 XXV. When next morning, at eleven o'clock punctually, Raskolnikov went into the department of the investigation of criminal causes, and sent his name in to Parfiri Petrovich, he was surprised at being kept waiting so long. It was at least ten minutes before he was summoned. He had expected that they would pounce upon him, but he stood in the waiting room, and people, who apparently had nothing to do with him, were continually passing to and fro before him. In the next room, which looked like an office, several clerks were sitting, writing, and obviously they had no notion who or what Raskolnikov might be. He looked uneasily and suspiciously about him to see whether there was not some guard, some mysterious watch being kept on him to prevent his escape. But there was nothing of the sort. He saw only the faces of clerics absorbed in petty details than other people. No one seemed to have any concern with him. He might go where he liked for them. The conviction grew stronger in him that if that enigmatic man of yesterday, that phantom sprung out of the earth, had seen anything, they would not have let him stand and wait like that. And would they have waited till he elected to appear at eleven? Where the man had not yet given information, or simply he knew nothing, had seen nothing, and how could he have seen anything? And so all that had happened to him the day before was again a phantom exaggerated by his sick and overstrained imagination. This conjecture had began to grow strong the day before, in the midst of all his alarm and despair. Seeing it all over now, and preparing for a fresh conflict, he was suddenly aware that he was trembling, and he felt a rush of indignation at the thought that he was trembling with fear at facing that hateful Porphyry Petrovich. What he dreaded above all was meeting that man again. He hated him with an intense, unmitigated hatred, and was afraid his hatred might betray him. His indignation was such that he ceased trembling at once. He made ready to go in with a cold and arrogant bearing and vowed to himself to keep as silent as possible, to watch and listen, and for once at least to control his overstrained nerves. At that moment he was summoned to Porphyry Petrovich. He found Porphyry Petrovich alone in his study. His study was a room neither large nor small, furnished with a large writing table that stood before a sofa, upholstered in checked material, a bureau, a bookcase in the corner, and several chairs, all government furniture of polished yellow wood. In the further wall there was a closed door, beyond it there were no doubt other rooms. On Raskolnikov's entrance Porphyry Petrovich had at once closed the door by which he had come in, and they remained alone. He met his visitor with an apparently genial and good-tempered air, and it was only after a few minutes that Raskolnikov saw signs of a certain awkwardness in him, as though he had been thrown out of his reckoning, or caught in something very secret. Ah, my dear fellow, here you are in our domain. Began Porphyry, holding out both hands to him. Come, sit down, old man, or perhaps you don't like to be called, my dear fellow, and old man, Tukul. Please don't think it too familiar, here on the sofa. Raskolnikov sat down, keeping his eyes fixed on him. In our domain, the Apologies for Familiarity, the French phrase Tukul, were all characteristic signs. He held out both hands to me, but he did not give me one. He drew it back in time. Struck him suspiciously. Both were watching each other, but when their eyes met, quick as lightning, they looked away. I brought you this paper about the watch. Here it is. Is it all right, or shall I copy it again? What? A paper? Yes, yes, don't be uneasy, it's all right. Porphyry Petrovich said, as though in haste, and after he had said it, he took the paper and looked at it. Yes, it's all right. Nothing more is needed. He declared with the same rapidity, and he laid the paper on the table. A minute later, when he was talking of something else, he took it from the table and put it on his bureau. I believe you said yesterday you would like to question me, formally, about my acquaintance with the murdered woman. Raskolnikov was beginning again. Why did I put in I believe? Passed through his mind in a flesh. Why am I so uneasy at having put in that I believe? Come in a second flesh. And he suddenly felt that his uneasiness at the mere contact with Porphyry, at the first words, as the first looks, had grown in an instant to monstrous proportions, and that this was fearfully dangerous. His nerves were quivering, his emotion was increasing. It's bad, it's bad, I shall say too much again. Oh, yes, yes, yes, there is no hurry. Mattered Porphyry Petrovich moving to and throw about the table without any apparent aim, as it were making dashes towards the window, the bureau and the table, at one moment avoiding Raskolnikov's suspicious glance, then again standing still and looking him straight in the face. His fat round little figure looked very strange, like a ball rolling from one side to the other and rebounding back. With plenty of time, do you smoke? Have you your own, here, a cigarette? He went on, authoring his visitor a cigarette. You know I am receiving you here, but my own quarters are through there, you know, my government quarters, but I am leaving outside for the time I had to have some repairs done here. It's almost finished now, government quarters, you know, are a capital thing, eh? What do you think? Yes, a capital thing. Answered Raskolnikov, looking at him almost ironically. A capital thing, a capital thing. Repeated Porphyry Petrovich, as though he had just thought of something quite different. Yes, a capital thing. He almost shouted at last, suddenly staring at Raskolnikov and stopping short two steps from him. This stupid repetition was too incongruous in its ineptitude with the serious brooding and enigmatic glance he turned upon his visitor. But this stirred Raskolnikov's spleen more than ever, and he could not resist an ironical and rather unconscious challenge. Tell me, please. He asked suddenly, looking almost insolently at him and taking a kind of pleasure in his own insolence. I believe it's a sort of legal rule, a sort of legal tradition, for all investigating lawyers to begin their attack from afar, with a trivial or at least an irrelevant subject, so as to encourage or rather to divert the man they are cross-examining, to disarm his caution and then all at once to give him an unexpected knockdown blow with some fatal question. Isn't that so? It's a sacred tradition, mentioned I fancy in all the manuals of the art. Yes, yes. Why, do you imagine that was why I spoke about government quarters, eh? And as he said this, Porfiry Petrovich screwed up his eyes and twinked. A good humored, crafty look passed over his face. The wrinkles on his forehead were smoothed out, his eyes contracted, his features broadened, and he suddenly went off into a nervous, prolonged laugh, shaking all over and looking Raskolnikov straight in the face. The latter forced himself to laugh, too, but when Porfiry, seeing that he was laughing, broke into such a guffaw that he turned almost crimson, Raskolnikov's repulsion overcame all precaution. He left off laughing, scowled, and stared with hatred at Porfiry, keeping his eyes fixed on him, while his intentionally prolonged laughter lasted. There was lack of precaution on both sides, however, for Porfiry seemed to be laughing in his visitor's face, and to be very little disturbed at the annoyance with which the visitor received it. The latter fact was very significant in Raskolnikov's eyes. He saw that Porfiry Petrovich had not been embarrassed just before either, but that he, Raskolnikov, had perhaps fallen into a trap. That there must be something, some motive here unknown to him, that perhaps everything was in readiness, and in another moment would break