V
When, the next morning at eleven o’clock sharp, Raskolnikov walked into the Criminal Investigations department of ——y District Police Station and asked to be announced to Porfiry Petrovich, he was astonished to be kept waiting so long: at least ten minutes passed before he was called. According to his own calculations someone should have pounced on him straight away. Instead, he just stood there in the reception room, utterly ignored by the people walking past him in both directions. Several clerks were sitting and writing in the next room, which looked like an office, and it was obvious that none of them had even the faintest idea who Raskolnikov was. He scanned the area around him with an anxious, suspicious gaze: wasn’t there at least some guard or other, some secret pair of eyes, charged with keeping tabs on him in case he wandered off? But there was nothing of the kind: all he saw were bureaucratic, trivially preoccupied faces, plus a few other people, and no one took the slightest interest in him: he could do what he liked for all they cared. He became ever more convinced that if the mysterious man from yesterday, the phantom from out of the ground, really did know everything, really had seen everything, then would he, Raskolnikov, have been left standing here now, calmly waiting? And would they really have waited for him here until eleven o‘clock, when he himself saw fit to drop by?
Either that man had not yet reported anything or . . . or he simply didn’t know anything either, hadn’t seen anything with his own eyes (and how could he have done?), so all of that, from yesterday, was, once again, a phantom, exaggerated by his own, Raskolnikov’s, sick and overwrought imagination. Even yesterday, during the worst
of his panic and despair, this conjecture had begun to take root in his mind. Going over it all again now and readying himself for a new fight, he suddenly realized that he was shaking – and even began seething with indignation at the thought that he was shaking with fear before someone as loathsome as Porfiry Petrovich. To meet this man again was for him the most dreadful thing of all: he loathed him beyond measure, infinitely, and was even afraid lest his loathing betray him. So great was his indignation, in fact, that it instantly put a stop to his shaking; he prepared to walk in with a cool and insolent air and promised himself to say as little as possible, to look and listen hard and, at least for this once, to overcome at all costs his morbidly excitable character. At that very moment he was called in to see Porfiry Petrovich.
Porfiry Petrovich, it turned out, was alone. His office was neither large nor small; it contained a big desk in front of an oilcloth-covered couch, a bureau, a cupboard in the corner and several chairs – all government property and made of yellow, polished wood. In the corner, in the far wall – or rather, in a partition – there was a locked door: so over there, beyond the partition, there must have been some other rooms, too. When Raskolnikov entered, Porfiry Petrovich immediately closed the door behind him; the two men were alone. Porfiry received his guest with what seemed to be the most cheerful and cordial of welcomes, and only several minutes later did Raskolnikov detect certain vague signs of embarrassment – as if Porfiry had suddenly been thrown into confusion or surprised in the middle of some particularly private and secret business. ‘Ah, my good chap! You too . . . in our neck of the woods . . . ,’ Porfiry began, holding out both hands. ‘Well, have a seat then, father! Or perhaps you don’t like being called good chap and . . . father – just like that,tout court? Please don’t think I’m being too familiar, sir . . . This way, please, to my little couch.’
Raskolnikov sat down, never taking his eyes off him. ‘In our neck of the woods’, apologies for excessive familiarity, that bit of French and everything else – they were all characteristic traits. ‘Still, he held out both hands, but withdrew them before offering either one,’ flashed across his suspicious mind. Each was observing the other, but the moment their eyes met, both averted their gaze with lightning speed. ‘I’ve brought you that little note . . . about the watch . . .
Here you go, sir. Will it do or should I rewrite it?’ ‘What? A little note? Yes indeedy . . . worry not, all in order, sir,’ said Porfiry Petrovich, as if he were hurrying off somewhere, and only then did he take the document and look it over. ‘Yes, all in order. Nothing else needed,’ he confirmed, still pattering away, and placed the document on the desk. Then, a minute later, while talking about something else, he picked it up again and transferred it to the bureau. ‘I believe you said yesterday that you would like to ask me . . . formally . . . about my acquaintance with that . . . murdered woman?’ Raskolnikov began again. ‘Why did I sayI believe?’ flashed across his mind like lightning. ‘Why am I so worried about having saidI believe?’ came another flash, like lightning.
And he suddenly sensed that his mistrust had, from the very first contact with Porfiry, the first two words, the first two looks, instantly swelled to monstrous dimensions . . . and that this was terribly dangerous: his nerves were on edge, his agitation was mounting. ‘Watch out! Watch out! . . . I’ll give myself away again.’ ‘Yes, yes! Worry not! That can wait, sir, that can wait,’ muttered Porfiry Petrovich, walking back and forth in the vicinity of the desk, but to no apparent purpose, as if in a hurry to reach the window or the bureau or the desk again, now avoiding Raskolnikov’s suspicious gaze, now suddenly stopping in his tracks and staring right at him. As he did so,
his tubby, round little figure seemed extraordinarily strange, like a little ball rolling off in various directions before bouncing off every wall or corner. ‘Plenty of time for that, sir, plenty of time! . . . Do you smoke? Got your own? Have a papirosa on me . . . ,’ he went on, proffering a papirosa to his guest. ‘You know, I’m receiving you here, but my own apartment’s right there, behind the partition – grace and favour, sir, though I’ve got my own place, too, for the meantime. There were a few little improvements to be made here first. Now it’s nearly ready . . . A grace-and-favour apartment, you know, is a splendid thing – eh? What do you reckon?’ ‘Yes, a splendid thing,’ answered Raskolnikov, looking at him almost mockingly. ‘Splendid, splendid . . . ,’ Porfiry Petrovich kept saying, as if suddenly absorbed by quite different thoughts. ‘Yes! A splendid thing!’ he fairly shrieked by the end, suddenly flashing a glance at Raskolnikov and halting just a couple of paces away from him. The silly way he was banging on 18 about a grace-and-favour apartmentbeing a splendid thing contrasted far too much in its petty vulgarity with the serious, thoughtful and enigmatic gaze he was now directing at his guest.
