Crime and Punishment

by Fyodor Dostoevsky

  "You keep telling lies," he said slowly and weakly, twisting his lips into a sickly smile, "you are trying again to show that you know all my game, that you know all I shall say beforehand," he said, conscious himself that he was not weighing his words as he ought. "You want to frighten me… or you are simply laughing at me…"

  He still stared at him as he said this and again there was a light of intense hatred in his eyes.

  "You keep lying," he said. "You know perfectly well that the best policy for the criminal is to tell the truth as nearly as possible… to conceal as little as possible. I don't believe you!"

  "What a wily person you are!" Porfiry tittered, "there's no catching you; you've a perfect monomania. So you don't believe me? But still you do believe me, you believe a quarter; I'll soon make you believe the whole, because I have a sincere liking for you and genuinely wish you good."

  Raskolnikov's lips trembled.

  "Yes, I do," went on Porfiry, touching Raskolnikov's arm genially, "you must take care of your illness. Besides, your mother and sister are here now; you must think of them. You must soothe and comfort them and you do nothing but frighten them…"

  "What has that to do with you? How do you know it? What concern is it of yours? You are keeping watch on me and want to let me know it?"

  "Good heavens! Why, I learnt it all from you yourself! You don't notice that in your excitement you tell me and others everything. From Razumihin, too, I learnt a number of interesting details yesterday. No, you interrupted me, but I must tell you that, for all your wit, your suspiciousness makes you lose the common–sense view of things. To return to bell–ringing, for instance. I, an examining lawyer, have betrayed a precious thing like that, a real fact (for it is a fact worth having), and you see nothing in it! Why, if I had the slightest suspicion of you, should I have acted like that? No, I should first have disarmed your suspicions and not let you see I knew of that fact, should have diverted your attention and suddenly have dealt you a knock–down blow (your expression) saying: 'And what were you doing, sir, pray, at ten or nearly eleven at the murdered woman's flat and why did you ring the bell and why did you ask about blood? And why did you invite the porters to go with you to the police station, to the lieutenant?' That's how I ought to have acted if I had a grain of suspicion of you. I ought to have taken your evidence in due form, searched your lodging and perhaps have arrested you, too… so I have no suspicion of you, since I have not done that! But you can't look at it normally and you see nothing, I say again."

  Raskolnikov started so that Porfiry Petrovitch could not fail to perceive it.

  "You are lying all the while," he cried, "I don't know your object, but you are lying. You did not speak like that just now and I cannot be mistaken!"

  "I am lying?" Porfiry repeated, apparently incensed, but preserving a good–humoured and ironical face, as though he were not in the least concerned at Raskolnikov's opinion of him. "I am lying… but how did I treat you just now, I, the examining lawyer? Prompting you and giving you every means for your defence; illness, I said, delirium, injury, melancholy and the police officers and all the rest of it? Ah! He–he–he! Though, indeed, all those psychological means of defence are not very reliable and cut both ways: illness, delirium, I don't remember—that's all right, but why, my good sir, in your illness and in your delirium were you haunted by just those delusions and not by any others? There may have been others, eh? He–he–he!"

  Raskolnikov looked haughtily and contemptuously at him.

  "Briefly," he said loudly and imperiously, rising to his feet and in so doing pushing Porfiry back a little, "briefly, I want to know, do you acknowledge me perfectly free from suspicion or not? Tell me, Porfiry Petrovitch, tell me once for all and make haste!"

  "What a business I'm having with you!" cried Porfiry with a perfectly good–humoured, sly and composed face. "And why do you want to know, why do you want to know so much, since they haven't begun to worry you? Why, you are like a child asking for matches! And why are you so uneasy? Why do you force yourself upon us, eh? He–he–he!"

  "I repeat," Raskolnikov cried furiously, "that I can't put up with it!"

  "With what? Uncertainty?" interrupted Porfiry.

  "Don't jeer at me! I won't have it! I tell you I won't have it. I can't and I won't, do you hear, do you hear?" he shouted, bringing his fist down on the table again.

