Lebezyatnikov was almost choking. From all sides came various exclamations, mostly expressing surprise; but some cries took on a threatening tone. Everyone pressed around Pyotr Petrovich. Katerina Ivanovna rushed to Lebezyatnikov. – Andrey Semenovich! I was wrong about you! Protect her! You are the only one for her! She is an orphan, God sent you! Andrey Semenovich, dear sir, father! And Katerina Ivanovna, almost forgetting what she was doing, threw herself down on her knees before him. – Nonsense! – shouted Luzhin, furious with rage, – You’re talking nonsense, sir. "Forgot, remembered, forgot" – what’s that? So, you mean I purposely set her up? Why? For what reason? What do I have to do with this…
You can imagine how I started watching — and I saw how you managed to slip it into her pocket. I saw it, I did, I swear!”
“No, it wasn’t a hallucination! Even though I was standing far away, I saw everything, everything. And though it’s really hard to make out a paper from the window — you are telling the truth — I knew for sure, because of a special reason, that it was a hundred-ruble note. When you gave Sofya Semyonovna a ten-ruble note — I saw it myself — at the same time you took the hundred-ruble note from the table (I saw that because I was standing close then, and a thought came to me immediately, so I didn’t forget that you had the note in your hand). You folded it and held it tightly all the time. Then I forgot again, but when you stood up, you moved it from your right hand to your left and almost dropped it; I remembered again, because the same thought came to me — that you wanted quietly to do her a favour without me knowing.
"How dare you lie!" he shouted boldly. "And how could you possibly see the slip of paper from standing by the window? You must be imagining things… your weak eyes playing tricks on you. You’re delirious!"
“I saw it, I saw it!” Lebezyatnikov shouted and insisted, “And though it goes against my beliefs, I’m ready right now to take any oath in court, because I saw how you quietly slipped it to her! Only I, the fool, thought you did it out of kindness! At the door, as you were saying goodbye to her, when she turned and you shook her hand with one hand, with your left hand you quietly put the paper into her pocket. I saw it! I saw it!”
Luzhin turned pale.
– I’m clear in my mind, but you… you’re a fraud! How low you are! I listened carefully, I waited on purpose to understand everything, because, I admit, even now it doesn’t seem quite logical… But why did you do all this – I just don’t understand. – What have I done that’s so bad! Will you stop speaking in your nonsense riddles? Or maybe you’ve been drinking? – It’s you, the low person, who might be drinking, not me! I never drink vodka at all, because it’s against my beliefs! Imagine, he—he himself, with his own hands—gave that one hundred rupee note to Sofya Semyonovna. I saw it, I’m a witness, I would swear it! He—he! – Lebezyatnikov repeated, addressing everyone around. – Are you crazy or what, you milk-faced brat? – Luzhin shrieked. – She’s right here in front of you, clearly—she herself here right now, in front of everyone, confirmed that she got nothing from me except ten rupees. So how could I have given her anything else after that?
"So you mean that you... are a slanderer, that's what my words mean!" Lebezyatnikov said heatedly, looking at him strictly with his slightly squinting eyes. He was terribly angry. Raskolnikov stared right back at him, as if catching and weighing every word. Silence fell again. Pyotr Petrovich almost lost his composure, especially in that first moment. "If it is you who...," he began stammering, "what’s wrong with you? Are you in your right mind?"
Pyotr Petrovich glanced sideways at Raskolnikov. Their eyes met. Raskolnikov’s burning gaze seemed ready to burn him to ashes. Meanwhile, Katerina Ivanovna seemed not to hear anything else; she was hugging and kissing Sonya like a madwoman. The children also surrounded Sonya from all sides with their little hands, and Polechka—though she didn’t quite understand what was happening—seemed utterly drowned in tears, sobbing uncontrollably and hiding her swollen, tear-streaked pretty face on Sonya’s shoulder. “How low!” a loud voice suddenly sounded at the door. Pyotr Petrovich quickly looked around. “How disgraceful!” repeated Lebezyatnikov, staring intently into his eyes. Pyotr Petrovich even seemed to flinch. Everyone noticed. (Later, they remembered this.) Lebezyatnikov stepped into the room. “And you dared to make me a witness?” he said, approaching Pyotr Petrovich. “What do you mean, Andrei Semyonovich? What are you talking about?” Luzhin muttered.
Enough!”
“Madam! Madam!” he exclaimed in a commanding voice, “this matter does not concern you! No one would dare accuse you of intent or conspiracy, especially since you yourself discovered it by turning out the pocket: therefore, you suspected nothing. I am truly sorry, if I may say so, that poverty drove Sofya Semyonovna to this, but why, mademoiselle, did you not want to confess? Were you afraid of shame? Was it the first step? Perhaps you were lost? It is a clear matter; very clear indeed… But still, why drag yourself into such a situation! Gentlemen!” he addressed everyone present, “gentlemen! Regretting and, so to speak, sympathizing, I am willing to forgive, even now, despite the personal insults I have received. Let this present shame serve you as a lesson for the future, mademoiselle,” he said to Sonia, “and I will let the matter lie, and so be it, I am stopping here.
The crying of poor, consumptive, orphaned Katerina Ivanovna seemed to make a strong impression on the people. There was so much misery, so much suffering in that twisted, pain-wracked, dried-up consumptive face, in those parched, blood-stained lips, in that hoarsely yelling voice, in that broken sobbing like a child's cry, in that trusting, childlike and at the same time desperate plea for protection, that it seemed everyone felt sorry for the unfortunate woman. At least, Pyotr Petrovich immediately...
Why don’t you stand up for her? Do you believe it, too? You aren’t worth her little finger, none of you, none, none, none! Lord! Please protect her at last!
— Sonya! Sonya! I just can’t believe it! See, I don’t believe it! — cried Katerina Ivanovna, shaking her in her arms like a child, kissing her endlessly, catching her hands and kissing them as if holding on for dear life. — Of all people! What foolish people you are! Oh God! So foolish, so foolish, — she shouted, addressing everyone, — you don’t even know, you don’t know what kind of heart this is, what kind of girl she is! She will give, she will! She’d even take off her last dress, sell it, walk barefoot, and give it to you if you needed it, that’s the kind of person she is! She only got her yellow ticket because my children were starving, she sold herself for us! Ah, the late one, the late one! Ah, the late one, the late one! See? See? Here are your prayers! Lord! Please protect her, why are you all just standing there! Rodion Romanovich!
“Thief! Out of the apartment! Police, police!” Amalia Ivanovna screamed. “They should be sent to Siberia! Out!”
Exclamations flew from all sides. Raskolnikov remained silent, not taking his eyes off Sonya, occasionally but quickly glancing at Luzhin. Sonya stood in the same spot, as if in a daze; she was almost not even surprised. Suddenly, her face flushed; she cried out and covered her face with her hands. “No, it wasn’t me! I didn’t take it! I don’t know!” she shouted with a heart-wrenching scream and rushed to Katerina Ivanovna. She grabbed her and held her close, as if willing to protect her with her own body.