But this merely stoked Raskolnikov’s anger even more, and he could not resist throwing down a mocking and fairly reckless challenge. ‘You know,’ he suddenly said, looking at him almost insolently and deriving a kind of pleasure from his insolence, ‘I believe a certain principle exists in legal practice, a certain legal technique – to be used by every conceivable investigator – whereby one begins from a long way off, with trifles or even with something serious, but completely irrelevant, in order, as it were, to reassure, or rather distract, the man being questioned, to lull his vigilance, before all of a sudden, in quite the most
unexpected way, clubbing him smack on the crown with the most fateful and dangerous question. Isn’t that right? I believe that to this day it receives reverent mention in all the rulebooks and manuals.’ ‘Yes indeedy . . . So you think that by mentioning the apartment I was . . . eh?’ Saying this, Porfiry Petrovich squinted and winked; something merry and sly flitted across his face, the wrinkles on his brow smoothed out, his little eyes narrowed, his features lengthened and he suddenly broke into a bout of nervous, prolonged laughter, his whole body swaying with excitement while he continued to look straight into Raskolnikov’s eyes. The latter also began to laugh, not without effort, but when Porfiry, seeing that he, too, was laughing, became so overcome with mirth that he very nearly turned purple, Raskolnikov’s disgust suddenly got the better of his caution; he stopped laughing, frowned and looked for a long while and with loathing at Porfiry, keeping his eyes fixed on him for the entire duration of his lengthy and, it seemed, intentionally unceasing laughter. A lack of caution, though, was in evidence on both sides: Porfiry Petrovich seemed to be laughing at his guest quite openly, to the latter’s utter disgust, and to be quite unembarrassed by this circumstance. For Raskolnikov, this last point was highly significant: he realized that earlier, too, Porfiry Petrovich had probably not been in the least embarrassed, and he, Raskolnikov, must have fallen into a trap; there was something afoot here of which he was ignorant, some purpose or other; everything, perhaps, was already in place, and any minute now would be unveiled and unleashed . . .
He got straight to the point, rising from his seat and grabbing his cap. ‘Porfiry Petrovich,’ he began decisively, if rather too irritably, ‘yesterday you expressed the wish that I present myself here for some sort of interrogation.’ (He laid
particular stress on the wordinterrogation.) ‘Well, here I am, so if there’s anything you need to ask, ask; otherwise please permit me to leave. I’ve no time, there’s something I have to do . . . I need to attend the funeral of the civil servant who was trampled by horses, the very one you . . . also know about . . . ,’ he added, and was immediately angry with himself for having done so, which immediately irritated him even more, ‘and I’m fed up with all this – do you hear? – and have been for some time . . . and that’s partly why I fell ill . . . and, in short,’ he all but shrieked, sensing that the phrase about his illness was even more misjudged, ‘in short, be so kind either to question me or let me go this minute . . . and if you are going to question me, you had better do so formally, sir. I won’t have it any other way. Goodbye for now, then, seeing as we are merely wasting each other’s time.’ ‘Heavens above! What are you saying? Question you about what?’ Porfiry Petrovich suddenly cackled, immediately changing both his tone and his appearance and instantly ceasing to laugh. ‘Worry not, please,’ he fussed, now tearing off again to the four ends of the room, now trying to sit Raskolnikov down. ‘That can wait, sir, that can wait, and these are all mere trifles! You know, I’m simply delighted to see you here at last . . . and welcome you as a guest. And as for this wretched laughter of mine, please forgive me, Rodion Romanovich, father. It is Roman, is it not? Your father’s name, I mean . . . I’m highly strung, sir, and you had me in fits there with the wittiness of your remark; believe me, there are times when I start quivering like India rubber and I won’t stop for half an hour . . . I’m the laughing sort. I even fear a stroke, sir, considering my constitution. Now do take a seat, eh? . . . Please, father, or else I shall think you’re cross . . .’ Raskolnikov kept silent, listened and watched, still frowning angrily. Nevertheless, he sat down, but without letting go of his cap.
