Capítulo 19 de 41

V

The man was already entering the rooms. He came in with such an air as if he were restraining himself with all his might from bursting into laughter somehow. Behind him, with a completely dumbfounded and fierce face, red as a peony, lanky and awkward, entered the embarrassed Razumikhin. His face and whole figure were indeed comical at this moment and justified Raskolnikov's laughter. Raskolnikov, not yet introduced, bowed to the host standing in the middle of the room and looking questioningly at them, extended and shook his hand, still with a visible extraordinary effort to suppress his merriment and at least utter two or three words to introduce himself. But scarcely had he succeeded in assuming a serious air and mumbling something—when suddenly, as if involuntarily, he glanced again at Razumikhin and now could no longer hold out: the suppressed laughter burst forth all the more irrepressibly the more strongly it had been restrained until now. The extraordinary ferocity with which Razumikhin received this "heartfelt" laughter gave the whole scene an air of the most sincere gaiety and, most importantly, naturalness. Razumikhin, as if on purpose, helped matters still more.

"Pah, the devil!" he roared, waving his hand, and struck it right against a small round table on which stood a half-finished glass of tea. Everything went flying and jingling.

"But why break the chairs, gentlemen—it's a loss to the treasury!" Porfiry Petrovich cried cheerfully.

The scene presented itself thus: Raskolnikov was finishing his laughter, having forgotten his hand in his host's hand, but, knowing the measure, was waiting for a moment to finish more quickly and naturally. Razumikhin, finally confused by the fall of the table and the broken glass, looked gloomily at the fragments, spat, and turned sharply to the window, where he stood with his back to the company, with a terribly frowning face, looking out the window and seeing nothing. Porfiry Petrovich was laughing and wanted to laugh, but it was obvious that he needed explanations. In the corner on a chair sat Zametov, who had half-risen at the guests' entrance and stood waiting, his mouth parted in a smile, but looking at the whole scene with perplexity and even as if with distrust, and at Raskolnikov even with a certain embarrassment. Zametov's unexpected presence struck Raskolnikov unpleasantly.

"I must consider this!" he thought.

"Excuse me, please," he began, forcing himself into confusion, "Raskolnikov..."

"For heaven's sake, very pleased, sir, and pleased at how you entered... What, doesn't he even want to say hello?" Porfiry Petrovich nodded toward Razumikhin.

"By God, I don't know what infuriated him at me. I only told him on the way that he resembles Romeo, and... and proved it, and nothing else, it seems."

"Swine!" responded Razumikhin without turning around.

"So he had very serious reasons to get so angry over one little word," Porfiry laughed.

"Well, you! Investigator!.. Well, to hell with all of you!" Razumikhin cut him off and suddenly, laughing himself, with a more cheerful face, as if nothing had happened, approached Porfiry Petrovich.

"Enough! Everyone's a fool; to business: here's my friend, Rodion Romanych Raskolnikov; firstly, he's heard of you and wishes to make your acquaintance, and secondly, he has a small matter to see you about. Bah! Zametov! How do you come to be here? You're acquainted, then? Have you known each other long?"

"What's this now!" Raskolnikov thought anxiously.

Zametov seemed embarrassed, but not very.

"We met yesterday at your place," he said casually.

"So God spared me the trouble: last week he kept asking me desperately to introduce him to you, Porfiry, somehow, and you've sniffed each other out without me... Where's your tobacco?"

Porfiry Petrovich was dressed domestically, in a dressing gown, very clean linen, and worn-down slippers. He was a man of about thirty-five, somewhat below average height, plump and even with a paunch, clean-shaven, without mustache or side-whiskers, with closely cropped hair on his large round head, somehow especially convexly rounded at the back. His puffy, round, and slightly snub-nosed face was the color of an invalid, dark yellow, but rather vigorous and even mocking. It would even have been good-natured if the expression of his eyes hadn't interfered—with a sort of watery, liquid gleam, covered by almost white, blinking lashes, as if winking at someone. The gaze of these eyes somehow strangely did not harmonize with his whole figure, which had in it even something feminine, and gave it something much more serious than could be expected of it at first glance.

As soon as Porfiry Petrovich heard that his guest had "a matter" to see him about, he immediately asked him to sit on the sofa, seated himself at the other end, and fixed his eyes on the guest, in immediate expectation of an exposition of the matter, with that intense and all too serious attention which is even burdensome and embarrassing from the first moment, especially when one is unacquainted, and especially if what you are expounding, in your own opinion, is far from proportionate to such extraordinarily important attention being paid to you. But Raskolnikov explained his matter in brief and coherent words, clearly and precisely, and was satisfied with himself enough to succeed in examining Porfiry fairly well. Porfiry Petrovich also never took his eyes off him the entire time. Razumikhin, seated opposite at the same table, followed the exposition of the matter hotly and impatiently, constantly shifting his eyes from one to the other and back, which was already somewhat excessive.

