Crime and Punishment (46 page)

‘I wonder where that is? I'm sure I've seen that face before,’ he thought, as he recalled Sonya's features… ‘I must find out.’

When he reached the turning he crossed to the other side of the street, swung round and observed that Sonya was now coming along the same way he had come, oblivious to everything. Sure enough, upon reaching the same turning, she entered the street in which he stood. He set off after her, keeping his eyes fixed on her from the opposite pavement; having gone some fifty yards or so, he crossed back to the side of the street along which Sonya was making her way, caught her up and began to walk behind her at a distance of about five paces.

He was a man of around fifty, of somewhat above average height, with broad, perpendicular shoulders that gave him a slightly stooping appearance. He was dressed in stylish comfort, and looked like a portly aristocrat. In one of his hands he held an elegant walking-stick which he tapped on the pavement with each step he took, and those hands wore freshly laundered gloves. His broad, high-cheekboned face was pleasant enough, and its complexion was a fresh one of a kind one does not often encounter in St Petersburg. His hair, still very thick, was entirely blond, with the merest hint of grey here and there, and his wide, thick beard, which descended in a square, shovel-shape, was even fairer than the hair of his head. His eyes were blue and had a cold, fixed and reflective look; his lips were bright red. All in all, he was a remarkably well-preserved man, who looked much younger than his years.

When Sonya came out on to the Canal, they found themselves together on the pavement. As he watched her, he had time to
note her pensive, distracted air. On reaching the building where she lived, Sonya turned in at the gates, and he walked in after her, somewhat surprised. Entering the courtyard, she turned right towards that corner of it which housed the entrance of the staircase that led up to her lodgings. ‘Aha!’ muttered the unknown aristocrat, and began to make his way up the stairs behind her. Only then did Sonya notice him. She reached the third floor, turned off down the connecting passage and rang the doorbell of apartment number nine, on the door of which was chalked ‘Kapernaumov, Tailor’. ‘Aha!’ the stranger said again, surprised by the odd coincidence, and rang the bell of apartment number eight, next door. The two doors were some six yards distant from each other.

‘You live at Kapernaumov's!’ he said, looking at Sonya and laughing. ‘He altered a waistcoat for me yesterday. Well, I live here, next door to you, in the home of Madam Resslich, Gertruda Karlovna, you know. Such is fate!’

Sonya gave him a close look.

‘We're neighbours,’ he went on, in a voice that was for some reason particularly cheerful. ‘I mean, I've been in town for three days. Well, goodbye for now.’

Sonya did not reply; the door opened, and she slipped through to her room. For some reason she felt ashamed, and she even looked frightened…

As they made their way to Porfiry's, Razumikhin was in an especially excited frame of mind.

‘This is marvellous, brother,’ he said several times. ‘How relieved, how relieved I am!’

‘What are you so relieved at?’ Raskolnikov wondered to himself.

‘I mean, I had no idea you'd also pawned things with the old woman. And… and… how long ago was this? I mean, how long ago was it that you went to see her?’

‘What a naïve fool!’ Raskolnikov thought.

‘Now when was it?…’ he said out loud, pausing as he tried to remember. ‘Yes, I think I went to see her about three days before she died. By the way, I'm not going there in order to
redeem the objects now,’ he interposed with a special kind of hurried concern about the objects. ‘I mean, I've only got one rouble in silver to my name… all because of that damned delirium I had yesterday!’

As he mentioned the delirium he made his voice sound particularly emphatic.

‘Yes, yes, yes,’ Razumikhin agreed hurriedly, and for no apparent reason. ‘And that's why you were so… taken aback, so to speak… and you know, even in your delirium you kept going on about some rings and chains and things!… Yes, yes… It all makes sense, it all makes sense now.’

‘So that's it!’ Raskolnikov thought. ‘That's how far that idea has worked its way among them! I mean, this man would go to Calvary for my sake, yet even he's thoroughly relieved that it's been
cleared up
why I kept mentioning those rings when I was delirious! That's the kind of hold it's got on them all!…’

‘But will he be in?’ he asked, suddenly.

‘He will, he will,’ Razumikhin hurried to reassure him. ‘He's a marvellous fellow, brother, you'll see! He's a bit clumsy – oh, he's a man of the world all right, but I mean clumsy in another sense. He's a clever chap, with a lot of common sense, even, only he has a rather peculiar cast of mind… He's suspicious, a sceptic, a cynic… he likes to hoodwink people – oh, I don't really mean hoodwink, it's more that he likes to make fools of them… You know, the old material method… And he knows his job, oh, he knows it, all right… There was one case he cleared up last year, concerning a murder, in which nearly all the clues had been lost! He's very, very, very anxious to make your acquaintance!’

