Dowd Siobhan - The London Eye Mystery 21 page

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

with us?"

"Please do," added Dounia.

Razumihin bowed, positively radiant. For one moment, they were all

strangely embarrassed.

"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, 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 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 sinks!"

"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.

"He won't be worth much if he does," answered Dounia, sharply and

contemptuously.

"We did well to come away," Pulcheria Alexandrovna hurriedly broke in.

"He was in a hurry about some business or other. If he gets out and has

a breath of air... it is fearfully close in his room.... But where is

one to get a breath of air here? The very streets here feel like shut-up

rooms. Good heavens! what a town!... stay... this side... they will

crush you--carrying something. Why, it is a piano they have got, I

declare... how they push!... I am very much afraid of that young woman,

too."

"What young woman, mother?

"Why, that Sofya Semyonovna, who was there just now."

"Why?"

"I have a presentiment, Dounia. Well, you may believe it or not, but

as soon as she came in, that very minute, I felt that she was the chief

cause of the trouble...."

"Nothing of the sort!" cried Dounia, in vexation. "What nonsense, with

your presentiments, mother! He only made her acquaintance the evening

before, and he did not know 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 Pyotr Petrovitch 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 is a good girl, and that it

is all nonsense."

"God grant it may be!"

"And Pyotr Petrovitch is a contemptible slanderer," Dounia snapped out,

suddenly.

Pulcheria Alexandrovna was crushed; the conversation was not resumed.

*****

"I will tell you what I want with you," said Raskolnikov, drawing

Razumihin to the window.

"Then I will tell Katerina Ivanovna that you are coming," Sonia said

hurriedly, preparing to depart.

"One minute, Sofya Semyonovna. 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 Razumihin again. "You know that... what's his name...

Porfiry Petrovitch?"

"I should think so! He is a relation. Why?" added the latter, with

interest.

"Is not he managing that case... you know, about that murder?... You

were speaking about it yesterday."

"Yes... well?" Razumihin's eyes opened wide.

"He was inquiring for people who had pawned things, and I have some

pledges there, too--trifles--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 roubles altogether... but I value them. So what am I to do now? I

do not want to lose the things, especially the watch. I was quaking just

now, for fear mother would ask to look at it, when we spoke of Dounia's

watch. It is the only thing of father's left us. She would be ill if

it were lost. You know what women are. 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? Eh? What do you think? The matter

might be settled more quickly. You see, mother may ask for it before

dinner."

"Certainly not to the police station. Certainly to Porfiry," Razumihin

shouted in extraordinary excitement. "Well, how glad I am. Let us go at

once. It is a couple of steps. We shall be sure to find him."

"Very well, let us go."

"And he will be very, very glad to make your acquaintance. I have

often talked to him of you at different times. I was speaking of you

yesterday. Let us go. So you knew the old woman? So that's it! It is all

turning out splendidly.... Oh, yes, Sofya Ivanovna..."

"Sofya Semyonovna," corrected Raskolnikov. "Sofya Semyonovna, this is my

friend Razumihin, and he is a good man."

"If you have to go now," Sonia was beginning, not looking at Razumihin

at all, and still more embarrassed.

"Let us go," decided Raskolnikov. "I will come to you to-day, Sofya

Semyonovna. Only tell me where you live."

He was not exactly ill at ease, but seemed hurried, and avoided her

eyes. Sonia gave her address, and flushed as she did so. They all went

out together.

"Don't you lock up?" asked Razumihin, following him on to the stairs.

"Never," answered Raskolnikov. "I have been meaning to buy a lock for

these two years. People are happy who have no need of locks," he said,

laughing, to Sonia. They stood still in the gateway.

"Do you go to the right, Sofya Semyonovna? How did you find me, by the

way?" he added, as though he wanted to say something quite different. He

wanted to look at her soft clear eyes, but this was not easy.

"Why, you gave your address to Polenka yesterday."

"Polenka? Oh, yes; Polenka, that is the little girl. She is your sister?

Did I give her the address?"

"Why, had you forgotten?"

"No, I remember."

"I had heard my father speak of 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 to-day, 'Where does Mr. Raskolnikov live?' I did not know you

had only a room too.... Good-bye, 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 before her. She remembered suddenly that Raskolnikov meant to

come to her that day, perhaps at once!

"Only not to-day, please, not to-day!" she kept muttering with a sinking

heart, as though entreating someone, like a frightened child. "Mercy! to

me... to that room... he will see... oh, dear!"

She was not capable at that instant of noticing an unknown gentleman who

was watching her and following at her heels. He had accompanied her from

the gateway. At the moment when Razumihin, Raskolnikov, and she stood

still at parting on the pavement, this gentleman, who was just passing,

started on hearing Sonia's words: "and I asked where Mr. Raskolnikov

lived?" He turned a rapid but attentive look upon all three, especially

upon 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 waiting for

something. He was waiting for Sonia; he saw that they were parting, and

that Sonia was going 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, noticing nothing. 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 about fifty, rather tall and thickly set, with broad high

shoulders which made him look as though he stooped a little. He wore

good and fashionable clothes, and looked like a gentleman of position.

