О чем говорят каналы

"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!”

Raskolnikov shuddered all over, so much so that Porfiry Petrovich clearly noticed it. “You’re lying!” he cried. “I don’t know your motives, but you’re lying through and through… Just now you spoke in a different sense—I can’t be mistaken… You’re lying!”

On the contrary, I should have first lulled your suspicions, given no hint that I already knew about this fact; diverted you toward the opposite direction, then suddenly, as you put it, “like a club over the head,” stunned you: “Well now, sir, what were you doing in the murdered woman’s apartment at ten o’clock in the evening—or perhaps even eleven? Why did you ring the bell? Why did you ask about blood? Why did you confuse the porters and summon them to the police station?” That’s how I should have acted if I harbored even a shred of suspicion against you. I should have formally taken your statement, conducted a search, and perhaps even arrested you… Therefore, since I acted differently, clearly I do not suspect you! But you’ve lost your clear judgment—you see nothing, I repeat!

Father! But it was from you yourself that I learned everything! You don’t even notice that, in your agitation, you blurt out everything ahead of time—to me and to others. From Mr. Razumikhin, Dmitry Prokofyich, I also learned many interesting details yesterday. No, you interrupted me, but I’ll say this: due to your excessive suspicion, despite all your cleverness, you’ve even lost your clear judgment. Take, for instance, the very same topic about the bells: I handed you such a precious piece of evidence—a whole fact, mind you—on a platter, as an investigator! And you see nothing in it? If I suspected you even slightly, would I have acted like this?

Yes, I wish you to—let me tell you finally—I’ll say it outright: watch your illness. Besides, your family has now arrived; think of them. You should comfort and cherish them, yet you only frighten them… What’s it to you? How do you know this? Why are you so interested? So you’re watching me and want to show me that?

“You’re lying all of you!” he cried. “You know perfectly well that the best trick for a criminal is, whenever possible, not to hide what can’t be hidden. I don’t believe you!” “Oh, you sly one!” chuckled Porfiry. “With you, my dear fellow, there’s no getting anywhere—some monomania has taken root in you. You say you don’t believe me? Well, I’ll tell you—you do believe me, at least a quarter arshin’s worth, and I’ll make sure you believe me a full arshin, because I truly love you and sincerely wish you well.” Raskolnikov’s lips trembled.

Something sly rang in that question. Raskolnikov recoiled to the very back of the sofa, away from Porfiry leaning toward him, and silently, fixedly, in bewilderment, stared at him. — And about Mr. Razumikhin—whether he came yesterday on his own initiative or at your prompting? You ought to say he came on his own, and hide the fact that it was at your urging! Yet you don’t hide it at all! You insist precisely on the fact that he came at your prompting! Raskolnikov had never insisted on this. A chill ran down his spine. — You’re lying again, — he said slowly and weakly, his lips twisting into a painful smile. — You want to show me once more that you know my whole game, that you already know all my answers — he spoke, almost feeling himself no longer weighing his words properly — you want to frighten me... or perhaps you’re just laughing at me... He continued staring straight at him as he spoke, and suddenly boundless rage flashed in his eyes.

Yes, I understand and hear you! You said yesterday too that you weren’t delirious—you even insisted especially that you weren’t delirious! I understand everything you can say! Ah... But please listen, Rodion Romanovich, my benefactor—just consider this one circumstance. If you were truly guilty or somehow involved in this accursed affair, would you, goodness gracious, insist yourself that you did all this not in delirium but with full consciousness? And insist so stubbornly, so peculiarly? Could it possibly be so? Could it ever be so, pray tell? Why, quite the opposite, in my opinion. If you felt guilty of anything, you’d precisely insist: “I was definitely delirious!” Isn’t that right? Yes, isn’t it?

For a moment, everything spun around Raskolnikov. “Could it be—could it really be—that he’s lying now too? Impossible, impossible!” He pushed the thought away, already sensing how far it could drive him into rage and fury, aware that such madness might make him lose his mind entirely. “It wasn’t in delirium—it happened wide awake!” he cried, straining every ounce of his reason to penetrate Porfiry’s game. “Wide awake, wide awake! Do you hear?”

