来自：Crime and Punishment
II
"It's these cigarettes!" Porfiry Petrovich began at last, having finished lighting up and caught his breath. "They're harmful, purely harmful, but I can't give them up! I cough, sir, my throat's started to tickle, and I'm short of breath. You know, I'm a coward, sir, so the other day I went to see B—— he examines each patient for at least half an hour; he actually laughed when he looked at me: he tapped and listened—'tobacco,' he says, 'among other things, is no good for you; your lungs are enlarged.' Well, how can I give it up? What would I replace it with? I don't drink, sir, that's the whole trouble, heh-heh-heh, that I don't drink—that's the trouble! Everything is relative, Rodion Romanovich, everything is relative!"
"What's this, is he starting up with his old official routine again?" Raskolnikov thought with disgust. The whole recent scene of their last meeting suddenly came back to him, and the feeling he had then surged like a wave to his heart.
"But you know, I already stopped by the evening of the third; you didn't know?" Porfiry Petrovich continued, examining the room. "I came into this very room. I was passing by, just like today—let me, I thought, pay him a little visit. I came in, and the room was wide open; I looked around, waited, and didn't even announce myself to your servant—I left. Don't you lock up?"
Raskolnikov's face grew darker and darker. Porfiry seemed to guess his thoughts.
"I've come to explain, my dear Rodion Romanovich, to explain, sir! I owe and am obliged to give you an explanation, sir," he continued with a little smile and even lightly patted Raskolnikov's knee with his palm, but almost at the same instant his face suddenly took on a serious and preoccupied expression; it even seemed to cloud over with sadness, to Raskolnikov's surprise. He had never yet seen or suspected such a face in him. "A strange scene occurred between us the last time, Rodion Romanovich. Perhaps at our first meeting, too, there was a strange scene between us; but then... Well, now it's all the same! Here's what, sir: I may perhaps be very much at fault before you; I feel it, sir. You remember how we parted: your nerves were singing and your knees trembling, and my nerves were singing and my knees trembling. And you know, it even turned out somewhat improper between us then, not gentlemanly. And yet we are gentlemen; that is, in any case, gentlemen first of all; this must be understood, sir. You remember what it came to... it was even quite indecent, sir."
"What's this, who does he take me for?" Raskolnikov asked himself in amazement, raising his head and looking at Porfiry with wide eyes.
"I decided that frankness would be better for us now to act upon," Porfiry Petrovich continued, tilting his head back slightly and lowering his eyes, as if no longer wishing to embarrass his former victim with his gaze and as if disdaining his former methods and tricks, "yes, sir, such suspicions and such scenes cannot continue for long. Mikolka resolved things for us then, otherwise I don't know what would have come of it between us. That damned petty bourgeois was sitting behind my partition then—can you imagine that? You know this already, of course; and I know myself that he came to see you afterward; but what you supposed then wasn't so: I didn't send for anyone and hadn't yet made any arrangements. You ask why I hadn't made arrangements? Well, how can I tell you: it all sort of stunned me then. I barely managed to send for the yardkeepers. (You noticed the yardkeepers as you passed, didn't you?) A thought flashed through my mind then, quick as lightning; you see, I was firmly convinced then, Rodion Romanovich. Let me, I thought, let one thing go for the time being, but I'll catch another by the tail—I won't let my own one go, at least. You're very irritable, Rodion Romanovich, by nature, sir; even too much so, sir, considering all the other fundamental properties of your character and heart, which I flatter myself with the hope of having partly understood, sir. Well, of course, even then I could have reasoned that it doesn't always happen that a man just gets up and blurts out the whole truth to you. It does happen, especially when you drive a man beyond his last patience, but in any case, rarely. I could have reasoned this out. No, I thought, I need at least a little detail! At least the tiniest little detail, but one that you can grasp with your hands, a real thing, not just this psychology. Because, I thought, if a man is guilty, then of course you can in any case expect something substantial from him; you can even count on the most unexpected result. I was counting on your character then, Rodion Romanovich, on your character most of all, sir! I had great hopes in you then."
"But you... but what are you saying all this for now?" Raskolnikov finally muttered, not even properly comprehending the question. "What's he talking about," he wondered to himself, "does he really think I'm innocent?"
