Capítulo 25 de 41

V

When the following morning, at exactly eleven o'clock, Raskolnikov entered the building of the —th district, in the police department for criminal investigations, and asked to be announced to Porfiry Petrovich, he was even surprised at how long they kept him waiting: at least ten minutes passed before he was called in. According to his calculations, it seemed they should have pounced upon him at once. Meanwhile he stood in the waiting room, and people walked past him who apparently had no business with him whatsoever. In the next room, resembling an office, several clerks sat writing, and it was obvious that not one of them had the slightest idea who or what Raskolnikov was. With an anxious and suspicious gaze he looked around, watching for any guard near him, any mysterious glance assigned to watch him so he wouldn't escape. But there was nothing of the sort: he saw only some clerks with petty, preoccupied faces, then some other people, and no one had any need of him whatsoever: he could go off to the four corners of the earth if he wanted. More and more firmly the thought settled in him that if that enigmatic man from yesterday, that phantom who had appeared from under the ground, really knew everything and had seen everything—would they have let him, Raskolnikov, stand here now and wait so calmly? And would they have waited for him here until eleven o'clock, until it pleased him to arrive? It followed that either that man hadn't reported anything yet, or... or he simply knew nothing himself and had seen nothing with his own eyes (and how could he have seen?), and therefore all of yesterday's occurrence with him, Raskolnikov, was again a phantom, exaggerated by his irritated and sick imagination. This conjecture had begun to strengthen in him even yesterday, during his worst anxieties and despair. Having thought all this through now and preparing himself for a new battle, he suddenly felt himself trembling,—and indignation even boiled up in him at the thought that he was trembling from fear before the hateful Porfiry Petrovich. Most terrible of all for him was to meet this man again: he hated him immeasurably, infinitely, and even feared somehow betraying himself through his hatred. And his indignation was so strong that it immediately stopped his trembling; he prepared to enter with a cold and defiant air and gave himself his word to stay silent as much as possible, to watch and listen, and, at least this time, at all costs, to overcome his morbidly irritated nature. At that very moment he was called to Porfiry Petrovich.

It turned out that at this moment Porfiry Petrovich was alone in his office. His office was a room neither large nor small; it contained: a large writing desk in front of a sofa upholstered in oilcloth, a bureau, a cupboard in the corner, and several chairs—all government furniture, of yellow polished wood. In the corner, in the back wall, or rather, in the partition, was a locked door: beyond there, past the partition, there must, consequently, be some other rooms. Upon Raskolnikov's entrance, Porfiry Petrovich immediately closed the door through which he had entered, and they remained alone. He met his guest with an apparently most cheerful and welcoming air, and only several minutes later did Raskolnikov notice in him, by certain signs, a sort of embarrassment,—as if he had suddenly been confused or caught at something very private and secret.

"Ah, my most respected sir! Here you are... in our parts..." began Porfiry, extending both hands to him. "Well, sit down, my dear fellow! Or perhaps you don't like being called 'most respected' and... 'my dear fellow,'—just like that, tout court? Please don't consider it too familiar... Here, sir, on the sofa."

Raskolnikov sat down, not taking his eyes off him.

"In our parts," apologies for familiarity, the French expression "tout court," and so on and so forth—all these were characteristic signs. "Yet he extended both hands to me, but didn't actually give either one, withdrew them in time," flashed through him suspiciously. Both watched each other, but as soon as their glances met, both, with the speed of lightning, averted them from one another.

"I've brought you this paper... about the watch... here it is. Is it written correctly or should I copy it over again?"

"What? The paper? Yes, yes... don't worry, it's quite correct, sir," said Porfiry Petrovich, as if hurrying somewhere, and having said this, took the paper and looked it over. "Yes, quite correct, sir. Nothing more is needed," he confirmed in the same rapid speech and laid the paper on the table. Then, a minute later, already talking about something else, he took it again from the table and moved it to his bureau.

"You said yesterday, I believe, that you wanted to question me... formally... about my acquaintance with that... murdered woman?" Raskolnikov began again. "Well, why did I insert 'I believe'?" flashed through him like lightning. "Why am I so worried about inserting that 'I believe'?"—another thought flashed through him instantly like lightning.

And he suddenly sensed that his suspiciousness, from mere contact with Porfiry, from just two words, from just two glances, had already grown in an instant to monstrous proportions... and that this was terribly dangerous: his nerves were becoming irritated, his agitation was increasing. "Trouble! Trouble!.. I'll give myself away again."

"Yes, yes, yes! Don't worry! There's time, there's time, sir," muttered Porfiry Petrovich, pacing back and forth around the table, but somehow without any purpose, as if rushing now to the window, now to the bureau, now back to the table, now avoiding Raskolnikov's suspicious gaze, now suddenly stopping in place and looking directly at him. His small, plump, and round figure seemed extremely strange in this, as if a ball rolling in different directions and immediately bouncing off all walls and corners.