And Katerina Ivanovna didn’t just turn out, but actually pulled out both pockets, one after the other. But from the second, the right pocket, a small piece of paper suddenly flew out, tracing a parabola in the air, and fell at Luzhin’s feet. Everyone saw it; many cried out. Pyotr Petrovich bent down, picked up the paper from the floor with two fingers, held it up for everyone to see, and unfolded it. It was a hundred-ruble credit note, folded into an eighth. Pyotr Petrovich circled his hand around, showing the note to everyone.
And Katerina Ivanovna, in a frenzy, was tugging at Luzhin, pulling him towards Sonya. “I am ready and I take responsibility… but calm down, madam, calm down! I see very well that you are quick-tempered!.. This… this… how is it? — muttered Luzhin — this should be done in the presence of the police… although, really, there are already too many witnesses… I am ready… But in any case, it is difficult for a man… because of his gender… If only with the help of Amalia Ivanovna… although, actually, things aren’t done that way… How is it?”
“Whoever you want! Let whoever wants to search!” shouted Katerina Ivanovna. “Sonya, turn their pockets inside out! Look, look, vile man, here is an empty one, there used to be a handkerchief here, the pocket is empty, see! Here’s another pocket, look, look! See! See!”
I’ll run to the Governor, to the Tsar himself, to the merciful one, throw myself at his feet right now, today! I’m an orphan! They will let me in! You think they won’t? You lie, I’ll get there! I’ll get there! You thought she was meek? You relied on that? Brother, I’m quick-witted! You’ll choke! Search! Search, search, come on, search!!”
“How! Me, crazy? Am I the crazy one, you fool?” Katarina Ivanovna squealed. “You’re the fool, you crooked little judge, a low man! Sonya, Sonya will take money from him! Is Sonya a thief? She’ll even give you some, you idiot!” And Katarina Ivanovna burst into hysterical laughter. “Have you ever seen a fool?” she shouted, pointing at Luzhin in all directions. “How! And you too?” she saw the landlady. “And you too, sausage seller, confirming she’s a thief, you vile Prussian chicken leg in a crinoline! Oh, you! Oh, you! She didn’t even leave the room, and as soon as she came from you, scoundrel, she sat right here next to Rodion Romanovich! Search her! If she didn’t go anywhere, the money must be with her! Search, search, search! But if you don’t find it, then sorry, my dear, you’ll have to answer!
Grabbing the paper from Sonia, Katerina Ivanovna crumpled it in her hands and flung it straight into Luzhin's face. The wad struAnd snatching the paper from Sonya, Katerina Ivanovna crumpled it in her hands and flung it straight into Luzhin’s face. The wad hit his eye and bounced to the floor. Amalia Ivanovna rushed to pick up the money. Pyotr Petrovich grew angry. “Hold this madwoman!” he shouted. At that moment, in the doorway near Lebezyatnikov, several more faces appeared, among them the two visiting ladies peeking out.
“How dare you!” Kateryna Ivanovna suddenly cried out, coming to herself, and—like she was torn apart—rushed to Luzhin. “How! You’re accusing her of theft? Sonia, of all people? Oh, you scoundrels, scoundrels!” Then she ran to Sonia and, as if caught in a vice, “How dare you!” suddenly cried Katerina Ivanovna, coming to her senses, and—like someone who had snapped—she rushed at Luzhin. “How can you accuse her of theft? Sonia, of all people? Oh, villains, villains!” Then she ran to Sonia and, as if trapped in a vice, embraced her with her withered hands. “Sonia! How could you take ten rupees from him? Oh, foolish girl! Give it here! Give me those ten rupees right now—here!”
Sonya looked around. Everyone was staring at her with such terrible, strict, mocking, hateful faces. She glanced at Raskolnikov… he was standing against the wall, arms crossed, looking at her with a fiery gaze. “Oh Lord!” Sonya exclaimed. “Amalia Ivanovna, we must inform the police, so I kindly ask you to send for the janitor for now,” Luzhin said quietly, even gently. “Got der Barmherzige! I always knew she was a thief!” Amalia Ivanovna cried, throwing up her hands. “You always knew?” Luzhin picked up the words. “Then you must have had at least some reason to think so before. I ask you, honorable Amalia Ivanovna, to remember your words, spoken, by the way, in front of witnesses.”
Suddenly, loud talking rose from all sides. Everyone started moving.
“I didn’t take anything from you,” Sonia whispered in fear. “You gave me ten rubles, here, please take them.” Sonia took a handkerchief from her pocket, found a small bundle, untied it, pulled out a ten-ruble note, and held it out to Luzhin. “And as for the remaining hundred rubles, you still won’t admit to that?” he said reproachfully and insistently, not accepting the note.
Think this over; moreover, as your true friend, I ask you (for you cannot have a better friend at this moment) to come to your senses! Otherwise, I will be merciless! Well, then?
You thanked me and even shed tears (I recount everything as it happened, first to remind you, and second, to show you that not a single detail has escaped my memory). Then I took a ten-ruble credit note from the table and gave it to you, on my behalf, for your relative’s interests and as initial assistance. Andrei Semyonovich saw all this. Afterwards, I accompanied you to the door—in that same state of embarrassment from your side—after which, alone again with Andrei Semyonovich, we spoke for about ten minutes before he left. I then returned to the table with the money, intending to count it again and set aside a special portion, as I had planned earlier. To my surprise, one one-hundred-ruble note was missing among the others. Consider this: I cannot suspect Andrei Semyonovich; I’m even ashamed to suggest such a thing. Nor could I have miscounted, because a minute before you arrived, having completed all the counts, I found the total correct. You must agree, recalling your embarrassment, your hurry to leave, and that you held your hands on the table for a while; also, considering your social standing and related habits, I was, so to speak, forced—though with horror and even against my own will—to settle on suspicion—a cruel, but—just one! I add and repeat that despite all my certainty, I know there is still some risk for me in this accusation. But, as you see, I did not drop it in vain; I stood up and I will tell you why: lady, only because of your black ingratitude! How? I invite you for the sake of your poorest relative, I offer you my modest help of ten rubles, and you repay me with such behavior! No, this is not right! A lesson is necessary.
“No? You don’t know?” Luzhin repeated, then fell silent for a few seconds. “Think carefully, Mademoiselle,” he began sternly, yet still as if persuading her gently, “discuss it—I’m willing to give you more time to consider. Now, listen carefully: if I were not completely certain, then certainly, with my experience, I would never have dared to accuse you so directly; because for such a straightforward and open, yet false or even mistaken accusation, I, in a way, am responsible myself. I know this. This morning I exchanged some five-percent banknotes amounting nominally to three thousand rubles for my own needs. The calculation is written in my wallet. When I came home, I—Andrei Semyonovich can testify—started counting the money and, after counting two thousand three hundred rubles, I hid them in the wallet, and the wallet in the side pocket of my coat. About five hundred rubles, in credit notes, remained on the table, along with three one-hundred-ruble notes. At that moment, you arrived (at my call)—and you stayed in great embarrassment the entire time after, so much so that you stood up three times during our conversation and hurried to leave, even though our talk was not yet finished. Andrei Semyonovich can confirm all of this. Probably you yourself, Mademoiselle, will not refuse to confirm and say that I summoned you, through Andrei Semyonovich, solely to speak with you about the orphaned and helpless situation of your relative, Katerina Ivanovna (whom I could not visit at her mourning), and how it would be helpful to arrange something like a subscription, lottery, or similar for her benefit.
