Raskolnikov walked in almost at the very moment they got back from the cemetery. Katerina Ivanovna was terribly pleased to see him. Firstly, because he was the only 'educated guest' present and, as everyone knew, was 'in line for a chair at the university here in two years' time', and secondly, because he made an instant and courteous apology to her for having had to miss the funeral, much to his regret. She all but threw herself on him, offered him the seat to her left (Amalia Ivanovna was on her right) and, despite her endless fussing and worrying about how the food was being served and whether everyone had their share, despite the excruciating cough which kept interrupting her and choking her and which seemed to have got a great deal worse during these past two days, constantly engaged him in conversation and, in a half-whisper, poured out to him all her pent-up feelings and all her righteous indignation about the failed banquet; moreover, her indignation frequently gave way to the gayest, most irrepressible ridicule of the assembled company, and of the landlady in particular.
'It's all the fault of that cuckoo over there. You know who I mean. Her! Her!' she told Raskolnikov, nodding in the direction of the landlady. 'Just look at her with those eyes popping out of her head. She senses we're talking about her, but can't understand a thing. A real owl! Ha-ha-ha! . . . Cuh-cuh-cuh! And what's she trying to say with that bonnet of hers? Cuh-cuh-cuh! Have you noticed how desperate she is for everyone to think she's bestowing her favour on me and honouring me with her presence? I asked her nicely enough to invite the right sort of people, by which I mean acquaintances of the dear departed, and look who she's dragged in: clowns and slatterns! Take that one with the filthy face: a real snot-rag! And as for these Polskees . . . Ha-ha-ha! Cuh-cuh-cuh! Nobody, and I mean nobody, has ever seen them here before, and I've never seen them. So why have they come? Tell me that! So solemn, the lot of them. Hey, Panie!'20 she suddenly yelled at one of them. 'Had your pancakes yet? Have some seconds! And have some beer! Or perhaps some vodka? Just look at him leaping to his feet and bowing to the floor. They must be starving, poor chaps! Well, let them eat. At least they're not rowdy, although . . . although I fear for the landlady's silver spoons! . . . Amalia Ivanovna!' she suddenly said to her, for almost everyone to hear. 'If they do steal your spoons don't expect me to answer for it! Ha-ha-ha!' she continued, in stitches, before turning to Raskolnikov again and nodding towards the landlady, delighted with her sally. 'She didn't understand. Once again she didn't understand! Look at her sitting there, gawping: an owl, a proper owl, a screech owl in new ribbons - ha-ha-ha!'
Here her laughter turned once more into a violent fit of coughing that lasted a good five minutes. It left blood on her handkerchief and beads of sweat on her forehead. She showed the blood to Raskolnikov in silence and, scarcely pausing to catch her breath, started whispering to him again in the most animated tones, with red blotches all over her cheeks:
'See for yourself: I gave her the extremely delicate task of inviting that lady and her daughter - you know who I mean, don't you? The task called for the greatest subtlety, the greatest refinement, but she went about it in such a way that this silly parvenue, this stuck-up so-and-so, this provincial nobody, simply because she's the widow of some major or other and has come to Petersburg to wear out her skirts begging for a pension in government offices, because, at fifty-five years of age, she slaps on powder and rouge and dyes her hair (everyone knows) . . . well, not only did this so-and-so not deign to show up, she didn't even ask anyone to convey her apologies, as even the most elementary rules of etiquette demand! And why on earth hasn't Pyotr Petrovich come either? And where's Sonya? Where's she got to? Ah, here she is at last! Well, Sonya, where have you been? Strange that you can't even arrive at your father's funeral on time. Rodion Romanovich, she can sit next to you. There's your place, Sonechka . . . Take whatever you want. Try the aspic - that's the best. Pancakes are on their way. What about the children? Polechka, got everything you need down that end? Cuh-cuh-cuh! Good. Lenya, be a good little girl, and you Kolya, stop swinging your legs; sit like all noble children should sit. What were you saying, Sonechka?'
