"But they all write like that, you know," Razumihin observed, abruptly.
"Have you read it?"
"We showed him, Rodya. We… consulted him just now," Pulcheria Alexandrovna began,
"That's just the jargon of the courts," Razumihin put in. "Legal documents are
written like that to this day."
"Legal? Yes, it's just legal– business language– not so very uneducated, and
not quite educated– business language!"
"Pyotr Petrovitch makes no secret of the fact that he had a cheap education,
he is proud indeed of having made his own way," Avdotya Romanovna observed, somewhat
offended by her brother's tone.
"Well, if he's proud of it, he has reason, I don't deny it. You seem to be offended,
sister, at my making only such a frivolous criticism on the letter, and to think
that I speak of such trifling matters on purpose to annoy you. It is quite the contrary,
an observation apropos of the style 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
naively 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 naive 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
"Then what is your decision, Rodya?" asked Pulcheria Alexandrovna, who was more
uneasy than ever at the sudden, new businesslike tone of his talk.
"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?"
"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!"
CHAPTERFOUR Chapter Four
AT THAT moment the door was softly opened, and a young girl walked into the room,
looking timidly about her. Every one 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
"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."
"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…"
"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
"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
"Please do," added Dounia.
Razumihin bowed, positively radiant. For one moment, they were all strangely
"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,
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. How little
did I think yesterday in the train that I could ever be glad of that."
"I tell you again, mother, he is still very ill. Don't you see it? Perhaps worrying
about us upset him. We must be patient, and much, much can be forgiven."
"Well, you were not very patient!" Pulcheria Alexandrovna caught her up, hotly
and jealously. "Do you know, Dounia, 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
morose and hot tempered, both haughty and both generous…. Surely he can't be an
egoist, Dounia. Eh? When I think of what is in store for us this evening, my heart
"Don't be uneasy, mother. What must be, will be."
"Dounia, only think what a position we are in! What if Pyotr Petrovitch breaks
it off?" poor Pulcheria Alexandrovna blurted out, incautiously.