‘Why all the “very”s?’

‘Oh, it's not that he… Just recently, you see, when you were ill, I often and repeatedly found myself mentioning you… Well, he used to listen… and when he found out that you're in the law faculty and are unable to finish your course because of your financial circumstances, he said: “What a pity!” And I concluded… well, taking it all together, I mean, it wasn't just that, there's something else as well: yesterday Zamyotov… Look, Rodya, I said a lot of silly things to you when I was drunk yesterday and
we were going home… and well, brother, I'm scared you may have blown them up out of all proportion, you see…’

‘What's all this about? You mean this business about them thinking I'm insane? Well, perhaps they're right.’ He smiled a thin, ironic smile.

‘Yes… yes… dammit, I mean, no!… Well, everything I said (including whatever I said about that other business) was all nonsense and the result of my hangover.’

‘Oh, why do you keep apologizing? I'm getting really fed up with all this!’ Raskolnikov shouted with exaggerated irritability. He was, indeed, to a certain extent pretending.

‘I know, I know, I understand. Please believe me, I understand. I'm even ashamed to talk about it…’

‘Well, don't then!’

They both fell silent. Razumikhin was in a state bordering upon ecstasy, and Raskolnikov sensed this with disgust. He was also alarmed by the things Razumikhin had just said about Porfiry.

‘I'll have to complain about my lot to this fellow, too,’ he thought, turning pale, his heart thumping. ‘And make it sound natural. The most natural thing would be to say nothing at all along those lines. Make damned sure I don't say anything! No, but that would
also
be unnatural… Well, we'll soon see… how things turn out… when we get there… is it a good thing I'm going there or isn't it? The moth flies to the candle-flame of its own accord. My heart's thumping, that's the worst of it!’

‘It's this grey building,’ Razumikhin said.

‘What matters most of all is whether Porfiry knows I went to that old witch's apartment yesterday… and asked about the blood. I must find that out immediately, right at the start, as soon as I go in, find it out by the expression on his face; o-ther-wise… I'm done for!’

‘You know what, brother?’ he said suddenly, turning to Razumikhin with a mischievous smile. ‘I've noticed that ever since this morning you've been in a state of extraordinary excitement. True?’

‘What do you mean? I don't know what you're talking about,’ Razumikhin winced.

‘No, brother, that's no good, it's too obvious. You were sitting on your chair back there just now in a way you never normally do, you were sitting right on the edge of it, and you kept having minor convulsions. You'd jump to your feet for no apparent reason. One minute you were angry and the next your ugly mug would mysteriously turn as sweet as toffee. You even blushed; especially when they asked you to dinner, you turned horribly red.’

‘I never did; that's nonsense!… What are you driving at, anyway?’

‘For heaven's sake, you're cringing like a schoolboy! My God, there he is, blushing again!’

‘Oh, you are a swine!’

‘What are you so embarrassed about? Romeo! You just wait, I'll tell a few people about this today, ha-ha-ha! I'll make mother laugh, and someone else as well…’

‘Listen, listen, listen, I mean, this is serious, I mean, this is… What are you trying to say, you devil?’ Razumikhin said in confusion, turning cold with horror. ‘
What
will you tell them? You know, brother, I… Ugh, what a swine you are!’

‘Like a rose in springtime! And how it suits you, if only you knew; a Romeo seven feet tall! I say, you
have
washed yourself nicely today, cleaned your fingernails, eh? I've never known you do that before! My God, you've even pomaded your hair! Come on, let me see, bend down!’

‘
Swine!
’

Raskolnikov was laughing so hard that it seemed he would never stop, and thus it was with laughter that they entered Porfiry Petrovich's apartment. That was what Raskolnikov had wanted: from the rooms within it could be heard that they had been laughing as they came in and were still guffawing as they stood in the entrance hall.

‘Not another word in here, or I'll… smash your skull!’ Razumikhin whispered in fury, seizing Raskolnikov by the shoulder.

