The smile on Verkhovensky’s face is nothing short of unnerving. It triggers a strange sort of sudden, vehement disgust within Raskolnikov, the sort of thing one feels when watching someone make a particular fool out of themselves. It’s strange, because Verkhovensky isn’t acting like a fool — not quite, at least. There’s something decidedly foolish about the way he’s speaking, which is quite at odds with the spark of intelligence within his eyes. It leaves Raskolnikov rather disoriented.
It doesn’t help when the man starts speaking French. Raskolnikov knows French, though he is not as fluent as Razumikhin; every good, well-educated Russian ought to be able to at the very least read French. A word that he is not familiar with shifts to Russian, that same strange thing that allows for the Americans to understand him and vice versa, but the rest of it is crisp, well-pronounced French. But why the different language? Raskolnikov does not for a moment believe that it’s nothing more than Verkhovensky attempting to feel more comfortable. Is he trying to throw off Raskolnikov? Looking for control in the conversation? Testing him?
He nearly continues the conversation in Russian, both because it is the language he is more familiar with and as not to cede any victory to Verkhovensky, but at the last minute changes his mind. Also in French, he says, “Oh, no, it isn’t a problem.” The words are accented, without the fluency Verkhovensky has, but still clear and recognizable. “It is strange, don’t you think, the way languages work here? I know what it is you are saying, and I know the language and the words — not in Russian, but in French! — but I hear all of the English as Russian. It’s quite mysterious.”
He has hesitations about meeting with Verkhovensky alone. It’s one thing to spend time with the man down in this basement, surrounded by Americans. It is a different thing entirely to meet with him behind that horrid restaurant, as he had put it, where nobody can listen to them. It is both terrifying and oddly appealing.
“Yes, yes, we should talk more,” he agrees, distractedly. “But then there is the matter of surviving this…nothing that we can do about this, I’m afraid, but the waiting… It is difficult, for me. So many people in such a small space.” Never mind that he had lived for quite a period of time in a place much smaller than this one, an apartment that was really more of a cupboard than anything else.
no subject
It doesn’t help when the man starts speaking French. Raskolnikov knows French, though he is not as fluent as Razumikhin; every good, well-educated Russian ought to be able to at the very least read French. A word that he is not familiar with shifts to Russian, that same strange thing that allows for the Americans to understand him and vice versa, but the rest of it is crisp, well-pronounced French. But why the different language? Raskolnikov does not for a moment believe that it’s nothing more than Verkhovensky attempting to feel more comfortable. Is he trying to throw off Raskolnikov? Looking for control in the conversation? Testing him?
He nearly continues the conversation in Russian, both because it is the language he is more familiar with and as not to cede any victory to Verkhovensky, but at the last minute changes his mind. Also in French, he says, “Oh, no, it isn’t a problem.” The words are accented, without the fluency Verkhovensky has, but still clear and recognizable. “It is strange, don’t you think, the way languages work here? I know what it is you are saying, and I know the language and the words — not in Russian, but in French! — but I hear all of the English as Russian. It’s quite mysterious.”
He has hesitations about meeting with Verkhovensky alone. It’s one thing to spend time with the man down in this basement, surrounded by Americans. It is a different thing entirely to meet with him behind that horrid restaurant, as he had put it, where nobody can listen to them. It is both terrifying and oddly appealing.
“Yes, yes, we should talk more,” he agrees, distractedly. “But then there is the matter of surviving this…nothing that we can do about this, I’m afraid, but the waiting… It is difficult, for me. So many people in such a small space.” Never mind that he had lived for quite a period of time in a place much smaller than this one, an apartment that was really more of a cupboard than anything else.