"We have time, sir, we have time!.. Do you smoke? Do you have any? Here, sir, a cigarette, sir..." he continued, offering his guest a cigarette. "You know, I'm receiving you here, but my apartment is right there, behind the partition... government quarters, sir, but I'm renting privately for the time being. Some repairs had to be done here. Now it's almost ready... government quarters, you know, are a fine thing,—eh? What do you think?"

"Yes, a fine thing," answered Raskolnikov, looking at him almost mockingly.

"A fine thing, a fine thing..." repeated Porfiry Petrovich, as if suddenly thinking about something completely different. "Yes! a fine thing!"—he almost cried out at the end, suddenly raising his eyes to Raskolnikov and stopping two paces from him. This repeated silly assertion that government quarters were a fine thing, by its vulgarity, contradicted too much the serious, thoughtful, and enigmatic gaze which he now directed at his guest.

But this heated Raskolnikov's malice even more, and he could no longer restrain himself from a mocking and rather incautious challenge.

"You know what," he asked suddenly, looking at him almost insolently and as if taking pleasure in his own insolence, "there exists, I believe, such a juridical rule, such a juridical technique—for all possible investigators—to begin from afar, with trifles, or even with something serious but completely extraneous, in order, so to speak, to encourage or, better to say, distract the person being questioned, to lull his caution and then suddenly, most unexpectedly, to stun him right on the crown of the head with some most fatal and dangerous question; isn't that so? This is, I believe, piously mentioned in all rules and instructions to this day?"

"So, so... but why, do you think that's what I'm doing with my government quarters... eh?" And having said this, Porfiry Petrovich squinted, winked; something cheerful and sly ran across his face, the wrinkles on his forehead smoothed out, his eyes narrowed, his features stretched, and he suddenly burst into nervous, prolonged laughter, shaking and swaying with his whole body and looking straight into Raskolnikov's eyes. The latter began to laugh himself, somewhat forcing himself; but when Porfiry, seeing that he too was laughing, burst into such laughter that he almost turned purple, Raskolnikov's disgust suddenly exceeded all caution: he stopped laughing, frowned, and stared long and hatefully at Porfiry, not taking his eyes off him throughout all his long and seemingly deliberately unceasing laughter. The incaution, however, was obvious on both sides: it appeared that Porfiry Petrovich was laughing in the face of his guest, who was receiving this laughter with hatred, and was very little embarrassed by this circumstance. The latter was very significant for Raskolnikov: he understood that Porfiry Petrovich probably hadn't been embarrassed earlier either, but, on the contrary, he, Raskolnikov, had perhaps fallen into a trap; that clearly there existed something here that he didn't know, some purpose; that perhaps everything was already prepared and now, this very minute, would be revealed and would crash down...

He immediately went straight to the point, stood up, and took his cap.

"Porfiry Petrovich," he began decisively, but with considerable irritation, "yesterday you expressed a wish that I should come for some questioning" (he emphasized the word: questioning particularly strongly). "I've come, and if you need anything, then ask, otherwise, allow me to leave. I have no time, I have business... I need to be at the funeral of that official who was run over by horses, about whom you... also know..."—he added, immediately getting angry at this addition, and therefore immediately becoming even more irritated,—"I'm sick of all this, sir, do you hear, and have been for a long time... I was partly because of this that I became ill... in short,"—he almost cried out, feeling that the phrase about illness was even more inappropriate,—"in short: kindly either question me or release me, immediately... and if you're going to question, then not otherwise than according to form, sir! Otherwise I won't allow it; and therefore, for now, goodbye, since there's nothing for the two of us to do now."

"Good Lord! But what is this! What should I question you about," Porfiry Petrovich suddenly clucked, immediately changing both his tone and appearance and instantly ceasing to laugh. "Please don't worry,"—he fussed, now rushing in all directions again, now suddenly trying to seat Raskolnikov,—"there's time, there's time, sir, and all this is just trifles, sir! I'm so glad, on the contrary, that you've finally come to us... I'm receiving you as a guest. And for this damned laughter, dear fellow, Rodion Romanovich, forgive me. Rodion Romanovich? That's right, isn't it, your patronymic?.. A nervous man, sir, you amused me very much with the wit of your remark; sometimes, really, I shake like india-rubber, like that, for half an hour... I'm prone to laughter, sir. By my constitution I even fear paralysis. But do sit down, why are you standing?.. Please, my dear fellow, otherwise I'll think you're angry..."

Raskolnikov remained silent, listened and observed, still angrily frowning. He did, however, sit down, but without releasing his cap from his hands.

