us. The tenants are cross, that’s all.’
‘What about?’
‘About the body lying there so long . . . in this heat, smelling . . . So today, before Vespers, they’ll move it to the cemetery, until tomorrow, in the chapel. Katerina Ivanovna didn’t want to at first, but now she can see for herself it’s not . . .’
‘Today, then?’
‘She asks you to do us the honour of attending the service tomorrow, in the church, and then invites you to her, for the funeral banquet.’10
‘She’s putting on a funeral banquet?’
‘Yes, sir, a small one. She gave strict instructions to thank you for helping us yesterday . . . If it wasn’t for you we’d have nothing at all for the funeral.’ Her lips and chin suddenly began to twitch, but she steeled herself and held firm, quickly lowering her eyes again to the floor.
While they were talking, Raskolnikov studied her closely. She had a terribly thin, terribly pale little face, quite irregular and somehow sharp, with a sharp little nose and chin. You couldn’t even call her pretty, but her light-blue eyes were so clear, and her whole expression became so kind and guileless when they lit up, that it was impossible not to be drawn towards her. In addition, her face, and indeed her whole figure, had one special, characteristic trait: despite her eighteen years, she still looked like a little girl, all but a child, and at times there was even something comical about the way her gestures betrayed this.
‘But how could Katerina Ivanovna make do with such a small sum – and there’ll even be a bite to eat, you say?’ asked Raskolnikov, determined to keep the conversation going.
‘But the coffin will be simple enough, sir . . . and everything will be simple, so it won’t cost much . . . Katerina Ivanovna and I worked it all out yesterday, and there’ll be enough left over for the banquet . . . and Katerina Ivanovna badly wants there to be one. After all, sir, one can’t just . . . She’ll feel better for it . . . You know how she is . . .’
‘Yes, I understand . . . of course . . . Why are you studying my room like that? And there’s Mama saying it looks like a coffin.’
‘But yesterday you gave us all you had!’ Sonechka shot back in a loud and rapid whisper, suddenly looking down at the floor again. And again her lips and chin began to twitch. She’d been struck straight away by the poverty of Raskolnikov’s circumstances, and now these words suddenly burst from her lips. Silence followed. Dunechka’s eyes became somehow brighter, while Pulkheria Alexandrovna looked at Sonya almost with warmth.
‘Rodya,’ she said, getting up, ‘we’ll have lunch together, of course. Off we go now, Dunechka . . . And you go out, too, Rodya, have a little walk, then a rest and a lie-down, and come as soon as you can . . . I fear we’ve tired you out . . .’
‘Yes, yes, I’ll come,’ he replied, getting up in a hurry . . . ‘Though actually, there’s something I have to do . . .’
‘Don’t tell me you’re not even going to eat together?’ yelled Razumikhin, looking at Raskolnikov in astonishment. ‘What are you saying?’
‘Yes, yes, I’ll come, of course I will . . . And you stay here for a minute. After all, you don’t need him now, do you, Mama? Or perhaps you do?’
‘Oh, no, no! But do come and have lunch, Dmitry Prokofich, won’t you?’
‘Yes, do come,’ asked Dunya.
Razumikhin bowed, beaming all over. For a second, everyone became strangely embarrassed.
‘Goodbye, Rodya, till soon, I mean. I don’t like the word “goodbye”. Goodbye, Nastasya . . . Dearie me, I said it again!’
Pulkheria Alexandrovna was about to bow to Sonechka as well, but somehow she didn’t quite manage, and hurried out of the room.
Dunya, though, seemed to be waiting her turn and, as she, too, passed Sonya on her way out, she bowed to her attentively and courteously, bending fully. Sonechka was embarrassed and returned the bow in a