VI
Later, recalling this moment, Raskolnikov would picture it all as follows.
The noise behind the door suddenly grew a great deal louder and the door opened a little. ‘What’s going on?’ snapped Porfiry Petrovich. ‘Didn’t I tell you . . . ?’ At first there was no reply, but there were clearly several men behind the door, and someone, it seemed, was being pushed aside. ‘What’s going on out there, I say?’ Porfiry Petrovich repeated in alarm. ‘We’ve brought the prisoner, Mikolai,’ came someone’s voice. ‘Not now! Clear off! You’ll have to wait! . . . How did he get in here? What a shambles!’ yelled Porfiry, rushing towards the door. ‘It was him who . . . ,’ the same voice began again and suddenly broke off.
There was a second or two, no more, of actual fighting; then, all of a sudden, someone seemed to push someone else forcefully aside, after which a very pale man stepped right into Porfiry Petrovich’s office.
This man’s appearance, at first glance, was very strange.
He looked straight ahead, but it was as if he didn’t see anyone. His eyes flashed with determination, yet at the same time a deathly pallor covered his face, as if he were being led to his execution. His lips, now completely white, quivered faintly.
He was still very young, dressed like a commoner, average height, skinny, pudding-bowl hair and fine, somehow dry features. The man who had been
unexpectedly shoved aside was the first to chase after him into the room and managed to grab him by the shoulder – he was a guard. But, with a jerk of his arm, Mikolai wrenched himself free once again.
Several curious faces crowded the doorway. Some wanted to get in. It all happened in the blink of an eye. ‘Clear off, it’s too early! Wait to be called! . . . Why was he brought ahead of time?’ Porfiry Petrovich muttered, extremely annoyed, as if knocked off his stride. But Mikolai suddenly dropped to his knees. ‘Now what?’ shouted Porfiry in amazement. ‘I’m guilty! I’m the sinner! I’m the killer!’ Mikolai suddenly uttered, fairly loudly, despite seeming short of breath.
The silence lasted ten seconds or so, as if everyone had been struck dumb; even the guard shrank back from Mikolai, retreating mechanically towards the door and standing there without moving. ‘What’s going on?’ cried Porfiry Petrovich, emerging from a momentary stupor. ‘I’m . . . the killer . . . ,’ Mikolai repeated, after the briefest of pauses. ‘How . . . ? You . . . How . . . ? Who have you killed?’
Porfiry Petrovich seemed quite lost.
Again, Mikolai paused briefly. ‘Alyona Ivanovna and her sister, Lizaveta Ivanovna. I . . . killed them . . . with an axe. It was like a blackout . . . ,’ Mikolai suddenly added and fell silent once more. He was still on his knees.
Porfiry Petrovich stood still for a moment or two, as if deep in thought, then suddenly burst into motion again and began waving his arms at the uninvited witnesses. They vanished in a flash and the door closed. Next Porfiry glanced at Raskolnikov, who was standing in the corner and staring wildly at Mikolai, and made a move towards him, but suddenly stopped, looked at him, immediately
transferred his gaze to Mikolai, then back to Raskolnikov, then back to Mikolai and suddenly, as if carried away, went for Mikolai again. ‘Why are you trying to get ahead of me?’ he yelled at him almost spitefully. ‘I don’t remember asking you about blackouts . . . So, you killed them?’ ‘I’m the killer . . . I’m tes . . . testifying . . . ,’ uttered
Mikolai.
‘Dearie me! What did you do it with?’ ‘An axe. Had one ready.’ ‘Dearie me, this man’s in a hurry! On your own?’
Mikolai failed to grasp the question. ‘Did you do it on your own?’ ‘Yes. And Mitka’s innocent and had nothing to do with it.’ ‘Mitka can wait! Dear oh dear! . . . So – erm – so what on earth were you doing running down the stairs? The caretakers met the pair of you, did they not?’ ‘That was to . . . distract people . . . me running out with Mitka like that,’ Mikolai replied, as if he were hurrying through answers prepared in advance. ‘See, just as I thought!’ cried Porfiry with spite. ‘These aren’t his own words!’ he muttered, as if to himself, then suddenly noticed Raskolnikov again.
