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VI

Afterwards, when recalling this moment, everything appeared to Raskolnikov in this way.

The noise behind the door suddenly grew rapidly louder, and the door opened slightly.

"What is it?" cried Porfiry Petrovich with vexation. "I gave orders..."

For a moment there was no answer, but it was evident that there were several people behind the door and they seemed to be pushing someone back.

"What's going on there?" repeated Porfiry Petrovich anxiously.

"They've brought the prisoner, Nikolai," someone's voice was heard.

"Not needed! Away! Wait!... Why has he come in here! What disorder!" shouted Porfiry, rushing to the door.

"But he..." the same voice began again and suddenly broke off.

For no more than two seconds a real struggle took place; then suddenly someone seemed to push someone else away forcibly, and following that a very pale man stepped directly into Porfiry Petrovich's office.

The appearance of this man was very strange at first glance. He looked straight ahead, but as if seeing no one. Determination flashed in his eyes, but at the same time a deathly pallor covered his face, as though he were being led to execution. His completely whitened lips trembled slightly.

He was still very young, dressed like a commoner, of medium height, thin, with hair cut in a circle, with fine, almost dry features. The man he had unexpectedly pushed away was the first to rush after him into the room and managed to grab him by the shoulder: it was the guard; but Nikolai jerked his arm and broke free from him once more.

Several curious onlookers crowded in the doorway. Some of them tried to enter. All that has been described happened almost in a single instant.

"Away, it's too early! Wait until you're called!... Why was he brought ahead of time?" muttered Porfiry Petrovich in extreme vexation, as if bewildered. But Nikolai suddenly fell to his knees.

"What are you doing?" cried Porfiry in amazement.

"I'm guilty! My sin! I'm the murderer!" Nikolai suddenly pronounced, as if somewhat out of breath, but in a rather loud voice.

The silence continued for about ten seconds, as if everyone had been struck by paralysis; even the guard recoiled and no longer approached Nikolai, but retreated mechanically to the door and stood motionless.

"What is this?" cried Porfiry Petrovich, emerging from his momentary stupor.

"I... the murderer..." repeated Nikolai, after a brief pause.

"How... you... How... Whom did you kill?"

Porfiry Petrovich was visibly at a loss.

Nikolai paused briefly again.

"Alyona Ivanovna and her sister, Lizaveta Ivanovna, I... killed them... with an axe. A darkness came over me..." he suddenly added and fell silent again. He remained kneeling.

Porfiry Petrovich stood for several moments, as if pondering, but then suddenly sprang up again and waved his arms at the uninvited witnesses. They instantly vanished, and the door closed. Then he looked at Raskolnikov, who was standing in the corner staring wildly at Nikolai, and started toward him, but suddenly stopped, looked at him, immediately transferred his gaze to Nikolai, then again to Raskolnikov, then again to Nikolai, and suddenly, as if carried away, pounced on Nikolai again.

"Why are you rushing ahead with your darkness! I haven't even asked you yet whether darkness came over you or not... speak: did you kill?"

"I'm the murderer... I give testimony..." pronounced Nikolai.

"Eh! What did you kill with?"

"An axe. I prepared it."

"Eh, he's in a hurry! Alone?"

Nikolai did not understand the question.

"Did you kill alone?"

"Alone. And Mitka is innocent and had nothing to do with it all."

"Don't rush with Mitka! Eh!"

"How did you, well, how did you run down the stairs then? The caretakers met both of you?"

"That was to mislead... then... I ran with Mitka," answered Nikolai, as if hurrying and preparing beforehand.

"Well, there it is!" cried Porfiry angrily, "he's not speaking his own words!" he muttered as if to himself and suddenly saw Raskolnikov again.

He had evidently become so absorbed with Nikolai that for one moment he had even forgotten about Raskolnikov. Now he suddenly came to himself, even became confused...

"Rodion Romanovich, my dear sir! Forgive me," he rushed toward him, "this won't do; if you please... you have nothing to do here... I myself... you see what surprises!.. If you please!.."

And taking him by the arm, he showed him to the door.

"You didn't expect this, it seems?" said Raskolnikov, who of course still understood nothing clearly but had already managed to recover his spirits considerably.

"Neither did you, my dear sir. Look how your hand trembles! Heh-heh!"

"You're trembling too, Porfiry Petrovich."

"I'm trembling too; I didn't expect it!.."

They were already standing in the doorway. Porfiry waited impatiently for Raskolnikov to pass through.

"And you won't show me the little surprise?" Raskolnikov suddenly said.

"He talks, and his teeth are still chattering against each other in his mouth, heh-heh! You're an ironical person! Well, goodbye."

"In my opinion, it's farewell!"