"Fool!" Raskolnikov cursed to himself.

"You should file a notice with the police," Porfiry answered with a most businesslike air, "to the effect, sir, that having been informed of such-and-such an incident, that is, of this murder, you request, in your turn, to inform the investigator in charge of the case that such-and-such items belong to you and that you wish to redeem them... or there... but they'll write it for you, actually."

"The thing is that, at the present moment," Raskolnikov tried his best to appear embarrassed, "I'm not quite in funds... and even can't afford such a trifle... you see, I would only like to declare now that these items are mine, but that when I have the money..."

"That's all the same, sir," answered Porfiry Petrovich, coldly receiving the explanation about finances, "but you may also, if you wish, write directly to me, in the same sense, that, having been informed of such-and-such and declaring such-and-such items to be mine, I request..."

"Can it be on plain paper?" Raskolnikov hastened to interrupt, again taking interest in the financial part of the matter.

"Oh, on the plainest paper, sir!" And suddenly Porfiry Petrovich somehow looked at him mockingly, squinting and as if winking at him. However, this might only have seemed so to Raskolnikov, because it lasted only an instant. At least there was something like that. Raskolnikov could have sworn he winked at him, the devil knows why.

"He knows!" flashed through him like lightning.

"Forgive me for troubling you with such trifles," he continued, somewhat flustered, "my things are worth only five rubles in all, but they're especially dear to me as mementos of those from whom I received them, and, I confess, when I found out, I was very frightened..."

"That's why you jumped up so yesterday when I blurted out to Zosimov that Porfiry was questioning the pawners!" Razumikhin interjected, with obvious intention.

This was already unbearable. Raskolnikov couldn't stand it and flashed angrily at him with his blazing black eyes. He immediately came to his senses.

"You seem to be mocking me, brother," he addressed him with cleverly feigned irritation. "I agree that perhaps I worry too much about such trash in your eyes, but one can't consider me either selfish or greedy for it, and in my eyes, these two insignificant little things may not be trash at all. I already told you just now that these silver watches, which are worth a penny, are the only thing that remained after my father. Laugh at me, but my mother has arrived," he suddenly turned to Porfiry, "and if she were to find out," he turned quickly back to Razumikhin, trying especially to make his voice tremble, "that these watches were lost, then, I swear, she'd be in despair! Women!"

"But not at all! I didn't mean it that way at all! Quite the opposite!" cried the distressed Razumikhin.

"Was it good? Natural? Didn't I overdo it?" Raskolnikov trembled inwardly. "Why did I say: 'Women'?"

"And your mother has arrived?" Porfiry Petrovich inquired for some reason.

"Yes."

"When was that, sir?"

"Yesterday evening."

Porfiry paused, as if considering.

"Your items could in no case have been lost," he continued calmly and coldly. "I've been waiting for you here for quite some time now."

And as if nothing had happened, he solicitously began offering an ashtray to Razumikhin, who was mercilessly littering the carpet with his cigarette. Raskolnikov started, but Porfiry seemed not even to be looking, still preoccupied with Razumikhin's cigarette.

"Wha-at? Waiting! Do you mean to say you knew that he too pawned things there?" cried Razumikhin.

Porfiry Petrovich addressed Raskolnikov directly:

"Both your items, the ring and the watch, were at her place wrapped in one paper, and on the paper your name was clearly marked in pencil, as well as the date of the month when she received them from you..."

"How observant you are!.." Raskolnikov smiled awkwardly, especially trying to look him straight in the eye; but he couldn't restrain himself and suddenly added: "I remarked that just now because there must have been a great many pawners... so that it would be difficult for you to remember them all... And you, on the contrary, remember them all so distinctly, and... and..."

"Stupid! Weak! Why did I add that!"

"But almost all the pawners are now known, so that you're the only one who hasn't deigned to call," answered Porfiry with a barely perceptible shade of mockery.

"I wasn't quite well."

"I heard that too, sir. I even heard that you were very upset about something. You seem rather pale even now?"

"Not pale at all... on the contrary, quite well!" Raskolnikov snapped rudely and angrily, suddenly changing his tone. Anger was welling up in him, and he couldn't suppress it. "And in anger I'll let something slip!" flashed through him again. "Why are they tormenting me!.."