upon him. He went straight to the point at once, rose from his seat, and took his cap. Porfiry Petrovich. He began resolutely, though with considerable irritation. Yesterday you expressed the desire that I should come to you for some inquiries. He laid special stress on the word inquiries. I have come, and if you have anything to ask me, ask it. And if not, allow me to withdraw. I have no time to spare. I have to be at the funeral of that man who was run over, of whom you know also. He added, feeling angry at once, at having made this addition, and more irritated at his anger. I'm sick of it all to you here, and have long been. It's partly what made me ill. In short... He shouted, feeling that the phrase about his illness was still more out of place. In short, examine me, or let me go at once. If you must examine me, do so in the proper form. I will not allow you to do otherwise, and so meanwhile. Goodbye, as we have evidently nothing to keep us now. Good heavens, what do you mean? What shall I question you about? Cackled Porfiry Petrovich with a change of tone, instantly leaving off laughing. Please don't disturb yourself. He began fidgeting from place to place, and facilely making Raskolnikov sit down. There is no hurry. There is no hurry. It's all nonsense. Oh, no, I'm very glad you've come to see me at last. I look upon you simply as a visitor. And as for my confounded laughter, please excuse it, Radion Romanovich. Radion Romanovich, that is your name. It's my nerves. You tickled me so with your witty observation. I assure you, sometimes I shake with love to like an India rubber ball for half an hour at a time. I'm often afraid of an attack of paralysis. Do sit down. Please do, or I shall think you are angry. Raskolnikov did not speak. He listened, watching him, still frowning angrily. He did sit down, but still held his cap. I must tell you one thing about myself, my dear Radion Romanovich. Porfiriy Petrovich continued, moving about the room, and again avoiding his visitor's eyes. You see, I am a bachelor, a man of no consequence and not used to society. Besides, I have nothing before me. I'm set. I'm running to seed, and have you noticed, Radion Romanovich, that in our Petersburg circles, if two clever men meet who are not intimate but respect each other like you and me, it takes them half an hour before they can find a subject for conversation. They are dumb. They sit opposite each other and feel awkward. Everyone has subjects of conversation. Ladies, for instance. People in high society always have their subject of conversation. C'est de rigueur. But people of the middle sort like us, thinking people that is, are always tongue-tied and awkward. What is the reason of it? Whether it is the lack of public interest or whether it is we are so honest we don't want to deceive one another, I don't know. What do you think? Do put down your cap. It looks as if you were just going. It makes me uncomfortable. I'm so delighted. Raskolnikov put down his cap and continued listening in silence with a serious frowning face to a vague and empty chatter of Porfiri Petrovich. Does he really want to distract my attention with his silly babble? I can't offer you coffee here, but why not spend five minutes with a friend? Porfiri put her down. And you know all these official duties? Please don't mind my running up and down. Excuse it, my dear fellow, I'm very much afraid of offending you, but exercise is absolutely indispensable for me. I'm always sitting and so glad to be moving about for five minutes. I suffer from my sedentary life. I always intend to join a gymnasium. They say that officials of all ranks, even private counsellors, may be seen skipping gaily there. There you have it, modern science. Yes, yes. But as for my duties here, inquiries and all such formalities, you mentioned inquiries yourself just now. I assure you these interrogations are sometimes more embarrassing for the interrogator than for the interrogated. You made the observation yourself just now very aptly in wittily. Raskolnikov had made no observation of the kind. One gets into a model, a regular model. One keeps harping on the same note like a drum. There is to be a reform and we shall be called by a different name at least. And as for our legal tradition, as you so wittily called it, I thoroughly agree with you. Every prisoner on trial, even the rudest peasant, knows that they begin by disarming him with irrelevant questions, as you so happily put it, and then deal him a knockdown blow. Your felicitous comparison. So you really imagined that, I meant by government quarters. You are an ironical person. Come, I won't go on. Ah, by the way, yes, one word leads to another. You spoke of formality just now, a propos of the inquiry, you know. But what's the use of formality? In many cases it's nonsense. Sometimes one has a friendly chat and gets a good deal more out of it. One can always fall back on formality, allow me to assure you. And after all, what does it amount to? An examining lawyer cannot be bounded by formality at every step. The work of investigation is, so to speak, a free art in its own way. Porfiriy Petrovich took breath a moment. He had simply bubbled on, uttering empty phrases, letting slip a few enigmatic words and again reverting to incoherence. He was almost running about the room, moving his fat little legs quicker and quicker, looking at the ground, with his right hand behind his back, while with his left making gesticulations that were extraordinarily incongruous with his words. Raskolnikov suddenly noticed that, as he ran about the room, he seemed twice to stop for a moment near the door as though he were listening. Is he expecting anything? You are certainly quite right about it. Porfiriy began gaily, looking with extraordinary simplicity at Raskolnikov, which startled him and instantly put him on his guard. Certainly quite right in laughing so wittily at our legal forms. Some of these elaborate psychological methods are exceedingly ridiculous and perhaps useless if one adheres too closely to the forms. Yes, I am talking of forms again. Well, if I recognize, or most strictly speaking, if I suspect someone or other to be a criminal in any case entrusted to me, you're reading for the law, of course, Rodion Ramanovich? Yes, I was. Well, then it is a precedent for you for the future, though don't suppose I should venture to instruct you after the articles you publish about crime. No, I simply make bold to state it by way of fact, if I took this man or that for a criminal, why I ask should I worry him prematurely, even though I had evidence against him? In one case I may be bound, for instance, to arrest a man at once, but another may be in quite a different position, you know, so why shouldn't I let him walk about the town a bit? But I see you don't quite understand. So I'll give you a clearer example. If I put him in prison too soon, I may very likely give him, so to speak, moral support. You're laughing? As Kolnikov had no idea of laughing, he was sitting with compressed lips, his feverish eyes fixed on Porfiris Petrovich's. Yet that is the case with some types especially for men are so different. You say evidence. Well, there may be evidence, but evidence, you know, can generally be taken two ways. I am an examining lawyer and a weak man, I confess it. I should like to make a proof, so to say mathematically clear. I should like to make a chain of evidence, such as twice to a four. It ought to be a direct irrefutable proof. And if I shut him up too soon, even though I might be convinced he was the man, I should very likely be depriving myself of the means of getting further evidence against him. And how? By giving him, so to speak, a definite position, I shall put him out of suspense and set his mind at rest, so that he will retreat into his shell. They say that at Sevastopol, soon after Alma, the clever people were in a terrible fright, that