Evidently, he’d got so carried away with Mikolai that he’d forgotten all about Raskolnikov. Now he suddenly came to his senses. He was even embarrassed . . . ‘Rodion Romanovich, father! I do apologize,’ he said, rushing towards him. ‘It’s really not on. Please, sir . . . there’s no point you . . . I am also . . . So much for surprises! . . . Please, sir . . .’ And, taking him by the arm, he began showing him out. ‘You weren’t expecting this, it seems?’ said Raskolnikov, who was still fairly confused by the whole business, of course, but had perked up considerably. ‘You weren’t expecting it either, father. My oh my, just look how your hand’s shaking! Heh-heh!’
‘You’re shaking, too, Porfiry Petrovich.’ ‘So I am, sir. Hadn’t expected it, sir!’ They were already at the door. Porfiry was waiting impatiently for Raskolnikov to go through. ‘So you won’t be showing me your little surprise?’ said Raskolnikov suddenly. ‘His teeth are chattering, but he’s still talking. Heh-heh!
You are an ironical man! Well, sir, till next we meet!’ ‘It’sgoodbye, if you ask me!’ ‘All in God’s hands, sir, all in God’s hands!’ muttered Porfiry with a rather twisted smile.
Walking through the office, Raskolnikov noticed lots of people staring at him. In the crowded lobby he managed to pick out both of the caretakers fromthat house, the ones he’d been urging to go to the police bureau that night. They were standing there waiting for something. But no sooner had he set foot on the staircase than he suddenly heard Porfiry Petrovich’s voice behind him. He turned round to see Porfiry catching up with him, puffing and panting. ‘Just one tiny thing, Rodion Romanovich. That’s all in God’s hands, sir, but still, formally speaking, I will have to ask you one or two questions . . . So we’ll see each other again, sir, indeed we will.’ And Porfiry stood still before him, smiling. ‘Yes indeedy,’ he added.
He seemed to want to say something else, but somehow nothing came out. ‘And you forgive me, Porfiry Petrovich, about before . . . I got overexcited,’ began Raskolnikov, who’d cheered up so much that he couldn’t resist the chance to strike a pose. ‘Don’t mention it, sir . . . ,’ replied Porfiry almost joyfully. ‘I, too, sir . . . I’ve a quite poisonous character, I must admit! So we’ll be seeing each other, sir. God permitting, we’ll be seeing each other a whole lot more!’ ‘And we’ll get to know each other properly?’ rejoined Raskolnikov.
‘And we’ll get to know each other properly,’ echoed Porfiry Petrovich and, screwing up his eyes, gave him an extremely serious look. ‘Off to that name-day party, sir?’ ‘The funeral, sir.’ ‘Oh yes, the funeral! You take care of your health now, sir, your health . . .’ ‘I’ve no idea what I should be wishingyou!’ Raskolnikov replied, suddenly turning round again once he was already on his way down the stairs. ‘I’d like to wish you greater success, but look what a comical job you have!’ ‘But why “comical”, sir?’ Porfiry Petrovich, who’d already turned to go back, instantly pricked up his ears. ‘Well, what about this poor Mikolka, for example. You must have given him a terrible going over, psychologically, I mean, and in your own particular fashion, until he finally confessed. Day and night you must have been drumming it into him, “You’re the murderer, you’re the murderer . . .” – and now he’s confessed you’re stretching him out on the rack again: “Liar, you’re not the murderer! You couldn’t have been! These aren’t your own words!” What’s that if not comical?’ ‘Heh-heh-heh! So you noticed me telling Mikolai just now
that those weren’t his own words?’ ‘How could I not?’ ‘Heh-heh! You’re a wit, sir, you really are. Nothing escapes your notice! Such a playful mind, sir! And such a gift for winkling out comedy . . . heh-heh! They say that Gogol, among the writers, had that knack, do they not?’ ‘That’s right, Gogol.’ ‘Yes, sir, Gogol . . . Well, till next I have the pleasure, sir.’ ‘Quite so . . .’ Raskolnikov went straight home. He was so muddled and confused that, after returning home and collapsing on his couch, he sat there for a good quarter of an hour, just resting and trying as best he could to collect his thoughts.