"As God wills, as God wills!" muttered Porfiry with a somehow twisted smile.

Passing through the office, Raskolnikov noticed that many people looked at him intently. In the anteroom, in the crowd, he managed to make out both caretakers from that house, the ones he had summoned to the police station that night. They stood waiting for something. But as soon as he went out onto the stairs, he suddenly heard Porfiry Petrovich's voice behind him again. Turning around, he saw that he was running after him, all out of breath.

"One little word, Rodion Romanovich; as for all the rest, as God wills, but still I'll have to ask you about some things according to form... so we'll see each other again."

And Porfiry stopped before him with a smile.

"Indeed," he added once more.

One might suppose that he still wanted to say something else, but somehow couldn't get it out.

"And you must forgive me, Porfiry Petrovich, for earlier... I got heated," began Raskolnikov, who had now completely recovered his spirits to an irresistible desire to show off.

"It's nothing, nothing... I myself... I have a venomous character, I confess, I confess! But we'll see each other. If God wills, we'll see each other very, very much!.."

"And we'll come to know each other completely?" Raskolnikov caught up.

"And we'll come to know each other completely," echoed Porfiry Petrovich and, squinting, looked at him very seriously. "Are you going to a name-day party now?"

"To a funeral."

"Yes, of course, to a funeral! Take care of your health, your health..."

"But I don't even know what to wish you on my part!" Raskolnikov caught up, already beginning to descend the stairs, but suddenly turning back to Porfiry, "I would wish you greater success, but you see what a comical position yours is!"

"Why comical?" Porfiry Petrovich immediately pricked up his ears, having also turned to leave.

"Why, like this, you must have tormented and tortured this poor Mikolka psychologically, in your manner, until he confessed; day and night, you must have proved to him: 'You're the murderer, you're the murderer...' well, and now, when he's already confessed, you'll start breaking him down bone by bone again: 'You're lying, you're not the murderer! You couldn't be one! You're not speaking your own words!' Well, so how is your position not comical after that?"

"Heh-heh-heh! So you noticed that I just told Nikolai he was 'not speaking his own words'?"

"How could I not notice?"

"Heh-heh! You're witty, very witty. You notice everything! A truly playful mind! And you strike the very comic chord... heh-heh! This trait, they say, was possessed in the highest degree by Gogol, among writers?"

"Yes, by Gogol."

"Yes, by Gogol... till our most pleasant meeting."

"Till our most pleasant meeting..."

Raskolnikov went straight home. He was so confused and bewildered that, having already come home and thrown himself on the sofa, he sat for a quarter of an hour just resting and trying to collect his thoughts somehow. He didn't even try to reason about Nikolai: he felt stunned; that there was something inexplicable, surprising in Nikolai's confession, which he couldn't understand now for anything. But Nikolai's confession was an actual fact. The consequences of this fact immediately became clear to him: the lie couldn't fail to be exposed, and then they would come after him again. But at least until that time he was free and must certainly do something for himself, because the danger was inevitable.

But to what degree, however? The situation was beginning to clarify. Recalling roughly, in general outline, his entire earlier scene with Porfiry, he couldn't help shuddering with horror once more. Of course, he didn't yet know all of Porfiry's aims, couldn't grasp all his earlier calculations. But part of the game had been revealed, and of course, no one better than he could understand how terrible for him was this "move" in Porfiry's game. A little more, and he might have given himself away completely, actually. Knowing the morbidity of his character and having correctly grasped and penetrated him at first glance, Porfiry had acted perhaps too decisively, but almost certainly. There's no dispute that Raskolnikov had already compromised himself too much earlier, but still no facts had emerged; everything was still only relative. But is that so, however, is that how he understands it all now? Isn't he mistaken? What result exactly was Porfiry aiming for today? Did he really have something prepared today? And what exactly? Was he really waiting for something or not? How exactly would they have parted today if the unexpected catastrophe through Nikolai hadn't occurred?

Porfiry had shown almost his entire game; of course, he had taken a risk, but he had shown it, and (it seemed to Raskolnikov) if Porfiry really had something more, he would have shown that too. What was this "surprise"? A mockery, perhaps? Did it mean something or not? Could anything resembling a fact, a positive accusation, be hidden under it? Yesterday's man? Where had he disappeared to? Where was he today? After all, if Porfiry has anything positive, it must certainly be connected with yesterday's man...

He sat on the sofa, his head hanging down, leaning on his knees and covering his face with his hands. A nervous tremor continued throughout his entire body. Finally he got up, took his cap, thought, and headed for the door.

He somehow had a presentiment that, at least for today, he could almost certainly consider himself safe. Suddenly in his heart he felt almost joy: he wanted to get to Katerina Ivanovna as soon as possible. Of course, he was late for the funeral, but he would be in time for the memorial dinner, and there, right away, he would see Sonya.