But then, my dear sir, if such impulses start irritating your nerves—walking at night to ring church bells and asking about blood—you might very well catch a fever! I’ve studied this psychology entirely through practical experience. Sometimes, you know, people feel an irresistible urge to leap from windows or bell towers—it’s strangely alluring. And those little bells too… It’s illness, Rodion Romanovich, illness! You’ve begun neglecting your own health far too much. Consult an experienced physician—what good is that bulky fellow you’ve got? Nonsense! All this is happening purely in delirium!

Yes, there was a case—almost identical, psychological in nature—in our judicial practice, a rather sick case, indeed, continued Porfiry in rapid-fire speech. A man falsely confessed to murder—he fabricated it so thoroughly: conjured up an entire hallucination, presented facts, recounted circumstances, confused everyone, threw all off track—but why? He himself, quite unintentionally and only partly, had been the cause of the murder; yet once he learned that he’d given the murderers their opportunity, he grew despondent, became mentally unbalanced, started imagining things, lost his grip entirely, and finally convinced himself he was the murderer! Fortunately, the Governing Senate eventually reviewed the case and acquitted the poor soul, placing him under care. Thank God for the Governing Senate! Ah-ah-ah!

Raskolnikov sat down; his trembling subsided, and heat spread through his entire body. In deep astonishment, he listened intently to the frightened yet kindly attentive Porfiry Petrovich. But he didn’t believe a single word of his, though he felt an odd inclination to trust him. Porfiry’s unexpected mention of the apartment completely stunned him. “How is it, then—he knows about the apartment?” it suddenly occurred to him. “And he himself tells me about it!”

But mind you, you won’t just confuse yourself—you’ll also unsettle Razumikhin here; he’s far too good-hearted for such turmoil, as you well know. You suffer from illness, while he suffers from virtue—and illness tends to cling to him too… When you calm down, dear sir, I’ll tell you everything… but please, sit down, for heaven’s sake! Rest a moment—you look utterly drained; do sit down.

Yes, indeed, dear sir, Rodion Romanovich—I know even more of your exploits; I’m fully aware of everything! I know how you went out late at night, when dusk fell, rang the bell insistently, and asked about blood, confusing the servants and caretakers. I understand your emotional state back then… but honestly, you’ll drive yourself mad this way, truly! You’ll become dizzy! Your indignation is boiling over—noble indignation, born from the injustices you’ve suffered, first from fate, then from the local police officers—and so you’re darting around frantically, as if trying to force everyone to speak up immediately and resolve everything at once, because these foolishnesses and suspicions have wearied you beyond endurance. Isn’t that right? Have I guessed your mood correctly?...

— No, not from me! But I knew he went to you and why he went, — Raskolnikov replied sharply. — Knew? — Knew. So what of it?

Yes, indeed, we had a little episode! You’ll bring back your old illness again, my dear fellow, clucked Porfiry Petrovich with friendly concern, though still looking somewhat flustered. Good heavens! How can you not take care of yourself? Dmitry Prokofyich came to see me yesterday—yes, yes, I admit, I have a sharp, unpleasant character, and they’ve drawn such conclusions from it! Good Lord! He came yesterday, after you; we had lunch, he kept talking and talking, and I just spread my hands wide; well, I thought… oh dear Lord! Did he come because of you? Please sit down, my good man, for heaven’s sake, take a seat!

– Let some fresh air in! And you, my dear fellow, ought to drink some water—it’s an attack, you see! – He rushed toward the door to order water, but just then, conveniently, he spotted a jug of water in the corner. – Sir, please drink this, – he whispered, hurrying over with the jug. – It might help… – Porfiry Petrovich’s fear and genuine concern were so natural that Raskolnikov fell silent and stared at him with wild curiosity. Still, he didn’t take the water. – Rodion Romanovich! My good man! You’ll drive yourself mad like this, I assure you—oh dear! Oh! Just drink it! Even a little sip! He finally managed to make him take the glass of water into his hands. Mechanically, he raised it to his lips, but then, coming to his senses, he set it down on the table with disgust.