Complete silence fell over the room. Even the crying children stopped. Sonya stood deathly pale, looking at Luzhin and could not answer. It was as if she still did not understand. A few seconds passed. “Well then, how is it?” Luzhin asked, staring at her intently. “I don’t know… I don’t know anything…” Sonya finally spoke in a weak voice.
“Excuse me for interrupting, but the matter is quite important,” remarked Pyotr Petrovich, speaking generally and not addressing anyone in particular. “I’m even glad it’s in front of an audience. Amalia Ivanovna, I humbly ask you, as the lady of the house, to pay attention to my forthcoming conversation with Sofya Ivanovna. Sofya Ivanovna,” he continued, turning to the extremely surprised and already frightened Sonya, “immediately after your visit, a government-issued one hundred-ruble banknote belonging to me disappeared from my table in the room of my friend Andrei Semyonovich Lebezyatnikov. If, by any chance, you know where it is and can tell us, I assure you on my honour—witnesses included—the matter will end there. Otherwise, I will be forced to take very serious measures, and then… you’ll have no one to blame but yourself!”
A minute later, Lebezyatnikov appeared at the door; he didn’t enter the room but stopped with a special kind of curiosity, almost surprise, listening intently but seeming unable to make sense of what was going on for a while.
A minute later, Lebezyatnikov appeared at the doKaterina Ivanovna stood frozen in her place, struck as if by thunder. She couldn’t understand how Pyotr Petrovich could renounce the bread and salt offered by her dear father. Having made up this bread and salt gesture once, she truly believed in its sacredness herself. She was also shocked by Pyotr Petrovich’s businesslike, dry tone, which even carried a certain scornful threat. Gradually, everyone else quieted down at his arrival. Apart from the fact that this “businesslike and serious” man seemed too harshly out of place among the company, it was clear he had come for something important—probably some extraordinary reason that had brought him to such a gathering—and so something was about to happen. Raskolnikov, standing beside Sonia, stepped aside to let him pass; Pyotr Petrovich seemed not to notice him at all.
Katerina Ivanovna stood frozen in place, struck as if by thunder. She could not understand how Pyotr Petrovich could renounce the bread and salt of her dear father. Having invented this bread and salt once, she now believed in it as something sacred. She was also taken aback by Pyotr Petrovich’s businesslike, dry tone, which was even tinged with a kind of contemptuous threat. Moreover, gradually, everyone had quieted down when he appeared. Apart from the fact that this “businesslike and serious” man was sharply out of harmony with the whole company, it was clear that he had come for something important—probably some extraordinary reason had brought him to such a gathering, and that meant something was about to happen. Raskolnikov, standing beside Sonia, stepped aside to let him through; Pyotr Petrovich seemed not to notice him at all.
III
“Pyotr Petrovich!” she cried out, “At least you protect me! Teach this foolish creature that she must never treat a noble lady in distress like this—that there is the law for such things… I will go even to the Governor-General… She will answer for this… For the sake of my father’s hospitality, protect the orphans.”
“Please, madam… Please, please, madam,” Pyotr Petrovich waved her off, “As you know, I never had the honour of knowing your father… please, madam!” (someone laughed loudly) “And I do not intend to take part in your endless disputes with Amalia Ivanovna… I have my own affairs… and I wish to speak immediately with your stepdaughter, Sofya Ivanovna… Is that correct? Please, let me pass…”
And Pyotr Petrovich, sidestepping Katerina Ivanovna, made his way to the opposite corner, where Sonya was sitting.
“What a silly woman!” Kateryna Ivanovna whispered right away to Raskolnikov, almost cheerful now. “She meant to say: he kept his hands in his pockets, but it came out as if he was rummaging through them, tee-hee! And did you ever notice, Rodion Romanovich, once and for all, that all these foreigners in Petersburg — mainly Germans who come here from somewhere — are all dumber than us! Just think, can anyone tell a tale like ‘Karl from the pharmacy pierced the heart with fear,’ and that he (that snot-nose!) instead of tying up the cabman, ‘folded his hands, cried, and begged?’ What a fool! And she really believes it’s very touching, not realizing how silly she is! To me, that drunk grocer is much smarter; at least you can see he’s a mess, lost his last bit of sense — but all these others are so proper, so serious... Just look at her, sitting there with her eyes wide open. She’s angry! Angry! Ha-ha-ha! Tee-hee-hee!”
This offended Amalia Ivanovna even more, and she retorted that her “father from Berlin was a very, very important man who always walked with his hands in his pockets.” Amused, Katerina Ivanovna couldn’t hold back and burst out laughing, which made Amalia Ivanovna lose her last bit of patience and barely keep herself together.
Katerina Ivanovna flushed and immediately called across the table that whoever sent it “must be a drunken donkey.” Amalia Ivanovna, who also felt something bad was coming and deeply offended by Katerina Ivanovna’s haughtiness, tried to deflect the tense mood of the gathering and, incidentally, to raise her own standing, suddenly started telling a story out of nowhere about an acquaintance of hers, “Karl from the pharmacy,” who rode a carriage at night and that “the driver wanted to kill him, but Karl begged him desperately not to, crying, folding his hands, terrified, his heart pierced with fear.” Katerina Ivanovna smiled but quickly remarked that Amalia Ivanovna shouldn’t be telling Russian jokes.
She had heard directly from Amalia Ivanovna that her mother was even offended by the invitation and had asked, “How could she possibly seat her own daughter next to her?” Sonya sensed that Katerina Ivanovna was already aware of this, and to Katerina Ivanovna, the insult to Sonya meant more than an insult to Sonya personally, her children, or her father — in short, it was a deadly insult. Sonya knew that Katerina Ivanovna would not rest until she had shown those haughty girls that “they both,” and so on, and so forth. As if on cue, someone passed a plate from the other end of the table to Sonya, a plate decorated with two hearts made from black bread, pierced by an arrow.
Raskolnikov sat silently, listening with disgust. He was eating, but only out of politeness, barely touching the pieces that Katerina Ivanovna kept placing on his plate every minute, just so as not to offend her. He kept staring intently at Sonya. But Sonya was becoming more and more anxious and worried; she too sensed that the memorial gathering would not end peacefully, and she watched fearfully as Katerina Ivanovna’s irritation grew. It was known to her, by the way, that the main reason why the two visiting ladies treated Katerina Ivanovna’s invitation with such disdain was because of Sonya herself.