the enemy would attack openly and take Sevastopol at once. But when they saw that the enemy preferred a regular siege, they were delighted. I am told and reassured for the thing would drag on for two months at least. You're laughing. You don't believe me again. Of course, you're right too. You're right. You're right. These are special cases, I admit. But you must observe this, my dear Radion Romanovich. The general case, the case for which all legal forms and rules are intended, for which they are calculated and laid down in books, does not exist at all. For the reason that every case, every crime, for instance, so soon as it actually occurs, at once becomes a thoroughly special case and sometimes a case unlike any that's gone before. Very comic cases of that sort sometimes occur. If I leave one man quite alone, if I don't touch him and don't worry him, but let him know, or at least suspect, every moment that I know all about it and am watching him day and night, and if he is in continual suspicion and terror, he'll be bound to lose his head. He'll come of himself or maybe do something which will make it as plain as twice to a four. It's delightful! It may be so with a simple peasant. But with one of our sort, an intelligent man cultivated on a certain side, it's a dead certainty. For, my dear fellow, it's a very important matter to know on what side a man is cultivated. And then there are nerves. There are nerves you have overlooked them. Why, they are all sick, nervous and irritable. And then how they all suffer from spleen. That, I assure you, is a regular goldmine for us. And it's no anxiety to me. He's running about the town free. Let him. Let him walk about for a bit. I know well enough that I've caught him and that he won't escape me. Where could he escape to? Abroad, perhaps? A pole will escape abroad, but not here, especially as I am watching and have taken measures. Will he escape into the depth of the country, perhaps? But you know peasants live there. Real rude Russian peasants. A modern, cultivated man would prefer prison to living with such strangers as our peasants. But that's all nonsense and on the surface. It's not merely that he has nowhere to run to. He is psychologically unable to escape me. What an expression. Through a law of nature he can't escape me if he had anywhere to go. Have you seen a butterfly round a candle? That's how he will keep circling and circling round me. Freedom will lose its attractions. He'll begin to brood. He'll weave a tangle round himself. He'll worry himself to death. What's more, he will provide me with a mathematical proof if I only give him long enough interval. And he'll keep circling round me, getting nearer and nearer and then flop. He'll fly straight into my mouth and I'll swallow him and that will be very amusing. You don't believe me? Raskolnikov made no reply. He said pale and motionless, still gazing with the same intensity into Porphyry's face. It's a lesson, he thought, turning cold. This's beyond the cat playing with a mouse like yesterday. He can't be showing off his power with no motive. Prompting me. He is far too clever for that. He must have another object. What is it? It's all nonsense, my friend. You are pretending to scare me. You have no proofs, and the man I saw had no real existence. You simply want to make me lose my head, to work me up beforehand and so to crush me. But you are wrong, you won't do it. But why give me such a hint? Is he reckoning on my shattered nerves? No, my friend, you are wrong. You won't do it even though you have some trap for me. Let us see what you have in store for me. And he braced himself to face a terrible and unknown ordeal. At times he longed to fall on Porphyry and strangle him. This anger was what he dreaded from the beginning. He felt that his parched lips were flecked from foam. His heart was throbbing. But he was still determined not to speak till the right moment. He realized that this was the best policy in his position, because instead of saying too much, he would be irritating his enemy by his silence and provoking him into speaking too freely. Anyhow, this was what he hoped for. No, I see you don't believe me. You think I am playing a harmless joke on you? Porphyry began again, getting more and more lively, sparkling at every instant and again pacing around the room. And to be sure you're right. God has given me a figure that can awaken none but comic ideas in other people, a buffoon. But let me tell you, and I repeat it, excuse an old man, my dear Rodion Romanovich, you are a man still young, so to say, in your first youth, and so you put intellect above everything, like all young people. Playful wit and abstract arguments fascinate you, and that's for all the world, like the old Austrian Hofkriegsrat. As far as I can judge of military matters, that is, on paper they'd beaten Napoleon and taken him prisoner, and there in their study they worked it all out in the cleverest fashion. But look you, General Mack surrendered with all his army? I see, I see Rodion Romanovich, you are laughing at a civilian like me taking examples out of military history. But I can't help it, it's my weakness. I'm fond of military science. And I'm ever so fond of reading all military histories. I've certainly missed my proper career. I ought to have been in the army, upon my word I ought. I shouldn't have been a Napoleon, but I might have been a major. Well, I'll tell you the whole truth, my dear fellow, about this special case, I mean. Actual fact and immense temperament, my dear sir, are weighty matters, and it's astonishing how they sometimes deceive the sharpest calculation. I, listen to an old man, am speaking seriously Rodion Romanovich. As he said this, Porfiriy Petrovich, who was scarcely 5 and 30, actually seemed to have grown old. Even his voice changed, and he seemed to shrink together. Moreover, I am a candid man. Am I a candid man or not? What do you say? I fancy I really am. I tell you these things for nothing and don't even expect a reward for it. Well, to proceed, wit, in my opinion, is a splendid thing. It is, so to say, an adornment of nature and a consolation of life. And what tricks it can play so that it sometimes is hard for a poor examining lawyer to know where he is, especially when he is liable to be carried away by his own fancy too, for you know he is a man after all. But the poor fellow is saved by the criminal's temperament, worse luck for him. But young people carried away by their own wit don't think of that when they overstep all obstacles, as you wittily and cleverly expressed it yesterday. He will lie. That is the man who is a special case, the incognito, and he will lie well in the cleverest fashion. You might think he would triumph and enjoy the fruits of his wit, but at the most interesting, the most flagrant moment he will faint. Of course there may be illness and a stuffy room as well, but anyway, he's given us the idea. He lied incomparably, but he didn't reckon on his temperament. That's what betrays him. Another time he will be carried away by his playful wit into making fun of the man who suspects him. He will turn pale as it were on purpose to mislead, but his paleness will be too natural, too much like the real thing again he has given us an idea. Though his questioner may be deceived at first, he will think differently next day if he is not a fool, and of course it is like that at every step. He puts himself forward where he is not wanted, speaks continually when he ought to keep silent, brings in all sorts of allegorical illusions, comes and asks why didn't you take me long ago? And that can happen, you know, with the cleverest man, the psychologist, the literary man. The temperament reflects everything like a mirror, gaze into it and admire what you see. But why are you so pale, Rodion Romanovich? Is the room stuffy? Shall I open the window? Oh, don't trouble, please. Raskolnikov