CUSTOMS AND TRADITIONS OF GREAT BRITAIN 19 page

"Yet in their absence I seemed to love them so much," flashed through

his mind.

"Do you know, Rodya, Marfa Petrovna is dead," Pulcheria Alexandrovna

suddenly blurted out.

"What Marfa Petrovna?"

"Oh, mercy on us--Marfa Petrovna Svidrigailov. I wrote you so much about

her."

"A-a-h! Yes, I remember.... So she's dead! Oh, really?" he roused

himself suddenly, as if waking up. "What did she die of?"

"Only imagine, quite suddenly," Pulcheria Alexandrovna answered

hurriedly, encouraged by his curiosity. "On the very day I was sending

you that letter! Would you believe it, that awful man seems to have been

the cause of her death. They say he beat her dreadfully."

"Why, were they on such bad terms?" he asked, addressing his sister.

"Not at all. Quite the contrary indeed. With her, he was always very

patient, considerate even. In fact, all those seven years of their

married life he gave way to her, too much so indeed, in many cases. All

of a sudden he seems to have lost patience."

"Then he could not have been so awful if he controlled himself for seven

years? You seem to be defending him, Dounia?"

"No, no, he's an awful man! I can imagine nothing more awful!" Dounia

answered, almost with a shudder, knitting her brows, and sinking into

thought.

"That had happened in the morning," Pulcheria Alexandrovna went on

hurriedly. "And directly afterwards she ordered the horses to be

harnessed to drive to the town immediately after dinner. She always used

to drive to the town in such cases. She ate a very good dinner, I am

told...."

"After the beating?"

"That was always her... habit; and immediately after dinner, so as not

to be late in starting, she went to the bath-house.... You see, she was

undergoing some treatment with baths. They have a cold spring there, and

she used to bathe in it regularly every day, and no sooner had she got

into the water when she suddenly had a stroke!"

"I should think so," said Zossimov.

"And did he beat her badly?"

"What does that matter!" put in Dounia.

"H'm! But I don't know why you want to tell us such gossip, mother,"

said Raskolnikov irritably, as it were in spite of himself.

"Ah, my dear, I don't know what to talk about," broke from Pulcheria

Alexandrovna.

"Why, are you all afraid of me?" he asked, with a constrained smile.

"That's certainly true," said Dounia, looking directly and sternly at

her brother. "Mother was crossing herself with terror as she came up the

stairs."

His face worked, as though in convulsion.

"Ach, what are you saying, Dounia! Don't be angry, please, Rodya....

Why did you say that, Dounia?" Pulcheria Alexandrovna began,

overwhelmed--"You see, coming here, I was dreaming all the way, in the

train, how we should meet, how we should talk over everything

together.... And I was so happy, I did not notice the journey! But what

am I saying? I am happy now.... You should not, Dounia.... I am happy

now--simply in seeing you, Rodya...."

"Hush, mother," he muttered in confusion, not looking at her, but

pressing her hand. "We shall have time to speak freely of everything!"

As he said this, he was suddenly overwhelmed with confusion and turned

pale. Again that awful sensation he had known of late passed with deadly

chill over his soul. Again it became suddenly plain and perceptible to

him that he had just told a fearful lie--that he would never now be

able to speak freely of everything--that he would never again be able to

_speak_ of anything to anyone. The anguish of this thought was such that

for a moment he almost forgot himself. He got up from his seat, and not

looking at anyone walked towards the door.

"What are you about?" cried Razumihin, clutching him by the arm.

He sat down again, and began looking about him, in silence. They were

all looking at him in perplexity.

"But what are you all so dull for?" he shouted, suddenly and quite

unexpectedly. "Do say something! What's the use of sitting like this?

Come, do speak. Let us talk.... We meet together and sit in silence....

Come, anything!"

"Thank God; I was afraid the same thing as yesterday was beginning

again," said Pulcheria Alexandrovna, crossing herself.

"What is the matter, Rodya?" asked Avdotya Romanovna, distrustfully.

"Oh, nothing! I remembered something," he answered, and suddenly

laughed.