Sonya breathlessly conveyed to her Pyotr Petrovich's apologies, trying to raise her voice so that everyone might hear and using only the most respectful turns of phrase, specially chosen, in fact, to imitate Pyotr Petrovich, and further embellished by her. She added that Pyotr Petrovich had specifically instructed her to convey that, at the first possible opportunity, he would pay her a visit in order to discuss some business in private and agree about what could be done and undertaken in future, and so on and so forth.
Sonya knew that this would appease and assuage Katerina Ivanovna, flatter her, and above all be a sop to her pride. After a hasty bow to Raskolnikov, she sat down next to him and threw him a curious glance. For the rest of the time, though, she managed to avoid both looking at him and talking to him. She even seemed rather distracted, though she barely took her eyes off Katerina Ivanovna's face, the better to please her. Neither she nor Katerina Ivanovna were in mourning, for want of appropriate clothing; Sonya was wearing a sort of darkish brown, while Katerina Ivanovna was in the only dress she had, a dark cotton one with stripes. The news about Pyotr Petrovich went down very well. Gravely hearing Sonya out, Katerina Ivanovna enquired with the same air of importance: how's Pyotr Petrovich's health? Then, instantly and for almost everyone to hear, she whispered to Raskolnikov that it really would have been rather strange for such an esteemed and respectable man as Pyotr Petrovich to find himself in such an 'unusual crowd', notwithstanding all his devotion to their family and his old friendship with her papa.
'That is why I am especially grateful to you, Rodion Romanovich, for not shunning my bread and salt,21 even in such a setting as this,' she added, for almost everyone to hear, 'though I dare say that it is only on account of your special friendship towards my poor late husband that you have kept your word.'
Next, she once again ran a proud and dignified gaze over her guests and, with particular solicitude, loudly asked the deaf old man sitting across the table whether he might like some seconds and whether he'd been served any Lisbon. The man made no reply and struggled for a long time to grasp the meaning of the question, although his neighbours even started shaking him, just for fun. But he merely looked around with his mouth hanging open, which only increased the general merriment.
'What a dolt! Just look at him! What's he doing here? But as for Pyotr Petrovich, I've always had complete confidence in him,' Katerina Ivanovna went on to Raskolnikov, 'and, of course, he has nothing in common . . . ,' she snapped at Amalia Ivanovna, who positively wilted from the exceptional ferocity of her look, 'nothing in common with those overdressed tail-slappers of yours whom Papa wouldn't even have taken on as his cooks, and whom my late husband, needless to say, would have accorded a great honour by receiving, and even then only on account of his inexhaustible kindness.'
'Yes, ma'am, he liked a drink. That he did, ma'am!' the ex-quartermaster suddenly shouted, draining his twelfth vodka.
'My late husband did indeed possess that weakness, as everyone knows,' Katerina Ivanovna suddenly pounced on him, 'but he was a kind and noble man, who loved and respected his family. More's the pity that in his kindness he was far too trusting of all manner of debauchees, and drank with God knows who - people who weren't even worth the sole of his shoe! You know, Rodion Romanovich, they found a gingerbread cockerel in his pocket: he may have been dead drunk, but he hadn't forgotten his children.'
'Cock-er-el? Did I hear you say cock-er-el?' yelled the quartermaster.
Katerina Ivanovna did not dignify him with a reply. She was thinking about something and sighed.
'I expect that you, like everyone else, think I was much too strict with him,' she continued, turning to Raskolnikov. 'But I wasn't! He respected me. He truly, truly respected me! He had a kind soul, that man! And sometimes you couldn't help but pity him! He'd be sitting in the corner looking at me and I'd feel so sorry for him I'd want to be nice to him, but then I'd think: "Be nice t
o him and he'll only get drunk again." Being strict was the only way of restraining him even a little.'