‘I should tell you something about myself, Rodion Romanovich, father, by way of an explanation, as it were, of my character,’ Porfiry Petrovich continued, bustling about the room and appearing to avoid, as before, the gaze of his guest. ‘I’m a bachelor, you see, no airs or graces, no fame or name, and, as if that’s not enough, I’m finished, sir, I’ve frozen over, I’ve gone to seed and . . . and . . . Have you noticed, Rodion Romanovich, that here, here in Russia, I mean, and most especially in our Petersburg circles, whenever two intelligent people, who don’t yet know each other all that well but, as it were, respect one another, just like you and me, come together, they are quite incapable, for at least half an hour, of finding a single topic of conversation? They just freeze in each other’s presence and sit around feeling awkward. Everyone else has things to discuss . . . ladies, say, or high-society types . . . they can always find a topic,c’est de rigueur, but middling people like us are awkward and untalkative . . . thinking people, I mean. Now why, father, should this be so? Is there really no topic of public interest for us to discuss, or are we too honest for our own good and unwilling to deceive each other? Eh? What do you think? Do put away that cap, sir, one might think you were about to leave – makes me quite uncomfortable . . . You know, I’m simply delighted . . .’ Raskolnikov put down his cap, keeping silent and continuing to listen with a serious, frowning face to Porfiry’s idle and muddled chatter. ‘Is he really trying to distract me with his silly talk?’ ‘I won’t offer you coffee, sir, this isn’t the place. But where’s the harm in sitting down with a friend for five minutes and relaxing a little?’ Porfiry prattled on. ‘And you know, sir, all these official duties . . . Now, please don’t be offended by all my walking around, back and forth. Forgive me, father, the last thing I want to do is offend you, but I just can’t get by without regular exercise. I’m always at my desk and five minutes on my feet is sheer delight . . . Piles,
sir . . . I keep meaning to try gymnastics. I’m told that state 19counsellors, actual state counsellors and even privy counsellors are fond of the skipping rope, sir; the wonders of modern science, eh? . . . Yes indeedy . . . And as for duties, interrogations and all these formalities . . . you yourself, dear man, saw fit to mention interrogations just now . . . well, let me tell you, Rodion Romanovich, father, these interrogations sometimes confuse the man who’s asking the questions even more than the man who’s answering them . . . Your witty comment about that just now was spot on, sir.’ (Raskolnikov had made no such comment.) ‘You can get tied up in knots! Really you can!
And it’s always the same thing, again and again, like a 20 drum! Now there are reforms afoot,so at least we’ll get different titles, heh-heh-heh! And as for those legal techniques of ours – as you so wittily put it – well, I couldn’t agree with you more, sir. Just try finding a suspect, even the most rustic peasant, who doesn’t know, for example, that first he’ll be lulled with irrelevant questions (in your felicitous phrase) before being suddenly clubbed smack on the crown, sir, butt-first, heh-heh-heh! Yes, smack on the crown, in your felicitous comparison, heh-heh! And you really thought that was why I mentioned the apartment . . . heh-heh! What an ironical fellow you are. All right, I’ll stop!
Oh, yes, while I’m at it, since one word, one thought beckons another: earlier on you also saw fit to mention matters of form, concerning, you know, interrogations, as it were . . . But why such a fuss about form? Form, you know, is often just a lot of hot air, sir. Sometimes a friendly chat gets you a great deal further. There’s no running away from form, don’t you worry about that. But ultimately, sir, what is it? An investigation can’t be inhibited by form every step of the way. An investigation needs, so to speak, the freedom of art, sir, or something like that . . . heh-heh-heh!’
Porfiry Petrovich paused for a moment to catch his breath. On and on he prattled with his meaningless, empty phrases, occasionally coming out with a few enigmatic words before immediately lapsing back into nonsense again. By now he was virtually running around the room, making his chubby little legs work faster and faster, keeping his eyes to the floor, tucking his right arm behind his back and continuously waving his left in a variety of gestures, all astonishingly ill-matched to his words.
Raskolnikov suddenly noticed how, running around the room, he appeared to pause at least twice by the door, as if he were listening in . . . ‘Is he waiting for something?’ he wondered. ‘I must say, you’re absolutely right, sir,’ Porfiry set off again, looking cheerfully and with extraordinary frankness at Raskolnikov (causing the latter to shudder and instantly brace himself), ‘absolutely right to mock these legal formalities of ours with such wit, heh-heh! These (or at least some of these) profound psychological techniques are of course quite absurd, sir, and I dare say useless, too, especially when they are very inhibited by form. Yes, sir . . .
I’m back to form again: imagine that I had deemed or, better, suspected someone – anyone, anyone at all – to be a criminal, in some case that had been entrusted to me . . .