  "Hush! Hush! They'll overhear! I warn you seriously, take care of yourself. I am not joking," Porfiry whispered, but this time there was not the look of old womanish good nature and alarm in his face. Now he was peremptory, stern, frowning and for once laying aside all mystification.

  But this was only for an instant. Raskolnikov, bewildered, suddenly fell into actual frenzy, but, strange to say, he again obeyed the command to speak quietly, though he was in a perfect paroxysm of fury.

  "I will not allow myself to be tortured," he whispered, instantly recognising with hatred that he could not help obeying the command and driven to even greater fury by the thought. "Arrest me, search me, but kindly act in due form and don't play with me! Don't dare!"

  "Don't worry about the form," Porfiry interrupted with the same sly smile, as it were, gloating with enjoyment over Raskolnikov. "I invited you to see me quite in a friendly way."

  "I don't want your friendship and I spit on it! Do you hear? And, here, I take my cap and go. What will you say now if you mean to arrest me?"

  He took up his cap and went to the door.

  "And won't you see my little surprise?" chuckled Porfiry, again taking him by the arm and stopping him at the door.

  He seemed to become more playful and good–humoured which maddened Raskolnikov.

  "What surprise?" he asked, standing still and looking at Porfiry in alarm.

  "My little surprise, it's sitting there behind the door, he–he–he!" (He pointed to the locked door.) "I locked him in that he should not escape."

  "What is it? Where? What?…"

  Raskolnikov walked to the door and would have opened it, but it was locked.

  "It's locked, here is the key!"

  And he brought a key out of his pocket.

  "You are lying," roared Raskolnikov without restraint, "you lie, you damned punchinello!" and he rushed at Porfiry who retreated to the other door, not at all alarmed.

  "I understand it all! You are lying and mocking so that I may betray myself to you…"

  "Why, you could not betray yourself any further, my dear Rodion Romanovitch. You are in a passion. Don't shout, I shall call the clerks."

  "You are lying! Call the clerks! You knew I was ill and tried to work me into a frenzy to make me betray myself, that was your object! Produce your facts! I understand it all. You've no evidence, you have only wretched rubbishly suspicions like Zametov's! You knew my character, you wanted to drive me to fury and then to knock me down with priests and deputies… Are you waiting for them? eh! What are you waiting for? Where are they? Produce them?"

  "Why deputies, my good man? What things people will imagine! And to do so would not be acting in form as you say, you don't know the business, my dear fellow… And there's no escaping form, as you see," Porfiry muttered, listening at the door through which a noise could be heard.

  "Ah, they're coming," cried Raskolnikov. "You've sent for them! You expected them! Well, produce them all: your deputies, your witnesses, what you like!… I am ready!"

  But at this moment a strange incident occurred, something so unexpected that neither Raskolnikov nor Porfiry Petrovitch could have looked for such a conclusion to their interview.

  CHAPTER VI

  When he remembered the scene afterwards, this is how Raskolnikov saw it.

  The noise behind the door increased, and suddenly the door was opened a little.

  "What is it?" cried Porfiry Petrovitch, annoyed. "Why, I gave orders…"

  For an instant there was no answer, but it was evident that there were several persons at the door, and that they were apparently pushing somebody
back.

  "What is it?" Porfiry Petrovitch repeated, uneasily.

  "The prisoner Nikolay has been brought," someone answered.

  "He is not wanted! Take him away! Let him wait! What's he doing here? How irregular!" cried Porfiry, rushing to the door.

  "But he…" began the same voice, and suddenly ceased.

  Two seconds, not more, were spent in actual struggle, then someone gave a violent shove, and then a man, very pale, strode into the room.

  This man's appearance was at first sight very strange. He stared straight before him, as though seeing nothing. There was a determined gleam in his eyes; at the same time there was a deathly pallor in his face, as though he were being led to the scaffold. His white lips were faintly twitching.

  He was dressed like a workman and was of medium height, very young, slim, his hair cut in round crop, with thin spare features. The man whom he had thrust back followed him into the room and succeeded in seizing him by the shoulder; he was a warder; but Nikolay pulled his arm away.