'Yes, ma'am, there was much tugging of forelocks; more than once, ma'am,' roared the quartermaster again, then sank another vodka.
'Never mind forelocks: a broom would do well enough for dealing with certain idiots. And I don't mean my late husband!' Katerina Ivanovna fired back.
The red blotches on her cheeks burned brighter and brighter; her chest heaved. Another minute of this and she'd be making a scene. There was much tittering among the guests, who were evidently enjoying the show. They started nudging the quartermaster and whispering something to him. They were clearly hoping for a fight.
'Per-permission to ask, ma'am, what you mean,' the quartermaster began. 'I mean which . . . noble . . . individual . . . did you see fit, just now . . . ? Actually, forget it! Rubbish! Widow! Widowed! I forgive . . . I'm out!' - and he dispatched another vodka.
Raskolnikov sat and listened in disgusted silence. Out of courtesy he nibbled at the food which Katerina Ivanovna kept putting on his plate, simply so as not to offend her. He studied Sonya closely. But Sonya was becoming more and more anxious and preoccupied; she, too, had a feeling that the banquet would end badly, and observed Katerina Ivanovna's mounting irritation with dread. She happened to know that the main reason the two ladies from the provinces had given such short shrift to Katerina Ivanovna's invitation was her, Sonya. She'd heard from Amalia Ivanovna herself that the mother had even been offended by the invitation and had posed the question: 'How could she even think of sitting our daughter at the same table as that girl?' Sonya sensed that Katerina Ivanovna somehow knew about this already, and an insult directed at her, Sonya, meant more to Katerina Ivanovna than any insult directed at herself, her children, her father; in short, it was a mortal insult, and Sonya knew that nothing could appease Katerina Ivanovna now, not until 'she shows these tail-slappers that they are both' etcetera, etcetera. As if on cue, someone sent a plate down to Sonya from the other end of the table; on it two hearts had been sculpted out of black bread, both pierced by an arrow. Katerina Ivanovna flared up and immediately shouted down the table that whoever had sent it was a 'drunken ass'. Amalia Ivanovna, who also sensed trouble, while being wounded to the depths of her soul by Katerina Ivanovna's disdain, suddenly, in the hope of improving the general mood and, at one and the same time, her own reputation, launched into a story, apropos of nothing, about how some acquaintance of hers, 'Karl of the chemist's', had taken a cab one night and 'the cabbie vanted him to kill und Karl begged und begged him not kill him, und cried, und folded his arms, und frightened, und from terror his heart vas pierced.' Katerina Ivanovna smiled before immediately remarking that Amalia Ivanovna would be well advised not to tell stories in Russian. The landlady took even greater offence at this and objected that her 'Vater aus Berlin22 vas ferry important man and vent about hands in pockets putting.' This was too much for giggly Katerina Ivanovna and she guffawed outrageously. By now, Amalia Ivanovna was at the very end of her tether and could barely contain herself.
'A real screech-owl!' Katerina Ivanovna whispered to Raskolnikov again, cheering up considerably. 'She meant to say "with his hands in his pockets", but instead made him out to be a pickpocket, cuh-cuh! And wouldn't you agree, Rodion Romanovich, once and for all, that these Petersburg foreigners, mainly Germans, who come here from God knows where, are all so much more stupid than we are? I mean, what a way to tell a story: "Karl of the chemist's with terror heart pierced" and (what a baby!) instead of tying up the cabbie "folded his arms, und cried, und ferry begged". What a birdbrain! And she thinks this is so very touching, and has no idea how stupid she is! If you ask me this sozzled quartermaster is far cleverer than her; at least with him it's obvious he's a soak, that he's drunk himself stupid, but the rest of them are so very solemn and serious . . . Just look at her, with those eyes popping out. She's angry! She's angry! Ha-ha-ha! Cuh-cuh-cuh!'
Crime and Punishment Page 48