"What am I saying this for? But I came to explain, sir, so to speak, I consider it a sacred duty. I want to lay out everything for you to the last detail, the whole history of that darkening, so to speak, then. I made you suffer a great deal, Rodion Romanovich. I'm not a monster, sir. After all, I understand what it all means for a man to drag all this on himself, a man who is oppressed, but proud, imperious, and impatient, especially impatient! In any case, I regard you as a most noble man, sir, and even with the rudiments of magnanimity, sir, though I don't agree with you in all your convictions, which I consider it my duty to declare beforehand, directly and with complete sincerity, because above all I don't wish to deceive. Having come to know you, I felt an attachment to you. You may perhaps laugh at such words of mine? You have the right, sir. I know that you didn't like me from first sight, because, essentially, there's no reason to like me, sir. You may think what you like, but now I wish, for my part, to make up for the impression I produced by all possible means and to prove that I too am a man with a heart and conscience. I speak sincerely, sir."
Porfiry Petrovich paused with dignity. Raskolnikov felt a rush of some new fear. The thought that Porfiry considered him innocent began suddenly to frighten him.
"To tell everything in order, how it all suddenly began then, is hardly necessary," Porfiry Petrovich continued; "I think it's even superfluous. And I could hardly manage it, sir. Because how can it be explained in detail? First there were rumors. What kind of rumors they were, and from whom, and when... and for what reason, properly speaking, the matter came to touch you—I think that's also superfluous. For me personally it began with an accident, with a completely accidental accident, which in the highest degree might have been or might not have been—which one? Hm, I think there's no point in talking about that either. All this, both the rumors and the accident, came together for me then into one thought. I confess frankly, because if one is going to confess, then about everything—I was the first to pounce on you then. Let's say those marks on the old woman's things and so forth and so forth—all that's nonsense, sir. You can count a hundred such things. I also happened then to learn in detail about the scene at the district office, also by chance, sir, and not just in passing, but from a special, capital narrator who, without knowing it himself, marvelously captured that scene. It all adds up, sir, one thing to another, one thing to another, Rodion Romanovich, my dear! Well, how could I not turn in a certain direction? Out of a hundred rabbits you can never make a horse, out of a hundred suspicions you can never make proof, as one English proverb says, but that's only prudence, sir, but try to deal with passions, with passions, because even an investigator is a man, sir. Then I remembered your little article, in the journal, you remember, we talked about it in detail during your first visit. I mocked it then, but that was to draw you out further. I repeat, you're very impatient and ill, Rodion Romanovich. That you're bold, arrogant, serious, and... have felt much, very much already, all this I've known for a long time, sir. I'm familiar with all these sensations, and I read your article as something familiar. It was conceived in sleepless nights and in a frenzy, with a rising and pounding heart, with suppressed enthusiasm. And this suppressed, proud enthusiasm in youth is dangerous! I mocked it then, but now I'll tell you that I'm terribly fond in general, that is, as an amateur, of this first, youthful, ardent trial of the pen. Smoke, mist, a string ringing in the mist. Your article is absurd and fantastic, but there flashes in it such sincerity, in it there's youthful and incorruptible pride, in it there's the boldness of despair; it's a dark article, sir, but that's good, sir. I read your article and put it aside, and... as I put it aside then, I thought: 'Well, things won't go smoothly with this man!' Well then, tell me, after such a beginning, how could I not get carried away by what followed! Oh Lord! But am I saying anything? Am I asserting anything now? I only took note then. What's there, I thought? There's nothing, that is, absolutely nothing, and perhaps in the highest degree nothing. And for me as an investigator to get so carried away is even quite improper: I have Mikolka on my hands there, and already with facts—think what you like, but facts! And he has his own psychology too; I have to deal with him; because here it's a matter of life and death. Why am I explaining all this to you now? So that you'll know and with your mind and heart won't accuse me of my malicious behavior then. It wasn't malicious, sir, I say sincerely, heh-heh! You think I didn't come to search you then? I did, sir, I did, sir, heh-heh, I did, sir, when you were lying here sick in bed. Not officially and not in my own person, but I did, sir. Your apartment was examined down to the last hair at the very first traces; but—umsonst! I thought: now this man will come, will come himself, and very soon; if he's guilty, he'll certainly come. Another won't come, but this one will. And do you remember how Mr. Razumikhin began to let things slip to you? We arranged that to agitate you, because