He didn’t even try to make sense of Mikolai: he felt that he was beaten; that Mikolai’s confession contained something inexplicable, something astonishing, which for now was utterly beyond his comprehension. But Mikolai’s confession was an actual fact. The consequences of this fact instantly became clear to him: it was impossible for the lie to remain uncovered, and then they would be after him once more.
But until then, at least, he was free, and he simply had to do something, somehow, to help himself, for the danger was imminent.
But how imminent, exactly? The situation was becoming clearer. Recalling,in rough, in its general contours, the whole scene that had just passed between him and Porfiry, he couldn’t help shuddering all over again. Of course, he still did not know all of Porfiry’s aims, nor could he grasp all of his calculations. But part of the game had been revealed, and he, of course, understood better than anyone the terrifying significance, for him, of this ‘move’ on Porfiry’s part. A little more and hemight have given himself away completely, as an irreversible fact. Knowing the infirmity of his character, having correctly grasped it and pierced it at first glance, Porfiry had taken excessively drastic, but almost unerring steps. There was no denying that Raskolnikov had already managed, just now, to compromise himself far too much, but there were still no facts; everything was still merely relative. On second thoughts, though, perhaps he was missing something?
Perhaps he was mistaken? What exactly was Porfiry hoping to achieve today? Had he really prepared anything for him?
What exactly? Had he really been waiting for something?
How would they have parted today but for the unexpected drama caused by Mikolai?
Porfiry had shown almost his entire hand. He’d taken a risk, of course, but he’d shown it and (so it seemed to Raskolnikov) if he really had had anything more, he’d have shown that, too. What was his ‘surprise’? A joke at his
expense? Did it mean anything? Could it have contained anything even faintly resembling a fact, a concrete accusation? The man from yesterday? Where had he got to?
Where was he today? If Porfiry really did know anything concrete, then it could only be in connection with the man from yesterday . . .
He sat on the couch, his head drooping, his elbows on his knees and his face in his hands. Nervous tremors still coursed through his body. Eventually he got up, took his cap, thought for a moment and made for the door.
Something told him that today, at least, he was almost certainly safe. Suddenly, in his heart, he felt something close to joy: he wanted to get over to Katerina Ivanovna’s immediately. It was too late for the funeral, of course, but he’d be in time for the banquet, and there, now, he’d see Sonya.
He stopped, thought for a moment, and his lips forced out a sickly smile. ‘Today! Today!’ he repeated to himself. ‘Yes, today! Has to be . . .’ He was just about to open the door when it suddenly began to open all by itself. He jumped back with a shudder.
The door opened slowly and quietly, and there suddenly appeared the figure of yesterday’s manfrom out of the ground.
The man paused on the threshold, looked at Raskolnikov without saying anything and took a step into the room. He was no different from yesterday, exactly the same figure, the same clothes, but his face and his gaze had undergone a marked change: there was something doleful about him now and, after standing there a while, he heaved a deep sigh. All it needed was for him to put a palm to his cheek while cocking his head to one side and he could have been taken for a woman. ‘What do you want?’ asked Raskolnikov, more dead than alive.
The man said nothing, then suddenly made a very low bow, almost to the ground. At the very least, he touched the
ground with a finger of his right hand.
‘Well?’ cried Raskolnikov.
‘I’m sorry,’ said the man quietly.
‘What for?’