"Everything is the fault of that cuckoo. You know who I mean—her, her!" And Katerina Ivanovna nodded toward the landlady. "Look at her: eyes wide open, she knows we're talking about her but can't understand a word, just staring like an owl. Phew, an owl! Ha-ha-ha!... Hee-hee-hee! And what is she trying to show off with that little cap of hers? Hee-hee-hee! Did you notice? She wants everyone to think she's doing me a great honour by being here. I asked her
Raskolnikov entered almost the very moment the family returned from the cemetery. Katerina Ivanovna was overjoyed to see him, first because he was the only "educated guest" among the attendees and, "as everyone knew, was preparing to assume a professorial chair at the local university within two years," and second, because he immediately and respectfully apologized for his inability to attend the funeral despite his earnest desire to do so. She at once drew him close, seating him at the table to her left (while Amalia Ivanovna took the seat on her right), and despite her constant bustle ensuring that food
Wine
Madeira
Fiercely
Dared not
It would be difficult to pinpoint precisely the reasons why, in her disordered mind, Katerina Ivanovna conceived the idea of holding these confused memorial rites. Indeed, nearly ten roubles out of the twenty-something received from Raskolnikov specifically for Marmeladov's funeral had been squandered on them. Perhaps Katerina Ivanovna felt obliged to honour the deceased "properly," so that all the lodgers, and Amalia Ivanovna in particular, might know that he was "not only no worse than any of them, but perhaps even far superior," and that none of them had
Petr Petrovich chuckled as he listened, but without much enthusiasm. In fact, he barely paid attention at all. He was actually lost in thought about something else, and Lebezyatnikov eventually noticed it. Petr Petrovich was even agitated, rubbing his hands together and appearing deep in contemplation. All of this Andrei Semyonovich later recalled and put together.
"No, it's not nonsense! A man like you, who was offended and upset by yesterday's incident, yet still capable of thinking about the misfortunes of others—such a man... even if his actions commit a social error—nevertheless deserves respect! I didn't expect this from you, Petr Petrovich, especially since your own beliefs, oh! how much they hinder you! For instance, how deeply this yesterday's setback agitates you," exclaimed the kind-hearted Andrey Semyonovich, once again feeling a warm affection toward Petr Petrovich. "And why, why must you absolutely insist on this marriage
"I heard everything, and I heard *everything*," he said, stressing the last word. "That was noble—I mean, humanitarian! You wished to avoid gratitude; I could see that! And though, I must admit, I cannot, as a matter of principle, sympathize with private charity, since it not only fails to eradicate evil at its roots but actually nurtures it further, still I cannot help but acknowledge that I watched your act with pleasure—yes, yes, I approve of it."
"Oh, all this is nonsense!" muttered Pyotr Petrovich, somewhat agitated, while casting a wary glance at Le
Throughout the scene, Andrei Semyonovich alternated between standing by the window and pacing the room, preferring not to interrupt the conversation. But as soon as Sonya left, he suddenly approached Pyotr Petrovich and solemnly extended his hand to him:
Yes, certainly, but… we can discuss that later… I mean, we could even begin today. Let's meet this evening, settle the details, and, so to speak, lay the foundation. Please come to my place around seven o'clock. I trust Andrey Semyonovich will also join us… However, there is one matter that requires careful prior mention. That is precisely why I took the liberty of inviting you here, Sofya Semyonovna. My view is this: it is neither advisable nor safe to entrust the money directly to Katerina Ivanovna herself. The proof lies in today
"And this Terebyeva, isn't she the very one you spoke of once, saying she is already in her third civil marriage?"
"Only her second, if we judge truly! But even if it were her fourth, or even her fifteenth, it is all nonsense! If I have ever regretted that my father and mother are dead, it is certainly now. Several times I have even dreamed that if they were still alive, how I would shock them with my protest! I would arrange it on purpose... What is this, some 'cut-off slice' or other? Pah! I would show them! I would astonish them! Truly, it is a pity there is no one left!"
"To astonish them, eh? He-he! Well, let that be as you wish," Pyotr Petrovich interrupted. "But tell me this: you know the deceased's daughter, that frail little thing? Is it absolutely true what people say about her, eh?"
On the contrary, this is precisely where one must protest. Consider Varints: she lived with her husband for seven years, abandoned two children, and then abruptly wrote to her husband: 'I have realised that I cannot be happy with you. I shall never forgive you for deceiving me by hiding that there exists another form of social organisation through communes. I have only recently learnt this from a noble-minded man, to whom I have given myself, and with whom I am now establishing a commune. I speak plainly because I consider it dishonest to deceive you. Remain as you wish. Do not hope to win me back; you are too late. I wish you happiness.' This is how letters of such a nature ought to be written!"
"It is not at all a matter of indifference, but of protest. I do it for a useful purpose. I can indirectly contribute to progress and propagation. Every person is duty-bound to promote and spread new ideas, and perhaps the sharper the better. I may sow an idea, a seed... From that seed, a fact will grow. How am I offending them? At first, they may feel hurt, but later they will themselves realise that I have done them a service. Take the case of Terebyeva, who now lives in a commune. She was criticised for leaving her family and... giving herself to another, after writing to her father and mother that she did not wish to live among prejudices and was entering into a civil marriage. People said it was too harsh towards her parents, that she ought to have spared them and written more gently. In my opinion, all this is nonsense; there is no need to be gentler.
"So, you mean to sit at someone else's table, accept their hospitality, and then straightaway spit on it—and on those who invited you too. Is that what you're saying?"
It is not because of this unpleasantness that I shall not go to the memorial feast. Simply, on principle, I shall not go, so as not to participate in the vile superstition of holding such feasts—that is the reason! Though, one could perhaps go just to have a laugh… But it is a pity there will be no priests. Otherwise, I would certainly have gone."
"It is because you yourself are angry and irritated that you are picking a fight… This is nonsense and has absolutely nothing to do with the woman question! You do not understand it correctly. I even thought that if it is accepted that a woman is equal to a man in everything, even in physical strength (as some already claim), then there should be equality in this matter too. Of course, I later realised that, essentially, such a question should not arise at all, because there should be no fighting, and in the future society, fights will be unthinkable… and indeed, it is strange to seek equality in a brawl. I am not so foolish… although, well, fighting does still happen… that is, there will be none in the future, but for now, unfortunately, it still exists… Ugh! Devil take it! One gets confused talking with you!
"This is all nonsense and slander!" Lebezyatnikov flared up, always uneasy when reminded of this incident. "It wasn't like that at all! It was something else entirely... You must have heard it wrong; it's just gossip! I was merely defending myself. She was the first to attack me with her claws... She tore out my entire sideburn! Surely, every person is allowed, I hope, to defend their own person. Moreover, I will not permit anyone to use violence against me... On principle. Because that would be almost despotism. What was I supposed to do? Just stand there before her? I only pushed her away."
"He-he-he!" Luzhin continued, sneering maliciously.
"I have no intention of going either," said Lebezyatnikov. "Of course not! You personally gave her a beating. No wonder you feel ashamed, he-he-he!"
"Who beat whom?" Lebezyatnikov suddenly grew agitated and even turned red. "Why, you beat Katerina Ivanovna, about a month ago, didn't you? I heard about it yesterday... Such are your convictions indeed!... And the women's question seems to have suffered a setback too. He-he-he!"
And Pyotr Petrovich, seemingly comforted, began clicking his abacus once again.