"Not quite well!" Razumikhin picked up. "What rubbish! Until yesterday he was practically delirious and unconscious... Would you believe it, Porfiry, as soon as we—Zosimov and I—turned our backs yesterday, he got dressed and slipped away secretly and was carousing somewhere till almost midnight, and this in complete, I tell you, delirium—can you imagine it! A most remarkable case!"

"Really, in complete delirium? Do tell!" Porfiry shook his head with a somewhat feminine gesture.

"Eh, nonsense! Don't believe him! But you don't believe it anyway!" burst from Raskolnikov too angrily. But Porfiry Petrovich seemed not to hear these strange words.

"But how could you go out if you weren't delirious?" Razumikhin suddenly heated up. "Why did you go out? What for?.. And why secretly? Well, was there any sound sense in you then? Now that all danger has passed, I'll tell you straight!"

"They annoyed me very much yesterday," Raskolnikov suddenly addressed Porfiry with an impudently challenging smile, "so I ran away from them to rent an apartment, so they wouldn't find me, and I took a whole pile of money with me. Mr. Zametov saw the money. Well, Mr. Zametov, was I sensible yesterday or delirious—settle the dispute?"

He would have liked to strangle Zametov at that moment, it seemed. His look and silence displeased him too much.

"In my opinion, you spoke quite sensibly, sir, and even cleverly, sir, only you were too irritable," Zametov declared dryly.

"And today Nikodim Fomich told me," Porfiry Petrovich interjected, "that he met you yesterday, very late, at the apartment of an official who was run over by horses..."

"Well, there's that official for you!" Razumikhin picked up, "weren't you crazy at the official's? You gave the widow your last money for the funeral! Well, if you wanted to help—give fifteen, give twenty, at least leave yourself three rubles, but you forked over all twenty-five!"

"Maybe I found a treasure somewhere and you don't know about it? So I was generous yesterday... Mr. Zametov knows I found a treasure!.. Please excuse me," he addressed Porfiry with trembling lips, "for troubling you for half an hour with such trivial debate. We're boring you, aren't we?"

"For heaven's sake, sir, on the contra-a-ary! If you only knew how you interest me! It's curious to watch and listen... and I confess I'm so glad you've finally deigned to call..."

"Well, at least give us some tea! My throat's parched!" Razumikhin cried out.

"Splendid idea! Perhaps everyone will join us. But wouldn't you like... something more substantial before tea?"

"Get out!"

Porfiry Petrovich went out to order tea.

Thoughts whirled like a whirlwind in Raskolnikov's head. He was terribly irritated.

"The main thing is, they don't even hide it, and don't want to stand on ceremony! And on what grounds, if you don't know me at all, did you speak about me with Nikodim Fomich? So they don't even want to hide that they're tracking me like a pack of dogs! They spit right in my face so openly!—he trembled with rage. "Well, strike directly, don't play cat and mouse. That's impolite, Porfiry Petrovich, and I may not allow it yet, sir!.. I'll stand up and blurt out the whole truth in all their faces; and you'll see how I despise you!.." He could barely catch his breath. "But what if it only seems so to me? What if it's a mirage and I'm mistaken about everything, getting angry from inexperience, not maintaining my vile role? Perhaps it's all unintentional? All their words are ordinary, but there's something in them... All this can always be said, but there's something. Why did he say directly 'at her place'? Why did Zametov add that I spoke cleverly? Why do they speak in such a tone? Yes... the tone... Razumikhin's sitting right here, why doesn't anything seem strange to him? Nothing ever seems strange to that innocent blockhead! Fever again!.. Did Porfiry wink at me earlier or not? Probably nonsense; why would he wink? Want to irritate my nerves or are they teasing me? Either it's all a mirage, or they know!.. Even Zametov is insolent... Is Zametov insolent? Zametov changed his mind overnight. I had a presentiment he'd change his mind! He's here as if at home, yet it's his first time. Porfiry doesn't consider him a guest, sits with his back to him. They're in cahoots! They must have gotten together because of me! They must have been talking about me before we arrived!.. Do they know about the apartment? If only it would be over soon!.. When I said I ran away yesterday to rent an apartment, he let it pass, didn't pick it up... And that was clever of me to work in about the apartment: it'll come in handy later!.. Delirious, supposedly!.. Ha-ha-ha! He knows about the whole evening yesterday! Didn't know about mother's arrival!.. And the witch even wrote the date in pencil!.. You're lying, I won't give in! These aren't facts yet, just a mirage! No, give me facts! And the apartment isn't a fact, but delirium; I know what to tell them... Do they know about the apartment? I won't leave till I find out! Why did I come? But the fact that I'm angry now—that may well be a fact! Ugh, how irritable I am! But maybe that's good too; the sickly role... He's feeling me out. He'll try to confuse me. Why did I come?"