  Several persons crowded inquisitively into the doorway. Some of them tried to get in. All this took place almost instantaneously.

  "Go away, it's too soon! Wait till you are sent for!… Why have you brought him so soon?" Porfiry Petrovitch muttered, extremely annoyed, and as it were thrown out of his reckoning.

  But Nikolay suddenly knelt down.

  "What's the matter?" cried Porfiry, surprised.

  "I am guilty! Mine is the sin! I am the murderer," Nikolay articulated suddenly, rather breathless, but speaking fairly loudly.

  For ten seconds there was silence as though all had been struck dumb; even the warder stepped back, mechanically retreated to the door, and stood immovable.

  "What is it?" cried Porfiry Petrovitch, recovering from his momentary stupefaction.

  "I… am the murderer," repeated Nikolay, after a brief pause.

  "What… you… what… whom did you kill?" Porfiry Petrovitch was obviously bewildered.

  Nikolay again was silent for a moment.

  "Alyona Ivanovna and her sister Lizaveta Ivanovna, I… killed… with an axe. Darkness came over me," he added suddenly, and was again silent.

  He still remained on his knees. Porfiry Petrovitch stood for some moments as though meditating, but suddenly roused himself and waved back the uninvited spectators. They instantly vanished and closed the door. Then he looked towards Raskolnikov, who was standing in the corner, staring wildly at Nikolay and moved towards him, but stopped short, looked from Nikolay to Raskolnikov and then again at Nikolay, and seeming unable to restrain himself darted at the latter.

  "You're in too great a hurry," he shouted at him, almost angrily. "I didn't ask you what came over you… Speak, did you kill them?"

  "I am the murderer… I want to give evidence," Nikolay pronounced.

  "Ach! What did you kill them with?"

  "An axe. I had it ready."

  "Ach, he is in a hurry! Alone?"

  Nikolay did not understand the question.

  "Did you do it alone?"

  "Yes, alone. And Mitka is not guilty and had no share in it."

  "Don't be in a hurry about Mitka! A–ach! How was it you ran downstairs like that at the time? The porters met you both!"

  "It was to put them off the scent… I ran after Mitka," Nikolay replied hurriedly, as though he had prepared the answer.

  "I knew it!" cried Porfiry, with vexation. "It's not his own tale he is telling," he muttered as though to himself, and suddenly his eyes rested on Raskolnikov again.

  He was apparently so taken up with Nikolay that for a moment he had forgotten Raskolnikov. He was a little taken aback.

  "My dear Rodion Romanovitch, excuse me!" he flew up to him, "this won't do; I'm afraid you must go… it's no good your staying… I will… you see, what a surprise!… Good–bye!"

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

  "I suppose you didn't expect it?" said Raskolnikov who, though he had not yet fully grasped the situation, had regained his courage.

  "You did not expect it either, my friend. See how your hand is trembling! He–he!"

  "You're trembling, too, Porfiry Petrovitch!"

  "Yes, I am; I didn't expect it."

  They were already at the door; Porfiry was impatient for Raskolnikov to be gone.

  "And your little surprise, aren't you going to show it to me?" Raskolnikov said, sarcastically.

  "Why, his teeth are chattering as he asks, he–he! You are an ironical person! Come, till we meet!"

  "I believe we can say good–bye!"

  "That's in God's hands," muttered Porfiry, with an unnatural smile.

  As he walked through the office, Raskolnikov noticed that many people were looking at him. Among them he saw the two porters from the house, whom he had invited that night to the police station. They stood there waiting. But he was no sooner on the stairs than he heard the voice of Porfiry Petrovitch behind him. Turning round, he saw the latter running after him, out of breath.

  "One word, Rodion Romanovitch; as to all the rest, it's in God's hands, but as a matter of form there are some questions I shall have to ask you… so we shall meet again, shan't we?"

  And Porfiry stood still, facing him with a smile.

  "Shan't we?" he added again.

  He seemed to want to say something more, but could not speak out.

  "You must forgive me, Porfiry Petrovitch, for what has just passed… I lost my temper," began Raskolnikov, who had so far regained his courage that he felt irresistibly inclined to display his coolness.