Raskolnikov was already on his way into the interior of the apartment. He had gone in looking as though he were doing all he possibly could in order not to burst with laughter. Behind him, as red as a peony, with a countenance that displayed rage and frustration, lanky of limb and clumsy of hand and foot, came the embarrassed Razumikhin. At that moment the expression of his face and figure really was absurd, and fully justified Raskolnikov's laughter. Raskolnikov, who had not yet been introduced, bowed to the master of the premises, who stood in the middle of the room and was looking at them inquiringly, extended his hand and shook that of his host, still making an extreme and visible effort to choke back his merriment and get out at least a couple of words of self-introduction. Scarcely, however, had he succeeded in assuming a serious air than suddenly, as though unable to help himself, he glanced at Razumikhin again and this time failed to restrain himself: the smothered laughter burst forth all the more uncontainably for having been held back until now.

The extraordinary rage with which Razumikhin greeted this ‘sincere’ laughter gave the whole of this scene an air of the most unfeigned joviality and – most importantly – naturalness. Razumikhin, as though on purpose, did his bit to help things along.

‘You horrible devil!’ he roared, gesturing with one arm, and immediately bringing it down on a small, round table on which stood an empty tea-glass. Everything went flying and splintering.

‘I say, why break the chairs, gentlemen? It's a drain on the exchequer,’
¹
Porfiry exclaimed merrily.

The scene unrolled in the following manner: Raskolnikov continued to laugh, his hand forgotten in that of his host, but, knowing when enough was enough, began to look for an opportunity of bringing his mirth to as swift and natural a conclusion as possible. Razumikhin, brought at last to the point of total disorientation by the falling of the table and the smashing of the glass, cast a gloomy eye at the splinters, made a
mock spitting gesture, and turned abruptly towards the window, where he stood with his back to his audience, his face like thunder, looking outside and seeing nothing. Porfiry Petrovich was laughing, and quite prepared to go on laughing, but it was plain that he wanted an explanation. Zamyotov, who had been sitting on a chair in one corner, had risen to his feet at the entrance of the visitors and was standing expectantly, his mouth turned up in a smile, but in a state of bewilderment and even incredulity as he observed the entire scene, viewing Raskolnikov with downright embarrassment. Zamyotov's unexpected presence came as an unpleasant shock to Raskolnikov.

‘I'll have to get to the bottom of this,’ he thought.

‘Please, you must forgive me,’ he began, thrown badly off balance. ‘Raskolnikov's the name.’

‘Oh, for goodness’ sake, sir, it's pleasant to meet you, and very pleasantly you came in, too… What about him, doesn't he want to say hallo?’ Porfiry Petrovich said, nodding to Razumikhin.

‘I honestly don't know why he got into such a rage at me. All I did was to tell him on the way here that he was a Romeo, and… and backed it up with evidence. I don't think I said anything else.’

‘Swine!’ Razumikhin answered, without turning round.

‘Well, there must be something very serious behind it if he lost his temper at one little word,’ Porfiry burst out, laughing.

‘Oh you – investigator!… Oh, to the devil with the lot of you,’ Razumikhin snapped, and then suddenly, himself bursting into laughter, his face cheerful now, went over to Porfiry Petrovich as though nothing had happened, and said:

‘That's enough of that! We're all behaving like fools. Let's get down to business: this is my friend, Rodion Romanovich Raskolnikov. In the first place, he's heard a lot about you, and wanted to meet you, and in the second place, he's got a certain small item of business he'd like to talk to you about. Aha! Zamyotov! What are you doing here? I didn't know you knew each other. Known each other long, have you?’

‘What's this, now?’ Raskolnikov thought with alarm.

Zamyotov seemed a bit put out, but not very badly.

‘I met him at your place last night,’ he said casually.

‘God must be looking after me: last week this fellow kept pestering me to introduce him to you, Porfiry Petrovich, and now you've sniffed each other out independently… That reminds me – where's your snuff?’

Porfiry Petrovich was dressed for a day at home, in a dressing-gown, a spotlessly clean shirt and a pair of down-at-heel slippers. He was a man of about thirty-five, slightly below average in height, well-fed, with even a slight paunch, clean-shaven, with neither moustache nor side-whiskers, the hair closely cropped on his large, round head, which somehow bulged with especial prominence at the rear. His round, puffy and slightly snub-nosed face had an unhealthy dark yellow hue, but it was cheerful enough, and even quizzical. It would even have been good-natured, were it not for the expression of his eyes, which had a kind of watery, liquid sheen, and were almost concealed by white, blinking eyelashes that seemed almost to be winking at someone. The look of those eyes was somehow strangely out of harmony with the rest of his figure, which had about it something that could only be described as feminine, and lent it a far more serious air than one might have expected at first sight.