All this flashed through his head like lightning.

Porfiry Petrovich returned in an instant. He suddenly somehow cheered up.

"I've had a headache since your party yesterday, brother... And I'm somehow all unhinged," he began in quite a different tone, laughing, to Razumikhin.

"Well, was it interesting? I left you at the most interesting point yesterday, didn't I? Who won?"

"No one, of course. We got onto eternal questions, soared in the clouds."

"Imagine, Rodya, what they got onto yesterday: is there such a thing as crime or not? They talked utter nonsense!"

"What's so surprising? An ordinary social question," Raskolnikov answered distractedly.

"The question wasn't formulated quite that way," Porfiry remarked.

"Not quite that way, it's true," Razumikhin immediately agreed, hurrying and heating up as was his custom. "Look, Rodion: listen and give your opinion. I want it. I was beside myself with them yesterday and was waiting for you; I told them about you, that you'd come... It started with the socialist view. The view is well known: crime is a protest against the abnormality of the social order—and nothing more, and nothing else, and no other causes are admitted—and nothing else!.."

"There, you lied!" cried Porfiry Petrovich. He was visibly livening up and kept laughing, looking at Razumikhin, which egged him on still more.

"N-nothing else is admitted!" Razumikhin interrupted heatedly, "I'm not lying!.. I'll show you their books: it's all because 'environment has crushed them'—and nothing more! Their favorite phrase! From this it follows directly that if society is organized normally, all crimes will vanish at once, since there'll be nothing to protest against, and everyone will instantly become righteous. Nature isn't taken into account, nature is banished, nature isn't supposed to exist! According to them, it's not humanity, having developed by the historical, living path to the end, that will finally of itself turn into a normal society, but, on the contrary, a social system, emerging from some mathematical head, will immediately organize all humanity and make it righteous and sinless in one instant, before any living process, without any historical and living path! That's why they instinctively dislike history so much: 'nothing but outrages and stupidities in it'—and they explain everything by stupidity alone! That's why they dislike the living process of life so much: no need for a living soul! A living soul demands life, a living soul won't obey mechanics, a living soul is suspicious, a living soul is retrograde! But here, though it smells of carrion and can be made of India rubber—it's not living, it has no will, it's slavish, it won't rebel! And the result is that they've reduced everything to just laying bricks and arranging corridors and rooms in the phalanstery! The phalanstery's ready, but your nature isn't ready for the phalanstery yet, it wants life, it hasn't completed the life process yet, it's too early for the cemetery! You can't leap over nature with logic alone! Logic can foresee three cases, but there are a million! Cut out the whole million and reduce everything to the question of comfort! The easiest solution to the problem! Seductively clear, and no need to think! The main thing—no need to think! The whole mystery of life fits on two printed sheets!"

"Look at him bursting forth, drumming away! Got to hold his hands," Porfiry laughed. "Imagine," he turned to Raskolnikov, "it was just like this yesterday evening, in one room, six voices, and he'd plied them with punch beforehand—can you imagine? No, brother, you're lying: 'environment' means a lot in crime; I'll confirm that for you."

"I know myself it means a lot, but tell me this: a forty-year-old violates a ten-year-old girl—was it environment that induced him to do it?"

"Well, strictly speaking, perhaps it was environment," Porfiry remarked with surprising gravity, "a crime against a girl can very, very much indeed be explained by 'environment.'"

Razumikhin almost flew into a rage.

"Well, do you want me to deduce for you right now," he bellowed, "that you have white eyelashes solely and only because the Ivan the Great Bell Tower is thirty-five sazhens high, and deduce it clearly, precisely, progressively, and even with a liberal tinge? I'll undertake it! Well, do you want to bet!"

"I accept! Let's hear how he'll deduce it!"

"Damn it, he's just pretending!" cried Razumikhin, jumping up and waving his hand. "Is it worth talking to you! He does it all on purpose, you don't know him yet, Rodion! Yesterday he took their side too, just to make fools of everyone. And what he said yesterday, good Lord! And they were so pleased with him!.. He can keep it up for two weeks at a time. Last year he convinced us for some reason that he was going into a monastery: he stuck to it for two months! Recently he took it into his head to assure us he was getting married, that everything was ready for the wedding. He even had a new suit made. We were already congratulating him. No bride, nothing: all a mirage!"