"What sort of memorial feast is being arranged by that... that widow?" Pyotr Petrovich suddenly asked, interrupting Andrey Semyonovich at the most interesting point. "Surely you know? I spoke with you about this very matter just yesterday and explained all these customs... Besides, she invited you too; I heard it. You yourself spoke with her yesterday..."
"I certainly never expected that this beggarly fool would spend on the memorial feast all the money she received from that other fool... Raskolnikov. I was quite astonished just now, passing by: such preparations, wine!... Several people invited—heaven knows what!" continued Pyotr Petrovich, asking questions and steering the conversation as if with some particular purpose. "What? Do you say I was invited too?" he suddenly added, raising his head. "When was that? I do not remember. However, I shall not go. What business have I there? Yesterday I merely spoke with her in passing about the possibility of her obtaining, as the destitute widow of a government clerk, an annual pension in the form of a one-time grant. So is it for this that she has invited me? He-he!"
On this occasion, he found him unusually irritable and inattentive, even though Andrey Semyonovich had begun to expound upon his favourite subject—the establishment of a new, special "commune". The brief objections and remarks that escaped Pyotr Petrovich between the clicks of the abacus beads were filled with the most obvious and deliberately rude mockery. Yet the "humane" Andrey Semyonovich attributed Pyotr Petrovich's mood to the impact of yesterday's breakup with Dunyacha and was eager to turn the conversation to this topic as soon as possible; he had something progressive and propagandistic to say on the matter, which might comfort his respected friend and "undoubtedly" contribute to his further development.
Pyotr Petrovich, having that morning exchanged some five-per-cent bonds for certain reasons, sat at the table counting bundles of credit notes and securities. Andrey Semyonovich, who hardly ever had any money of his own, walked about the room pretending to look upon all these bundles with indifference and even contempt. Pyotr Petrovich, for instance, would never have believed that Andrey Semyonovich could truly regard such sums with indifference; while Andrey Semyonovich, for his part, thought bitterly that Pyotr Petrovich was indeed quite capable of thinking so about him, and perhaps was even glad of the chance to tease and provoke his young friend by displaying the bundles of notes before him, thus reminding him of his own insignificance and of the supposed vast difference between them both.
For instance, he neither objected nor spoke up when Andrey Semyonovich credited him with readiness to help establish some new communal arrangement in Meshchanskaya Street; or with allowing Dunechka, within the very first month of marriage, to take a lover if she wished; or with refusing to baptize his future children, and so on and so forth—all of this nature. Pyotr Petrovich, as was his custom, raised no objection to such qualities attributed to him and even allowed himself to be praised in this manner—so pleasing to him was any form of flattery.
The fact was, Pyotr Petrovich, by instinct, was beginning to realize that Lebezyatnikov was not merely a trivial and somewhat foolish fellow, but possibly even a liar; that he held no significant connections even within his own circle, merely repeating hearsay; moreover, he perhaps did not properly understand his own matters, as his arguments were increasingly confused, making him quite unfit to act as a social critic. Incidentally, it may be noted in passing that during these past week and a half, Pyotr Petrovich had willingly accepted (especially initially) even very strange compliments from Andrey Semyonovich.
However, Lebezyatnikov, despite being rather kind-hearted, had also begun to feel a certain dislike towards his roommate and former guardian, Pyotr Petrovich. This mutual estrangement had developed gradually and unintentionally on both sides. Though Andrey Semyonovich was somewhat simple-minded, he had slowly started to notice that Pyotr Petrovich was deceiving him, secretly despised him, and was "not quite the man he seemed." He once tried explaining Fourier's system and Darwin's theory to him, but lately, Pyotr Petrovich had begun listening with excessive sarcasm, and recently had even started scolding him outright.
This Andrey Semyonovich was a scrawny, sickly little man of short stature, employed somewhere, with strangely fair hair and sideburns shaped like cutlets, of which he was exceedingly proud. Moreover, his eyes were almost constantly sore. Though his heart was rather soft, his speech was highly self-assured, and at times even remarkably arrogant—which, considering his tiny frame, almost always appeared ridiculous. Nevertheless, in Amalia Ivanovna's estimation, he ranked among the more respectable lodgers, as he did not drink and paid his rent punctually. Despite all these qualities, Andrey Semyonovich was indeed rather foolish. He had attached himself to "progress" and to "our young generations" out of sheer passion. He was one of that countless and varied legion of vulgar mediocrities, frail half-formed creatures, and self-willed ignoramuses who instantly latch onto whatever fashionable idea is current, only to immediately vulgarise it and swiftly caricature everything to which they themselves sometimes most sincerely devote their service.
More than that: might there not be some way to ingratiate himself with them and, right then and there, pull the wool over their eyes, if indeed they were strong? Ought he to do so, or not? Could he not, for instance, engineer some advancement in his career precisely through their agency? In short, a hundred questions lay before him.
Of course, he had quickly sized up Andrey Semyonovich as an exceedingly vulgar and simple-minded fellow. Yet this neither disabused nor reassured Pyotr Petrovich. Even if he had become convinced that all progressives were such fools, his anxiety would not have abated. In truth, he cared little for all those doctrines, ideas, and systems (with which Andrey Semyonovich had so eagerly assailed him). He had his own objective. All he needed was to find out, swiftly and without delay: what exactly had happened, and how? Were they powerful or not? Was there anything he personally ought to fear? Would he be exposed if he took such-and-such a step, or would he not? And if exposed, then for what precisely, and for what reason was he being denounced now?
Several years earlier, while still in the provinces and just beginning to build his career, he had witnessed two instances where rather prominent provincial officials, whom he had until then clung to and who had patronised him, were severely exposed. One case ended for the exposed official in a particularly scandalous manner, while the other had nearly concluded in a very troublesome fashion. That was precisely why Pyotr Petrovich had resolved, immediately upon arriving in St. Petersburg, to find out what exactly was happening, and if necessary, to proactively seek favour with "our young generations" just in case. In this matter, he relied upon Andrei Semyonovich, and during visits, for example to Raskolnikov, he had already learned somehow to round off certain phrases borrowed from others...
Andrei Semyonovich had, for some reason, remained at home all morning. Between this gentleman and Pyotr Petrovich there existed certain strange, though partly natural, relations: Pyotr Petrovich despised and even excessively hated him almost from the very day he had taken lodging with him, yet at the same time he seemed somewhat afraid of him. He had stayed with him upon arriving in St. Petersburg not merely out of stingy economy—though that was indeed the chief reason—but also for another motive. Back in the provinces, he had heard about Andrei Semyonovich, his former protégé, as one of the most advanced young progressives, and even as someone playing a significant role in certain curious and fabulous circles. This had greatly impressed Pyotr Petrovich. Indeed, these powerful, all-knowing circles, which despised everyone and exposed everything, had long filled Pyotr Petrovich with a peculiar fear, albeit entirely vague. Certainly, he himself, especially while still in the provinces, could not form even an approximate or accurate idea about anything. He had heard, like everyone else, that there existed, particularly in St. Petersburg, certain progressives, nihilists, exposers, and so on and so forth; but, like many others, he exaggerated and distorted the meaning and significance of these terms to the point of absurdity. Above all, for several years now, and this was the principal cause of his constant, exaggerated anxiety, especially when dreaming of transferring his activities to St. Petersburg, he had been terribly afraid. In this respect, he was, as they say, like small children sometimes are.