— Father, please, lower your voice! They’ll hear us, they’ll come! What will we say to them then? Think about it! — whispered Porfiry Petrovich in terror, bringing his face close to Raskolnikov’s. — I won’t allow it, I won’t allow it! — Raskolnikov mechanically repeated, but suddenly also in a whisper. Porfiry quickly turned away and rushed to open the window.

– Porfiry Petrovich! – he said loudly and clearly, though barely standing on his trembling legs, – I finally see clearly that you positively suspect me of murdering that old woman and her sister Lizaveta. On my part, I declare to you that I’ve long been tired of all this. If you believe you have the right to legally pursue me, then pursue me; if you wish to arrest me, then arrest me. But I will not allow you to mock me to my face or torment me. Suddenly, his lips trembled, his eyes blazed with fury, and his hitherto restrained voice rang out. – I won’t allow it! – he suddenly shouted, slamming his fist hard on the table, – Do you hear me, Porfiry Petrovich? I won’t allow it! – Oh dear God, what’s happening again! – cried Porfiry Petrovich, apparently in utter fright, – My boy! Rodion Romanovich! My dear! Father! What’s wrong with you? – I won’t allow it! – Raskolnikov was about to shout again.

“Oh, please don’t worry,” cried Raskolnikov, suddenly bursting into laughter. “Please, don’t worry!” Porfiry stopped in front of him, waited, and then suddenly laughed too, following his lead. Raskolnikov rose from the sofa, abruptly cutting off his fit of laughter, which had been entirely hysterical.

Worse yet: he’ll start rushing ahead, thrusting himself into places no one asked him to go, talking nonstop about precisely what he should remain silent on, throwing in various allegories, heh-heh! He’ll come himself and ask: “Why haven’t you arrested me yet?” heh-heh-heh! And this can happen even to the wittiest man, a psychologist and writer! Nature is a mirror—a crystal-clear mirror! Look into it and admire yourself, that’s all! But why have you turned so pale, Rodion Romanovich? Is it stuffy? Shall I open the window?

Listen to an old man—he’s speaking seriously now, Rodion Romanovich (as he said this, Porfiry Petrovich, barely thirty-five, suddenly seemed to age before one’s eyes: even his voice changed, and his whole frame hunched over). — Besides, I’m an open man… Am I open or not? What do you think? Seems obvious—I’m sharing such things with you freely, without demanding any reward, heh-heh! Well then, continuing: wit, in my opinion, is splendid—it’s nature’s adornment and life’s comfort, and what tricks it can play! You’d think, sometimes, it’s impossible for some poor investigator—who himself gets carried away by imagination, as always happens, because he’s human too—to guess anything. But nature comes to the rescue of that poor investigator—that’s the trouble! And this never occurs to witty youths lost in their cleverness, “striding over all obstacles” (as you so cleverly and cunningly put it). He may lie superbly—in fact, the man, the incognito fellow, lies perfectly, in the most ingenious manner; here, it seems, triumph should be his, enjoying the fruits of his wit—but then—clap!—he faints dead away right at the most critical, scandalous moment. Granted, illness, stuffy rooms sometimes contribute—but still! Still, it gives a thought! He lied flawlessly, yet failed to account for human nature. There’s where the treachery lies! Another time, carried away by the playfulness of his wit, he starts teasing the person suspecting him, deliberately pales—as if in jest—but pales so convincingly, it gives another thought! Even if he fools them once, overnight the other fellow will think it through—if he’s not a fool himself. And this happens at every step!

— No, I see you don’t believe me—you think I’m just teasing you with harmless jokes, — Porfiry chimed in, growing livelier and livelier, chuckling incessantly with delight, once again pacing around the room. — Of course, you’re right; my very appearance, as God designed it, naturally provokes only comic thoughts in others—I’m a buffoon, plain and simple. But let me tell you this—and I’ll repeat it: you, dear Rodion Romanovich, please forgive an old man like me, but you’re still young, so to speak, in your first youth, and therefore you value human intellect above all else, following the example of all young people. The playful sharpness of wit and abstract reasoning arguments seduce you. And this is exactly like that former Austrian War Council, if I may judge military matters: on paper, they defeated Napoleon and captured him outright, calculating everything brilliantly in their offices—but look, General Mack surrenders with his entire army, heh-heh-heh! I see, I see, dear Rodion Romanovich, you’re laughing at me for being such a civil servant who keeps dragging in examples from military history. What can I do? It’s a weakness—I love military affairs, and I adore reading all those military dispatches… Honestly, I’ve neglected my own career. I should’ve served in the army, truly. I might not have become Napoleon, but I’d certainly have made major, heh-heh-heh! Now then, dear fellow, I’ll tell you the full, honest truth about this—namely, that reality and nature, sir, are mighty things, and oh how often they trip up even the most astute calculations!