He stopped, thought, and a sickly smile forced itself onto his lips.

"Today! Today!" he repeated to himself, "yes, this very day! So it must be..."

Just as he was about to open the door, it suddenly began to open by itself. He shuddered and jumped back. The door opened slowly and quietly, and suddenly a figure appeared—yesterday's man from under the ground.

The man stopped on the threshold, looked silently at Raskolnikov, and took a step into the room. He was exactly the same as yesterday, the same figure, dressed the same way, but a strong change had occurred in his face and gaze: he now looked somehow sorrowful and, after standing for a bit, sighed deeply. All that was missing was for him to put his palm to his cheek and tilt his head to the side to completely resemble a peasant woman.

"What do you want?" asked the deathly pale Raskolnikov.

The man was silent and suddenly bowed deeply to him, almost to the ground. At least he touched the ground with the finger of his right hand.

"What are you doing?" cried Raskolnikov.

"I'm guilty," the man said quietly.

"Of what?"

"Of evil thoughts."

They looked at each other.

"I was offended. When you came that time, perhaps drunk, and called the caretakers to the station and asked about blood, I was offended that they left it at nothing and thought you were drunk. And I was so offended that I lost sleep. And remembering your address, we came here yesterday and inquired..."

"Who came?" interrupted Raskolnikov, instantly beginning to recall.

"I did, that is, I offended you."

"So you're from that house?"

"Yes, I was standing there at the gate with them then, or did you forget? We have our craft there, from time immemorial. We're furriers, meshchane, we take work home... but most of all I was offended..."

And suddenly Raskolnikov clearly recalled the entire scene from three days ago under the gate; he realized that besides the caretakers there had been several other people standing there then, women were standing there too. He recalled a voice that had suggested taking him directly to the police station. He couldn't recall the face of the speaker and didn't recognize it even now, but he remembered that he had even answered him something then, turned to him...

So that's what resolved all of yesterday's horror. The most horrible thing was to think that he had really almost perished, almost destroyed himself over such a trifling circumstance. So, except for renting the apartment and talking about blood, this man could tell nothing. So Porfiry too had nothing, nothing except this delirium, no facts except psychology, which cuts both ways, nothing positive. So if no more facts appear (and they must no longer appear, must not, must not!), then... then what can they do to him? How can they convict him finally, even if they arrest him? And so Porfiry had only just now, only this moment learned about the apartment, and hadn't known until now.

"Was it you who told Porfiry today... about my coming there?" he cried, struck by a sudden idea.

"What Porfiry?"

"The examining magistrate."

"I told him. The caretakers wouldn't go then, so I went."

"Today?"

"I was there a minute before you. And I heard everything, everything, how he tortured you."

"Where? What? When?"

"Right there, behind his partition, I sat there the whole time."

"What? So you were the surprise? But how could this happen? Have mercy!"

"Seeing," the meshchanin began, "that the caretakers wouldn't go on my words, because, they say, it's already late, and perhaps he'll get angry that we didn't come at the time, I was offended, and I lost sleep, and I began to inquire. And having found out yesterday, I went today. The first time I came—he wasn't there. An hour later I came—they wouldn't receive me, the third time I came—they admitted me. I began to report everything to him as it was, and he started jumping around the room and beating himself in the chest with his fist: 'What are you doing to me, you robbers!' he says. 'If I'd known such a thing, I would have demanded him with an escort!' Then he ran out, called someone and began talking with him in the corner, and then back to me—and began questioning and cursing. And he reproached me much; and I reported everything to him and said that you didn't dare answer me anything from my yesterday's words and that you didn't recognize me. And then he started running around again, and kept beating himself in the chest, and got angry, and ran around, and when they announced you—well, he says, get behind the partition, sit there for now, don't move, whatever you may hear, and he brought me a chair there himself and locked me in; perhaps, he says, I'll question you. And when they brought Nikolai, then he, after you, let me out: I'll, he says, require you again and will question you more..."

"And did he question Nikolai in your presence?"

"As soon as he let you out, he let me out immediately too, and began questioning Nikolai."

The meshchanin stopped and suddenly bowed again, touching the floor with his finger.

"Forgive me for my slander and my malice."

"God forgives," answered Raskolnikov, and as soon as he said this, the meshchanin bowed to him, but no longer to the ground, just at the waist, slowly turned and left the room. "Everything cuts both ways, now everything cuts both ways," repeated Raskolnikov and walked out of the room more cheerfully than ever before.

"Now we'll still fight," he said with a malicious smile, descending the stairs. The malice, however, was directed at himself: he recalled his "faint-heartedness" with contempt and shame.

PART FIVE