and he suddenly broke into a laugh. Please, don't trouble. Porfiry stood facing him, paused a moment, and suddenly he too laughed. Raskolnikov got up from the sofa, abruptly checking his hysterical laughter. Porfiry Petrovich. He began, speaking loudly and distinctly, though his legs trembled, and he could scarcely stand. I can see clearly at last that you actually suspect me of a woman and her sister, Lisa Vietta. Let me tell you from my part that I am sick of this. If you find that you have a right to prosecute me legally, to arrest me, then prosecute me, arrest me. But I will not let myself be jeered at to my face and worried. His lips trembled, his eyes glowed with fury, and he could not restrain his voice. I won't allow it. He shouted, bringing his fist down on the table. Do you hear that, Porfiry Petrovich? I won't allow it. Good heavens, what does it mean? cried Porfiry Petrovich, apparently quite frightened. Radion Romanovich, my dear fellow, what is the matter with you? I won't allow it. Raskolnikov shouted again. Harsh, my dear man, they'll hear and come in. Just think what could we say to them? Porfiry Petrovich whispered in horror, bringing his face close to Raskolnikov's. I won't allow it. I won't allow it. Raskolnikov repeated mechanically, but he too spoke in a sudden whisper. Porfiry turned quickly and ran to open the window. Some fresh air, and you must have some water, my dear fellow. You're ill. And he was running to the door to call for some, when he found a decanter of water in the corner. Come, drink a little. He whispered, rushing up to him with the decanter. It will be sure to do your good. Porfiry Petrovich's alarm and sympathy were so natural that Raskolnikov was silent and began looking at him with wild curiosity. He did not take the water, however. Radion Romanovich, my dear fellow, you'll drive yourself out of your mind, I assure you. Ah, ah. Have some water. Do drink a little. He forced him to take the glass. Raskolnikov raised it mechanically to his lips, but set it on the table again with disgust. Yes, you've had a little attack. You'll bring back your illness again, my dear fellow. Porfiry Petrovich cuckled with friendly sympathy, though he still looked rather disconcerted. Good heavens! You must take more care of yourself. Dmitry Prokofievich was here, came to see me yesterday. I know. I know I've a nasty, ironical temper. But what they made of it? Good heavens, he came yesterday after you'd been. We'd dined and he'd talked and talked away, and I could only throw up my hands in despair. Did he come from you? But do sit down, for mercy's sake, sit down. No, not from me, but I knew he went to you and why he went. Raskolnikov answered sharply. You knew. I knew. What of it? Why this, Radion Romanovich? That I know more than that about you. I know about everything. I know how you went to take a flat at night when it was dark and how you rang the bell and asked about the blood so that the workman and the porter did not know what to make of it. Yes, I understand your state of mind at that time, but you'll drive yourself mad like that upon my word. You'll lose your head. You're full of generous indignation at the wrongs you've received first from destiny and then from the police officers, and so you rush from one thing to another to force them to speak out and make an end of it all because you are sick of all this suspicion and foolishness. That's so, isn't it? I have guessed how you feel, haven't I? Only in that way you'll lose your head and resume hints too. He's too good a man for such a position you must know that. You are ill and he is good and your illness is infectious for him. I'll tell you about it when you are more yourself, but do sit down for goodness' sake. Please rest. You look shocking. Do sit down. Raskolnikov said down, he no longer shivered. He was hot all over. In amazement he listened with strained attention to Porfiry Petrovich who still seemed frightened as he looked after him with friendly solicitude. But he did not believe a word he said, though he felt a strange inclination to believe. Porfiry's unexpected words about the flat had utterly overwhelmed him. How can it be? He knows about the flat then. He thought suddenly. And he tells it me himself. Yes, in our legal practice there was a case almost exactly similar, a case of morbid psychology. Porfiry went on quickly. A man confessed to murder and how he kept it up. It was a regular hallucination. He brought forward facts. He imposed upon everyone on why. He had been partly, but only partly, unintentionally the cause of a murder and when he knew that he had given the murderers the opportunity he sank into dejection. It got on his mind and turned his brain. He began imagining things and he persuaded himself that he was the murderer. But at last the High Court of Appeal went into it and the poor fellow was acquitted and put under proper care. Thanks to the Court of Appeal... Why, my dear fellow, you may drive yourself into delirium if you have the impulse to work upon your nose to go ringing bells at night and asking about blood. I've studied all this morbid psychology in my practice and man is sometimes tempted to jump out of a window or from a belfry. Just the same with bell ringing. It's all illness, Radion Romanovich. You have begun to neglect your illness. You should consult an experienced doctor. What's the good of that fat fellow? You are lightheaded. You were delirious when you did all this. For a moment Raskolnikov felt everything going round. Is it possible? Is it possible? Flushed to his mind. That he is still lying? He can't be. He can't be. He rejected that idea, feeling to what a degree of fury it might drive him feeling that the fury might drive him mad. I was not delirious. I knew what I was doing. He cried, straining every faculty to penetrate Porphyry's game. I was quite myself, do you hear? Yes, I hear and understand. You said yesterday you were not delirious, you were particularly emphatic about it. I understand all you can tell me. Listen, Radion Romanovich, my dear fellow, if you were actually a criminal or were somehow mixed up in this damnable business, would you insist that you were not delirious but in full possession of your faculties? And so emphatically and persistently? Would it be possible? Quite impossible to my thinking. If you had anything on your conscience, you certainly ought to insist that you were delirious. That's so, isn't it? There was a note of slainess in this inquiry. Raskolnikov drew back on the sofa as Porphyry bent over him and stared in silent perplexity at him. Another thing about Razumihin, you certainly ought to have said that he came of his own accord to have concealed your part in it. But you don't conceal it. You lay stress on it coming at your instigation. Raskolnikov had not done so. A chill went down his back. You keep telling lies. He said slowly and weakly, twisting his lips into a sickly smile. You were trying again to show that you know all my game, that you know all I shall say beforehand. He said, conscious himself, that he was not weighing his words as he ought. You ought to frighten me. Or are you simply laughing at me? He still stared at him as he said this, and again there was a light of intense hatred in his eyes. You keep lying, he said. You know perfectly well that the best policy for the criminal is to tell the truth, as nearly as possible. To conceal as little as possible. I don't believe you. What a wily person you are. Porphyry tittered. There is no catching you. You are a perfect monomania. So you don't believe me. But still you do believe me. You believe a quarter. I'll soon make you believe the whole because I have a sincere liking for you and genuinely wish you good. Raskolnikov's lips trembled. Yes, I do. Went on Porphyry, touching Raskolnikov's arm genuinely. You must take care of your illness. Besides, your mother and sister are