"I'll tell you one thing about myself, my dear fellow Rodion Romanovich, so to speak in explanation of my character," continued Porfiry Petrovich, bustling about the room and as before seemingly avoiding meeting eyes with his guest. "I'm, you know, a bachelor, a man without social position and unknown, and besides a finished man, a hardened man, sir, gone to seed and... and... have you noticed, Rodion Romanovich, that among us, that is, here in Russia, sir, and especially in our Petersburg circles, if two intelligent men, not yet too well acquainted with each other but, so to speak, mutually respecting each other, like you and I now, sir, come together, then for a whole half hour they can't find a topic of conversation,—they freeze before each other, sit and are mutually embarrassed. Everyone has a topic of conversation, ladies, for example... people of high society, for example, always have a conversational topic, c'est de rigueur, but middle-class people like us—all are bashful and uncommunicative... thinking ones, that is. Why is this, my dear fellow, does this happen, sir? Are there no social interests, sir, or are we too honest and don't wish to deceive each other, I don't know, sir. Eh? What do you think? But do put down your cap, sir, you look as if you're about to leave right now, really, it's awkward to watch... I, on the contrary, am so glad, sir..."

Raskolnikov put down his cap, continuing to be silent and seriously, frowningly listening to Porfiry's empty and confused chatter. "Is he really trying to distract my attention with his silly chatter?"

"I won't offer you coffee, sir, not the place; but why not sit for five minutes with a friend, for amusement,"—Porfiry kept chattering without stopping,—"and you know, sir, all these official duties... but don't be offended, my dear fellow, that I keep walking about, sir, back and forth; forgive me, my dear fellow, I'm very afraid of offending you, but exercise is simply essential for me, sir. I sit all the time and am so glad to walk for five minutes... hemorrhoids, sir... I keep planning to treat it with gymnastics; they say that there, state councillors, actual state councillors, and even privy councillors willingly jump rope, sir; that's what it is, science, in our age, sir... so, sir... But regarding these local duties, questionings and all this formalism... you, my dear fellow, just deigned to mention questionings yourself, sir... well, you know, my dear fellow Rodion Romanovich, these questionings sometimes confuse the questioner more than the questioned, you know... You, my dear fellow, just now deigned to remark about this with perfect justice and wit." (Raskolnikov had remarked nothing of the sort.) "One gets confused, sir! Really, one gets confused! And it's all the same thing, all the same thing, like a drum! There's a reform coming, and we'll at least be renamed, heh-heh-heh! But as for our juridical techniques—as you so wittily expressed it—I completely agree with you, sir. Well, who, tell me, of all defendants, even from the most simple peasantry, doesn't know that they will, for example, first begin to lull him with extraneous questions (according to your happy expression), and then suddenly stun him right on the crown, with the butt-end, sir, heh-heh-heh! right on the crown, sir, according to your happy comparison, heh-heh! So did you really think that I wanted to... with my apartment... heh-heh! You're an ironic man. Well, I won't! Ah yes, by the way, one word calls for another, one thought evokes another,—you also deigned to mention form just now, regarding the questioning, you know, sir... But why form! Form, you know, is nonsense in many cases, sir. Sometimes you just have a friendly talk, and it turns out more profitable. Form will never go away, in this allow me to reassure you, sir; but what essentially is form, I ask you? A magistrate can't be constrained by form at every step. The work of a magistrate is, so to speak, a free art, in its own way, sir, or something like that... heh-heh-heh!.."

Porfiry Petrovich paused for a moment to catch his breath. He kept pouring forth tirelessly, now meaninglessly empty phrases, now suddenly slipping in some enigmatic little words and immediately lapsing back into nonsense. He was almost running around the room now, moving his fat little legs faster and faster, always looking at the ground, his right hand thrust behind his back and his left continuously waving and making various gestures, each time surprisingly unsuited to his words. Raskolnikov suddenly noticed that while running around the room, he seemed to stop twice near the door, for just an instant, and seemed to be listening... "Is he waiting for something?"

"And you're really quite right, sir," Porfiry picked up again cheerfully, looking at Raskolnikov with extraordinary simple-heartedness (from which he started and instantly prepared himself), "really right, sir, that you deigned to mock our juridical forms with such wit, heh-heh! These (some of them, of course) profoundly psychological techniques of ours are extremely funny, sir, and perhaps even useless, sir, in case one is too constrained by form, sir. Yes, sir... again about form: well, suppose I acknowledge or, better to say, suspect someone or other, so to speak, as a criminal, sir, in some case entrusted to me... You're preparing for a legal career, Rodion Romanovich?"

"Yes, I was preparing..."