"Well, if you remembered something; that's all right!... I was beginning

to think..." muttered Zossimov, getting up from the sofa. "It is time

for me to be off. I will look in again perhaps... if I can..." He made

his bows, and went out.

"What an excellent man!" observed Pulcheria Alexandrovna.

"Yes, excellent, splendid, well-educated, intelligent," Raskolnikov

began, suddenly speaking with surprising rapidity, and a liveliness he

had not shown till then. "I can't remember where I met him before my

illness.... I believe I have met him somewhere----... And this is a good

man, too," he nodded at Razumihin. "Do you like him, Dounia?" he asked

her; and suddenly, for some unknown reason, laughed.

"Very much," answered Dounia.

"Foo!--what a pig you are!" Razumihin protested, blushing in terrible

confusion, and he got up from his chair. Pulcheria Alexandrovna smiled

faintly, but Raskolnikov laughed aloud.

"Where are you off to?"

"I must go."

"You need not at all. Stay. Zossimov has gone, so you must. Don't go.

What's the time? Is it twelve o'clock? What a pretty watch you have got,

Dounia. But why are you all silent again? I do all the talking."

"It was a present from Marfa Petrovna," answered Dounia.

"And a very expensive one!" added Pulcheria Alexandrovna.

"A-ah! What a big one! Hardly like a lady's."

"I like that sort," said Dounia.

"So it is not a present from her _fiance_," thought Razumihin, and was

unreasonably delighted.

"I thought it was Luzhin's present," observed Raskolnikov.

"No, he has not made Dounia any presents yet."

"A-ah! And do you remember, mother, I was in love and wanted to get

married?" he said suddenly, looking at his mother, who was disconcerted

by the sudden change of subject and the way he spoke of it.

"Oh, yes, my dear."

Pulcheria Alexandrovna exchanged glances with Dounia and Razumihin.

"H'm, yes. What shall I tell you? I don't remember much indeed. She was

such a sickly girl," he went on, growing dreamy and looking down again.

"Quite an invalid. She was fond of giving alms to the poor, and was

always dreaming of a nunnery, and once she burst into tears when she

began talking to me about it. Yes, yes, I remember. I remember very

well. She was an ugly little thing. I really don't know what drew me

to her then--I think it was because she was always ill. If she had been

lame or hunchback, I believe I should have liked her better still," he

smiled dreamily. "Yes, it was a sort of spring delirium."

"No, it was not only spring delirium," said Dounia, with warm feeling.

He fixed a strained intent look on his sister, but did not hear or did

not understand her words. Then, completely lost in thought, he got up,

went up to his mother, kissed her, went back to his place and sat down.

"You love her even now?" said Pulcheria Alexandrovna, touched.

"Her? Now? Oh, yes.... You ask about her? No... that's all now, as

it were, in another world... and so long ago. And indeed everything

happening here seems somehow far away." He looked attentively at them.

"You, now... I seem to be looking at you from a thousand miles away...

but, goodness knows why we are talking of that! And what's the use of

asking about it?" he added with annoyance, and biting his nails, fell

into dreamy silence again.

"What a wretched lodging you have, Rodya! It's like a tomb," said

Pulcheria Alexandrovna, suddenly breaking the oppressive silence. "I

am sure it's quite half through your lodging you have become so

melancholy."

"My lodging," he answered, listlessly. "Yes, the lodging had a great

deal to do with it.... I thought that, too.... If only you knew, though,

what a strange thing you said just now, mother," he said, laughing

strangely.

A little more, and their companionship, this mother and this sister,

with him after three years' absence, this intimate tone of conversation,

in face of the utter impossibility of really speaking about anything,

would have been beyond his power of endurance. But there was one urgent

matter which must be settled one way or the other that day--so he had

decided when he woke. Now he was glad to remember it, as a means of

escape.

"Listen, Dounia," he began, gravely and drily, "of course I beg your

pardon for yesterday, but I consider it my duty to tell you again that

I do not withdraw from my chief point. It is me or Luzhin. If I am a

scoundrel, you must not be. One is enough. If you marry Luzhin, I cease

at once to look on you as a sister."

"Rodya, Rodya! It is the same as yesterday again," Pulcheria

Alexandrovna cried, mournfully. "And why do you call yourself a

scoundrel? I can't bear it. You said the same yesterday."