here now. You must think of them. You must soothe and comfort them, and you do nothing but frighten them. What is that to do with you? How do you know it? What concern is it of yours? You are keeping watch on me and want to let me know it. Good heavens. Why, I learned it all from you yourself. You don't notice that in your excitement you tell me and others everything. From Razumihin too, I learned a number of interesting details yesterday. No, you interrupted me, but I must tell you that for all your wit, your suspiciousness, makes you lose the common sense view of things. To return to bell ringing, for instance, I, an examining lawyer, have betrayed a precious thing like that, a real fact, for it is a fact worth having, and you see nothing in it. Why, if I had the slightest suspicion of you, should I have acted like that? No. I should first have disarmed your suspicions and not let you see I knew of that fact, should have diverted your attention and suddenly have dealt your knockdown blow, your expression, saying, and what were you doing, sir, pray at ten or nearly eleven at the murdered woman's flat, and why did you ring the bell, and why did you ask about blood, and why did you invite the porters to go with you to the police station to the lieutenant? That's how I ought to have acted if I had a grain of suspicion of you. I ought to have taken your evidence in due form, searched your lodging, and perhaps have arrested you, too. So I have no suspicion of you since I have not done that, but you can't look at it normally and you see nothing I say again. Raskolnikov started so that Porfiry Petrovich could not fail to perceive it. You are lying all the while. He cried. I don't know your object, but you are lying. You did not speak like that just now, and I cannot be mistaken. I am lying? Porfiry repeated, apparently incensed, but preserving a good humored and ironical face, as though he were not in the least concerned at Raskolnikov's opinion of him. I am lying? But how did I treat you just now, I, the examining lawyer, prompting you and giving you every means for your defense? Illness, I said, delirium, injury, melancholy and the police officers and all the rest of it. Though indeed, all those psychological means of defense are not very reliable and cut both ways. Illness, delirium, I don't remember, that's alright, but why, my good sir, in your illness and in your delirium were you haunted by just those delusions and not by any others? There may have been others, eh? Raskolnikov looked heartily and contemptuously at him. Briefly. He said loudly and imperiously, rising to his feet and in so doing, pushing Porfiri back a little. Briefly, I want to know. Do you acknowledge me perfectly free from suspicion or not? Tell me, Porfiri Petrovitch, tell me once for all and make haste. What a business I'm having with you! Cried Porfiri with a perfectly good humor, sly and composed face. And why do you want to know? Why do you want to know so much since they haven't begun to worry you? Why, you are like a child asking for matches. And why are you so uneasy? Why do you force yourself upon us, eh? He he he he. I repeat, Raskolnikov cried furiously, that I can't put up with it. With what? Uncertainty? He said, What? Uncertainty? Interrupted Porfiri. Don't jeer at me. I won't have it. I tell you I won't have it. I can't and I won't. Do you hear? Do you hear? He shouted, bringing his fist down on the table again. Hush, hush! They were over here. I warn you seriously. Take care of yourself. I'm not joking. Porfiri whispered, but this time there was not the look of old womanish good nature in his face. Now he was perimpatory, stern, frowning, and for once laying aside all mystification. But this was only for an instant. Raskolnikov, bewildered, suddenly fell into actual frenzy. But, strange to say, he again obeyed the command to speak quietly, though he was in a perfect paroxysm of fury. I will not allow myself to be tortured. He whispered, instantly recognizing with hatred that he could not help playing the command and driven to even greater fury by the thought. Arrest me, search me, but kindly act in due form and don't play with me. Don't dare. Don't worry about the form. Porfiri interrupted with the same sly smile as it were gloating with enjoyment over Raskolnikov. I invited you to see me quite in a friendly way. I don't want your friendship and I spit on it. Do you hear? And here, I take my cap and go. What will you say now if you mean to arrest me? He took up his cap and went to the door. And won't you see my little surprise? Chuckled Porfiri again taking him by the arm and stopping him at the door. He seemed to become more playful and good-humoured, which maddened Raskolnikov. What surprise? He asked, standing still and looking at Porfiri in alarm. My little surprise, it's sitting there behind the door. He pointed to the locked door. I locked him in that he should not escape. What is it? Where? What? Raskolnikov walked to the door and would have opened it, but it was locked. It's locked. Here is the key. And he brought a key out of his pocket. You are lying! Roared Raskolnikov without restraint. You lie, you damn punchinella! And he rushed at Porfiri who retreated to the other door and was not at all alarmed. I understand at all you are lying and mocking so that I may betray myself to you. Why, you could not betray yourself any further, my dear Dioro Manovich. You are in a passion. Don't shout. I shall call the clerks. You are lying. Call the clerks. You knew I was ill and tried to work me into a frenzy to make me betray myself. That was your object. Produce your facts. I understand at all. You've no evidence. You have only wretched, rubbishly suspicions like Zamiatov's. You knew my character. You wanted to drive me to fury and then knock me down with priests and deputies. Are you waiting for them, eh? What are you waiting for? Where are they? Produce them. Why, deputies, my good man, what things people will imagine and to do so would not be acting in form, as you say. You don't know the business, my dear fellow. And there is no escaping form, as you see. Porphyry mattered, listening at the door through which a noise could be heard. Ah, they're coming, cried Raskolnikov. You've sent for them. You expected them. Well, produce them all. Your deputies, your witnesses, what you like. I am ready. But at this moment a strange incident occurred, something so unexpected that neither Raskolnikov nor Porphyry Petrovich could have looked for such a conclusion to their interview. End of part 4, Chapter 5 Section 26 of Crime and Punishment This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Crime and Punishment by Fyodor Dostoevsky translated by Konstantz Garnet Part 4, Chapter 6 When he remembered the scene afterwards this is how Raskolnikov saw it. The noise behind the door increased and suddenly the door was opened a little. What is it? cried Porphyry Petrovich, annoyed. Why, I gave orders. For an instant there was no answer but it was evident that there were several persons at the door and that they were apparently pushing somebody back. What is it? Porphyry Petrovich repeated uneasily. The prisoner Nikolai has been brought. Someone answered. He is not wanted. Take him away. Let him wait. What's he doing here? How irregular. cried Porphyry rushing to the door. But he began the same voice and suddenly ceased. Two seconds not more were spent in actual struggle then someone gave a violent show and then a man very pale strode into the room. This man's appearance was at first sight very strange. He stared straight before him as though seeing nothing. There was a determined gleam in his eyes. In time there was a deathly pallor in his face as though he were being led to the scaffold. His white lips were faintly twitching. He was dressed like a workman and was of medium height. Very young, slim, his hair cut in round crop with thin spare