Crime and Punishment (45 page)

‘I won't allow it! I won't allow it!' Raskolnikov repeated mechanically, though he, too, was suddenly whispering now.

Porfiry turned away briskly and hurried over to open a window.

‘Some fresh air, that's what we need! And you'd better have some water, my dear boy. This is a fit you're having!' He rushed over to the door to order some water, only to find a carafe right there in a corner.

‘Have some, father,' he whispered, rushing back over to him with the carafe, ‘it might just help . . .' Porfiry Petrovich's alarm and concern were so very natural that Raskolnikov fell silent and began studying him with wild curiosity. He didn't take the water, though.

‘Rodion Romanovich! Dear, sweet boy! You'll drive yourself mad if you carry on like this, believe you me! Dear oh dear! Go on, drink some! At least a few sips!'

He more or less forced him to take the glass of water. Mechanically, Raskolnikov started bringing it to his lips, but, coming to his senses, put it down on the table in disgust.

‘Yes, sir, that was a little fit you just had! Carry on like this, my dear chap, and your old sickness will come back,' Porfiry Petrovich cackled with amicable concern, though he continued to look somewhat bemused. ‘Good heavens! What a way to neglect yourself! You know, I had Razumikhin here as well yesterday. Yes, yes, I agree, I have a poisonous, lousy character, but that's no reason for him to deduce such things! . . . Heavens! He came by yesterday after you left, we had some lunch, he talked and talked and all I could do was throw up my hands. Well I never . . . Good grief! Was it you who sent him? Now do sit down, father, take a seat, for the love of Christ!'

‘No, it wasn't me! But I knew he'd gone to see you and why,' replied Raskolnikov sharply.

‘You knew?'

‘I knew. Well, so what?'

‘Simply, Rodion Romanovich, that this is as nothing compared to some of your other exploits. I know about them all, sir! I even know
about you going to
rent an apartment
, very late in the day, after dusk; about you ringing the bell and asking about blood, and confusing the workmen and caretakers. I can understand the state of mind you must have been in at the time . . . but still, you'll drive yourself mad like this, mark my words! You'll make yourself quite giddy! You're positively boiling with indignation, sir, with noble indignation, no less, from insults meted out first by fate, then by the local police officers, and that's why you're haring around everywhere, so as to get everyone else to talk and have done with it all as soon as possible, because you're fed up with all this silliness, all these suspicions. Isn't that so? Haven't I guessed your state of mind? . . . Only it's not just yourself you'll make giddy, but Razumikhin, too. He's far too
good
for all this, you know that yourself. You're sick and he's good, so sickness is bound to stick to him . . . Once you've calmed down, dear boy, I'll tell you something . . . Now do sit down, for the love of Christ! Please, have a rest, you look terrible. Take a seat, I say.'

Raskolnikov sat down, shaking less now and feeling hot and feverish. In deep astonishment, he listened intently as Porfiry Petrovich fussed about him like a concerned friend. But he didn't believe a word he said, though he felt a strange inclination to do so. Porfiry's unexpected mention of the apartment had astounded him. ‘So he knows about the apartment. How come?' he suddenly thought. ‘Then he tells me about it himself!'

‘Yes, sir, we had an almost identical case in court, sir, lots of psychology there, too, and illness,' Porfiry pattered on. ‘He also tried to slander himself as a murderer and you should have seen how he did it: he came up with a complete hallucination, presented the facts, described the circumstances, succeeded in muddling and confusing everyone, and why? He himself, quite unintentionally, did partly cause the murder, but only partly, and when he discovered that he'd given the murderers a pretext for their crime, he fell into a state of depression and stupor, started seeing things, became completely unhinged and ended up convincing himself that he carried out the murder himself! Eventually, the Governing Senate got to the bottom of it all, and the unfortunate man was acquitted and taken into care. Thank heavens for the Governing Senate! Ay-ay-ay! What are you playing at, father? You'll give yourself a fever by irritating your nerves with these sudden fancies – ringing doorbells at night and asking about blood! I know all this psychology inside out, sir, from practical experience. A man can end up wanting to throw
himself from a window or a bell tower – such a tempting sensation. The same goes for doorbells, sir . . . It's an illness, Rodion Romanovich, an illness! You've started neglecting your illness far too much, sir. Try having a word with an experienced doctor, not this fat friend of yours! . . . It's delirium, sir! Everything you're going through is sheer delirium!'

