Crime and Punishment (62 page)

Raskolnikov made no reply; he sat pale and motionless, staring into Porfiry's face with the same look of tension.

‘That was a lesson and no mistake!’ he thought, growing cold. ‘This is more than the cat-and-mouse game he was playing yesterday. And he's not just showing off his power for the sake of it, either, implying it to me: he's far too clever for that… There's some other motive at work here, but what is it? Oh, go to the devil, brother, you're trying to frighten me and play a cunning dodge! You've no proof, and that fellow yesterday didn't exist! You're just trying to put me off my guard, make me lose my head prematurely, and then bang the lid on me; but you're on the wrong track, you won't get anywhere! But why
would he imply all those things to me?… Does he think he can play on my nerves?… No, brother, you're on the wrong track, you won't get where you want to go, even if you have set something up in advance… Well, let's see what it is you
have
set up.’

And with all his might he held himself in check, preparing himself for a terrible and unknown catastrophe. At times he felt like rushing at Porfiry and strangling him right there and then. Even as he had entered this room, he had been afraid of his own violent rage. He could feel that his mouth had dried up, his heart was beating like a hammer, the foam had coagulated on his lips. But all the same he was determined to keep silent and not say one word prematurely. He realized that this was the best tactic to adopt in the position he was in, because not only would he avoid the risk of saying the wrong thing, he would also irritate his enemy with his silence, and possibly make him say something ill-advised. That, at least, was what he hoped.

‘But I see that you don't believe me, sir; you think I'm still making harmless jokes at your expense,’ Porfiry began again, growing more and more affable, keeping up an unceasing chuckle of pleasure, and resuming his gyrations around the room. ‘And, of course, you're quite right, sir; why, even the shape of my body has been ordained by God in such a manner that it suggests only comic thoughts to others; I'm a clown, sir; but let me tell you this, and repeat it again, and that is that you, my dear Rodion Romanovich, forgive an old man for saying so, are a man still young, a man, as it were, in the prime of his youth, and accordingly you place a supreme value on the human intellect, as all young people do. You are tempted by the playful sharpness of the intellect and the abstract arguments of reason, sir. In fact, just like the Austrian
Hofkriegsrat
³
in the old days, so far as I am able to form any judgement on events of a military nature; on paper they had defeated Napoleon and taken him prisoner, and yet as they were sitting there in their study working it all out in the most sharp-witted manner, what did General Mack do but go and surrender with his entire army, hee-hee-hee! I can see, I can see, dear Rodion Romanovich, that you're laughing at me: here am I, a civilian state employee, picking all
my examples from military history. But what am I to do, it's a weakness of mine, I'm fond of military matters, and I'm inordinately fond of reading all those military reports… I suppose I'm in the wrong career, really. I ought to have served in the military, sir, really I ought. I might not have become a Napoleon, but I'd have made the rank of major, sir, hee-hee-hee! Well, sir, but let me tell you, my dear fellow, the whole unvarnished truth about what we were discussing, those
special cases
, that is to say: reality and human nature, my dear sir, are not to be taken lightly, and my goodness, how they sometimes cut the ground from under the most sagacious estimates! Ah, listen to an old man… I'm serious, Rodion Romanovich.’ (As he said this the barely thirty-five-year-old Porfiry Petrovich really did appear suddenly to become much older: even his voice changed, and he seemed to grow hunched and stooped all over.) ‘What's more, I'm a man who tells things the way they are, sir… Would you agree? What's your opinion? I don't think it can possibly be denied: the things I'm telling you for nothing! Why, I'm not even asking for a bonus, tee-hee! Well, so there we are, sir; let me continue: sharp-wittedness is, in my opinion, a wonderful thing, sir; it is, as it were, an embellishment of nature and a solace in life, and what conjuring tricks it can perform! Why, it can baffle the daylights out of a poor investigator, who has a hard enough time trying not to be carried away by his own imagination, something that invariably happens, for he's only human, sir! Yet it's human nature that gets the poor investigator out of his difficulty, sir, more's the pity! And that's just what those young fellows who're carried away by their own sharp-wittedness, “stepping across all obstacles” (as you expressed it with such wit and cunning), don't seem to take into account. We shall assume that he'll lie, this fellow, this
special case
, sir, this
incognito
, sir, and that he'll lie brilliantly, in the most cunning manner; one might well imagine that this is his moment of triumph, that now he can enjoy the fruits of his sharp-wittedness, but no – pop! Right at the most interesting moment, the moment when it's likely to cause the greatest degree of scandal, he falls down in a dead faint. We shall assume that it's caused by his illness, by the airlessness – rooms can sometimes
be very airless – but even so, sir! Even so, he has given us an idea! He has lied splendidly, but he's left human nature out of his calculations. There's perfidy for you, sir! On another occasion, getting carried away by the playfulness of his sharp-wittedness, he'll start trying to make a fool of the person who suspects him, he'll turn pale
a little too naturally
, so that it seems a little too lifelike, and again he has given us an idea! Even though he hoodwinks the person the first time, the person will think it over during the night, if he's got any brains. And that's the way it goes every step of the way, sir! And it won't stop there: our special case will start trying to run ahead of the game, butt in where he's not been invited, he'll start talking ceaselessly about things he ought to keep quiet about, he'll start launching into allegories of various kinds, hee-hee! He'll come to the station himself and ask: “Why are they taking so long to arrest me?” Tee-hee-hee! And I mean, this sort of thing can happen to the most sharp-witted fellows one can think of, to psychologists and
littérateurs
, sir! Human nature is a mirror, sir, a mirror, of the most transparent kind! Look in it and feast your eyes, sir! But why have you gone so pale, Rodion Romanovich, is the room too airless for you, shall I open a window?’