features. The man whom he had thrust back followed him into the room and succeeded in seizing him by the shoulder. He was a warder. But Nikolai pulled his arm away. Several persons crowded inquisitively into the doorway. Some of them tried to get in. All this took place almost instantaneously. Go away. It's too soon. Wait till you are sent for. Why have you brought him so soon? Porfiry Petrovich mattered, extremely annoyed and, as it were, thrown out of his reckoning. But Nikolai suddenly knelt down. What's the matter? cried Porfiry, surprised. I am guilty. Mine is the sin. I am the murderer. Nikolai articulated suddenly, rather breathlessly, but speaking fairly loudly. For ten seconds there was silence as though all had been struck dumb. Even the warder stepped back, mechanically retreated to the door and stood immovable. What is it? cried Porfiry Petrovich, recovering from his momentary stupefaction. I am the murderer. repeated Nikolai after a brief pause. What? You... What? Whom did you kill? Porfiry Petrovich was obviously bewildered. Nikolai again was silent for a moment. Aliona Ivanovna and her sister Lisaveta Ivanovna I killed with an axe. Darkness came over me. He added suddenly and was again silent. He still remained on his knees. Porfiry Petrovich stood for some moments as though meditating but suddenly roused himself and waved back the uninvited spectators. They instantly vanished and closed the door. Then he looked towards Raskolnikov who was standing in the corner staring wildly at Nikolai and moved towards him but stopped short, looked from Nikolai to Raskolnikov and then again at Nikolai and seeming unable to restrain himself darted at the latter. You're in too great a hurry. He shouted at him almost angrily. I didn't ask you what came over you. Speak. Did you kill them? I am the murderer. I want to give evidence. Nikolai pronounced. Ah. What did you kill them with? An axe. An axe. I had it ready. Ah. He's in a hurry. Alone? Nikolai did not understand the question. Did you do it alone? Yes. Alone. And Mitya is not guilty and had no share in it. Don't be in a hurry about Mitya. Ah. How was it you ran downstairs like that at the time? The porters met you both. It was to put them off the scent. I ran after Mitya. Nikolai replied heredly as though he had prepared the answer. I knew it. cried Porfiry with vexation. It's not his own tale he is telling. He mattered as though to himself and suddenly his eyes rested on Raskolnikov again. He was apparently so taken up with Nikolai that for a moment he had forgotten Raskolnikov. He was a little taken aback. My dear Radeon Romanovich, excuse me. He flew up to him. This won't do. I'm afraid you must go. It's no good you're staying. I will. You see, what a surprise. Goodbye. And taking him by the arm he showed him to the door. I suppose you didn't expect it. said Raskolnikov who though in this situation had regained his courage. You did not expect it either, my friend. See how your hand is trembling. You're trembling too, Porfiry Petrovich. Yes, I am. I didn't expect it. They were already at the door. Porfiry was impatient for Raskolnikov to be gone. And your little surprise. Aren't you going to show it to me? Raskolnikov said sarcastically. Why, his teeth are chattering and he asks, You are an eronical person. Come till we meet. I believe we can say goodbye. That's in God's hands. Mattered Porfiry with an unnatural smile. As he walked through the office Raskolnikov noticed that many people were looking at him. Among them he saw the two porters from the house whom he had invited that night to the police station. They stood there waiting, but he was no sooner on the stairs than he heard the voice of Porfiry Petrovich behind him. Turning round he saw the latter running after him out of breath. One word, Rydion Romanovich. As to all the rest it's in God's hands, but as a matter of form there are some questions I shall have to ask you. So we shall meet again, shall we? And Porfiry stood still facing him with a smile. Shall we? He added again. He seemed to want to say something more but could not speak out. You must forgive me, Porfiry Petrovich. But what has just passed? I lost my temper. Begin Raskolnikov, who had so far regained his courage that he felt irresistibly inclined to display his coolness. Don't mention it. Don't mention it. Porfiry replied almost gleefully. I myself, too. I have a wicked temper, I admitted, but we shall meet again. If it's God's will we may see a great deal of one another. And we'll get to know each other through and through. Added Raskolnikov. Yes. Know each other through and through. Ascented Porfiry Petrovich and he screwed up his eyes looking earnestly at Raskolnikov. Now you're going to a birthday party? To a funeral. Of course, the funeral. Take care of yourself and get well. I don't know what to wish you. Said Raskolnikov, who had begun not looked back again. I should like to wish you success, but your office is such a comical one. Why comical? Porfiry Petrovich had turned to go, but he seemed to prick up his ears at this. Why, how you must have been torturing and harassing that poor Nikolai psychologically, after your fashion, till he confessed. You must have been at him day and night, proving to him that he was the murderer, and now that he has confessed you'll begin vivisecting him again. You are lying, you'll say. You are not the murderer. You can't be. It's not your own tale you are telling. You must admit, it's a comical business. You noticed, then, that I said to Nikolai just now that it was not his own tale he was telling? How could I help noticing it? You are quick-witted. You notice everything. You are really a playful mind. And you always fusson on the comic side. They say that was the market characteristic of Gogol among the writers. Yes, of Gogol. Yes, of Gogol. I shall look forward to meeting you. So shall I. Raskolnikov walked straight home. He was so muddled and bewildered that on getting home he sat for a quarter of an hour on the sofa trying to collect his thoughts. He did not attempt to think about Nikolai. He was stupefied. He felt that his confession was something inexplicable, amazing, something beyond his understanding. But Nikolai's confession was an actual fact. The consequences of this fact were clear to him at once. Its falsehood could not fail to be discovered and then they would be after him again. Till then, at least, he was free and must do something for himself. For the danger was imminent. But how imminent? His position gradually became clear to him. Remembering, scheduling, the main outlines of his recent scene with Porfiris he could not help shuddering again with horror. Of course he did not yet know all Porfiris' aims. He could not see into all his calculations. But he had already partly shown his hand and no one knew better than Raskolnikov how terrible Porfiris' lead had been for him. A little more and he might have given himself away completely, eventually. Knowing his nervous temperament and from the first glance seeing through him Porfiris, though playing a bold game was bound to win. There's no denying that Raskolnikov had compromised himself seriously but no facts had come to light as yet. There was nothing positive. But was he taking a true view of the position? Wasn't he mistaken? What had Porfiris been trying to get at? Had he really some surprise prepared for him? And what was it? Had he really been expecting something or not? How would they have parted if it had not been for the unexpected appearance of Nikolai? Porfiris had shown almost all his cards. Of course he had risked something in showing them and if he had really had anything up his sleeve Raskolnikov reflected he would have shown that too. What was that surprise? Was it a joke? Had it meant anything? Could it have concealed anything like a fact? A piece of positive evidence? His yesterday's visitor? What had become of him? When