we deliberately spread the rumor so that he would let things slip to you, and Mr. Razumikhin is the kind of man who can't contain his indignation. Mr. Zametov was struck first of all by your anger and your open boldness: well, how could you suddenly blurt out in a tavern: 'I killed!' Too bold, sir, too audacious, sir, and if, I thought, he's guilty, then he's a terrible fighter! That's what I thought then, sir. I waited, sir! I waited for you with all my might, and you simply crushed Zametov then, and... you see, the whole trouble is that all this damned psychology cuts both ways! Well, so I waited for you, I looked, and God delivered you to me—you were coming! My heart pounded so. Eh! Well, why did you have to come then? And that laugh, that laugh of yours as you came in then, remember, I guessed it all then as if through glass, but if I hadn't been waiting for you in that special way, I wouldn't have noticed anything in your laugh. That's what it means to be in the right frame of mind. And Mr. Razumikhin then—ah! the stone, the stone, remember, the stone under which the things are hidden? Well, I can see it somewhere there, in a vegetable garden—you did say in a vegetable garden to Zametov, and then later at my place, the second time? And when we began going over your article, when you began to expound—every word of yours could be taken doubly, as if there's another one sitting under it! Well then, Rodion Romanovich, this is how I reached my last posts, and bumped my head, and came to my senses. No, I said, what am I doing! After all, if one wants to, I said, all this, down to the last detail, can be explained in another direction, and it will come out even more natural. Torture, sir! 'No,' I thought, 'I'd better have a little detail!...' And when I heard then about those bells, I froze completely, even trembled. 'Well,' I thought, 'here's the detail! It's it!' And I didn't reason then, I simply didn't want to. I would have given a thousand rubles at that moment, my own money, just to look at you with my own eyes: how you walked a hundred steps alongside that petty bourgeois, after he called you 'murderer' to your face, and you didn't dare ask him anything for a whole hundred steps!.. Well, and that chill in the spine? Those bells, in illness, in semi-delirium? So then, Rodion Romanovich, after that why should you be surprised that I played such tricks on you then? And why did you yourself come at that very moment? It was as if someone pushed you, by God, and if Mikolka hadn't separated us then... and do you remember Mikolka then? Do you remember well? That was thunder, sir! It was thunder crashing from a cloud, a thunderbolt! Well, and how did I receive him? I didn't believe the thunderbolt one bit, you saw it yourself! Why not? Even later, after you, when he began to answer very, very sensibly on certain points, so that I was surprised myself, even then I didn't believe him a kopeck! That's what it means to be firm as adamant. No, I thought, morgen fri! What kind of Mikolka is this!"
"Razumikhin just told me that you're still accusing Nikolai now and yourself assured Razumikhin of it..."
His breath caught and he didn't finish. He had been listening in inexpressible agitation as the man who had seen through him completely renounced himself. He was afraid to believe and didn't believe. In the still ambiguous words he eagerly sought and caught at something more precise and final.
"Mr. Razumikhin!" cried Porfiry Petrovich, as if delighted by a question from the silent Raskolnikov, "heh-heh-heh! But Mr. Razumikhin had to be sent away: two's company, three's a crowd. Mr. Razumikhin is not right, sir, and besides he's an outsider, he came running to me all pale... Well, God be with him, why bring him in here? And as for Mikolka, would you like to know what kind of subject he is, as I understand him? First of all, he's still an underage child, and not exactly a coward, but something like an artist. Really, sir, don't laugh that I explain him this way. He's innocent and completely impressionable. He has feelings; he's a fantasist. He can sing, he can dance, he can tell stories, they say, so well that people come from other places to listen. And he'll go to school, and he'll laugh himself silly just because someone shows him a finger, and he'll drink himself unconscious, not from debauchery, but in spells, when they ply him with drink, still childishly. And he stole then without even knowing it himself; because 'if I picked it up from the ground, what's that stealing?' And do you know that he's from the Old Believers, and not exactly from the Old Believers, but simply a sectarian; he had Runners in his family, and he himself recently, for two whole years, was in the country under the spiritual guidance of an elder. I learned all this from Mikolka and from his fellow townsmen from Zaraysk. And what's more! He simply wanted to run away to the wilderness! He had zeal, he prayed to God at night, he read old, 'true' books and read them to pieces. Petersburg had a strong effect on him, especially the female sex, well, and wine. He's impressionable, sir, and he forgot the elder, and everything. I know that an artist here took a liking to him, he started going to see him, and then this case came along! Well, he got scared—tried to hang himself! Tried to run! What can be done about the notion that