you’ve washed today—you even cleaned your nails! That’s unheard of! I think you’ve even got grease on your hair! Bend down.” “Pig!”

Raskolnikov laughed as though he could not restrain himself, and Razumikhin also started to laugh; soon they were entering Porfiry Petrovich’s apartment. This is what Raskolnikov wanted: from inside they could be heard laughing as they came in through the passage.

“Not a word here or I’ll . . . brain you!” Razumikhin whispered furiously, seizing Raskolnikov by the shoulder.