He braced himself with all his might, preparing for a terrible and unknown catastrophe. At times, he felt an urge to rush forward and strangle Porfiry right there on the spot. He had feared this very rage even before entering the room. He could feel his lips parched, his heart pounding, foam crusted at the corners of his mouth. Yet, he resolved to remain silent, not uttering a word until the right moment. He understood that this was the best strategy in his position—not only would he avoid slipping up, but his silence might also provoke his enemy, perhaps even causing the other to reveal something himself. At least, he hoped so.

Raskolnikov did not reply. He sat pale and motionless, still intently studying Porfiry’s face. “Good lesson!” he thought, chilling inside. “This isn’t even cat-and-mouse like yesterday. And he’s not showing off his strength pointlessly either—he’s far too clever for that! There’s another goal here—what could it be? Bah, nonsense, brother—you’re trying to scare me, playing tricks! You have no proof, and that man from yesterday doesn’t even exist! You just want to confuse me, rattle me prematurely, and then pounce when I’m off-balance—but you’ll fail, you’ll choke on your own lies! But why, why are you hinting so heavily?... Are you banking on my frayed nerves?... No, brother, you’ll fail—you’ll choke—even if you’ve cooked something up… Well then, let’s see what exactly you’ve prepared.”

Seen a moth fluttering near a candle? Well, he’ll keep circling me, like a moth around a flame; freedom won’t appeal anymore, he’ll brood, get tangled, entangle himself completely, like in nets, frighten himself to death!... More than that: he’ll prepare for me some mathematical trick, like “two times two,”—just give him a longer intermission... And he’ll keep circling me, tightening the radius ever more—until—snap! Straight into my mouth he’ll fly, and I’ll swallow him—how very pleasant, eh-heh-heh! You don’t believe it?

I’ll tell you, this is a kind of mine, under the right circumstances! What concern is it to me that he walks free through the city? Let him stroll for now, let him; I already know he’s my little lamb and won’t escape me! Where could he run? Abroad? A Pole might flee abroad, but certainly not he—especially since I’m watching and have taken precautions. Run deep into the homeland? But there live real, rustic, Russian peasants; a modern, developed man would prefer a prison over living with such foreigners as our peasants, eh-heh! But all this is nonsense, superficial. What does “he’ll run away” mean? That’s formalistic; the main point isn’t that. He won’t run from me not merely because there’s nowhere to go—he won’t run from me, eh-heh! What a phrase! By the law of nature, he won’t run from me, even if there were somewhere to flee.

Extraordinary cases do occur in this vein. Suppose I leave some gentleman entirely alone—not arresting him, not disturbing him—but ensuring he knows, or at least suspects, every hour, every minute, that I know everything, every detail, and watch him day and night, guard him without sleep, keeping him under perpetual suspicion and fear—then, by God, he’ll grow dizzy, truly, come to me himself, perhaps even commit something that will look exactly like “two times two,” shall we say, mathematically precise—how delightful! This can even happen with a simple peasant, let alone our modern, intelligent fellow, developed in a certain direction! Because, my dear, it’s crucial to understand which way a person is developed. And nerves—nerves! You’ve forgotten them entirely! Everything today is sickly, fragile, irritable... And how much bile they all carry!

They say, in Sevastopol right after Alma, clever folk were terrified the enemy would attack openly and seize the city immediately; but when they saw the enemy chose a proper siege, opening the first parallel, those same clever folk rejoiced and calmed down: at least the matter was drawn out for two months, since a proper siege takes time! Again you laugh, again you disbelieve? Well, of course, you’re right. Right, right! These are all special cases—I agree with you; the case I presented is indeed exceptional! But here’s what must be observed, dear Rodion Romanovich: there’s no such thing as a “general case”—the very kind upon which all legal forms and rules are based and recorded in books—because every case, every single one, say, a crime, once it occurs in reality, instantly becomes a thoroughly particular case; sometimes utterly unlike anything before!