has spread among the people about our jurisprudence! Some people find the very word 'trial' frightening. Who's to blame! Perhaps the new courts will say something. Oh, God grant it! Well, sir, in prison he apparently remembered now the honest elder; the Bible also appeared again. Do you know, Rodion Romanovich, what it means for some of them to 'suffer?' It's not for anyone in particular, but just 'one must suffer'; to accept suffering, that means, and from the authorities—all the better. In my time there sat a most humble prisoner for a whole year in prison, reading the Bible on the stove at night, and he read and read, you know, completely, and then, out of the blue, he grabbed a brick and threw it at the warden, without any offense on his part. And how he threw it: he deliberately aimed a yard wide so as not to cause any harm. Well, it's known what happens to a prisoner who throws something at a superior with a weapon: he 'accepted suffering, that means.' So now I suspect that Mikolka wants to 'accept suffering' or something like that. I know this for certain, even from facts, sir. He just doesn't know himself that I know. What, don't you admit that such fantastic people can come from such folk? Yes, constantly! The elder has started working again now, especially since he remembered him after the noose. But he'll tell me everything himself, he'll come. You think he'll hold out? Wait, he'll recant yet! I'm expecting any hour now that he'll come to withdraw his testimony. I've grown fond of this Mikolka and am investigating him thoroughly. And what do you think! Heh-heh! On some points he answered me very sensibly, obviously he got the necessary information, prepared cleverly; but on other points he's simply in the dark, doesn't know a thing, and doesn't even suspect that he doesn't know! No, my dear Rodion Romanovich, this isn't Mikolka! This is a fantastic, dark case, a contemporary case, sir, a case of our time, when the human heart has grown clouded; when the phrase is quoted that blood 'refreshes'; when all of life is preached in comfort. Here are bookish dreams, sir, here is a heart theoretically irritated; here is visible a resolve for the first step, but a resolve of a special kind—he resolved, yes, but as if he fell from a mountain or flew from a bell tower, and came to the crime as if not on his own legs. He forgot to close the door behind him, but he killed, killed two people, according to theory. He killed, but couldn't manage to take the money, and what he did manage to grab, he carried under a stone. It wasn't enough for him to endure the torment when he sat behind the door, and they were breaking in and the bell was ringing—no, later he had to go to the empty apartment, half-delirious, to remember that bell, he needed to experience that spinal chill again... Well, let's say that's in illness, but then there's this: he killed, but considers himself an honest man, despises people, goes about like a pale angel—no, what kind of Mikolka is this, my dear Rodion Romanovich, this isn't Mikolka!"
These last words, after everything said before and so similar to a renunciation, were too unexpected. Raskolnikov trembled all over, as if pierced through.
"So... who then... killed?" he asked, unable to restrain himself, in a choking voice. Porfiry Petrovich even drew back against the back of his chair, as if he too was unexpectedly astonished by the question.
"Who killed?.." he repeated, as if not believing his ears, "but you killed, Rodion Romanovich! You killed, sir..." he added almost in a whisper, in a completely convinced voice.
Raskolnikov jumped up from the sofa, stood for a few seconds, and sat down again without saying a word. Small convulsions suddenly passed over his entire face.
"Your lip is twitching again, just like then," Porfiry Petrovich murmured almost sympathetically. "I think you misunderstood me, Rodion Romanovich," he added after a brief silence, "that's why you're so astonished. I came precisely in order to tell everything already and conduct the matter openly."
"It wasn't I who killed," Raskolnikov whispered, like frightened little children when they're caught in the act.
"No, it was you, sir, Rodion Romanovich, you, sir, and there's no one else, sir," Porfiry whispered sternly and with conviction.
They both fell silent, and the silence lasted even strangely long, about ten minutes. Raskolnikov leaned his elbow on the table and silently ran his fingers through his hair. Porfiry Petrovich sat quietly and waited. Suddenly Raskolnikov looked contemptuously at Porfiry.
"You're at your old tricks again, Porfiry Petrovich! Always the same methods of yours: how is it you're not tired of them, really?"
"Eh, enough, what do I care about methods now! It would be another matter if there were witnesses here; but you see we're whispering alone, one on one. You see yourself that I didn't come to chase and catch you like a hare. Whether you confess or not—at this moment it's all the same to me. I'm convinced for myself even without you."
"Then why did you come?" Raskolnikov asked irritably. "I'm asking you my former question: if you consider me guilty, why don't you take me to prison?"
"Well, here's a question! I'll answer you point by point: first, to arrest you straight away under arrest is disadvantageous to me."
"How disadvantageous! If you're convinced, then you must..."