He carried a handsome cane, which he tapped on the pavement at each

step; his gloves were spotless. He had a broad, rather pleasant face

with high cheek-bones and a fresh colour, not often seen in Petersburg.

His flaxen hair was still abundant, and only touched here and there with

grey, 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 remarkedly well-preserved man and looked much younger

than his years.

When Sonia came out on the canal bank, they were the only two persons on

the pavement. He observed her dreaminess and preoccupation. 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 Sonia noticed 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 here at

Madame Resslich's. How odd!" Sonia looked at him attentively.

"We are neighbours," he went on gaily. "I only came to town the day

before yesterday. Good-bye for the present."

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, Razumihin was obviously excited.

"That's capital, brother," he repeated several times, "and I am glad! I

am glad!"

"What are you glad about?" Raskolnikov thought to himself.

"I didn't know that you pledged things at the old woman's, too. 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

solicitude about the things. "I've not more than a silver rouble

left... after last night's accursed delirium!"

He laid special emphasis on the delirium.

"Yes, yes," Razumihin hastened to agree--with what was not clear. "Then

that's why you... were stuck... partly... you know in your delirium you

were continually mentioning some rings or chains! Yes, yes... that's

clear, it's all clear now."

"Hullo! How that idea must have got about among them. Here this man will

go to the stake for me, and I find him delighted at having it _cleared

up_ why I spoke of rings in my delirium! What a hold the idea must have

on all of them!"

"Shall we find him?" he asked suddenly.

"Oh, yes," Razumihin answered quickly. "He is a nice fellow, you will

see, brother. Rather clumsy, that is to say, he is a man of polished

manners, but I mean clumsy in a different sense. He is an intelligent

fellow, very much so indeed, but he has his own range of ideas.... He

is incredulous, sceptical, cynical... he likes to impose on people, or

rather to make fun of them. His is the old, circumstantial method....

But he understands his work... thoroughly.... Last year he cleared up a

case of murder in which the police had hardly a clue. He is very, very

anxious to make your acquaintance!"

"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

your being a law student and not able to finish your studies, he said,

'What a pity!' And so I concluded... from everything together, not only

that; yesterday Zametov... you know, Rodya, I talked some nonsense on

the way home to you yesterday, when I was drunk... I am afraid, brother,

of your exaggerating it, you see."

"What? That they think I am a madman? Maybe they are right," he said

with a constrained smile.

"Yes, yes.... That is, pooh, no!... But all that I said (and there was

something else too) it was all nonsense, drunken nonsense."

"But why are you apologising? I am so sick of it all!" Raskolnikov cried

with exaggerated irritability. It was partly assumed, however.

"I know, I know, I understand. Believe me, I understand. One's ashamed

to speak of it."

"If you are ashamed, then don't speak of it."

Both were silent. Razumihin was more than ecstatic and Raskolnikov

perceived it with repulsion. He was alarmed, too, by what Razumihin had

just said about Porfiry.

"I shall have to pull a long face with him too," he thought, with a

beating heart, and he turned white, "and do it naturally, too. 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

shall see how it turns out.... We shall see... directly. 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 grey house," said Razumihin.

"The most important thing, does Porfiry know that I was at the old

hag's flat yesterday... and asked about the blood? I must find that out

instantly, as soon as I go in, find out from his face; otherwise... I'll

find out, if it's my ruin."

"I say, brother," he said suddenly, addressing Razumihin, with a sly

smile, "I have been noticing all day that you seem to be curiously

excited. Isn't it so?"

"Excited? Not a bit of it," said Razumihin, stung to the quick.

"Yes, brother, I assure you it's noticeable. Why, you sat on your chair

in a way you never do sit, on the edge somehow, and you seemed to be

writhing all the time. You kept jumping up for nothing. One moment you

were angry, and the next your face looked like a sweetmeat. You even

blushed; especially when you were invited to dinner, you blushed

awfully."

"Nothing of the sort, nonsense! What do you mean?"

"But why are you wriggling out of it, like a schoolboy? By Jove, there

he's blushing again."

"What a pig you are!"

"But why are you so shamefaced about it? Romeo! Stay, I'll tell of you

to-day. Ha-ha-ha! I'll make mother laugh, and someone else, too..."

"Listen, listen, listen, this is serious.... What next, you fiend!"

Razumihin was utterly overwhelmed, turning cold with horror. "What will

you tell them? Come, brother... foo! 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 to-day--you cleaned your

nails, I declare. Eh? That's something unheard of! Why, I do believe

you've got pomatum on your hair! Bend down."

"Pig!"

Raskolnikov laughed as though he could not restrain himself. So

laughing, they entered Porfiry Petrovitch's flat. This is what

Raskolnikov wanted: from within they could be heard laughing as they

came in, still guffawing in the passage.