(Raskolnikov wasn’t laughing at all—he sat with lips tightly pressed, his feverish gaze fixed unblinkingly on Porfiry Petrovich’s eyes.) Yet it’s true, especially with certain types—people are so varied, and there’s no single rule for all. You’re saying “evidence” now—but evidence, my dear sir, often has two ends, mostly—and I, as an investigator, confess I’m weak: I’d like the investigation to be mathematically clear, I’d like to find such conclusive proof that it equals “two times two is four!” Something direct, indisputable! But if I arrest him untimely—even if I’m certain he’s the one—I might deprive myself of means to further expose him. Why? Because I’d assign him a definite position, psychologically define him, calm him down—he’d retreat into his shell, realize he’s a prisoner.

Well, here’s a little example for future reference—though don’t think I’m presuming to teach you; after all, you’re the one publishing articles on crime! No, no—I’m just offering this as a fact, a small illustration: suppose I consider someone—the second, the third—as guilty. Why, I ask you, would I bother him prematurely, even if I had evidence against him? Some I’m obliged to arrest promptly, but others aren’t of that temperament, truly; so why not let him stroll around town, eh-heh? No, I see you don’t quite grasp it—let me explain more clearly: if I lock him up too soon, I might actually give him moral support, so to speak, eh-heh! You’re laughing?

Yes, I was preparing...

— And you are absolutely right, indeed — Porfiry chimed in again, looking at Raskolnikov with cheerful, extraordinary simplicity (which made the latter startle and instantly brace himself) — absolutely right to have so wittily laughed at our legal formalities, he-he! These (certain, of course) deeply psychological methods of ours are extremely amusing, and perhaps even useless, if one is overly constrained by formality. Yes… again, I speak of form: suppose I were to admit—or rather, suspect—someone else, a third party, say, as the culprit in a case entrusted to me… You’re training to be a lawyer, Rodion Romanovich, aren’t you?

Porfiry Petrovich took a brief breath. He kept spouting nonstop—now meaningless, empty phrases, then suddenly dropping cryptic little words, only to immediately lapse back into nonsense. He was practically running around the room now, his fat legs moving faster and faster, eyes fixed on the floor, right hand tucked behind his back, left hand constantly waving and making various gestures that oddly never matched his words. Raskolnikov suddenly noticed that as Porfiry dashed about the room, he twice seemed to pause briefly near the doors, as if listening intently… “Is he perhaps waiting for something?”

You can’t tie an investigator down with formality at every step. An investigator’s work, after all, is, so to speak, a free art, of its own kind—or something like that… heh-heh-heh!

As for our legal methods—as you so cleverly put it—I fully agree with you. Who among all defendants, even the humblest peasant, doesn’t know that first you’ll be lulled with irrelevant questions (as you aptly put it), and then suddenly whacked right between the eyes—with an axe-head, heh-heh-heh! right between the eyes, as you so aptly compared, heh-heh! So you really thought I wanted to trap you with the flat? Heh-heh! You’re such an ironic fellow. Well, never mind! Ah yes, by the way, one word invites another, one thought calls forth another—you also mentioned form earlier, regarding, you know, that little interrogation… But what about form? Form, you see, in many cases, is nonsense. Sometimes just chatting friendly-style works better. Form will never disappear—I beg you to rest assured on that point; but what is form, really, I ask you?

I sit all day, and I’m so glad just to stroll about for five minutes… haemorrhoids, you see… I plan to treat it with gymnastics; they say even civil servants, actual state councillors, and even privy councillors happily jump rope nowadays—such is science in our age… So then… Regarding these local duties, interrogations, and all that formal nonsense… you yourself just now mentioned interrogations, sir… and truly, sir Rodion Romanovich, these interrogations sometimes confuse the interrogator more than the one being questioned… You’ve pointed this out, sir, with perfect justice and wit. (Raskolnikov had noticed nothing of the sort.) One gets tangled up! Honestly, tangled up! And it’s always the same thing, always the same thing—it drums on like a drum! Reform is underway, and we’ll at least get renamed, heh-heh-heh!