"Well, then here's, so to speak, a little example for you for the future,—that is, don't think that I dare to teach you: look at these articles on crime you're publishing! No sir, but just as a fact, I dare to present a little example, sir,—so suppose I consider, for example, someone or other as a criminal, well why, I ask, should I disturb him prematurely, even if I have evidence against him, sir? One man I'm obliged, for example, to arrest as quickly as possible, but another isn't of that character, really, sir; so why shouldn't I let him walk around the city, heh-heh, sir! No, I see you don't quite understand, so I'll explain more clearly, sir: if I lock him up, for example, too early, then I might, perhaps, give him moral, so to speak, support, heh-heh! You're laughing?" (Raskolnikov wasn't thinking of laughing: he sat with compressed lips, not taking his inflamed gaze off Porfiry Petrovich's eyes.) "Yet it's true, sir, with some subjects especially, because people are very diverse, sir, and over everything stands practice alone, sir. You say now: evidence; well, suppose there's evidence, sir, but evidence, my dear fellow, is mostly double-edged, sir, and I'm a magistrate, consequently a weak man, I confess: I'd like to present an investigation, so to speak, with mathematical clarity, I'd like to obtain such evidence as would be like two times two equals four! Like a direct and indisputable proof! But if I lock him up at the wrong time—even if I'm convinced that it's him—then I might, perhaps, deprive myself of the means to incriminate him further, and why? Because I'll give him, so to speak, a definite position, I'll define and reassure him psychologically, so to speak, and he'll retreat from me into his shell: he'll finally understand that he's an arrested man. They say there in Sevastopol, right after Alma, the intelligent people were oh so afraid that the enemy would attack with open force and take Sevastopol at once; but when they saw that the enemy preferred a regular siege and was opening the first parallel, they say the intelligent people were so glad and reassured, sir: at least it meant the thing would drag on for two months, because when would they take it with a regular siege! You're laughing again, you don't believe me again? Well, of course, you're right. You're right, sir, you're right, sir! These are all particular cases, I agree with you; the case presented is indeed a particular one, sir! But here's what should be observed, my dear Rodion Romanovich: a general case, sir, that very one for which all juridical forms and rules are designed and from which they're calculated and written down in books, doesn't exist at all, sir, for the very reason that every case, every case, for example, every crime, as soon as it occurs in reality, immediately turns into a completely particular case, sir; and sometimes, you know, it's such: so completely unlike anything previous, sir! Very comical cases sometimes happen in this respect, sir. Now if I leave some gentleman completely alone: don't take him or disturb him, but let him know every hour and every minute, or at least suspect, that I know everything, all the details, and day and night am following him, ceaselessly watching him, and if he's consciously under my eternal suspicion and fear, then, by God, he'll get dizzy, really, sir, he'll come of his own accord and, perhaps, will even do something that will be like two times two, so to speak, will have a mathematical appearance,—and that's pleasant, sir. This can happen even with a simple peasant, but even more so with one of us, a contemporary intelligent man, and especially one developed in a certain direction! Because, my dear fellow, it's a very important thing to understand in which direction a man is developed. And nerves, sir, nerves, sir, you've quite forgotten about them, sir! After all, nowadays everything is sickly, and thin, and irritable!.. And the bile, sir, how much bile there is in all of them! And this, I tell you, is in its own way a mine, sir, when the occasion arises! And why should I worry that he walks around the city unfettered! Let him, let him walk for a while, let him; I already know anyway that he's my little victim and won't run away from me! And where could he run to, heh-heh! Abroad, perhaps? Would a Pole flee abroad, but not him, especially since I'm watching, and have taken measures. Will he flee to the depths of the fatherland, perhaps? But peasants live there, real, primitive, Russian ones; a contemporary developed man would sooner prefer prison than to live with such foreigners as our peasants, heh-heh! But this is all nonsense and external. What is: will he flee! This is formal; but the main thing isn't that; it's not only for this reason that he won't flee from me, that there's nowhere to flee: he won't flee from me psychologically, heh-heh! What an expression! He won't flee from me by the law of nature, even if there were somewhere to flee. Have you seen a butterfly before a candle? Well, that's how he'll be, he'll keep circling around me, like around a candle; freedom will become unpleasant, he'll start brooding, getting tangled up, will tangle himself up completely, as in nets, will worry himself to death!.. More than that: he'll prepare some mathematical trick for me himself, like two times two,—only let me give him a long enough intermission... And he'll keep, he'll keep circling around me, narrowing and narrowing the radius,—and—smack! He'll fly straight into my mouth, and I'll swallow him, sir, and that's very pleasant, sir, heh-heh-heh! You don't believe me?"

Raskolnikov didn't answer; he sat pale and motionless, still with the same tension gazing into Porfiry's face.

"The lesson is good!"—he thought, growing cold. "This isn't even cat and mouse anymore, like yesterday. And he's not uselessly showing me his strength and... prompting me: he's much too clever for that! There's another purpose here, but what? Eh, nonsense, brother, you're frightening me and being cunning! You have no proofs, and yesterday's man doesn't exist! You simply want to throw me off, you want to irritate me prematurely, and in that state to snap me up, but you're lying, you'll stumble, you'll stumble! But why, why are you prompting me to such a degree?.. Are you counting on my sick nerves?.. No, brother, you're lying, you'll stumble, even though you've prepared something... Well, we'll see what you've prepared there."