For a moment Raskolnikov felt the room begin to spin.

‘Surely, surely,' flashed across his mind, ‘he's not still lying even now? Impossible! Impossible!' He pushed the thought away, sensing in advance how furious, how livid it could make him, sensing he might go mad with rage.

‘I wasn't delirious. I was fully awake!' he cried, straining all his powers of reasoning to enter into Porfiry's game. ‘Fully awake! Do you hear?'

‘Yes, I understand, sir. I hear you! Yesterday, too, you said you weren't delirious. You even laid particular emphasis on the fact! Say what you like and I'll understand you, sir! Dearie me! . . . But hear me out, Rodion Romanovich, my benefactor, at least on this one point. Say you really, truly, were a criminal or that you were somehow mixed up in this wretched business, well, for heaven's sake, would you really start emphasizing the fact that you weren't delirious while you did all this, but, on the contrary, in full possession of your faculties? And, what's more, emphasize it in such a particularly obstinate way – I mean, how could such a thing be possible, for heaven's sake? It should be exactly the other way round, if you ask me. I mean, if there were anything bothering you, then you ought to emphasize precisely the fact that yes, absolutely, you were raving! Isn't that so? Isn't it?'

There was something sly about the tone of the question. With a jolt, Raskolnikov shrank back from Porfiry to the very spine of the couch and stared in silent bewilderment at the man leaning over him.

‘Or take Mr Razumikhin and the matter of whether it was his idea to come by yesterday or you who prompted him? “His idea” is what you should say, of course, concealing the fact that you prompted him! But no, you don't conceal it at all! You even emphasize the fact that you prompted him!'

Raskolnikov had never emphasized this fact. A chill went down his spine.

‘You're still lying,' he said slowly and feebly, his lips twisted into a sickly smile. ‘Once again you're trying to prove to me that you know my game inside out, that you know all my replies in advance.' He
himself almost knew that he was no longer weighing his words as he should. ‘You're trying to frighten me . . . or else you're just laughing at me . . .'

He continued to stare straight at him as he said this, and once again his eyes suddenly flashed with boundless rage.

‘You're lying, lying!' he cried. ‘You know full well that for any criminal the best dodge in the book is not to conceal what doesn't have to be concealed. I don't believe you!'

‘What a wriggler you are!' tittered Porfiry. ‘It's hard work getting on with you, father. You've become positively monomaniacal! So you don't believe me? But I say that you do believe me, that you already believe me an inch of the way, and I'll make you go the whole mile, because I am deeply fond of you and truly want what is best for you.'

Raskolnikov's lips began to quiver.

‘Yes, sir, I do, so let me tell you once and for all,' he went on, taking Raskolnikov gently, amicably, by the arm, just above the elbow, ‘once and for all, sir: attend to your sickness. Especially now that your family has come to visit you. Think about them. You should be putting them at their ease and spoiling them, and instead you're frightening them . . .'

‘What business is it of yours? How do you know? Why are you so interested? You want to show me you're on my trail, is that it?'

‘Father! It's you who told me all this – you! You don't even notice how, in your excitement, you tell everyone everything in advance, me included. Mr Razumikhin, Dmitry Prokofich, also furnished me with a lot of interesting details yesterday. No, sir, you interrupted me just now but let me tell you that, for all your wit, your suspicious nature has even deprived you of your common sense, of your ability to see things clearly. Take the example I just mentioned, the bells: what a jewel, what a fact (a proper fact, sir) for me, an investigator, to present you with, just like that! And this doesn't tell you anything? Why ever would I have done that if I suspected you even slightly? On the contrary, I ought to have begun by lulling your suspicions and concealing any knowledge of this fact; made you look the other way, as it were, before suddenly clubbing you smack on the crown (to use your own expression): “What, pray, were you doing, sir, in the apartment of the murdered woman at ten o'clock in the evening, in fact almost eleven o'clock? And why did you ring the bell? And why did you ask about blood? And why did you confuse the caretakers and call them over to
the police station, to the district lieutenant?” That's what I ought to have done if I'd had even the faintest suspicion. I ought to have taken a formal statement from you, searched you and probably arrested you as well . . . So how can I nurture any suspicions towards you if I acted otherwise? I repeat, sir, you're not seeing things clearly, you're not seeing anything at all!'