I won’t offer you coffee—this isn’t the place—but why not sit for five minutes with a friend, just to pass the time?—Porfiry kept chattering without pause.—And you know, all these official duties… but please, sir, don’t take offence that I keep pacing back and forth; forgive me, sir, I’m terribly afraid of offending you, yet this little walk is absolutely essential for me.

Raskolnikov placed his cap down, continuing to remain silent and serious, frowning as he listened to Porfiry’s empty and rambling chatter. “What on earth is he trying to do—distract my attention with his silly talk?”

Everyone else has topics: ladies, for instance… or fashionable folk of high society always have something to chat about — c’est de rigueur — but people like us, ordinary sorts… we’re all shy and tongue-tied… I mean, thoughtful folks. Why is this, dear sir? Is it lack of public interest? Or are we perhaps too honest, unwilling to deceive one another? I don’t know. What do you think? And please, put aside that cap — looks like you’re ready to leave right away; truly, it’s uncomfortable to watch… On the contrary, I’m delighted…

– Let me tell you something about myself, dear Rodion Romanovich, so to speak, as an explanation of my character – continued Porfiry Petrovich, bustling about the room and still seemingly avoiding eye contact with his guest. – You see, I’m a bachelor, rather unsophisticated and unknown, and moreover, a finished man, a stiff-necked fellow, past his prime… and… and… have you noticed, Rodion Romanovich, that here in Russia — especially in our Petersburg circles — when two intelligent men, not yet very well acquainted but mutually respectful, like ourselves now, meet up, they simply cannot find a topic for conversation for half an hour straight — they freeze before each other, sit there awkwardly embarrassed.

Raskolnikov remained silent, listening and observing, still frowning angrily. He did sit down, but kept his cap firmly in his hand.

Oh dear! What on earth are you saying? What’s there to ask you about?—suddenly clucked Porfiry Petrovich, instantly changing his tone and expression, ceasing to laugh.—Please don’t worry, please!—he bustled about, now darting in all directions, then suddenly trying to seat Raskolnikov.—Time can wait, time can wait indeed, and all this is mere trifles! On the contrary, I’m so pleased you’ve finally come to us... I’m receiving you as a guest. And forgive me, my dear Rodion Romanovich, for that damned laugh. Rodion Romanovich? That’s right, isn’t it, your patronymic?... A nervous fellow—I was greatly amused by the sharpness of your remark; sometimes, truly, I shake like rubber, for half an hour straight... Easily amused. Given my constitution, I even fear paralysis. But do sit down, what’s keeping you?... Please, my dear, or I’ll think you’re angry...

– Porfiry Petrovich, – he began resolutely, though with considerable irritation, – you yesterday expressed a wish that I come for some questioning. (He especially emphasized the word: “I have come. If you need anything, ask away; otherwise, allow me to leave. I’m pressed for time—I have business… I must attend the funeral of that very clerk trampled by horses, about whom you… also know…” – he added, immediately annoyed at this addition, and thus grew even more agitated – “All this has wearied me thoroughly, do you hear? And for quite some time now… partly because of this, I was even ill…” – nearly cried out, sensing that mentioning illness was even more inappropriate – “In short: either question me, or let me go—right now. And if you question me, then only in proper form! Otherwise, I won’t permit it. So for now, goodbye—we’ve nothing left to discuss alone.”

He immediately got straight to the point, stood up, and picked up his cap.

– Well, well… so you think that it was I who arranged the official flat for you, hey? – said Porfyr, winking and giving a sly look. Something merry and cunning passed over his face. The wrinkles on his forehead smoothed out, his eyes narrowed, his features stretched, and suddenly he burst into a nervous, prolonged laugh, shaking all over and staring straight into Raskolnikov's eyes. Raskolnikov himself began to laugh too, though a little forced. But when Porfyr, seeing that he was laughing as well, began to laugh even more, almost turning purple, Raskolnikov's disgust suddenly overpowered all caution: he stopped laughing, frowned, and glared at Porfyr for a long time with hatred, not taking his eyes off him throughout his lengthy and seemingly deliberate laughter. The imprudence, though, was obvious on both sides: it seemed that Porfyr, as if, was laughing in the face of his guest, who received the laughter with hatred, and was hardly embarrassed at all by the situation. The last detail was very telling for Raskolnikov: he understood clearly that Porfyr, for sure, had not been embarrassed even before, but rather he, Raskolnikov, had perhaps fallen into a trap; that there was definitely something here, something he was unaware of, some goal; that everything was already prepared and would reveal and collapse upon him right now, at this very moment…