And he steeled himself with all his strength, preparing for a terrible and unknown catastrophe. At times he wanted to rush at Porfiry and strangle him on the spot. He had feared this malice even when entering. He felt that his lips were parched, his heart was pounding, foam had caked on his lips. But he still decided to remain silent and not say a word for the time being. He understood that this was the best tactic in his position, because not only would he not let anything slip, but, on the contrary, he would irritate his enemy with his silence, and perhaps the other would even let something slip to him. At least, he hoped for this.

"No, I see you don't believe me, sir, you think I'm playing innocent jokes on you," picked up Porfiry, becoming more and more cheerful and continuously giggling with pleasure and again beginning to circle around the room. "Well, of course, you're right, sir; even my figure is so arranged by God himself that it only provokes comical thoughts in others; a buffoon, sir; but I'll tell you this, and I'll repeat again, sir, that you, my dear fellow, Rodion Romanovich, forgive me, old man, you're still a young man, sir, so to speak, in your first youth, and therefore you value human intellect above all, following the example of all youth. The playful sharpness of the mind and abstract arguments of reason seduce you, sir. And this is exactly like the former Austrian Hofkriegsrat, for example, insofar as I can judge military events: on paper they defeated Napoleon and took him prisoner, and how cleverly, in their cabinet, they calculated and worked everything out in the most witty manner, but look, General Mack surrenders with his whole army, heh-heh-heh! I see, I see, my dear fellow, Rodion Romanovich, you're laughing at me, that I, such a civilian man, keep picking examples from military history. But what can I do, it's a weakness, I love military matters, and I so love reading all these military dispatches... I've decidedly missed my career. I should have been in military service, sir, really, sir. I might not have become Napoleon, but I would have been a major, sir, heh-heh-heh! Well, sir, so now I'll tell you, my dear, the whole detailed truth about that particular case, that is: reality and nature, my dear sir, are an important thing, and oh how sometimes they undercut the most far-sighted calculation! Eh, listen to an old man, I'm speaking seriously, Rodion Romanovich" (saying this, the barely thirty-five-year-old Porfiry Petrovich really seemed suddenly to have aged completely: even his voice changed, and he somehow all hunched up),—"moreover, I'm a frank man, sir... Am I a frank man or not? What's your opinion? I'm completely frank, it seems: I'm communicating such things to you for nothing, and don't even demand a reward for it, heh-heh! Well, so here, sir, I'll continue, sir: wit, in my opinion, is a magnificent thing, sir; it's, so to speak, an ornament of nature and a consolation of life, and what tricks, it seems, it can play, so that where, it seems, is some poor magistrate to guess sometimes, who is moreover carried away by his own fantasy himself, as always happens, because he's also a man, sir! But nature rescues the poor magistrate, sir, that's the trouble! But the youth carried away by wit, 'stepping over all obstacles' (as you most wittily and cunningly expressed it), doesn't think about this. He, suppose, will lie, that is, the man, sir, the particular case, sir, the incognito, sir, and will lie excellently, in the most cunning manner; here, it would seem, is triumph, and enjoy the fruits of your wit, but—smack! and in the most interesting, the most scandalous place he'll faint. Granted, it's illness, stuffiness also sometimes happens in rooms, but still, sir! Still he's given an idea! He lied superbly, but couldn't calculate for nature. That's where the cunning is, sir! Another time, carried away by the playfulness of his wit, he'll start to fool a man who suspects him, will turn pale as if on purpose, as if in a game, but will turn too pale, too much like truth, and again he's given an idea! Even if he fools him the first time, the other will think it over during the night, if he's no fool himself. And it's like this at every step, sir! Why, he'll start running ahead himself, will start poking his nose in where nobody asks him, will start talking incessantly about what he should, on the contrary, be silent about, will start introducing various allegories, heh-heh! He'll come himself and start asking: why aren't they taking me for so long, heh-heh-heh! And this can happen with the most witty man, with a psychologist and a littérateur, sir! Nature is a mirror, sir, a mirror, sir, the most transparent one, sir! Look into it and admire, that's it, sir! But why have you turned so pale, Rodion Romanovich, is it too stuffy, should I open the window?"

"Oh, don't worry, please,"—cried out Raskolnikov and suddenly burst out laughing,—"please don't worry!"

Porfiry stopped opposite him, waited, and suddenly burst out laughing himself, following him. Raskolnikov rose from the sofa, suddenly sharply cutting short his completely hysterical laughter.

"Porfiry Petrovich!"—he said loudly and distinctly, though he barely stood on his trembling legs,—"I finally see clearly that you positively suspect me of the murder of that old woman and her sister Lizaveta. For my part, I declare to you that I've long been sick of all this. If you find that you have the right to prosecute me legally, then prosecute; to arrest, then arrest. But I won't allow you to laugh in my face and torture me."