  "Don't mention it, don't mention it," Porfiry replied, almost gleefully. "I myself, too… I have a wicked temper, I admit it! But we shall meet again. If it's God's will, we may see a great deal of one another."

  "And will get to know each other through and through?" added Raskolnikov.

  "Yes; know each other through and through," assented Porfiry Petrovitch, and he screwed up his eyes, looking earnestly at Raskolnikov. "Now you're going to a birthday party?"

  "To a funeral."

  "Of course, the funeral! Take care of yourself, and get well."

  "I don't know what to wish you," said Raskolnikov, who had begun to descend the stairs, but looked back again. "I should like to wish you success, but your office is such a comical one."

  "Why comical?" Porfiry Petrovitch had turned to go, but he seemed to prick up his ears at this.

  "Why, how you must have been torturing and harassing that poor Nikolay psychologically, after your fashion, till he confessed! You must have been at him day and night, proving to him that he was the murderer, and now that he has confessed, you'll begin vivisecting him again. 'You are lying,' you'll say. 'You are not the murderer! You can't be! It's not your own tale you are telling!' You must admit it's a comical business!"

  "He–he–he! You noticed then that I said to Nikolay just now that it was not his own tale he was telling?"

  "How could I help noticing it!"

  "He–he! You are quick–witted. You notice everything! You've really a playful mind! And you always fasten on the comic side… he–he! They say that was the marked characteristic of Gogol, among the writers."

  "Yes, of Gogol."

  "Yes, of Gogol… I shall look forward to meeting you."

  "So shall I."

  Raskolnikov walked straight home. He was so muddled and bewildered that on getting home he sat for a quarter of an hour on the sofa, trying to collect his thoughts. He did not attempt to think about Nikolay; he was stupefied; he felt that his confession was something inexplicable, amazing—something beyond his understanding. But Nikolay's confession was an actual fact. The consequences of this fact were clear to him at once, its falsehood could not fail to be discovered, and then they would be after him again. Till then, at least, he was free and must do something for himself, for the danger was imminent.

  But how imminent? His position gradually became clear to him. Remembering, sketchily, the main outlines of his recent s
cene with Porfiry, he could not help shuddering again with horror. Of course, he did not yet know all Porfiry's aims, he could not see into all his calculations. But he had already partly shown his hand, and no one knew better than Raskolnikov how terrible Porfiry's "lead" had been for him. A little more and he might have given himself away completely, circumstantially. Knowing his nervous temperament and from the first glance seeing through him, Porfiry, though playing a bold game, was bound to win. There's no denying that Raskolnikov had compromised himself seriously, but no facts had come to light as yet; there was nothing positive. But was he taking a true view of the position? Wasn't he mistaken? What had Porfiry been trying to get at? Had he really some surprise prepared for him? And what was it? Had he really been expecting something or not? How would they have parted if it had not been for the unexpected appearance of Nikolay?

  Porfiry had shown almost all his cards—of course, he had risked something in showing them—and if he had really had anything up his sleeve (Raskolnikov reflected), he would have shown that, too. What was that "surprise"? Was it a joke? Had it meant anything? Could it have concealed anything like a fact, a piece of positive evidence? His yesterday's visitor? What had become of him? Where was he to–day? If Porfiry really had any evidence, it must be connected with him…

  He sat on the sofa with his elbows on his knees and his face hidden in his hands. He was still shivering nervously. At last he got up, took his cap, thought a minute, and went to the door.

  He had a sort of presentiment that for to–day, at least, he might consider himself out of danger. He had a sudden sense almost of joy; he wanted to make haste to Katerina Ivanovna's. He would be too late for the funeral, of course, but he would be in time for the memorial dinner, and there at once he would see Sonia.

  He stood still, thought a moment, and a suffering smile came for a moment on to his lips.

  "To–day! To–day," he repeated to himself. "Yes, to–day! So it must be…"

  But as he was about to open the door, it began opening of itself. He started and moved back. The door opened gently and slowly, and there suddenly appeared a figure—yesterday's visitor from underground.