You’re studying to be a lawyer, Rodion Romanovich, are you
not?’ ‘Yes, I was . . .’ ‘Well, here’s a little example, as it were, for the future – although far be it from me, of course, to teach you anything: just look at those articles you’ve been publishing on the subject of crime! No, sir, allow me to put this example to you for its purely factual interest. Say, for example, that I considered someone, anyone, a criminal, why ever, I ask you, would I trouble him ahead of time, even if I had evidence against him? There are those, of course, whom I’m obliged to arrest promptly, but this man
may have a quite different character; so why not let him wander around town a bit? Heh-heh-heh! No, I can see you’re not quite following, so let me illustrate the point more clearly: if, for example, I lock him up too soon, I may end up providing him with, as it were, moral support, heh- heh! I see you’re laughing.’ (Laughter was the last thing on Raskolnikov’s mind: he sat tight-lipped, keeping his inflamed gaze fixed on Porfiry Petrovich’s eyes.) ‘But that’s how it is, sir, especially with certain individuals, because you get all kinds of people and only one procedure. You saw fit to mention evidence just now, but with respect, father, even supposing there is evidence, still, evidence is a double-edged thing, for the most part anyway, and as you know I’m an investigator and hence, I admit, a weakling: I’d like to set out the case with, as it were, mathematical clarity. I’d like a bit of evidence that looks like two times two! Like direct and incontrovertible proof! But if I lock him up before time – even if I’m quite sure it’shim – I may very well end up depriving myself of the chance to get any more out of him. Why? Because I’ll be defining his situation for him, as it were. I’ll be defining him psychologically, so to speak, and reassuring him, and then he’ll withdraw from me into his shell: it’ll have finally got through to him that he’s a prisoner. I’m told that down there in Sebastopol, 21 straight after the Battle of Alma,all the clever folk were terrified at the prospect of the enemy launching an open attack any moment and taking Sebastopol there and then; but when they saw that the enemy had chosen a regular siege instead and was digging the first line of trenches, why, the clever folk, I’m told, were simply delighted, sir, and felt quite reassured: it meant that the whole thing would drag on for at least another two months, because a regular siege might take forever! Again you’re laughing, again you don’t believe me. Well, I suppose you have a point, too. Yes, you’re right, sir, you’re right! These are all
one-offs, I agree. The case I’ve just described really is a one-off, sir! But here’s what we need to bear in mind, dear sweet Rodion Romanovich: typical cases, the very same ones according to which all the legal forms and principles are tailored and calculated and written up in books, simply do not exist, sir, by virtue of the fact that each and every deed, each and every – for want of a better example – crime, just as soon as it occurs in reality, immediately becomes a one-off, sir; in fact, sometimes it’s like nothing that’s ever gone before. Certain such cases are utterly comic, sir. But if I leave a gentleman well alone, don’t bring him in, don’t disturb him, just let him know, or at least suspect, every hour and every minute, that I know everything, all the ins and outs, that I’m following him day and night, keeping him forever in my sight, just let him feel the constant weight of suspicion and fear, then, mark my words, he’ll become quite dizzy, yes indeedy; he’ll come to me himself and he might even go and do something after which two and two really will make four and it will all look perfectly mathematical – and very nice that would be, too.
Even the most coarse-cut peasant is quite capable of this sort of thing, to say nothing of our good friend, brainy modern man, whose development has taken a particular slant! Because, my dear chap, it’s terribly important to understand which slant a man’s development has taken.
And what about nerves, sir? Nerves, you’ve forgotten all about them! After all, nowadays everyone’s so sick and gaunt and irritable! . . . And what about bile? They’re all bursting with it! This, in its way, is a goldmine, sir, let me tell you! And why should I worry about him walking freely around town? Let him wander as much as he likes, for now; after all, I already know I’ve got my catch and he can’t run away! I mean, where would he run to? Heh-heh! Abroad? A Pole would run abroad, buthe never would, especially when I’m watching him and I’ve taken certain precautions.
Or perhaps he’d run away to the darkest depths of his
homeland? But that’s where the peasants live, real, rustic, Russian muzhiks; our advanced modern man would rather be locked up than live with anyone as foreign as our muzhik, heh-heh! But this is just superficial nonsense. What does it mean: run away? That’s mere form. It’s not the main thing. The reason he won’t run away from me isn’t just that he’s got nowhere to run away to; it’s that he won’t run awaypsychologically, heh-heh! What a lovely little phrase!
The laws of nature won’t let him run away, even if he did have somewhere to go. Ever seen a moth near a candle?
Well, that’s how he’ll be, forever circling around me, like a moth around a candle; freedom will sour, he’ll start thinking too much, entangling himself, worrying himself to death! . . . And if that’s not enough, he’ll even present me with some mathematical trick, like two times two – I just need to give him a long enough entr’acte . . . And that’s how he’ll be, going round and round in circles, the radius narrowing and narrowing, and – hop! – straight into my mouth, where I’ll swallow him up, sir, and how very nice that will be, heh-heh-heh! You don’t believe me?’ Raskolnikov didn’t reply. He sat pale and motionless, staring into Porfiry’s face with the same intensity as before. ‘A nice little lesson!’ he thought with a chill. ‘This isn’t even cat-and-mouse like it was yesterday. And it’s not a pointless show of strength, either . . . He wants me to know he’s far too clever for that. There’s some other purpose here. But what? You’re wasting your breath, trying to frighten and fool me! You’ve no proof and the man from yesterday doesn’t exist! You just want to confuse me, irritate me and, when I’m good and ready, gobble me up.
Only it won’t work; you’ll come unstuck! But why make it so obvious? . . . Counting on my sick nerves, are we? . . .