‘Oh, please don't bother,’ Raskolnikov shouted, and suddenly burst into loud laughter. ‘Please don't bother!’

Porfiry came to a standstill opposite him, waited for a moment and suddenly burst out laughing himself, in his wake. Raskolnikov got up from the sofa, suddenly cutting short his own, by now almost epileptic, laughter.

‘Porfiry Petrovich!’ he said loudly and distinctly, though he could hardly stay upright on his trembling legs. ‘It is clear to me now that you definitely suspect me of having murdered that old woman and her sister Lizaveta. For my part, I will tell you that I grew heartily sick of all this a long time ago. If you believe that you have the right to prosecute me, then please do so; if you are going to arrest me, arrest me. But I won't allow you to laugh in my face and torment me like this.’

Suddenly his lips began to quiver, his eyes burned with fury, and his voice, which until now had been restrained, began to boom.

‘I won't allow it, sir!’ he shouted, suddenly, bringing his fist down with all his might on the desk. ‘Do you hear, Porfiry Petrovich? I won't allow it!’

‘Oh heavens above, what's this, now?’ Porfiry Petrovich exclaimed, apparently in utter alarm. ‘My dear fellow! Rodion Romanovich! Old chap! Dear benefactor! What's the matter?’

‘I won't allow it!’ Raskolnikov shouted again.

‘My dear fellow, keep your voice down! I mean, they'll hear, they'll come in! Well, what would we tell them, just think!’ Porfiry Petrovich whispered in horror, bringing his face right up to Raskolnikov's.

‘I won't allow it, I won't allow it,’ he repeated mechanically, but now suddenly in a dead whisper.

Porfiry quickly turned away and ran to open the window.

‘We must let some fresh air in! And you must have a glass of water, my dear man, you've had a fit, sir!’ And he rushed to the door in order to send for some water, but there happened to be a decanter of water in the corner.

‘My dear fellow, drink this,’ he whispered, rushing towards him with the decanter. ‘Perhaps it will help…’ Porfiry Petrovich's alarm and sympathy were so natural that Raskolnikov fell silent and began to study him with wild curiosity. He declined, however, to accept the water.

‘Rodion Romanovich! My dear chap! You know, you'll drive yourself crazy if you go on like this, I do assure you – a-ach! Dear me! Come on, drink this! Drink just a little of it!’

He made him take the glass into his hands. Raskolnikov raised it to his lips mechanically, but, remembering where he was, put it down on the table with disgust.

‘Yes, sir, you've had a fit! If you go on like this you'll bring your old illness back again,’ Porfiry Petrovich said with friendly sympathy, though with a slightly embarrassed look. ‘Heavens above! I mean, why don't you look after yourself? Why, Dmitry Prokofich came to see me yesterday – oh, I admit, sir, I admit that I've a nasty, sarcastic nature, but the conclusions he drew from it!… Heavens above! He came to see me yesterday, after you'd been here, we had dinner together, he talked and talked, I simply threw up my hands in bewilderment; well, I thought…
heavens above! Was it you who sent him? Oh, sit down, my dear fellow, in Christ's name sit down!’