"But that's not true! I had the suit made first. It was because of the new suit that I got the idea to fool you all."

"Are you really such a pretender?" Raskolnikov asked casually.

"You thought not? Just wait, I'll fool you too—ha-ha-ha! No, you see, sir, I'll tell you the whole truth. Regarding all these questions—crime, environment, girls—I'm reminded now, and indeed I've always been interested in, an article of yours: 'On Crime'... or what was it called, I forget. I don't remember the title. Two months ago I had the pleasure of reading it in the 'Periodical Review.'"

"My article? In the 'Periodical Review'?" Raskolnikov asked in surprise. "I did indeed write an article six months ago when I left the university, about a book, but I took it to the 'Weekly Review,' not the 'Periodical.'"

"But it ended up in the 'Periodical.'"

"But the 'Weekly Review' ceased to exist, that's why they didn't print it then..."

"That's true, sir; but when it ceased to exist, the 'Weekly Review' merged with the 'Periodical Review,' and so your article appeared in the 'Periodical Review' two months ago. Didn't you know?"

Raskolnikov indeed knew nothing.

"Good heavens, you can ask them for money for the article! What a character you have, though! You live so reclusively that you don't know about things directly concerning you. It's a fact, sir."

"Bravo, Rodka! I didn't know either!" cried Razumikhin. "I'll run to the reading room today and ask for the issue! Two months ago? What date? Doesn't matter, I'll find it! What a thing! And he didn't say!"

"How did you find out that the article was mine? It's signed with a letter."

"By chance, and only the other day. Through the editor; I'm acquainted... I was very interested."

"I examined, I remember, the psychological state of the criminal during the whole course of the crime."

"Yes, sir, and you insist that the act of executing the crime is always accompanied by illness. Very, very original, but... it wasn't this part of your article that interested me, but a certain idea passed over at the end of the article, which you, unfortunately, conduct only by hint, unclearly... In a word, if you recall, there's a certain hint to the effect that there exist in the world supposedly certain such persons who can... that is, not that they can, but have the full right to commit all sorts of outrages and crimes, and that the law supposedly isn't written for them."

Raskolnikov smiled at the forced and deliberate distortion of his idea.

"What? What's that? A right to crime? But not because 'environment has crushed them'?" Razumikhin inquired with something even like fright.

"No, no, not quite because of that," answered Porfiry. "The whole point is that in their article all people are somehow divided into 'ordinary' and 'extraordinary.' The ordinary must live in obedience and have no right to transgress the law, because they are, you see, ordinary. But the extraordinary have the right to commit all sorts of crimes and transgress the law in every way, specifically because they are extraordinary. That's how it is with you, it seems, if I'm not mistaken?"

"How can this be? It can't possibly be so!" Razumikhin muttered in bewilderment.

Raskolnikov smiled again. He understood at once what it was about and what they wanted to push him toward; he remembered his article. He decided to accept the challenge.