No, my friend, this won’t work, whatever it is you’ve prepared over there . . . Well, let’s see what that is exactly.’ He summoned all his strength, bracing himself for some dreadful and unknown catastrophe. There were moments
when he felt like throwing himself on Porfiry and strangling him on the spot. Even as he was walking in, this anger had frightened him. He could feel how dry his mouth was, how his heart was thumping, how his lips were caked with foam.
But still he was determined to say nothing for now. He realized that these were the best tactics in his situation, because not only would he not blurt anything out, but his silence would irritate his adversary, who might himself let something slip. Or so he hoped. ‘No, I see you don’t believe me, sir. You think these are just my harmless japes,’ Porfiry went on, becoming ever more cheerful, constantly giggling with pleasure and setting off again around the room. ‘Well, I suppose you’re right, sir. Even my shape was thus arranged by God Himself merely to arouse comical thoughts in others; a buffoon, sir. But here’s what I’ll tell you, father, and I’ll say it again: you, Rodion Romanovich – please excuse an old man – are still young, sir, in the first flush of youth, as it were, which is why you value the human intellect above all else, like all young people. The play of wit and the abstract arguments of reason seduce you, sir. And that’s just like the old Austrian Hofkriegsrat, for example, if my limited understanding of war serves me right: on paper, they’d already crushed Napoleon and taken him captive – they’d worked it all out so cleverly and totted everything up at 22 their desks – but lo and behold, General Mackgoes and surrenders with his entire army, heh-heh-heh! Yes, I see you’re laughing at me, Rodion Romanovich: here am I, a civilian through and through, plucking all my examples from military history. But what can I do? Military science is a weakness of mine. How I love to read all those communiqués . . . I’m in the wrong job, no two ways about it. My place is in the military, sir, really it is. I might never have made a Napoleon, but I’d have risen to the rank of major, heh-heh-heh! Well then, my dearest, let me tell you
the whole truth, in every detail, about thoseone-offs: reality and human nature, my good sir, are not to be dismissed – they sometimes play havoc with the most perspicacious of calculations! Heed the words of an old man, Rodion Romanovich, I’m being serious,’ (saying this, Porfiry Petrovich, all of thirty-five, really did seem to age: even his voice changed and he became all twisted) ‘and what’s more, I’m a candid sort of man . . . Am I candid?
What’s your opinion? It certainly looks that way: why, I’m telling you all manner of things without being asked, nor do I expect any reward, heh-heh! Well, then, I resume. Wit, if you ask me, is a marvellous thing, sir. It is, so to speak, nature’s adornment and life’s consolation, and when you see the sort of tricks it pulls off, why, what chance, it would seem, does a poor little investigator have against it?
Especially when you consider that he himself gets carried away by his own fantasies, as is always the case, seeing as he, too, is human! But human nature, sir, is precisely what saves the poor little investigator, and there’s the rub!
That’s what never occurs to young people carried away by their own wit and “striding over every obstacle” (as you so wittily and cunningly put it). Granted, he may tell a few lies, this man, I mean,this one-off, this incognito, and he’ll tell them in a most excellent and cunning way. His victory, it would seem, is assured, and the fruits of his wit stand ready to be plucked, but . . . lo and behold, in the most interesting, most scandalous place, what does he do but faint! Granted, he’s sick, and it can get terribly stuffy indoors, but nevertheless! Nevertheless, sir, he’s sown a thought! His lies may have been quite superlative, but he failed to make allowances for human nature! There it is, the traitor! On another occasion, caught up in the play of his wit, he’ll try to make a fool of the man who suspects him, he’ll turn pale as if on purpose, as if he’s acting, but the way he does it will beall too natural, seem all too true, and once again he’ll have planted a thought! Even if he does
deceive him at first, overnight the other chap will think it over, if he’s no fool himself. And it’s like that every step of the way, sir! Trust me, he’ll start running ahead, poking his head in where he’s not even wanted, talking nineteen to the dozen when he’d be better off saying nothing, coming out with various allegories, heh-heh! He’ll turn up unannounced and ask: why’s nobody come for me yet? Heh- heh-heh! And, you know, this can happen to the very wittiest men, to psychologists and literary types! Nature is a mirror, sir, a mirror of the most transparent kind! Look and admire! Yes indeedy! Now why are you so pale, Rodion Romanovich? Perhaps the room’s too stuffy for you.
Perhaps I should open a window?’ ‘Oh, don’t you worry about that,’ cried Raskolnikov and suddenly guffawed. ‘Please don’t worry about that!’ Porfiry stopped in front of him, waited a bit and suddenly began to guffaw as well. Raskolnikov rose from the couch, suddenly cutting short his own, perfectly convulsive laughter. ‘Porfiry Petrovich!’ he said loudly and distinctly, though barely standing on his trembling legs. ‘It’s finally become quite clear to me that you firmly suspect me of the murder of that old woman and her sister Lizaveta. For my part, I declare to you that I’m completely fed up with all this and have been for some time. If you deem that you have the right to prosecute me in accordance with the law, then prosecute; to arrest, then arrest me. But I won’t allow anyone to laugh in my face and torment me.’ Suddenly his lips began to quiver, his eyes flashed with fury and his voice, hitherto restrained, boomed out. ‘I won’t allow it, sir!’ he suddenly yelled, banging his fist on the desk with all his might. ‘Do you hear, Porfiry Petrovich? I won’t allow it!’ ‘Good Lord, not again!’ cried Porfiry Petrovich, looking thoroughly alarmed. ‘Father! Rodion Romanovich! Dearest!