Suddenly his lips trembled, his eyes blazed with fury, and his hitherto restrained voice rang out.

"I won't allow it, sir!"—he suddenly shouted, striking the table with his fist with all his might,—"Do you hear that, Porfiry Petrovich? I won't allow it!"

"Oh, good Lord, but what's this now!"—cried out Porfiry Petrovich, apparently in complete fright,—"my dear fellow! Rodion Romanovich! My dear! Father! But what's wrong with you?"

"I won't allow it!"—Raskolnikov shouted again.

"My dear fellow, quieter! They'll hear, they'll come! Just think what we'll tell them then!"—whispered Porfiry Petrovich in horror, bringing his face right up to Raskolnikov's face.

"I won't allow it, I won't allow it!"—Raskolnikov repeated mechanically, but also suddenly in a complete whisper.

Porfiry quickly turned away and ran to open the window.

"Let in some air, some fresh air! And you should drink some water, my dear, it's a fit, sir!"—And he rushed to the door to order water, but fortunately found a carafe with water right there in the corner.

"My dear fellow, drink,"—he whispered, rushing to him with the carafe,—"perhaps it will help..."—Porfiry Petrovich's fright and sympathy were so natural that Raskolnikov fell silent and began to examine him with wild curiosity. He didn't take the water, however.

"Rodion Romanovich! My dear! You'll drive yourself mad like this, I assure you, eh-eh! Ah! Drink some! At least drink a little!"

He practically forced him to take the glass of water in his hands. Raskolnikov mechanically raised it to his lips, but then, coming to his senses, set it on the table with disgust.

"Yes, sir, we had a little fit, sir! You'll bring back your old illness like this, my dear,"—clucked Porfiry Petrovich with friendly sympathy, though still with a somewhat confused air.—"Good Lord! How can you not take care of yourself like this? Here Dmitri Prokofich came to see me yesterday,—I agree, I agree, sir, I have a caustic, nasty character, but just look what they made of it!.. Good Lord! He came yesterday, after you, we had dinner, he talked and talked, I just threw up my hands; well, I thought... oh Lord! Did he come from you? But do sit down, my dear fellow, sit down for Christ's sake!"

"No, not from me! But I knew he went to you and why he went,"—Raskolnikov answered sharply.

"You knew?"

"I knew. So what?"

"Just this, my dear fellow, Rodion Romanovich, that I know about other exploits of yours too; I'm informed about everything, sir! I know how you went to rent that apartment, toward nightfall, when it was getting dark, and started ringing the bell and asking about blood and confusing the workers and janitors. I understand your state of mind then, the one at that time... but you'll simply drive yourself mad like this, by God, sir! You'll get dizzy! Indignation is boiling too strongly in you, sir, noble indignation, sir, from the offenses received, first from fate, and then from the police officers, so you're rushing here and there to force everyone to start talking, so to speak, and thus to end everything at once, because you're sick of all this stupidity and all these suspicions. Isn't that right? Have I guessed your state of mind, sir?.. But you'll not only confuse yourself like this, but also Razumikhin; he's too kind a man for this, you know that yourself. Your illness, and his virtue, the illness becomes contagious to him... I'll tell you, my dear fellow, when you calm down... but do sit down, my dear fellow, for Christ's sake! Please, rest, you have no face; sit down."

Raskolnikov sat down; his trembling was passing, and heat was coming out all over his body. In deep amazement, he listened tensely to the frightened and solicitously caring Porfiry Petrovich. But he didn't believe a single word of his, although he felt some strange inclination to believe. Porfiry's unexpected words about the apartment completely astounded him. "How can this be, he knows about the apartment then?"—it suddenly occurred to him,—"and he himself is telling me about it!"

"Yes, sir, there was an almost exactly similar case, a psychological one, in our judicial practice, sir, a morbid case like that, sir,"—Porfiry continued rapidly.—"A man falsely accused himself of murder, sir, and how he accused himself: he presented a whole hallucination, presented facts, told circumstances, confused and misled everyone; and why? He himself had been, completely unintentionally, partly the cause of a murder, but only partly, and when he learned that he had given the murderers a reason, he became melancholy, went into a daze, things started appearing to him, he went completely off his head, and convinced himself that he was the murderer! But the governing Senate finally examined the case, and the unfortunate man was acquitted and placed under care. Thanks to the governing Senate! Eh-ma, ay-ay-ay! So what then, my dear fellow? You can bring on a fever like this, when you already have such urges to irritate your nerves, going around ringing bells at night and asking about blood! I've studied all this psychology in practice, sir. Sometimes a man is drawn to jump out a window or off a bell tower, and the sensation is so seductive. It's the same with bells, sir... Illness, Rodion Romanovich, illness! You've begun to neglect your illness too much, sir. You should have consulted an experienced doctor, but what good is that fat fellow of yours!.. You have delirium! You're doing all this simply in delirium alone!.."