‘No, I didn't send him! But I knew he was going to see you and the reason for his visit,’ Raskolnikov replied, acidly.

‘You knew?’

‘Yes. So what?’

‘Simply, Rodion Romanovich, my dear fellow, that that's not the only exploit of yours I know about; I know about all of them, sir! Why, I know about your going off
to rent new lodgings in another apartment
late at night, after darkness had fallen, about your ringing the doorbell, asking about the blood, and fairly baffling the workmen and the yardkeepers no end. You see, I understand your state of mind, the state of mind you were in that day… But I'll say it again: if you go on like this you will drive yourself crazy – I mean it, you will, sir! You'll go off into a spin! You've an awful lot of indignation boiling inside you, sir, righteous indignation at the insults you've received, first from fate and then from the police, and you've been dashing hither and thither in order, as it were, to make everyone start talking and so have done with the whole thing at one go, because you're sick of this stupid nonsense and all these suspicions. That's right, isn't it?… I've fathomed your mood, haven't I? Only if you go on like this it's not just yourself you'll drive off into a spin, but my dear Razumikhin too; and I mean, he's too
good
for that kind of thing, you know it yourself. You have an illness and he has virtue, and your illness may be catching for him… My dear fellow, when you've calmed down I'll explain it to you… but sit down, my dear fellow, for Christ's sake sit down! Please, take a rest, you look dreadful; sit down.’

Raskolnikov sat down; his shivering had passed, and a hot fever broke out all over his body. In deep amazement he listened tensely to the alarmed Porfiry Petrovich, who was tending to him in such a friendly way. He did not, however, believe a single word he was saying, even though he felt a strange inclination to do so. Porfiry's unexpected remark about the apartment had come as a complete shock to him. ‘Does that mean he knows about the apartment?’ he thought suddenly. ‘He told me about it himself!’

‘Yes, sir, we had a case almost identical to this, a psychological
one, in the course of our judicial work, a case of illness, sir,’ Porfiry went on quickly. ‘He also tried to hang a murder on himself, sir, and my, how he went about it: came up with a regular hallucination, provided us with evidence, described the circumstances, got everyone well and truly mixed up, and for what reason? He himself, quite without premeditation, had been the cause of a murder, but only in part, and when he discovered that he'd given the murderers their opportunity, he got depressed, went into a kind of trance, began imagining things, went right off the rails, and started telling everyone that he was the murderer! But the Supreme Senate finally got to the bottom of the case and the wretched fellow was acquitted and sent off to the poorhouse. Thank goodness for the Supreme Senate! Tut, tut, tut, dear, dear, dear! But if you go on like that what can you expect, dear fellow? If you go on like that you'll end up with brain-fever, and if you follow these impulses to overstimulate your own nerves, you'll be off ringing doorbells and asking questions about blood, sir! I mean, I've studied all this psychology stuff in the course of my work. People who go on like that sometimes have an urge to throw themselves out of windows or jump off church towers, and it's a tempting sort of sensation. It's the same with ringing doorbells, sir… It's an illness, Rodion Romanovich, an illness! You're neglecting your health, sir. You ought to consult an experienced medic, not that fat chap of yours!… What's wrong with you is delirium! The plain fact is that you're doing everything in a state of delirium!’

For a moment everything began to spin violently around Raskolnikov.

‘Can it really be?’ flashed through his head. ‘Can it really be that he's lying even now? No, it's impossible, impossible!’ he thought, repulsing this idea, feeling even before he had thought it to what heights of rabid fury and rage it was capable of leading him, feeling that he might even go mad with rage.

‘That wasn't something that happened in a state of delirium, it was real!’ he shouted, exerting all the powers of his reason in an attempt to fathom what Porfiry's game was. ‘It was real, real! Do you hear?’

‘Yes, sir, I understand, and I hear, too. You kept saying the
same thing yesterday, that it had nothing to do with delirium – you were quite adamant about it! I understand everything that you can possibly tell me, sir! Dear, dear me!… But Rodion Romanovich, my dear young benefactor, please at least take account of this: I mean, for heaven's sake, if you were really guilty or in some way mixed up in that accursed business, would you be so adamant about insisting that you weren't delirious when you did all that, but were, on the contrary, in full possession of your faculties? Would you make a particular point of insisting on it, with your special form of stubbornness – would you? In my opinion the answer would have to be no. I mean, if you did have something on your conscience, you'd have insisted the contrary was true: that you had most certainly been delirious! Isn't that right? It is, isn't it?’