What’s the matter?’
‘I won’t allow it!’ Raskolnikov started yelling again. ‘Hush, father! Or they’ll hear you and come. And then what will we tell them? Think about that!’ Porfiry Petrovich whispered in horror, bringing his face very close to Raskolnikov’s. ‘I won’t allow it! I won’t allow it!’ Raskolnikov repeated mechanically, though he, too, was suddenly whispering now.
Porfiry turned away briskly and hurried over to open a window. ‘Some fresh air, that’s what we need! And you’d better have some water, my dear boy. This is a fit you’re having!’ He rushed over to the door to order some water, only to find a carafe right there in a corner. ‘Have some, father,’ he whispered, rushing back over to him with the carafe, ‘it might just help . . .’ Porfiry Petrovich’s alarm and concern were so very natural that Raskolnikov fell silent and began studying him with wild curiosity. He didn’t take the water, though. ‘Rodion Romanovich! Dear, sweet boy! You’ll drive yourself mad if you carry on like this, believe you me! Dear oh dear! Go on, drink some! At least a few sips!’ He more or less forced him to take the glass of water.
Mechanically, Raskolnikov started bringing it to his lips, but, coming to his senses, put it down on the table in disgust. ‘Yes, sir, that was a little fit you just had! Carry on like this, my dear chap, and your old sickness will come back,’ Porfiry Petrovich cackled with amicable concern, though he continued to look somewhat bemused. ‘Good heavens!
What a way to neglect yourself! You know, I had Razumikhin here as well yesterday. Yes, yes, I agree, I have a poisonous, lousy character, but that’s no reason for him to deduce such things! . . . Heavens! He came by yesterday after you left, we had some lunch, he talked and talked and all I could do was throw up my hands. Well I never . . .
Good grief! Was it you who sent him? Now do sit down, father, take a seat, for the love of Christ!’ ‘No, it wasn’t me! But I knew he’d gone to see you and
why,’ replied Raskolnikov sharply.
‘You knew?’ ‘I knew. Well, so what?’ ‘Simply, Rodion Romanovich, that this is as nothing compared to some of your other exploits. I know about them all, sir! I even know about you going torent an apartment, very late in the day, after dusk; about you ringing the bell and asking about blood, and confusing the workmen and caretakers. I can understand the state of mind you must have been in at the time . . . but still, you’ll drive yourself mad like this, mark my words! You’ll make yourself quite giddy! You’re positively boiling with indignation, sir, with noble indignation, no less, from insults meted out first by fate, then by the local police officers, and that’s why you’re haring around everywhere, so as to get everyone else to talk and have done with it all as soon as possible, because you’re fed up with all this silliness, all these suspicions. Isn’t that so? Haven’t I guessed your state of mind? . . . Only it’s not just yourself you’ll make giddy, but Razumikhin, too. He’s far toogood for all this, you know that yourself. You’re sick and he’s good, so sickness is bound to stick to him . . . Once you’ve calmed down, dear boy, I’ll tell you something . . . Now do sit down, for the love of Christ! Please, have a rest, you look terrible. Take a seat, I say.’ Raskolnikov sat down, shaking less now and feeling hot and feverish. In deep astonishment, he listened intently as Porfiry Petrovich fussed about him like a concerned friend.
But he didn’t believe a word he said, though he felt a strange inclination to do so. Porfiry’s unexpected mention of the apartment had astounded him. ‘So he knows about the apartment. How come?’ he suddenly thought. ‘Then he tells me about it himself!’
‘Yes, sir, we had an almost identical case in court, sir, lots of psychology there, too, and illness,’ Porfiry pattered on. ‘He also tried to slander himself as a murderer and you should have seen how he did it: he came up with a complete hallucination, presented the facts, described the circumstances, succeeded in muddling and confusing everyone, and why? He himself, quite unintentionally, did partly cause the murder, but only partly, and when he discovered that he’d given the murderers a pretext for their crime, he fell into a state of depression and stupor, started seeing things, became completely unhinged and ended up convincing himself that he carried out the murder himself!
Eventually, the Governing Senate got to the bottom of it all, and the unfortunate man was acquitted and taken into care. Thank heavens for the Governing Senate! Ay-ay-ay!
What are you playing at, father? You’ll give yourself a fever by irritating your nerves with these sudden fancies – ringing doorbells at night and asking about blood! I know all this psychology inside out, sir, from practical experience. A man can end up wanting to throw himself from a window or a bell tower – such a tempting sensation.