For a moment everything spun around Raskolnikov.

"Is it possible, is it possible,"—flashed through him,—"that he's lying even now? Impossible, impossible!"—he pushed this thought away from himself, feeling in advance to what degree of fury and rage it could bring him, feeling that from this fury he might go mad.

"It wasn't in delirium, it was in reality!"—he cried out, straining all the forces of his reason to penetrate Porfiry's game.—"In reality, in reality! Do you hear?"

"Yes, I understand and hear, sir! You said yesterday too that it wasn't in delirium, you especially insisted that it wasn't in delirium! I understand everything you can say, sir! Eh-eh!.. But listen, Rodion Romanovich, my benefactor, at least to this circumstance. If you really were, in actual fact, a criminal or were somehow mixed up in this damned business, would you, for mercy's sake, insist yourself that you did all this not in delirium but, on the contrary, in full memory? And would you especially insist, with such particular, special stubbornness, insist—could this be, could this be, for mercy's sake? Quite the opposite, in my opinion. If you felt anything against yourself, then you should precisely insist: that it was definitely, they say, in delirium! Isn't that so? Isn't it?"

Something sly was heard in this question. Raskolnikov recoiled to the very back of the sofa away from Porfiry, who was leaning toward him, and silently, in bewilderment, examined him intently.

"Or about Mr. Razumikhin, about whether he came yesterday on his own or at your instigation? You should precisely say that he came on his own, and conceal that it was at your instigation! But you don't conceal it! You precisely insist that it was at your instigation!"

Raskolnikov had never insisted on this. A chill ran down his spine.

"You keep lying,"—he said slowly and weakly, his lips twisting into a sickly smile,—"you want to show me again that you know my whole game, know all my answers in advance,"—he said, almost feeling himself that he was no longer weighing his words as he should,—"you want to frighten me... or you're simply laughing at me..."

He continued to stare at him intently as he said this, and suddenly boundless malice flashed again in his eyes.

"You're lying all the time!"—he cried out.—"You yourself know perfectly well that the best dodge for a criminal is not to conceal what can't be concealed. I don't believe you!"

"What a slippery fellow you are!"—giggled Porfiry,—"there's no dealing with you, my dear fellow; some kind of monomania has settled in you. So you don't believe me? But I'll tell you that you already believe, you've already believed a quarter of an arshin's worth, and I'll make you believe a whole arshin's worth, because I truly love you and sincerely wish you well."

Raskolnikov's lips trembled.

"Yes, sir, I wish it, sir, I'll tell you finally, sir,"—he continued, lightly, amicably taking Raskolnikov's arm, a little above the elbow,—"I'll tell you finally, sir: watch your illness. Besides, your family has now arrived; think about them. You should comfort and cherish them, but you only frighten them..."

"What business is it of yours? How do you know this? Why are you so interested? You're following me, then, and want to show me that?"

"My dear fellow! But I learned it all from you, from you yourself! You don't notice that in your agitation you tell everything first to me and to others. I learned many interesting details yesterday from Mr. Razumikhin, Dmitri Prokofich, too. No, sir, you interrupted me, and I'll say that, despite all your wit, through your suspiciousness you've lost even a sensible view of things. Well, for example, on that same topic again, about the bells: I gave you such a precious thing, such a fact (a whole fact, sir!) freely, I, a magistrate! And you see nothing in this? If I suspected you even a little, should I have acted like that? On the contrary, I should have first lulled your suspicions and not let on that I already knew about this fact; should have diverted you, so to speak, in the opposite direction, and then suddenly, like with a club on the crown (according to your own expression), stunned you: 'And what, sir, were you doing in the apartment of the murdered woman at ten o'clock in the evening, or almost even at eleven? And why were you ringing the bell? And why were you asking about blood? And why were you confusing the janitors and calling them to the station, to the police officer?' That's how I should have acted if I had even a drop of suspicion about you. I should have taken testimony from you according to all the rules, conducted a search, and perhaps even arrested you... So, I don't harbor suspicions against you, if I acted otherwise! But you've lost your sensible view and don't see anything, I repeat, sir!"

Raskolnikov shuddered with his whole body, so that Porfiry Petrovich saw it too clearly.

"You're lying all the time!"—he cried out,—"I don't know your purposes, but you're lying all the time... You weren't speaking in that sense just now, and I can't be mistaken... You're lying!"