"Not a word here or I'll... brain you!" Razumihin whispered furiously,

seizing Raskolnikov by the shoulder.

CHAPTER V

Raskolnikov was already entering the room. He came in looking as though

he had the utmost difficulty not to burst out laughing again. Behind him

Razumihin strode in gawky and awkward, shamefaced and red as a peony,

with an utterly crestfallen and ferocious expression. His face and

whole figure really were ridiculous at that moment and amply justified

Raskolnikov's laughter. Raskolnikov, not waiting for an introduction,

bowed to Porfiry Petrovitch, who stood in the middle of the room

looking inquiringly at them. He held out his hand and shook hands, still

apparently making desperate efforts to subdue his mirth and utter a few

words to introduce himself. But he had no sooner succeeded in assuming

a serious air and muttering something when he suddenly glanced again as

though accidentally at Razumihin, and could no longer control himself:

his stifled laughter broke out the more irresistibly the more he tried

to restrain it. The extraordinary ferocity with which Razumihin received

this "spontaneous" mirth gave the whole scene the appearance of most

genuine fun and naturalness. Razumihin strengthened this impression as

though on purpose.

"Fool! You fiend," he roared, waving his arm which at once struck a

little round table with an empty tea-glass on it. Everything was sent

flying and crashing.

"But why break chairs, gentlemen? You know it's a loss to the Crown,"

Porfiry Petrovitch quoted gaily.

Raskolnikov was still laughing, with his hand in Porfiry Petrovitch's,

but anxious not to overdo it, awaited the right moment to put a natural

end to it. Razumihin, completely put to confusion by upsetting the table

and smashing the glass, gazed gloomily at the fragments, cursed and

turned sharply to the window where he stood looking out with his back

to the company with a fiercely scowling countenance, seeing nothing.

Porfiry Petrovitch laughed and was ready to go on laughing, but

obviously looked for explanations. Zametov had been sitting in the

corner, but he rose at the visitors' entrance and was standing in

expectation with a smile on his lips, though he looked with surprise and

even it seemed incredulity at the whole scene and at Raskolnikov with a

certain embarrassment. Zametov's unexpected presence struck Raskolnikov

unpleasantly.

"I've got to think of that," he thought. "Excuse me, please," he began,

affecting extreme embarrassment. "Raskolnikov."

"Not at all, very pleasant to see you... and how pleasantly you've come

in.... Why, won't he even say good-morning?" Porfiry Petrovitch nodded

at Razumihin.

"Upon my honour I don't know why he is in such a rage with me. I only

told him as we came along that he was like Romeo... and proved it. And

that was all, I think!"

"Pig!" ejaculated Razumihin, without turning round.

"There must have been very grave grounds for it, if he is so furious at

the word," Porfiry laughed.

"Oh, you sharp lawyer!... Damn you all!" snapped Razumihin, and suddenly

bursting out laughing himself, he went up to Porfiry with a more

cheerful face as though nothing had happened. "That'll do! We are

all fools. To come to business. This is my friend Rodion Romanovitch

Raskolnikov; in the first place he has heard of you and wants to make

your acquaintance, and secondly, he has a little matter of business with

you. Bah! Zametov, what brought you here? Have you met before? Have you

known each other long?"

"What does this mean?" thought Raskolnikov uneasily.

Zametov seemed taken aback, but not very much so.

"Why, it was at your rooms we met yesterday," he said easily.

"Then I have been spared the trouble. All last week he was begging me

to introduce him to you. Porfiry and you have sniffed each other out

without me. Where is your tobacco?"

Porfiry Petrovitch was wearing a dressing-gown, very clean linen, and

trodden-down slippers. He was a man of about five and thirty, short,

stout even to corpulence, and clean shaven. He wore his hair cut short

and had a large round head, particularly prominent at the back. His

soft, round, rather snub-nosed face was of a sickly yellowish colour,

but had a vigorous and rather ironical expression. It would have been

good-natured except for a look in the eyes, which shone with a watery,

mawkish light under almost white, blinking eyelashes. The expression

of those eyes was strangely out of keeping with his somewhat womanish

figure, and gave it something far more serious than could be guessed at

first sight.

As soon as Porfiry Petrovitch heard that his visitor had a little matter

of business with him, he begged him to sit down on the sofa and sat down

himself on the other end, waiting for him to explain his business, with

that careful and over-serious attention which is at once oppressive and

embarrassing, especially to a stranger, and especially if what you are

discussing is in your opinion of far too little importance for such

exceptional solemnity. But in brief and coherent phrases Raskolnikov

explained his business clearly and exactly, and was so well satisfied

with himself that he even succeeded in taking a good look at Porfiry.

Porfiry Petrovitch did not once take his eyes off him. Razumihin,

sitting opposite at the same table, listened warmly and impatiently,

looking from one to the other every moment with rather excessive

interest.

"Fool," Raskolnikov swore to himself.

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