– You know what? – he suddenly asked, almost brazenly staring at him, as if relishing the boldness of his own words – there’s this legal rule, isn’t there? A sort of legal tactic used by all investigators: first start from afar, with trivialities—or even something serious but entirely unrelated—to, so to speak, cheer up or, better put, distract the person being questioned, lull their caution, and then suddenly, in the most unexpected way, hit them right on the head with the most fatal and dangerous question. Isn’t that right? I believe this is still devoutly mentioned in all manuals and guidelines?

“A fine thing, a fine thing…” repeated Porfiry Petrovich, as if suddenly lost in thought about something entirely different. “Yes! A fine thing!” he almost cried out at the end, suddenly raising his eyes to Raskolnikov and stopping two paces away from him. This repetitive, foolish insistence that the official apartment was “a fine thing” clashed too sharply, by its sheer banality, with the serious, thoughtful, and enigmatic gaze he now fixed upon his guest. But this only further inflamed Raskolnikov’s bitterness, and he could no longer restrain himself from a mocking, rather reckless challenge.

– We’ll make it, we’ll make it… Do you smoke? Got any? Here, have a cigarette… – he went on, offering his guest a cigarette. – You see, I’m receiving you here, but my flat’s right behind this partition… government-issued, you know, but now I’m on leave for a while. Needed to fix up a few things here. Almost done now… Government housing, you know, is a fine thing, isn’t it? What do you think? – Yes, a fine thing indeed, – Raskolnikov replied, looking at him almost mockingly.

And suddenly he felt that his suspiciousness, from just one contact with Porfiry, from merely two words, two glances, had ballooned in an instant into monstrous proportions… and that this was terribly dangerous: nerves were frayed, agitation mounting. “Trouble! Trouble!... I’ll blurt it out again.” “Yes-yes-yes! Don’t worry! Time’s on our side, time’s on our side,” muttered Porfiry Petrovich, pacing back and forth near the table—yet without any clear purpose, as if darting now to the window, now to the desk, now back to the table, now avoiding Raskolnikov’s suspicious gaze, then abruptly halting in place and staring straight into his eyes. Strangely, his small, plump, round figure seemed like a little ball bouncing unpredictably in every direction, instantly rebounding off every wall and corner.

You seemed to say yesterday that you wished to ask me… formally… about my acquaintance with that… murdered woman? began Raskolnikov again—“Why on earth did I insert that?” flashed through him like lightning. “Why am I so anxious about having inserted it?” another thought flashed through him at once, like lightning.

In our parts, apologies for familiarity, the French phrase “tout court,” and so on—these were all characteristic signs. “Yet he did stretch out both hands to me, but gave me neither; snatched them back just in time,” a suspicious thought flashed through him. Both watched each other closely, but the moment their eyes met, each instantly, like lightning, averted his gaze from the other. —I’ve brought you this note… about the watch… here it is. Is it written correctly, or must I rewrite it again? —What? The note? Yes, yes… don’t trouble yourself, quite correct, sir—said Porfiry Petrovich, as if hurrying somewhere, and having said this, took the paper and glanced over it. —Yes, exactly right. Nothing more needed,—he confirmed in the same rapid-fire tone and placed the note on the table. Then, a minute later, while speaking of something else, he picked it up again from the table and moved it to his own desk.

Ah, most respected sir! So here you are… in our neck of the woods… began Porfiry, extending both hands to him. Well, do sit down, dear father! Or perhaps you don’t care for being called “most respected” and… “dear father”—just like that, tout court? Please don’t take it as familiarity… Right here, on this little sofa. Raskolnikov sat down, not taking his eyes off him.