‘Malicious thoughts.’ Each was looking at the other. ‘I felt aggrieved. The way you showed up that time, sir, under the influence, maybe, wanting the caretakers to go down the station and enquiring about blood. Well, I felt aggrieved they let you off and marked you down as a drunk.
I was so aggrieved I lost sleep. So, recalling the address, we came here yesterday and made enquiries . . .’ ‘Who came?’ Raskolnikov interrupted, instantly
beginning to remember.
‘I did, I mean. I’ve done you wrong.’ ‘So you’re from that house?’ ‘But I was there that time, standing with them under the arch, or have you forgotten? We’ve even got our own business there, have had for years. We’re furriers, tradesmen, we work from home . . . and what aggrieved me most was . . .’ Raskolnikov had a sudden, vivid recollection of the whole scene under the arch two days earlier; it occurred to him that apart from the caretakers there were several other people there, even some women. He remembered one voice suggesting that he be taken straight to the police. He couldn’t recall the face of the speaker and didn’t recognize him even now, but he did remember making some sort of reply to him then, and turning towards him . . .
So here was the solution to yesterday’s dreadful riddle!
Most dreadful of all was to think how very close he’d come to his own, self-inflicted ruin, all on account of such apaltry circumstance. So aside from the talk of renting an apartment and of blood, this man had nothing to tell. So
Porfiry also had nothing, nothing except thatdelirium, no facts exceptpsychology, which isdouble-edged, nothing concrete. So if no more facts emerged (and why on earth should they?), then . . . then what could they do with him?
How could they expose him definitively, even if they arrested him? So Porfiry had only found out about the apartment now – and had known nothing before. ‘Was it you who told Porfiry today . . . about me showing up that time?’ he cried, struck by an unexpected idea.
‘Which Porfiry?’ ‘The chief investigator.’ ‘Yes, it was me. The caretakers didn’t go, so I went
instead.’ ‘Today?’ ‘Barely a minute before you. And I heard everything,
heard him torture you.’ ‘Where? What? When?’ ‘Right there, behind that partition of his. I was sitting there all that time.’ ‘What? Soyou were the surprise? How on earth did that happen? Incredible!’ ‘When we saw,’ the tradesman began, ‘that the caretakers weren’t having any of my suggestion, because, they said, it was too late, and anyway he’d probably be angry we hadn’t come right away, I was aggrieved and started losing sleep, and began making enquiries.
Yesterday I found out and today I went. First time I went he weren’t there. Came back an hour later – he couldn’t see me; came back a third time – admitted. I started filling him in on everything and he started hopping about the room and beating his chest. “What are you doing to me, you brigands?” he said. “If I’d only known such a thing, I’d have had him brought in under escort!” Then he ran out, called someone and began talking to him in the corner, then back to me again – asking me questions and cursing. He weren’t happy with me at all. I told him everything and said that
you didn’t dare answer me at all yesterday and hadn’t recognized me. So he started haring about the room and beating his chest, and getting angry, and running around again, and when you were announced – “All right,” he says, “get yourself behind the partition; sit there for the time being and don’t budge, whatever you hear,” and he brought me a chair himself and locked me in. “I might even ask for you,” he says. But when Mikolai was brought in, well, he showed me out, after you. “I’ll need you again,” he says, “I’ll have more questions for you . . .”’ ‘So were you there when he questioned Mikolai?’ ‘First he showed you out, then me straight after, and then he began interrogating Mikolai.’ The tradesman paused and suddenly bowed once again,
touching the floor with his finger. ‘Forgive my slander and malice.’ ‘God will forgive,’ replied Raskolnikov, and no sooner had he said this than the tradesman made another bow, though not to the ground, turned and walked out. ‘Everything is double-edged now; yes, everything is double-edged,’ Raskolnikov kept saying and left the room in better spirits than ever. ‘So the fight goes on,’ he said with a spiteful smile as he went down the stairs. His spite was directed at himself, and the memory of his ‘petty cowardice’ filled him with contempt and shame.