"That's not quite how it is with me," he began simply and modestly. "However, I admit you've expounded it almost correctly, even, if you like, completely correctly..." (It seemed to please him to agree that it was completely correct.) "The only difference is that I don't at all insist that extraordinary people must and are obliged always to commit all sorts of outrages, as you say. I don't even think such an article would be allowed into print. I simply hinted that an 'extraordinary' man has the right... that is, not an official right, but he himself has the right to permit his conscience to step over... certain obstacles, and solely only in the case when the execution of his idea (sometimes salutary, perhaps, for all humanity) requires it. You are pleased to say that my article is unclear; I'm prepared to clarify it for you as far as possible. I may not be mistaken in supposing that you seem to want just that; by all means, sir. In my opinion, if Kepler's and Newton's discoveries, as a consequence of certain combinations, could in no way have become known to people except through the sacrifice of the life of one, ten, a hundred and so on people who prevented this discovery or stood in the way as an obstacle, then Newton would have had the right, and even would have been obliged... to eliminate these ten or hundred people in order to make his discoveries known to all humanity. From this, however, it doesn't follow at all that Newton had the right to kill anyone he pleased, passersby and crossers, or to steal every day at the market. Further, I remember, I develop in my article that all... well, for example, even the lawgivers and founders of humanity, beginning with the most ancient ones, continuing with Lycurguses, Solons, Mohammeds, Napoleons and so on, all without exception were criminals, already by the very fact that, in giving a new law, they thereby violated the old one, sacredly revered by society and handed down from the fathers, and, of course, didn't stop even before blood, if only blood (sometimes quite innocent and valiantly shed for the ancient law) could help them. It's even remarkable that most of these benefactors and founders of humanity were especially terrible bloodshedders. In a word, I deduce that all, not just the great ones, but even those who step just slightly out of line, that is, those even slightly capable of saying something new, must, by their nature, be necessarily criminals—more or less, of course. Otherwise it would be difficult for them to get out of line, and they, of course, cannot agree to remain in line, again by their nature, and in my opinion, they're even obliged not to agree. In a word, you see that so far there's nothing particularly new here. This has been printed and read a thousand times. As for my division of people into ordinary and extraordinary, I agree that it's somewhat arbitrary, but I don't insist on exact figures either. I only believe in my main idea. It consists precisely in the fact that people, by a law of nature, are divided generally into two categories: into a lower one (the ordinary), that is, so to speak, into material serving solely for the generation of their own kind, and properly into people, that is, those having the gift or talent to say a new word in their milieu. The subdivisions here are, of course, infinite, but the distinguishing features of both categories are quite sharp: the first category, that is, the material, generally speaking, are people conservative by nature, proper, living in obedience and loving to be obedient. In my opinion, they're even obliged to be obedient, because that's their purpose, and there's decidedly nothing humiliating for them in it. The second category all transgress the law, are destroyers or inclined to that, depending on their abilities. The crimes of these people are, of course, relative and various; for the most part they demand, in very diverse declarations, the destruction of the present in the name of something better. But if it's necessary for him, for his idea, to step even over a corpse, over blood, then he can, in my opinion, within himself, in conscience, give himself permission to step over blood—depending, however, on the idea and its dimensions—note that. Only in this sense do I speak in my article of their right to crime. (You recall, we started with the legal question.) However, there's not much to worry about: the masses almost never recognize this right of theirs, execute and hang them (more or less), and thereby, quite justly, fulfill their conservative purpose, with this proviso, however, that in subsequent generations this same mass places the executed on pedestals and worships them (more or less). The first category are always the masters of the present, the second category are the masters of the future. The first preserve the world and increase it numerically; the second move the world and lead it to its goal. Both the one and the other have a completely equal right to exist. In short, for me all have equal rights, and—vive la guerre éternelle—until the New Jerusalem, of course!"

"So you still believe in the New Jerusalem?"

"I believe," Raskolnikov answered firmly; saying this and throughout his entire long tirade, he looked at the ground, having chosen a point on the carpet.

"A-a-and do you believe in God? Forgive me for being so curious."

"I believe," Raskolnikov repeated, raising his eyes to Porfiry.

"A-a-and do you believe in the resurrection of Lazarus?"

"I-I believe. Why all this?"

"Do you believe literally?"

"Literally."

"I see, sir... so I was curious. Forgive me, sir. But permit me—returning to the previous matter—they're not always executed, are they; some, on the contrary..."

"Triumph in life? Oh yes, some achieve it even in life, and then..."

"They themselves begin executing?"

"If necessary and, you know, even for the most part. Your observation is witty, generally."

"Thank you, sir. But tell me this: how would one distinguish these extraordinary ones from the ordinary? At birth, are there such signs? I mean that there should be more precision here, so to speak, more external definition: forgive the natural anxiety of a practical and well-meaning man, but couldn't one introduce, for example, special clothing, have them wear something, brand them there, or something?.. Because, you'll agree, if confusion occurs and one from one category imagines he belongs to the other category and begins to 'eliminate all obstacles,' as you so happily expressed it, then really..."

"Oh, this happens very often! This observation of yours is even wittier than the previous one..."

"Thank you, sir..."

"Not at all, sir; but consider that a mistake is possible only on the part of the first category, that is, of 'ordinary' people (as I, perhaps very unsuccessfully, called them). Despite their innate inclination to obedience, due to a certain playfulness of nature, which is not denied even to a cow, very many of them like to imagine themselves progressive people, 'destroyers,' and to meddle in the 'new word,' and this quite sincerely, sir. Really new ones they at the same time very often fail to notice and even despise, as backward and basely thinking people. But, in my opinion, there can be no significant danger here, and you really have nothing to worry about, because they never go far. They could sometimes be flogged, of course, for getting carried away, to remind them of their place, but nothing more; you don't even need an executioner: they'll flog themselves, because they're very proper; some render this service to each other, while others do it to themselves with their own hands... They impose various public penances on themselves—the result is beautiful and edifying, in short, you have nothing to worry about... Such is the law."