"Eh, what of it that I'm convinced? For now all this is just my dreams, sir. And why should I put you to rest there? You know yourself, since you're asking for it. Suppose I bring, for example, that petty bourgeois to confront you, and you'll tell him: 'Were you drunk or not? Who saw me with you? I simply took you for a drunk man, and you were drunk'—well, what will I say to you then, especially since your version is even more plausible than his, because his testimony is just psychology—which doesn't even suit his mug—while you hit the bull's-eye exactly, because the scoundrel drinks heavily and is too well known for it. And I've frankly confessed to you myself, several times already, that this psychology cuts both ways and that the second end is bigger and much more plausible, and that, apart from this, I have nothing against you so far. And though I'll still put you away and even came here myself (quite against the rules) to tell you everything beforehand, still I tell you directly (also against the rules) that it will be disadvantageous to me. Well, sir, secondly, I came to you because..."
"Well yes, secondly?" (Raskolnikov was still breathless).
"Because, as I already announced earlier, I consider myself obliged to give you an explanation. I don't want you to consider me a monster, especially since I'm sincerely disposed toward you, believe it or not. In consequence of which, thirdly, I came to you with an open and direct proposal—to make a confession with a guilty plea. It will be infinitely more advantageous for you, and it's also advantageous for me—because it'll be off my shoulders. Well, is that frank on my part or not?"
Raskolnikov thought for a minute.
"Listen, Porfiry Petrovich, you yourself say it's just psychology, yet you've moved into mathematics. Well, what if you yourself are mistaken now?"
"No, Rodion Romanovich, I'm not mistaken. I have such a little detail. I found that little detail even then, sir; the Lord sent it!"
"What little detail?"
"I won't say what, Rodion Romanovich. And in any case, now I no longer have the right to delay; I'll put you away, sir. So you judge: it's all the same to me now, and consequently I'm doing this solely for you. By God, it'll be better, Rodion Romanovich!"
Raskolnikov smiled maliciously.
"This is not only funny, it's even shameless now. Well, even if I were guilty (which I'm not saying at all), well, why on earth should I come to you with a guilty plea when you yourself say I'll sit in your place there anyway?"
"Eh, Rodion Romanovich, don't believe my words entirely; maybe it won't be entirely restful! After all, that's only theory, and mine at that, sir, and what kind of authority am I to you? Maybe I'm even hiding something from you even now, sir. I can't just take and lay everything out for you, heh-heh! The second thing: what kind of advantage? But don't you know what kind of reduction you'll get for it! After all, when will you come forward, at what moment? Just think about it! When someone else has already taken the crime upon himself and confused the whole case? And I swear to you by God himself, I'll so arrange and fix things 'there' that your appearance will come out as if completely unexpected. We'll completely eliminate all this psychology, I'll turn all suspicions against you to nothing, so that your crime will appear like some kind of darkening, because, in conscience, it is a darkening. I'm an honest man, Rodion Romanovich, and I'll keep my word."
Raskolnikov fell sadly silent and hung his head; he thought for a long time and finally smiled again, but his smile was already meek and sad:
"Eh, I don't need it!" he said, as if no longer hiding anything from Porfiry. "It's not worth it! I don't need your reduction at all!"
"Well, that's just what I was afraid of!" Porfiry exclaimed hotly and as if involuntarily, "that's just what I was afraid of, that you don't need our reduction."
Raskolnikov looked at him sadly and meaningfully.
"Eh, don't disdain life!" Porfiry continued, "there's still a lot of it ahead. How can you not need a reduction, how can you not! You're an impatient man!"
"A lot of what will be ahead?"
"Of life! What kind of prophet are you, how much do you know? Seek and you shall find. Perhaps God is waiting for you in this. And it's not forever, the chain..."
"The reduction will be..." Raskolnikov laughed.
"What, are you afraid of bourgeois shame or something? Perhaps you are afraid, but you don't know it yourself—because you're young! But all the same, it's not for you to be afraid or to be ashamed of a confession with a guilty plea."
"Pah, to hell with it!" Raskolnikov whispered contemptuously and with disgust, as if not even wanting to speak. He started to rise again, as if wanting to go somewhere, but sat down again in visible despair.