"Brother," Dounia answered firmly and with the same dryness. "In all

this there is a mistake on your part. I thought it over at night,

and found out the mistake. It is all because you seem to fancy I am

sacrificing myself to someone and for someone. That is not the case at

all. I am simply marrying for my own sake, because things are hard for

me. Though, of course, I shall be glad if I succeed in being useful to

my family. But that is not the chief motive for my decision...."

"She is lying," he thought to himself, biting his nails vindictively.

"Proud creature! She won't admit she wants to do it out of charity! Too

haughty! Oh, base characters! They even love as though they hate.... Oh,

how I... hate them all!"

"In fact," continued Dounia, "I am marrying Pyotr Petrovitch because of

two evils I choose the less. I intend to do honestly all he expects of

me, so I am not deceiving him.... Why did you smile just now?" She, too,

flushed, and there was a gleam of anger in her eyes.

"All?" he asked, with a malignant grin.

"Within certain limits. Both the manner and form of Pyotr Petrovitch's

courtship showed me at once what he wanted. He may, of course, think too

well of himself, but I hope he esteems me, too.... Why are you laughing

again?"

"And why are you blushing again? You are lying, sister. You are

intentionally lying, simply from feminine obstinacy, simply to hold your

own against me.... You cannot respect Luzhin. I have seen him and talked

with him. So you are selling yourself for money, and so in any case you

are acting basely, and I am glad at least that you can blush for it."

"It is not true. I am not lying," cried Dounia, losing her composure.

"I would not marry him if I were not convinced that he esteems me

and thinks highly of me. I would not marry him if I were not firmly

convinced that I can respect him. Fortunately, I can have convincing

proof of it this very day... and such a marriage is not a vileness, as

you say! And even if you were right, if I really had determined on a

vile action, is it not merciless on your part to speak to me like that?

Why do you demand of me a heroism that perhaps you have not either? It

is despotism; it is tyranny. If I ruin anyone, it is only myself.... I

am not committing a murder. Why do you look at me like that? Why are you

so pale? Rodya, darling, what's the matter?"

"Good heavens! You have made him faint," cried Pulcheria Alexandrovna.

"No, no, nonsense! It's nothing. A little giddiness--not fainting. You

have fainting on the brain. H'm, yes, what was I saying? Oh, yes. In

what way will you get convincing proof to-day that you can respect him,

and that he... esteems you, as you said. I think you said to-day?"

"Mother, show Rodya Pyotr Petrovitch's letter," said Dounia.

With trembling hands, Pulcheria Alexandrovna gave him the letter. He

took it with great interest, but, before opening it, he suddenly looked

with a sort of wonder at Dounia.

"It is strange," he said, slowly, as though struck by a new idea. "What

am I making such a fuss for? What is it all about? Marry whom you like!"

He said this as though to himself, but said it aloud, and looked for

some time at his sister, as though puzzled. He opened the letter at

last, still with the same look of strange wonder on his face. Then,

slowly and attentively, he began reading, and read it through twice.

Pulcheria Alexandrovna showed marked anxiety, and all indeed expected

something particular.

"What surprises me," he began, after a short pause, handing the letter

to his mother, but not addressing anyone in particular, "is that he is a

business man, a lawyer, and his conversation is pretentious indeed, and

yet he writes such an uneducated letter."

They all started. They had expected something quite different.

"But they all write like that, you know," Razumihin observed, abruptly.

"Have you read it?"

"Yes."

"We showed him, Rodya. We... consulted him just now," Pulcheria

Alexandrovna began, embarrassed.

"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 evening.

"Then what is your decision, Rodya?" asked Pulcheria Alexandrovna, who

was more uneasy than ever at the sudden, new businesslike tone of his

talk.

"What decision?"

"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?"

"Yes."

"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!"

CHAPTER IV

At that moment the door was softly opened, and a young girl walked into

the room, looking timidly about her. Everyone 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

ceased speaking.

"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."

"Why?"

"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..."

"To-day, then?"

"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 conversation.

"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

Date: 2014-12-29; view: 675