"Well, at least on that side, you've reassured me somewhat; but here's another trouble, sir: tell me, please, are there many such people who have the right to cut down others, these 'extraordinary' ones? I'm prepared to bow down, of course, but you'll agree, it's frightening, sir, if there are too many of them, eh?"

"Oh, don't worry about that either," Raskolnikov continued in the same tone. "Generally, people with a new idea, even those just barely capable of saying anything at all new, are born extraordinarily rarely, even strangely rarely. Only one thing is clear, that the order of people's birth, of all these categories and subdivisions, must be very accurately and precisely determined by some law of nature. This law is, of course, unknown now, but I believe it exists and may subsequently become known. The vast mass of people, the material, exist in the world solely in order that at last, through some effort, by some mysterious process still unknown, through some crossing of races and breeds, they should strain and finally produce into the world, well, even one out of a thousand, at least a somewhat independent person. One with broader independence is born, perhaps, from ten thousand (I'm speaking approximately, illustratively). One with still broader independence—from a hundred thousand. Geniuses—from millions, and great geniuses, the completers of humanity—perhaps after many thousands of millions of people on earth. In a word, I haven't looked into the retort in which all this takes place. But a definite law certainly exists and must exist; it can't be a matter of chance."

"What, are you both joking or what?" Razumikhin finally cried out. "Are you fooling each other or not? Sitting there and mocking each other! Are you serious, Rodya?"

Raskolnikov silently raised his pale and almost sad face to him and made no answer. And strange to Razumikhin, beside this quiet and sad face, seemed the undisguised, intrusive, irritable, and impolite sarcasm of Porfiry.

"Well, brother, if this is really serious, then... You're right, of course, in saying that it's not new and resembles everything we've read and heard a thousand times; but what's really original in all this—and belongs to you alone, to my horror—is that you still permit blood in conscience, and, forgive me, with such fanaticism even... So this, consequently, is the main idea of your article. For this permission of blood in conscience, this... this, in my opinion, is more terrible than if it were officially permitted to shed blood, legally..."

"Quite right, it is more terrible, sir," Porfiry responded.

"No, you must have gotten carried away somehow! There's a mistake here. I'll read it... You got carried away! You can't think this way... I'll read it."

"There isn't all this in the article, only hints there," Raskolnikov said.

"Yes, sir, yes, sir," Porfiry couldn't sit still, "it's almost become clear to me now how you are pleased to regard crime, sir, but... excuse me for my importunity (I'm troubling you too much, I'm embarrassed myself)—you see, sir: you reassured me very much earlier, sir, about erroneous cases of confusion of the two categories, but... I keep worrying about various practical cases again! What if some husband or youth imagines he's a Lycurgus or Mohammed... a future one, of course—and starts eliminating all obstacles to that end... He has, you see, a long campaign ahead, and money's needed for a campaign... well, and he starts obtaining it for the campaign... you know?"

Zametov suddenly snorted from his corner. Raskolnikov didn't even raise his eyes to him.

"I must agree," he answered calmly, "that such cases must indeed occur. The stupid and vain especially fall for that bait; youth especially."

"You see, sir. So what then, sir?"

"What then," Raskolnikov smiled, "it's not my fault. So it is and always will be. He" (he nodded toward Razumikhin) "was just saying that I permit blood. What of it? Society is sufficiently secured by exiles, prisons, investigating magistrates, hard labor—why worry? Go ahead and search for the thief!.."

"Well, and if we find him?"

"Serves him right."

"You're being logical. Well, sir, but what about his conscience?"

"What concern is that of yours?"

"Well, just so, out of humanity, sir."

"Whoever has one will suffer, if he recognizes his error. That's his punishment—besides hard labor."

"But the real geniuses," Razumikhin asked, frowning, "those who have been given the right to cut—those shouldn't suffer at all, even for the blood shed?"

"Why the word: should? There's neither permission nor prohibition here. Let him suffer, if he pities the victim... Suffering and pain are always obligatory for broad consciousness and a deep heart. Truly great people, it seems to me, must experience great sadness in the world," he added suddenly thoughtfully, even not in the tone of the conversation.

He raised his eyes, looked thoughtfully at everyone, smiled, and took his cap. He was too calm compared to how he'd entered earlier, and he felt it. Everyone stood up.

"Well, sir, curse me or not, be angry or not, but I can't resist," Porfiry Petrovich concluded again, "permit one more little question (I'm troubling you terribly, sir!), I just wanted to slip in one tiny little idea, solely so as not to forget, sir..."

"Very well, state your little idea," Raskolnikov stood before him serious and pale, waiting.