Amalia Ivanovna herself had also been invited with great honour, despite all previous unpleasantness, and therefore she was now playing the hostess and bustling about, almost enjoying it; moreover, she was dressed up completely, though in mourning, everything new, made of silk, in the height of fashion, and she took great pride in this. All these facts and pieces of information gave Pyotr Petrovich food for thought, and he went into his room—that is, into Andrei Semyonovich Lebezyatnikov's room—lost in contemplation. The fact was, he had also learned that Raskolnikov was among those invited.
Hurrying to ask Frau Lippewechsel, who was busy in Katerina Ivanovna's absence (she being at the cemetery) arranging the table, he learned that the memorial meal would be held with great solemnity; that almost all the lodgers had been invited, including some who had not even known the deceased; that even Andrei Semyonovich Lebezyatnikov had been invited, despite his recent quarrel with Katerina Ivanovna; and finally, that he himself, Pyotr Petrovich, was not only invited but awaited with great impatience, as he was considered the most important guest among all the lodgers.
Having reached this conclusion, he returned home twice as angry and irritable as when he had left. The preparations for the memorial meal in Katerina Ivanovna's room partly aroused his curiosity. He had already heard something about these memorial rites yesterday; he even seemed to recall having been invited himself, but being occupied with his own affairs, he had paid no attention to all this until now.
"There was another mistake too: I didn't give them any money at all," he thought, sadly making his way back to Lebezyatnikov's tiny room. "And why on earth did I become so miserly? There wasn't even any calculation in it! I thought I'd keep them short and bring them to the point where they'd look upon me as their providence, but look at them now!... Tfu!... No, if during all this time I had given them, say, fifteen hundred rupees for a dowry, plus gifts—little boxes, dressing cases, carnelian ornaments, fabrics, and all such rubbish from Knop's shop and the English stores—it would have been a much cleaner and... stronger arrangement! They wouldn't have found it so easy to refuse me now! These are the kind of people who would certainly feel obliged to return both the gifts and the money if they rejected me; and returning them would be quite painful and regrettable! Besides, their conscience would prick them: 'How can we suddenly send away a man who has until now been so generous and rather considerate?'... Hm! I've made a blunder!" And, grinding his teeth once more, Pyotr Petrovich called himself a fool—privately, of course.
Is it not possible to try once more?" The thought of Dunya once again temptingly pricked his heart. He endured this moment with anguish, and certainly, had it been possible at that very instant, merely by wishing, to kill Raskolnikov, Peter Petrovich would have immediately uttered that wish.
What particularly enraged him was the landlord of the apartment he had rented in anticipation of his imminent marriage and had been furnishing at his own expense: this landlord, some newly enriched German artisan, stubbornly refused to break the freshly signed contract and demanded the full penalty stipulated therein, despite Peter Petrovich returning the apartment almost newly renovated. Similarly, at the furniture store, they absolutely refused to refund even a single rupee of the advance paid for furniture purchased but not yet delivered to the apartment. "Surely I wasn't planning to marry just for the sake of furniture!" Peter Petrovich gnashed inwardly, while simultaneously another desperate hope flashed within him: "Could it truly be that everything is so irretrievably lost and finished?
But he immediately came to his senses and spat energetically aside, thereby eliciting from his young friend and roommate, Andrey Semyonovich Lebezyatnikov, a silent yet sarcastic smile. Peter Petrovich noticed this smile and instantly marked it against his young friend in his own mind. He had already charged him with much lately. His malice doubled when he suddenly realized he ought not to have shared yesterday's outcomes with Andrey Semyonovich. This was the second mistake he had made yesterday, done impulsively, out of excessive expansiveness, in irritation... Then, throughout that entire morning, as if deliberately, one trouble followed another. Even at the Senate, some setback awaited him regarding the matter he had been pursuing there.
The morning following Peter Petrovich's fateful confrontation with Dunya and Pulcheria Alexandrovna brought its own sobering effect upon him. To his utmost displeasure, he was gradually compelled to accept as an accomplished and irreversible fact what had seemed to him only the previous day an almost fantastical occurrence—something that had indeed happened, yet still appeared somehow impossible. The black serpent of wounded pride had been sucking at his heart throughout the night. Upon rising from bed, Peter Petrovich immediately looked into the mirror. He feared whether bile had spread within him overnight? However, in this respect, everything remained thus far satisfactory; and gazing upon his dignified, fair complexion, slightly grown plump of late, Peter Petrovich even found momentary comfort, fully convinced he could find another bride elsewhere, perhaps even a finer one.
"Now we shall fight again," he muttered with a vicious sneer as he descended the stairs. Yet, his anger was directed at himself; he recalled his own "cowardice" with contempt and shame. Part Five
I
"Was Nikolai questioned in your presence?"
"As soon as he escorted you out, he immediately escorted me out too, and then began interrogating Nikolai."
The townsman stopped and suddenly bowed again, touching the floor with his finger. "Forgive me for my false accusation and my malice."
"May God forgive you," replied Raskolnikov. As soon as he said this, the townsman bowed to him once more, not prostrating himself this time, but bending at the waist, then slowly turned and left the room. "Everything is now two-edged, everything is now two-edged," Raskolnikov repeated to himself, and left the room feeling more spirited than ever before.
"Seeing that the doormen, on my word, did not wish to go, saying it was already late and that he might well grow angry for not having come at the appointed hour, I felt offended, lost my sleep, and began making inquiries. Having found out yesterday, I went today. The first time I came, he was not in; coming again after waiting a while, I was not admitted; the third time, I was let in. I began reporting to him everything just as it happened, and he started leaping about the room, beating his chest with his fist: 'What are you doing to me, you robbers?' he cried. 'Had I known of such a matter, I would have demanded him under escort!' Then he rushed out, called someone, and began talking with him in the corner; afterwards he returned to me and began questioning and scolding. He reproached me greatly; yet I reported everything to him and said that, based on what I told you yesterday, you did not dare give me any answer and did not acknowledge me. Thereupon he again began running about, beating his chest, growing angry, and pacing; and when news was brought concerning you, he said, 'Very well, climb behind the partition, sit there quietly, do not move no matter what you hear,' and he himself brought me a chair and locked me in, saying, 'Perhaps I shall yet question you.' And when Nikolay was brought in, he, after dealing with you, took me out, saying, 'I shall yet summon you and question you further...'
"But I was sitting right there, behind his partition, the whole time!"
"What? So you were the surprise? But how could that happen? Good heavens!"
So, this is how yesterday's horror has finally unfolded. The most terrifying thought was that he had nearly perished, nearly ruined himself over such a trivial matter. Therefore, apart from renting the room and talking about blood, this man has nothing else to tell. Consequently, Porfiry too possesses nothing—absolutely nothing beyond this; no concrete facts, nothing positive whatsoever. Hence, if no further facts emerge (and they must not emerge, they simply must not!), then... what can they possibly do to him? How can they definitively prove his guilt, even if they arrest him? So, it means Porfiry has only just now, only at this very moment, learned about the rented room; until now, he knew nothing of it. "Was it you who told Porfiry today... that I had visited?" he exclaimed, suddenly struck by this idea. "Which Porfiry?"