"That's right, to hell with it! You've lost faith and you think I'm flattering you crudely; but how much have you lived yet? How much do you understand? You invented a theory, and you're ashamed that it failed, that it turned out not very original! It turned out base, that's true, but you're still not a hopeless scoundrel. Not such a scoundrel at all! At least you didn't fool yourself for long, you went straight to the last posts at once. I consider you one of those who, even if you cut out their guts, they'll stand there and look at their torturers with a smile—if only they find faith or God. Well, find it, and you'll live. First of all, you've needed a change of air for a long time. What of it, suffering is also a good thing. Suffer. Perhaps Mikolka is right to want suffering. I know you don't believe—but don't be too clever; give yourself to life directly, without reasoning; don't worry—it'll carry you straight to shore and set you on your feet. What shore? How should I know? I only believe that you still have much life ahead. I know that you take my words now as a learned sermon; but perhaps you'll remember later, it'll come in handy sometime; that's why I'm saying it. It's still good that you only killed the old woman. If you'd invented a different theory, you might have done something a hundred million times more hideous! You should perhaps still thank God; how do you know: perhaps God is preserving you for something. And have a great heart and fear less. Are you afraid of the great task ahead? No, it would be shameful to be afraid here. Since you've taken such a step, steel yourself. Here it's justice. Fulfill what justice demands. I know you don't believe, but by God, life will carry you through. You'll come to love it yourself later. You only need air now, air, air!"
Raskolnikov even started.
"But who are you," he cried, "who are you, what kind of prophet? From what height of majestic calm are you uttering these wise prophecies to me?"
"Who am I? I'm a finished man, nothing more. A man, perhaps, who feels and sympathizes, perhaps who knows something, but completely finished. But you—that's another matter: God has prepared life for you (and who knows, perhaps with you too it will just pass like smoke, nothing will come of it). Well, what of it that you'll pass into another category of people? It's not comfort you'll regret, is it, with your heart? What of it that perhaps no one will see you for too long? It's not a matter of time, but of yourself. Become the sun, and everyone will see you. The sun must first of all be the sun. Why are you smiling again: that I'm such a Schiller? And I'll bet you suppose I'm flattering you now? Well, perhaps I really am flattering, heh-heh-heh! Perhaps you shouldn't take me at my word, Rodion Romanovich, perhaps you should never fully believe me—that's just my nature, I agree; but I'll just add this: how much I'm a base man and how much I'm honest, you can, I think, judge for yourself!"
"When do you think to arrest me?"
"Well, I can still let you walk around for a day and a half or two. Think it over, my dear, pray to God. It's more advantageous, by God, more advantageous."
"And what if I run away?" Raskolnikov asked, smiling somehow strangely.
"No, you won't run away. A peasant will run away, a fashionable sectarian will run away—a lackey of someone else's thought—because you only need to show him the tip of a finger, like Midshipman Dyrka, and he'll believe in anything for the rest of his life. But you no longer believe in your theory—what will you run away with? And what would you do in flight? Flight is disgusting and difficult, but you first of all need life and a definite position, appropriate air; well, is that your air there? If you run away, you'll come back yourself. You can't do without us. And if I put you in prison—well, you'll sit a month, well, two, well, three, and then suddenly, remember my word, you'll come forward yourself, maybe even unexpectedly to yourself. An hour before you won't even know yourself that you'll come with a guilty plea. I'm even convinced that you'll 'decide to accept suffering'; you don't believe me now, but you'll come to it yourself. Because suffering, Rodion Romanovich, is a great thing; don't look at the fact that I've gotten fat, never mind, but I know; don't laugh at this, there's an idea in suffering. Mikolka is right. No, you won't run away, Rodion Romanovich."
Raskolnikov got up and took his cap. Porfiry Petrovich also got up.
"Going for a walk? The evening will be nice, as long as there's no thunderstorm. Though it would be better if it freshened things up..."
He also took his cap.
"You, Porfiry Petrovich, please don't get it into your head," Raskolnikov pronounced with stern insistence, "that I confessed to you today. You're a strange man, and I listened to you out of mere curiosity. But I didn't confess anything to you... Remember that."
"Well yes, I know, I'll remember, look at that, he's even trembling. Don't worry, my dear; let your will be done. Walk around a bit; only you can't walk too much. In any case, I have one more little request for you," he added, lowering his voice, "it's a delicate one, but important: if, that is, just in case (though I don't believe it and consider you completely incapable), if just in case—well, just in case—it should occur to you in these forty or fifty hours to end the matter somehow differently, in some fantastic way—to raise your hand against yourself (an absurd supposition, well, but please forgive me for it), then leave a brief but detailed note. Just so, two lines, just two little lines, and mention the stone: it would be nobler, sir. Well, sir, goodbye... Good thoughts and good beginnings!"
Porfiry went out, somehow bent over and as if avoiding looking at Raskolnikov. Raskolnikov went to the window and waited with irritable impatience for the time when, by calculation, he would go out onto the street and walk away. Then he hurriedly left the room himself.