was he today? If Porfiris really had any evidence it must be connected with him. He sat on the sofa with his elbows on his knees and his face hidden in his hands. He was still shivering nervously. At last he got up, took his cap, thought a minute and went to the door. He had a sort of presentiment that for today at least he might consider himself out of danger. He had a sudden sense almost of joy. He wanted to make haste to Katerina Ivanovna's. He would be too late for the funeral, of course, but he would be in time for the memorial dinner and there at once he would see Sonia. He stood still, thought a moment and a suffering smile came for a moment onto his lips. Today, today. He repeated to himself yesterday so it must be. But as he was about to open the door it began opening of itself. He started and moved back. The door opened gently and slowly and there suddenly appeared a figure, yesterday's visitor from underground. The man stood in the doorway looked at Raskolnikov without speaking and took a step forward into the room. He was exactly the same as yesterday the same figure, the same dress but there was a great change in his face. He looked dejected and sighed deeply. If he had only put his hand up to his cheek and leaned his head on one side he would have looked exactly like a peasant woman. What do you want? Asked Raskolnikov, numb with terror. The man was still silent but suddenly he bowed down almost to the ground touching it with his finger. What is it? I have sinned. The man articulated softly. How? By evil thoughts. They looked at one another. I was vexed when you came perhaps in drink and bade the porter's gold to the police station and asked about the blood. I was vexed that they let you go and took you for drunken. I was so vexed that I lost my sleep and remembering the address we came here yesterday and asked for you. Who came? Raskolnikov interrupted, instantly beginning to recollect. I did. I wronged you. Then you come from that house? I was standing at the gate with them. Don't you remember? We have carried on our trade in that house for years past. We cure and prepare hides. We take work home. Most of all I was vexed. And the whole scene of the day before yesterday in the gateway came clearly before Raskolnikov's mind. He recollected that there had been several people there besides the porter's women among them. He remembered one voice had suggested taking him straight to the police station. He could not recall the face of the speaker and even now he did not recognize it but he remembered that he had turned round and made him some answer. So this was the solution of yesterday's terror. The most awful thought was that he had been actually almost lost had almost done for himself on account of such a trivial circumstance. So this man could tell nothing except his asking about the flat and the blood stains. So Porphyry too had nothing but that delirium no facts but this psychology which cuts both ways. Nothing positive. So if no more facts come to light and they must not, they must not, then what can they do to him? How can they convict him even if they arrest him? And Porphyry then had only just heard about the flat and had not known about it before. Was it you who told Porphyry that I'd been there? He cried, struck by a sudden idea. What Porphyry? The head of the detective department. Yes, the porter did not go there but I went. Today? I got there two minutes before you and I heard it all. How he worried you. Where? What? When? Why in the next room I was sitting there all the time. What? Why, then you were the surprise. But how could it happen? Upon my word. I saw that the porter did not want to do what I said. For it's too late, they said. And maybe he'll be angry that we did not come at the time. Then I lost my sleep and I began making inquiries and finding out yesterday where to go. I went today. The first time I went he wasn't there. When I came an hour later he couldn't see me. I went the third time and they showed me in. I informed him of everything just as it happened and he began skipping about the room and punching himself in the chest. What do you scoundrels mean by it? If I'd known about it I should have arrested him. Then he ran out and called somebody and began talking to him in the corner. Then he turned to me, scolding and questioning me. He scolded me a great deal. And I told him everything. And I told him that you didn't dare to say a word in answer to me yesterday and that you didn't recognize me. And he fell to running about again and kept hitting himself on the chest and getting angry and running about and when you were announced he told me to go into the next room. Sit there a bit, he said. Don't move. Whatever you may hear. And he set a chair there for me and locked me in. Perhaps he said, I may call you. And when Nicolay had been brought he let me out as soon as you were gone. I shall send for you again and question you, he said. And did he question Nicolay while you were there? He got rid of me as he did of you before he spoke to Nicolay. The man stood still and again suddenly bowed down, touching the ground with his finger. Forgive me for my evil thoughts and my slander. May God forgive you! And as he said this the man bowed down again and not to the ground, turned slowly and went out of the room. It all cuts both ways. Now it all cuts both ways. Repeated Raskolnikov and he went out more confident than ever. Now we'll make a fight for it. He said with a malicious smile as he went down the stairs. His malice was aimed at himself. With shame and contempt he recollected his cowardice. End of part four, chapter six Chapter six Section 27 of crime and punishment This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Crime and punishment by Fyodor Tostoyevsky translated by Constance Garnet Part five, chapter one The morning that followed the fateful interview with Dunya and her mother brought sobering influences to bear on Piotr Petrovich. Intensely unpleasant as it was he was forced little by little to accept as a fact beyond recall part four, fantastic and incredible. The black snake of wounded vanity had been gnawing at his heart all night. When he got out of bed Piotr Petrovich immediately looked in the looking glass. He was afraid that he had jaundice. However his health seemed unimpaired so far and looking at his noble clear skinned countenance which had grown fattish of late Piotr Petrovich for an instant was positively comforted in the conviction that he would find another bride and perhaps even a better one. But coming back to the sense of his present position he turned aside and spat vigorously which excited a sarcastic smile in Andres Semyonovich Lebeziatnikov the young friend with whom he was staying. That smile Piotr Petrovich noticed and at once set it down against his young friend's account. He had set down a good many points against him of late. His anger was redoubled when he reflected that he ought not to have told Andres Semyonovich about the result of yesterday's interview. That was the second mistake he had made in temper through impulsiveness and irritability. Moreover all that morning one unpleasantness followed another. He even found a hitch awaiting him in his legal case in the Senate. He was particularly irritated by the owner of the flat which had been taken in view of his approaching marriage and was being redecorated at his own expense. The owner, a rich German tradesman would not entertain the idea breaking the contract which had just been signed and insisted on the full forfeit money though Piotr Petrovich would be giving him back the flat practically redecorated. In the same way the upholsters refused to return a single ruble of the installment paid for the furniture purchased but not yet removed to the flat. Am I to get married simply for the sake of the furniture? Piotr Petrovich ground his teeth and at the same time once more he had a gleam