The same goes for doorbells, sir . . . It’s an illness, Rodion Romanovich, an illness! You’ve started neglecting your illness far too much, sir. Try having a word with an experienced doctor, not this fat friend of yours! . . . It’s delirium, sir! Everything you’re going through is sheer delirium!’ For a moment Raskolnikov felt the room begin to spin. ‘Surely, surely,’ flashed across his mind, ‘he’s not still lying even now? Impossible! Impossible!’ He pushed the thought away, sensing in advance how furious, how livid it could make him, sensing he might go mad with rage. ‘I wasn’t delirious. I was fully awake!’ he cried, straining all his powers of reasoning to enter into Porfiry’s game. ‘Fully awake! Do you hear?’
‘Yes, I understand, sir. I hear you! Yesterday, too, you said you weren’t delirious. You even laid particular emphasis on the fact! Say what you like and I’ll understand you, sir! Dearie me! . . . But hear me out, Rodion Romanovich, my benefactor, at least on this one point. Say you really, truly, were a criminal or that you were somehow mixed up in this wretched business, well, for heaven’s sake, would you really start emphasizing the fact that you weren’t delirious while you did all this, but, on the contrary, in full possession of your faculties? And, what’s more, emphasize it in such a particularly obstinate way – I mean, how could such a thing be possible, for heaven’s sake? It should be exactly the other way round, if you ask me. I mean, if there were anything bothering you, then you ought to emphasize precisely the fact that yes, absolutely, you were raving! Isn’t that so? Isn’t it?’ There was something sly about the tone of the question.
With a jolt, Raskolnikov shrank back from Porfiry to the very spine of the couch and stared in silent bewilderment at the man leaning over him. ‘Or take Mr Razumikhin and the matter of whether it was his idea to come by yesterday or you who prompted him?
“His idea” is what you should say, of course, concealing the fact that you prompted him! But no, you don’t conceal it at all! You even emphasize the fact that you prompted him!’ Raskolnikov had never emphasized this fact. A chill went down his spine. ‘You’re still lying,’ he said slowly and feebly, his lips twisted into a sickly smile. ‘Once again you’re trying to prove to me that you know my game inside out, that you know all my replies in advance.’ He himself almost knew that he was no longer weighing his words as he should. ‘You’re trying to frighten me . . . or else you’re just laughing at me . . .’ He continued to stare straight at him as he said this, and once again his eyes suddenly flashed with boundless rage.
‘You’re lying, lying!’ he cried. ‘You know full well that for any criminal the best dodge in the book is not to conceal what doesn’t have to be concealed. I don’t believe you!’ ‘What a wriggler you are!’ tittered Porfiry. ‘It’s hard work getting on with you, father. You’ve become positively monomaniacal! So you don’t believe me? But I say that you do believe me, that you already believe me an inch of the way, and I’ll make you go the whole mile, because I am deeply fond of you and truly want what is best for you.’ Raskolnikov’s lips began to quiver. ‘Yes, sir, I do, so let me tell you once and for all,’ he went on, taking Raskolnikov gently, amicably, by the arm, just above the elbow, ‘once and for all, sir: attend to your sickness. Especially now that your family has come to visit you. Think about them. You should be putting them at their ease and spoiling them, and instead you’re frightening them . . .’ ‘What business is it of yours? How do you know? Why are you so interested? You want to show me you’re on my trail, is that it?’ ‘Father! It’s you who told me all this – you! You don’t even notice how, in your excitement, you tell everyone everything in advance, me included. Mr Razumikhin, Dmitry Prokofich, also furnished me with a lot of interesting details yesterday. No, sir, you interrupted me just now but let me tell you that, for all your wit, your suspicious nature has even deprived you of your common sense, of your ability to see things clearly. Take the example I just mentioned, the bells: what a jewel, what a fact (a proper fact, sir) for me, an investigator, to present you with, just like that! And this doesn’t tell you anything? Why ever would I have done that if I suspected you even slightly? On the contrary, I ought to have begun by lulling your suspicions and concealing any knowledge of this fact; made you look the other way, as it were, before suddenly clubbing you smack on the crown (to use your own
expression): “What, pray, were you doing, sir, in the apartment of the murdered woman at ten o’clock in the evening, in fact almost eleven o’clock? And why did you ring the bell? And why did you ask about blood? And why did you confuse the caretakers and call them over to the police station, to the district lieutenant?” That’s what I ought to have done if I’d had even the faintest suspicion. I ought to have taken a formal statement from you, searched you and probably arrested you as well . . . So how can I nurture any suspicions towards you if I acted otherwise? I repeat, sir, you’re not seeing things clearly, you’re not seeing anything at all!’ Raskolnikov gave a violent jerk. Porfiry Petrovich couldn’t help but notice. ‘You’re still lying!’ he cried. ‘I don’t know what you’re up to, but you’re still lying . . . You were saying something different before. I know I’m not mistaken . . . You’re lying!’ ‘I’m lying?’ Porfiry rejoined, appearing to get worked up while retaining the most jovial and mocking expression, and seemingly quite untroubled by whatever opinion Mr Raskolnikov might hold of him. ‘I’m lying? . . . But what about the way I acted with you just now (me, the investigator!), dropping you hints and giving you every means to defend yourself, handing you all this psychology on a plate: “Sickness, delirium, mortally offended, depression, local police officers” and all the rest of it? Eh?