"Well, you see, sir... I really don't know how best to express it... the little idea is rather playful... psychological, sir... Well, you see, sir, when you were composing your article—surely it couldn't be, heh-heh! that you didn't consider yourself, well even just a tiny bit, also an 'extraordinary' person speaking a new word—in your sense, that is, sir... Isn't that so, sir?"

"Very possible," Raskolnikov answered contemptuously.

Razumikhin made a movement.

"And if so, sir, could you yourself have resolved—well, in view of certain worldly failures and constraints, or for the furtherance somehow of all humanity—to step over the obstacle?.. Well, for instance, to kill and rob?.."

And somehow suddenly again he winked at him with his left eye and laughed inaudibly—exactly as earlier.

"If I did step over, I certainly wouldn't tell you," Raskolnikov answered with defiant, arrogant contempt.

"No, sir, I was just interested, really, for understanding your article, in a purely literary sense only, sir..."

"Pah, how obvious and brazen this is!" Raskolnikov thought with disgust.

"Allow me to observe," he answered dryly, "that I don't consider myself a Mohammed or Napoleon... nor anyone of such persons whatsoever, consequently, not being them, I cannot give you a satisfactory explanation of how I would have acted."

"Come now, who in Russia nowadays doesn't consider himself a Napoleon?" Porfiry suddenly pronounced with terrible familiarity. Even in the intonation of his voice there was something especially clear this time.

"Wasn't it some future Napoleon who finished off our Alyona Ivanovna with an axe last week?" Zametov suddenly blurted from the corner.

Raskolnikov remained silent and stared steadily, firmly at Porfiry. Razumikhin frowned darkly. Even before it had begun to seem like something to him. He looked around angrily. A minute of grim silence passed. Raskolnikov turned to leave.

"Are you leaving already!" Porfiry said affectionately, extending his hand extremely courteously. "Very, very glad to make your acquaintance. And regarding your request, have no doubts. Write just as I told you. Or better yet, come to see me there yourself... sometime soon... even tomorrow. I'll be there around eleven o'clock, for certain. We'll arrange everything... and have a talk... You, as one of the last to be there, might have something to tell us..." he added with a most good-natured look.

"You want to interrogate me officially, with all the formalities?" Raskolnikov asked sharply.

"Why, sir? That's not required at all for the time being. You misunderstood. You see, I don't let opportunities slip and... and I've already talked with all the pawners... took depositions from some... and you, as the last... Oh, by the way!" he cried out, suddenly delighted about something, "by the way, I just remembered, what am I thinking!.." he turned to Razumikhin, "you kept pestering me about that Nikolashka then... well, I know myself, I know myself," he turned to Raskolnikov, "that the lad's innocent, but what can one do, we had to trouble Mitka too... well, here's the point, sir, the whole essence, sir: when you were going up the stairs that time... permit me: you were there around eight o'clock, sir?"

"Around eight," Raskolnikov answered, unpleasantly feeling at that very second that he could have not said it.

"So when you were going, sir, around eight o'clock, up the stairs, didn't you see in the second-floor apartment—remember?—in the open apartment, two workmen or at least one of them? They were painting there, didn't you notice? It's very, very important for them!.."

"Painters? No, I didn't see any..." Raskolnikov answered slowly, as if rummaging in his recollections, at the same moment straining with his whole being and going numb with anguish to guess as quickly as possible where the trap was and not overlook anything? "No, I didn't see, and I didn't notice any such apartment being open... but on the fourth floor (he had already fully mastered the trap and was triumphant) I remember an official was moving out of his apartment... opposite Alyona Ivanovna's... I remember... that I remember clearly... soldiers were carrying out some sofa and squeezed me against the wall... but painters—no, I don't remember any painters being there... and there wasn't an open apartment anywhere, I don't think. No; there wasn't..."

"What are you talking about!" Razumikhin suddenly cried, as if coming to his senses and realizing, "the painters were working on the very day of the murder, and he was there three days before! What are you asking about?"

"Pah! I got confused!" Porfiry struck his forehead. "Damn it, this case is making my mind go round and round!" he addressed Raskolnikov as if apologizing, "it would be so important for us to find out whether anyone saw them in the apartment at eight o'clock that I imagined just now that you too might be able to tell us... I completely confused it!"

"Then you should be more attentive," Razumikhin remarked gloomily.

The last words were spoken already in the front hall. Porfiry Petrovich escorted them to the very door with extreme courtesy. They both came out onto the street gloomy and sullen and didn't speak a word for several steps. Raskolnikov drew a deep breath...