"The examining magistrate."
"Yes, I told him. The porters did not go then, so I went myself."
"Today?"
"Just a moment before you arrived. I heard everything—everything, how he tormented you."
"Where? What? When?"
And suddenly, Raskolnikov vividly recalled the entire scene from three days ago under the gateway; he realised that besides the gatekeepers, several other people had been standing there then, including women. He remembered one voice suggesting that he be taken straight to the police station. He could not recall the face of the person who had spoken, and even now he did not recognise it, but he clearly remembered that he had even replied to him at that time and turned towards him...
The man fell silent and then suddenly bowed deeply, almost to the ground—at least touching the earth with the finger of his right hand. "What are you doing?" cried Raskolnikov. "Forgive me," the man said softly. "For what?"
"For my evil thoughts."
Both stared at each other. "It hurt me deeply," the man continued. "When you came that time, perhaps in drink, calling the yard-keepers to the police station and asking about blood, it pained me that they dismissed you and took you for a drunkard. It hurt me so much that I lost sleep over it. So, remembering your address, we came here yesterday to inquire…"
"Who came?" Raskolnikov interrupted, suddenly beginning to recall. "I did, sir; I was the one who wronged you."
"So you are from that house?"
"Yes, I was standing there by the gate with them at that very time—have you forgotten? We also carry on our trade there; it has been our family occupation since generations. We are skinner-artisans, small townsfolk, taking work home… but above all, it was the insult that pierced my heart…"
The man stopped at the doorway, looked silently at Raskolnikov, and stepped into the room. He was exactly as he had been the day before—same build, same clothes—but there was a marked change in his face and expression: he now looked rather downcast, and after standing for a moment, he let out a deep sigh. All that was missing was for him to place his palm on his cheek and tilt his head to one side, and he would have looked just like an old woman. "What do you want?" asked Raskolnikov, his face turned ashen.
He sat on the sofa, head bowed, leaning on his knees and covering his face with his hands. A nervous tremor still ran through his entire body. Finally, he stood up, took his cap, paused for a moment, and walked towards the door. Somehow, he felt that at least for today, he could consider himself almost certainly safe. Suddenly, he felt a strange joy rising in his heart: he longed to go quickly to Katerina Ivanovna. Of course, he would be late for the funeral, but he would make it in time for the memorial meal, and there, immediately, he would see Sonya. He stopped, thought again, and a painful smile forced itself onto his lips. "Today! Today!" he repeated to himself. "Yes, today itself! It must be so..."
Just as he was about to open the door, it suddenly began to open by itself. He trembled and jumped back. The door opened slowly and quietly, and then appeared the figure of the man from yesterday.
Porfiry had revealed almost his entire hand; of course, he took a risk, but he did reveal it, and (so it seemed to Raskolnikov) if Porfiry truly had anything more substantial, he would have shown that as well. What exactly was this "surprise"? Was it merely mockery? Did it signify anything at all? Could there be hidden beneath it anything resembling actual evidence, a concrete accusation? What about that man from yesterday? Where had he vanished to? Where was he today? For if Porfiry indeed possessed anything definite, it would certainly be connected with that man from yesterday...
"But surely, you must have tormented and tortured that poor Mikolka psychologically, in your own style, until he confessed? Day and night, you probably kept telling him: 'You are the murderer, you are the murderer...' And now, since he has confessed, you will start picking him apart again: 'You're lying,' you'll say, 'you are not the murderer! You couldn't possibly be! These aren't your own words!' So how can such a position not be ridiculous?"
"He-he-he! So you did notice that I just told Nikolay he was 'not speaking his own words'?"
"How could one not notice?"
"He-he! Clever, very clever indeed! You notice everything! A truly playful mind! And you've touched upon the most comical string... he-he! They say this trait was most prominent in Gogol among all writers, wasn't it?"
"Yes, in Gogol."
"Indeed, in Gogol... until we meet again most pleasantly."
"Until we meet again most pleasantly..."
"But I truly do not know what to wish for you from my side!" Raskolnikov added, already beginning to descend the stairs, yet suddenly turning back to Porfiry. "I would wish you great success, but you see, what a comical profession yours is!"
"Why comical, sir?" Porfiry Petrovich immediately pricked up his ears, also having turned to leave.
"Just one small word, Rodion Romanovich; regarding all these other matters, as God wills, yet formally we shall have to inquire about certain things... so we shall meet again, yes indeed."
And Porphyry stopped before him with a smile. "Yes indeed," he added once more. One might suppose he wished to say something more, yet somehow the words would not come. "As for my behaviour earlier, Porphyry Petrovich, kindly forgive me... I lost my temper," began Raskolnikov, now thoroughly emboldened and feeling an irresistible urge to show off. "Not at all, not at all..." Porphyry almost cheerfully interrupted. "I myself... I possess a sharp temper, I confess, I confess! But we shall meet again. If God wills, we shall most certainly meet again...!"
"And finally come to know each other fully?" Raskolnikov eagerly added. "Yes, finally come to know each other fully," Porphyry Petrovich agreed, squinting his eyes and gazing at him very seriously. "Now, is it for your name-day?"
"For the funeral."
"Ah yes, for the funeral! Do take care of your health, yes, your health..."
As he passed through the office, Raskolnikov noticed that many were staring at him intently. In the hallway, amidst the crowd, he managed to spot both porters from his building, whom he had called for that night to fetch the police inspector. They were standing there, waiting for something. But just as he stepped out onto the staircase, he suddenly heard Porfiry Petrovich's voice again behind him. Turning around, he saw him rushing to catch up, completely out of breath.
"Rodion Romanovich, my dear sir! Do forgive me," he rushed towards him, "this simply won't do; kindly step this way... you've no business here... I myself... just look at the surprise awaiting you!... Kindly step this way!"
And, taking him by the hand, he pointed towards the door. "You didn't expect this, did you?" Raskolnikov remarked, of course, not yet clearly understanding anything, but already feeling considerably emboldened. "And you too, my dear sir, were not expecting it. See how your hand is trembling! He-he!"
"But you are trembling too, Porfiry Petrovich."
"I am trembling indeed; I wasn't expecting it either!"
They were already standing at the doorway. Porfiry was waiting impatiently for Raskolnikov to pass through. "So, aren't you going to show me the little surprise after all?" Raskolnikov suddenly said. "He speaks, yet his teeth are chattering against one another, he-he! What an ironic gentleman you are! Well then, goodbye."
"In my opinion, it's 'Goodbye forever'!"
"As God wills, as God wills!" Porfiry muttered with a somewhat distorted smile.
"This was just a diversion... back then... I ran off with Mitya," replied Nikolay, as if in a hurry and having prepared his words in advance. "Ah, just as I thought!" Porfiry cried out maliciously. "He's not speaking his own words!" he muttered, as if to himself, and suddenly caught sight of Raskolnikov again. Clearly, he had become so engrossed with Nikolay that for a moment he had entirely forgotten about Raskolnikov. Now he suddenly came to his senses and even appeared flustered.