"I'm lying?"—picked up Porfiry, apparently getting heated but maintaining the most cheerful and mocking appearance and seemingly not at all troubled by what opinion Mr. Raskolnikov had of him.—"I'm lying?.. Well, how did I act with you just now (I, the magistrate), myself prompting you and giving you all the means of defense, myself bringing you all this psychology: 'Illness, they say, delirium, you were offended; melancholy and the police officers,' and all the rest of it? Ah? Heh-heh-heh! Although, incidentally,—by the way,—all these psychological means of defense, excuses and dodges, are extremely insubstantial and double-edged: 'Illness, they say, delirium, dreams, visions, I don't remember,' all that's so, sir, but why, my dear fellow, in your illness and delirium did precisely such dreams appear to you, and not others? There could have been others, sir! Isn't that so? Heh-heh-heh-heh!"

Raskolnikov looked at him proudly and contemptuously.

"In short,"—he said insistently and loudly, standing up and slightly pushing Porfiry aside as he did so,—"in short, I want to know: do you acknowledge me finally free from suspicion or not? Speak, Porfiry Petrovich, speak positively and finally, and quickly, immediately!"

"Well, what a business! Well, what a business you are,"—cried out Porfiry with a completely cheerful, sly, and not at all alarmed air.—"And why do you need to know, why do you need to know so much, when they haven't even begun to bother you at all! You're like a child: give me fire to hold! And why are you so worried? Why do you push yourself on us, for what reasons? Eh? Heh-heh-heh!"

"I repeat to you,"—Raskolnikov cried out in a rage,—"that I can't endure any longer..."

"What, sir? Uncertainty?"—interrupted Porfiry.

"Don't taunt me! I don't want it!.. I tell you I don't want it!.. I can't and I don't want it!.. Do you hear! Do you hear!"—he shouted, striking the table again with his fist.

"But quieter, quieter! They'll hear! I'm warning you seriously: take care of yourself. I'm not joking, sir!"—Porfiry said in a whisper, but this time his face no longer had the former womanishly good-natured and frightened expression; on the contrary, now he was giving orders directly, frowning sternly and as if at once breaking through all mysteries and ambiguities. But this was only for an instant. The bewildered Raskolnikov suddenly fell into a real frenzy; but strangely: he again obeyed the order to speak quietly, although he was in the strongest paroxysm of fury.

"I won't let myself be tortured!"—he suddenly whispered as before, with pain and hatred, instantly recognizing in himself that he couldn't help obeying the order, and coming into even greater fury from this thought,—"arrest me, search me, but kindly act according to form, and don't play with me, sir! Don't dare..."

"Don't worry about form,"—interrupted Porfiry with his former sly smile and as if even with pleasure admiring Raskolnikov,—"I invited you now in a domestic way, quite amicably, so to speak!"

"I don't want your friendship and I spit on it! Do you hear! And here: I'm taking my cap and leaving. Well, what will you say now, if you intend to arrest me?"

He grabbed his cap and went to the door.

"But don't you want to see the little surprise?"—giggled Porfiry, again grabbing him a little above the elbow and stopping him at the door. He was visibly becoming more and more cheerful and playful, which finally drove Raskolnikov out of his mind.

"What little surprise? What is it?"—he asked, suddenly stopping and looking at Porfiry with fright.

"The little surprise, sir, it's sitting right here, behind my door, heh-heh-heh!" (He pointed with his finger at the locked door in the partition that led to his government quarters.) "I even locked it so it wouldn't run away."

"What is it? Where? What?.."—Raskolnikov went to the door and tried to open it, but it was locked.

"It's locked, sir, and here's the key!"

And indeed, he showed him the key, taking it from his pocket.

"You're lying!"—Raskolnikov howled, no longer restraining himself,—"you're lying, damned Punch!"—and he rushed at the retreating Porfiry, who backed toward the door but didn't get scared at all.

"I understand everything, everything!"—he jumped toward him.—"You're lying and teasing me so I'll give myself away..."

"But you can't give yourself away any more, my dear fellow, Rodion Romanych. You've come to a frenzy. Don't shout, or I'll call people, sir!"

"You're lying, nothing will happen! Call people! You knew I was sick and wanted to irritate me to fury so I'd give myself away, that's your purpose! No, give me facts! I understand everything! You have no facts, you only have worthless, insignificant conjectures, Zametov's!.. You knew my character, wanted to drive me to a frenzy, and then suddenly to stun me with priests and deputies... Are you waiting for them? Eh? What are you waiting for? Where? Give them to me!"

"What deputies, my dear fellow! What things people imagine! And to act according to form like that wouldn't do, as you say, you don't know the business, my dear... But form won't go away, sir, you'll see!.."—muttered Porfiry, listening at the door.

Indeed, at that moment, as if right at the door to the other room, something like noise could be heard.

"Ah, they're coming!"—cried out Raskolnikov.—"You sent for them!.. You were waiting for them! You calculated... Well, bring them all here: deputies, witnesses, whatever you want... bring them! I'm ready! Ready!.."

But then a strange incident occurred, something so unexpected in the ordinary course of things that certainly neither Raskolnikov nor Porfiry Petrovich could have counted on such a denouement.