Raskolnikov came in at almost the same moment as they returned from the cemetery. Katerina Ivanovna was terribly glad to see him, first because he was the only “educated man” among all the guests and “as everyone knew, was preparing to occupy a professor's chair at the local university in two years' time,” and second because he immediately and respectfully apologized to her for having been unable to attend the funeral, in spite of his wishes. She simply fell upon him, seated him at the table directly to her left (Amalia Ivanovna was sitting to her right), and in spite of her constant fussing and concern that the serving be correct and that there be enough for everyone, in spite of the tormenting cough that interrupted and choked her every moment and that seemed to have settled in her especially over the past two days, she constantly turned to Raskolnikov and hastened to pour out to him in a half whisper all her pent-up feelings and all her righteous indignation at the failed memorial meal—this indignation frequently giving way to the most gay and irrepressible laughter at the assembled guests, and predominantly at the landlady herself.

“It's all this cuckoo-bird's fault. You know who I'm talking about— her, her!” and Katerina Ivanovna nodded towards the landlady. “Look at her eyes popping out! She feels we're talking about her, but she can't catch anything, so she's gawking at us. Pah, what an owl! Ha, ha, ha! ... Hem, hem, hem! And what is she trying to show with that bonnet of hers! Hem, hem, hem! Have you noticed, she keeps wanting everyone to think she's patronizing me and doing me a great honor by her presence! I asked her, as a decent woman, to invite the better sort of people—namely, my late husband's acquaintances—and look who she's brought! Clowns! Sluts! Look at that one with the pimply face: some sort of snot on two legs! And those little Poles...ha, ha, ha! Hem, hem, hem! Nobody, nobody has ever seen them here; I've never seen them myself; so why did they come, I ask you? Sitting side by side so decorously. Hey, panie!”^[116] she called out suddenly to one of them, “did you have any pancakes? Have some more! Drink some beer,some beer! Don't you want some vodka? Look, he jumped up, he's bowing, look, look! The poor fellows must be quite hungry! Never mind, let them eat. At least they're not making any noise, only...only, really, I'm afraid for the landlady's silver spoons! ... Amalia Ivanovna!” she suddenly addressed her, almost aloud, “if by any chance they steal your spoons, I won't answer for them, I warn you beforehand! Ha, ha, ha!” She simply dissolved, turning to Raskolnikov again, and again nodding towards the landlady, delighted with her little escapade. “She didn't get it, again she didn't get it! She sits there gawking, look—an owl, a real owl, a barn owl in new ribbons, ha, ha, ha!”

Here her laughter again turned into an unbearable coughing, which lasted for about five minutes. There was blood left on her handkerchief; drops of sweat stood out on her forehead. She silently showed the blood to Raskolnikov and, having only just caught her breath, at once began whispering to him again in great animation and with flushed spots on her cheeks:

“You see, I gave her a most subtle errand, one might say—to invite that lady and her daughter, you know the ones I'm talking about? It was necessary to behave in the most delicate manner here, to act most skillfully, but she managed it so that this visiting fool, this presumptuous creature, this worthless provincial, simply because she's some sort of major's widow and has come to ask for a pension, and is wearing out her skirt-hems in all the offices, because at the age of fifty-five she blackens her eyebrows, powders her face, and wears rouge (as everyone knows)... and such a creature not only did not deem it necessary to come, but did not even send an apology for being unable to come, as common courtesy demands in such cases! But I cannot understand why Pyotr Petrovich hasn't come. And where is Sonya? Where did she go? Ah, here she is at last! Why, Sonya, where have you been? It's strange of you to be so unpunctual even at your own father's funeral. Rodion Romanych, let her sit next to you. Here's a place for you, Sonechka...take what you'd like. Have some fish in aspic, that's the best. They'll bring more pancakes soon. Did the children have any? Polechka, do you have everything there? Hem, hem, hem! All right, then. Be a good girl, Lenya; and you, Kolya, stop swinging your feet; sit like a noble child. What's that you're saying, Sonechka?”

Sonya hastened to convey at once Pyotr Petrovich's apology to her, trying to speak loudly enough for everyone to hear, and choosing the most respectful expressions, which she even invented and embellished a bit on Pyotr Petrovich's behalf. She added that Pyotr Petrovich had asked her to say especially that as soon as he could, he would come at once to talk over certain matters privately, and to discuss what could be done and undertaken in the future, and so on and so forth.

Sonya knew that this would calm and appease Katerina Ivanovna, that it would flatter her, and, above all—would satisfy her pride. She sat down next to Raskolnikov, having hastily bowed to him and looked curiously at him in passing. For the rest of the time, however, she somehow avoided looking at him or speaking to him. She even seemed absentminded, though she kept peering into Katerina Ivanovna's face in order to please her. Neither she nor Katerina Ivanovna was wearing mourning, for lack of dresses. Sonya had on something brown, of a darkish shade; Katerina Ivanovna was wearing her only dress, a dark cotton one with stripes. The news about Pyotr Petrovich went over swimmingly. Having listened to Sonya with an air of importance, Katerina Ivanovna, with the same importance, inquired after Pyotr Petrovich's health. Then, immediately and almost aloud, she whispered to Raskolnikov that it would indeed be strange for such a respected and solid man as Pyotr Petrovich to find himself in such “extraordinary company,” in spite of all his devotion to her family and his old friendship with her papa.

“That is why I am so especially grateful to you, Rodion Romanych, for not scorning my bread and salt, even in such circumstances,” she added, almost aloud.^[117] “However, I'm sure that only your special friendship with my poor late husband prompted you to keep your word.”

Then once again, with pride and dignity, she surveyed her guests, and suddenly, with special solicitude, inquired loudly of the old man across the table: “Wouldn't he care for some more stew, and had he tried the Lisbon wine?” The old man did not reply and for a long time could not understand what he was being asked, though his neighbors even began nudging him for the fun of it. He only looked around open-mouthed, which fueled the general merriment even more.

“What a dolt! Look, look! Why did they bring him? As for Pyotr Petrovich, I've always been confident of him,” Katerina Ivanovna continued to Raskolnikov, “and he certainly bears no resemblance...” (she addressed Amalia Ivanovna sharply and loudly, and with an extremely stern look, under which even Amalia Ivanovna quailed) “no resemblance to those frippery skirt-swishers of yours, whom my papa wouldn't even have taken as cooks into his kitchen, and as for my late husband, he, of course, would have been doing them an honor by receiving them, and then only out of his inexhaustible kindness.”

“Yes, ma'am, he liked his drink; he liked it, that he did, ma'am!” the retired supply officer suddenly exclaimed, emptying his twelfth glass of vodka.

“My late husband indeed had that weakness, and everyone knows it,” Katerina Ivanovna simply fastened on him all at once, “but he was a kind and noble man, who loved and respected his family; the only bad thing was that in his kindness he trusted too much in all sorts of depraved people, and God alone knows who he didn't drink with, even people who weren't worth his shoe sole! Imagine, Rodion Romanovich, they found a gingerbread rooster in his pocket: he was walking around dead drunk, yet he remembered the children.”