Heh-heh-heh! Although it’s worth pointing out, in passing, that all these psychological defence mechanisms, excuses and dodges are extremely flimsy, not to mention double- edged: “Sickness, delirium, daydreams – I imagined it – I can’t remember” – it’s all very well, sir, but why, dear boy, when sick or delirious, should it be precisely these daydreams that one imagines and not something different?
After all, they could have been different, couldn’t they? Eh?
Heh-heh-heh-heh!’ Raskolnikov looked at him with proud contempt.
‘In short,’ he said in a loud, insistent voice, getting up and pushing Porfiry back a little as he did so, ‘this is what I want to know: do you declare me beyond suspicion, definitively, or do younot? Tell me that, Porfiry Petrovich, tell me firmly and definitively, and tell me now!’ ‘Look at him – a veritable investigation committee!’ cried Porfiry with a perfectly jovial, sly and untroubled air. ‘But why on earth do you need to know all these things, when nobody has even begun to trouble you yet? You’re like a little child: not happy till he’s burned his fingers! And why are you so anxious? Why this urge to thrust yourself upon us? What reasons can there be? Eh? Heh-heh-heh!’ ‘I repeat,’ cried Raskolnikov, raging, ‘I can no longer endure . . .’ ‘What, sir? Uncertainty?’ interrupted Porfiry. ‘Don’t taunt me! I won’t have it! . . . I’m telling you, I won’t . . . I can’t and I won’t! . . . Do you hear? Do you hear?’ he shouted, banging his fist on the table again. ‘Not so loud! Quiet, I say! You’ll be heard! This is a serious warning: look after yourself. I’m not joking, sir!’ Porfiry whispered, but this time the kindly, womanish, alarmed expression of before was nowhere to be seen; on the contrary, now he was givingorders, sternly, with knitted brow, as if destroying all secrets and ambiguities at one fell swoop. But this lasted no more than an instant.
Briefly bemused, Raskolnikov now flew into a complete frenzy. It was strange, though: once again he obeyed the order to speak quietly, even though he was in the grip of the most violent paroxysm of fury. ‘I will not be tortured!’ he suddenly whispered in the same voice as before, instantly realizing, with pain and loathing, that he was incapable of not submitting to the order, and becoming even more enraged as a result. ‘Arrest me, search me, but kindly observe the correct form. Do not play with me, sir! Don’t you dare . . . !’
‘Now don’t you worry about form,’ interrupted Porfiry with the same sly grin as before, observing Raskolnikov admiringly, even delightedly. ‘I invited you here, father, as if it were my own home; one friend inviting another, as simple as that!’ ‘I don’t want your friendship – I spit on it! Understand?
Look, I’m taking my cap and I’m going. So what do you say to that, if you’re still planning to arrest me?’ He grabbed his cap and made for the door. ‘What about my little surprise – aren’t you interested?’ tittered Porfiry, grabbing him again just above the elbow and stopping him by the door. He was becoming ever more jovial and playful, and Raskolnikov could stand it no longer. ‘What little surprise? What are you talking about?’ he asked, suddenly stopping and staring at Porfiry in alarm. ‘Just a little surprise, sir, right there, on the other side of the door, heh-heh-heh!’ (He pointed towards the locked door in the partition, which led to his government apartment.) ‘I’ve locked it for the time being, to prevent him escaping.’ ‘What are you on about? Where? What?’ Raskolnikov went over to the door and tried to open it, but it was
locked. ‘Locked, sir. Here’s the key!’ And, indeed, he took a key from his pocket and showed it to him. ‘You’re still lying!’ screeched Raskolnikov, abandoning all self-restraint. ‘You’re lying, you damned buffoon!’ – and he charged at Porfiry, who seemed quite unafraid even as he retreated towards the door. ‘I understand everything, everything!’ he shouted, leaping towards him. ‘You’re lying and you’re taunting me, until I give myself away . . . !’ ‘You could hardly give yourself away any more than you have done already, father. Look, you’re in a perfect frenzy.
Don’t yell or I’ll call people in, sir!’
‘You’re lying! Nothing will happen! Call them in! You knew I was sick and you wanted to irritate me, enrage me, until I gave myself away, that’s your aim! But where are your facts? I’ve understood everything! You haven’t got any facts, just useless, worthless conjecture borrowed from Zametov! . . . You knew my character. You wanted to drive me into a frenzy, then suddenly club me round the head 23 with priests and deputies. . . Is that who you’re waiting for? Eh? Go on then! Where are they? Bring them in!’ ‘Deputies! What deputies, father? Whatever will he imagine next? We can hardly observe the correct form, as you say, if this is how you’re going to be. You don’t know how things are done, my dearest . . . There’s no running away from form, you’ll see,’ muttered Porfiry, listening in at the door.
And indeed, at that very moment, from the other side of the door, there came some sort of noise. ‘Ah, they’re coming!’ cried Raskolnikov. ‘You sent for them . . . You were waiting for them! You’d counted on . . .
Well, bring them all in: deputies, witnesses, the whole lot . . . Go on! I’m ready! Ready!’ But here a strange incident occurred, something so very unexpected, in the normal course of events, that there was simply no way either Raskolnikov or Porfiry Petrovich could ever have anticipated it.