Porfiry Petrovich stood for a few moments as if deep in thought, but suddenly fluttered again and waved his hands at the uninvited onlookers. They vanished instantly, and the door was shut. Then he glanced at Raskolnikov, who was standing in the corner and staring wildly at Nikolay, and started towards him, but abruptly stopped, looked at him, immediately shifted his gaze to Nikolay, then back to Raskolnikov, then again to Nikolay, and suddenly, as if carried away, once more pounced upon Nikolay. "Why are you rushing ahead with your 'darkening of the mind'?" he shouted at him, almost with malice. "I haven't even asked you yet whether this 'darkening' came over you or not... Speak: did you kill?"
"I am the killer... I am making my statement..." said Nikolay. "Ai-ai! What did you kill with?"
"An axe. I had it ready."
"Ai-ai, how hasty! Alone?"
Nikolay did not understand the question. "Did you kill alone?"
"Alone. And Mitya is innocent and had nothing to do with any of it."
"Don't be so quick about Mitya! Ai-ai!"
"But tell me, how then did you run down the stairs that time? After all, the porters met both of you?"
"What is this?" exclaimed Porfiry Petrovich, snapping out of his momentary stupor. "I... am the murderer..." repeated Nikolai, after a brief pause. "How... you... How... Whom did you kill?"
Porfiry Petrovich was clearly bewildered. Nikolai paused again for a moment. "Aliona Ivanovna and her sister, Lizaveta Ivanovna... I... killed them... with an axe. A darkness came over me..." he added suddenly, then fell silent once more. He remained kneeling all the while.
He was still very young, dressed like a common man, of average height, thin, with hair cropped close in a circle, and with fine, rather dry features. The man whom he had suddenly pushed away rushed after him into the room and managed to seize him by the shoulder: it was the escort constable; but Nikolai jerked his arm and broke free once again. Several curious onlookers crowded at the doorway. Some even tried to push their way in. All this happened in almost an instant. "Get back! It's too early! Wait until you are called!... Why have they brought him before
For barely two seconds, a fierce struggle ensued; then suddenly, as if someone had forcefully shoved another aside, a very pale man stepped straight into Porfiry Petrovich's study. At first glance, this man's appearance was most strange. He stared straight ahead, yet seemed to see no one. His eyes sparkled with determination, 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.
But then an odd occurrence took place, something so unexpected under normal circumstances, that neither Raskolnikov nor Porfiry Petrovich could possibly have counted on such a resolution. VI
Later, when recalling this moment, Raskolnikov remembered everything in this way. The noise heard behind the door suddenly increased rapidly, and the door opened slightly. "What is it?" Porfiry Petrovich exclaimed
- What deputies, my good man! The man just imagines things! Why, technically speaking, one can't act like this, as you say, you simply don't know the procedure, my dear fellow... But the procedure will hold, sir, you'll see for yourself! - muttered Porfiry, listening at the door. Indeed, at that very moment a kind of commotion could be heard just outside in the next room. - Ah, they're here! - cried Raskolnikov. - You sent for them! You were expecting them! You planned this... Well then, bring them all in here: deputies, witnesses, whatever you like... Bring them on! I'm ready! Ready!
“You're lying, all of it!” Raskolnikov screamed, no longer holding back. “Lying, you cursed old coat!” He lunged at Porfiry, who had retreated toward the door but wasn’t the least bit frightened. “I understand everything, everything!” he jumped at him. “You’re lying and baiting me to lose my temper and give myself away…”
“You’ve already given yourself away enough, my good sir, Rodion Romanovich. You’re beside yourself. Don’t shout, I’ll call people in!”
“You're bluffing, nothing will come of it! Go ahead, call them! You knew I was unwell and wanted to provoke me, push me to madness to trap me—that’s your game! No, show me facts! I see it all! You have no facts, only petty, wretched guesses, Zametov-style… You calculated my temper, wanted to drive me mad and then ambush me with witnesses and clerks… You’re waiting for them, aren’t you? Huh? What are you waiting for? Where? Produce them!”
"What kind of surprise? What is it?" he asked, suddenly stopping and looking at Porfiry with alarm. "A little surprise, sir, right here behind the door—he-he-he!" (He pointed his finger at the locked door in the partition leading to his official apartment). "I even bolted the door so he doesn't run off."
"What? Where? What is it?" Raskolnikov started toward the door and tried to open it, but it was locked. "Locked, sir! Here's the key!"
Indeed, he showed him the key, taking it from his pocket.
"I won't be tortured!" he suddenly whispered, as before, painfully and hating himself for instantly realizing that he could not but obey the order, and this thought drove him to even greater fury—"arrest me, search me, but do it properly, don't play games with me! Don't dare..."
"Please, don't worry about the formalities," Porfiry interrupted with the same sly smirk
"Hush, hush! They will hear! I warn you seriously: take care of yourself. I'm not joking!" Porfiry whispered, but this time his face no longer showed that former good-natured, frightened expression; on the contrary, now he looked quite sternly, frowning his brows, as though breaking at once all secrets and ambiguities. But this lasted only for a moment. Raskolnikov, who had been perplexered, suddenly fell into real frenzy; but strangely enough—he obeyed the order to speak softly again, even though he was in the very strongest paroxysm of fury.
Raskolnikov looked at him with pride and contempt. “In short,” he insisted loudly, rising and slightly pushing Porfiry aside, “I want to know: do you finally consider me free from suspicion? Speak, Porfiry Petrovich—speak clearly and definitively, and now, right away!”
“Good heavens! What a commission! You’re certainly one for commissions!” cried Porfiry, his face beaming with cheerful, mischievous amusement, not the least bit flustered. “And why must you know? Why so much knowing, when no one’s even begun to trouble you? You’re like a child: give you fire in your hands! Why are you so agitated? Why do you insist on coming to us yourself? For what reason? Hmm? Heh-heh-heh!”
“I repeat to you,” Raskolnikov shouted furiously, “I can’t endure this any longer…”
“What? The uncertainty?” Porfiry interrupted. “Don’t taunt me! I won’t have it! I tell you—I won’t have it! I can’t and won’t! Do you hear? Do you hear?” he yelled, slamming his fist again on the table.
“Am I lying?” Porfiry picked up, seemingly heated but maintaining the most cheerful and teasing expression, apparently not at all concerned about what Mr. Raskolnikov thought of him. “Am I lying? Well, how did I behave with you earlier (I, the investigator), practically giving you all the tools for your defense, laying out this whole psychology for you: ‘Illness, delirium, offended feelings; melancholy and quarterly payments,’ and so on? Eh? He-he-he! Though, by the way, all these psychological defenses, excuses, and dodges are extremely weak—just two sides to it: ‘Illness, delirium, dreams, hallucinations, don’t remember’—yes, fine, but why, my dear fellow, in illness and delirium do you see precisely such dreams and visions, and not others? Couldn’t there have been other ones? Right? He-he-he-he!”