Raskolnikov gave a violent jerk. Porfiry Petrovich couldn't help but notice.

‘You're still lying!' he cried. ‘I don't know what you're up to, but you're still lying . . . You were saying something different before. I know I'm not mistaken . . . You're lying!'

‘I'm lying?' Porfiry rejoined, appearing to get worked up while retaining the most jovial and mocking expression, and seemingly quite untroubled by whatever opinion Mr Raskolnikov might hold of him. ‘I'm lying? . . . But what about the way I acted with you just now (me, the investigator!), dropping you hints and giving you every means to defend yourself, handing you all this psychology on a plate: “Sickness, delirium, mortally offended, depression, local police officers” and all the rest of it? Eh? Heh-heh-heh! Although it's worth pointing out, in passing, that all these psychological defence mechanisms, excuses and dodges are extremely flimsy, not to mention double-edged: “Sickness, delirium, daydreams – I imagined it – I can't remember” – it's all very well, sir, but why, dear boy, when sick or delirious, should it be precisely these daydreams that one imagines and not something different? After all, they could have been different, couldn't they? Eh? Heh-heh-heh-heh!'

Raskolnikov looked at him with proud contempt.

‘In short,' he said in a loud, insistent voice, getting up and pushing Porfiry back a little as he did so, ‘this is what I want to know: do you declare me beyond suspicion, definitively, or do you
not
? Tell me that, Porfiry Petrovich, tell me firmly and definitively, and tell me now!'

‘Look at him – a veritable investigation committee!' cried Porfiry with a perfectly jovial, sly and untroubled air. ‘But why on earth do you need to know all these things, when nobody has even begun to trouble you yet? You're like a little child: not happy till he's burned his fingers! And why are you so anxious? Why this urge to thrust yourself upon us? What reasons can there be? Eh? Heh-heh-heh!'

‘I repeat,' cried Raskolnikov, raging, ‘I can no longer endure . . .'

‘What, sir? Uncertainty?' interrupted Porfiry.

‘Don't taunt me! I won't have it! . . . I'm telling you, I won't . . . I
can't and I won't! . . . Do you hear? Do you hear?' he shouted, banging his fist on the table again.

‘Not so loud! Quiet, I say! You'll be heard! This is a serious warning: look after yourself. I'm not joking, sir!' Porfiry whispered, but this time the kindly, womanish, alarmed expression of before was nowhere to be seen; on the contrary, now he was giving
orders
, sternly, with knitted brow, as if destroying all secrets and ambiguities at one fell swoop. But this lasted no more than an instant. Briefly bemused, Raskolnikov now flew into a complete frenzy. It was strange, though: once again he obeyed the order to speak quietly, even though he was in the grip of the most violent paroxysm of fury.

‘I will not be tortured!' he suddenly whispered in the same voice as before, instantly realizing, with pain and loathing, that he was incapable of not submitting to the order, and becoming even more enraged as a result. ‘Arrest me, search me, but kindly observe the correct form. Do not play with me, sir! Don't you dare . . . !'

‘Now don't you worry about form,' interrupted Porfiry with the same sly grin as before, observing Raskolnikov admiringly, even delightedly. ‘I invited you here, father, as if it were my own home; one friend inviting another, as simple as that!'

‘I don't want your friendship – I spit on it! Understand? Look, I'm taking my cap and I'm going. So what do you say to that, if you're still planning to arrest me?'

He grabbed his cap and made for the door.

‘What about my little surprise – aren't you interested?' tittered Porfiry, grabbing him again just above the elbow and stopping him by the door. He was becoming ever more jovial and playful, and Raskolnikov could stand it no longer.

‘What little surprise? What are you talking about?' he asked, suddenly stopping and staring at Porfiry in alarm.