of desperate hope. Can all that be really so irrevocably over? Is it no use to make another effort? The thought of Dunia sent a voluptuous bang through his heart. He endured anguish at that moment and if it had been possible to slay Raskolnikov instantly by wishing it Piotr Petrovich would promptly have uttered the wish. It was my mistake too not to have given them money. He thought as he returned dejectedly to Lepizyatnikov's room. And why on earth was I such a Jew? It was false economy. I meant to keep them without a penny so that they should turn to me as their providence and look at them. If I had spent some fifteen hundred rubles on them for the trousseau and presents on knickknacks, dressing cases, jewelry materials and all that sort of trash from Knaps and the English shop my position would have been better and stronger. They could not have refused me so easily. They are the sort of people that would feel bound to return money and presents if they broke it off and they would find it hard to do it and their conscience would prick them. How can we dismiss a man who has hitherto been so generous and delicate? I've made a blunder. And grinding his teeth again Piotr Petrovich called himself a fool but not allowed of course. He returned home twice as irritated and angry as before. The preparations for the funeral dinner at Katerina Ivanovna's excited his curiosity as he passed. He had heard about it the day before. He fancied indeed that he had been invited but absorbed in his own cares he had paid no attention. Inquiring of Madame Lipov-Igsel who was busy laying the table while Katerina Ivanovna was away at the cemetery he heard that the entertainment was to be a great affair. That all the lodgers had been invited among them some who had not known the dead man. That even Andrei Semyonovich Lebeziatnikov was invited in spite of his previous quarrel with Katerina Ivanovna. That he, Piotr Petrovich, was not only invited but was eagerly expected as he was the most important of the lodgers. Amalia Ivanovna herself had been invited with great ceremony in spite of the present unpleasantness and so she was very busy with preparations and was taking a positive pleasure in them. She was moreover dressed up to the nines all in new black silk and she was proud of it. All this suggested an idea to Piotr Petrovich and he went into his room or rather Lebeziatnikov's somewhat thoughtful. He had learnt that Raskolnikov was to be one of the guests. Andrei Semyonovich had been at home all the morning. The attitude of Piotr Petrovich to this gentleman was strange though perhaps natural. Piotr Petrovich had despised and hated him from the day he came to stay with him and at the same time he seemed somewhat afraid of him. He had not come to stay with him on his arrival in Petersburg simply from Parsimony though that had perhaps been his chief object. He had heard of Andrei Semyonovich who had once been his ward as a leading young progressive who was taking an important part in certain interesting circles the doings of which were a legend in the provinces. It had impressed Piotr Petrovich. These powerful omniscient circles who despised everyone and showed everyone up had long inspired him a peculiar but quite vague alarm. He had not of course been able to form even an approximate notion of what they meant. He like everyone had heard that they were especially in Petersburg of some sort, nihilists and so on and like many people he exaggerated and distorted the significance of those words to an absurd degree. What for many years passed he had feared more than anything was being shown up and this was the chief ground for his continual uneasiness at the thought of transferring his business to Petersburg. He was afraid of this as little children are sometimes panic stricken. Some years before when he was just entering on his own career he had come upon two cases in the province, patrons of his had been cruelly shown up. One instance had ended in great scandal for the person attacked and the other had very nearly ended in serious trouble. For this reason Piotr Petrovich intended to go into the subject as soon as he reached Petersburg and if necessary to anticipate contingencies by seeking the favor of our younger generation. He relied on Andres Semyonovich for this and before his visit to Raskolnikov he had succeeded in picking up some current phrases. He discovered that Andres Semyonovich was a commonplace simpleton but that by no means reassured Piotr Petrovich even if he had been certain that all the progressives were fools like him it would not have elayed his uneasiness. All the doctrines, the ideas, the systems with which Andres Semyonovich pestered him had no interest for him. He had his own object. He simply wanted to find out at once what was happening here. Had these people any power or not had he anything to fear from them? Would they expose any enterprise of his precisely was now the object of their attacks? Could he somehow make up to them and get round them if they really were powerful? Was this the thing to do or not? Couldn't he gain something through them? In fact hundreds of questions presented themselves. Andres Semyonovich was an anemic scruffy-less young man with strangely flaxen mutton-chop whiskers of which he was very proud. He was a clerk and had almost always something wrong with his eyes. He was rather soft-hearted but self-confident and extremely conceited in speech which had an absurd effect in Congress with his little figure. He was one of the lodgers most respected by Amalia Ivanovna, for he did not get drunk and paid regularly for his lodgings. Andres Semyonovich really was rather stupid. He attached himself to the cause of progress and our younger generation from enthusiasm. He was one of the numerous and varied legion of dollards of half-animate abortions, conceited half-educated coxcoms of the ideas most in fashion only to vulgarize it and who caricature every cause they serve however sincerely. Though Lavizyatnikov was so good-natured he too was beginning to dislike Piotr Petrovich. This happened on both sides unconsciously. However simple Andres Semyonovich might be he began to see that Piotr Petrovich was duping him and secretly despising him and that he was not the right sort of man. He had tried expounding to him the system of foyer and the Darwinian theory that Piotr Petrovich began to listen too sarcastically and even to be rude. The fact was he had begun instinctively to guess that Lavizyatnikov was not merely a commonplace simpleton but perhaps a liar too and that he had no connections of any consequence even in his own circle but had simply picked things up their hand and that very likely he did not even know much about his own work of propaganda for he was in too great a muddle a fine person he would be to show anyone up. It must be noted by the way that Piotr Petrovich had during those 10 days eagerly accepted the strangest praise from Andres Semyonovich. He had not protested for instance when Andres Semyonovich belotted him for being ready to contribute to the establishment of the new commune or to abstain from christening his future children or to acquiesce if Dunia were to take a lover a month after marriage and so on. Piotr Petrovich so enjoyed hearing his own praises that he did not disdain even such virtues when they were attributed to him. Piotr Petrovich had occasion that morning to realize some 5% bonds and now he sat down to the table and counted over bundles of notes. Andres Semyonovich who hardly ever had any money walked about the room pretending to himself to look at those banknotes with indifference and even contempt. Nothing would have convinced Piotr Petrovich that Andres Semyonovich could really look at the money unmoved and the latter on his side kept thinking bitterly that Piotr Petrovich was capable of entertaining such an idea about him and was perhaps glad of the opportunity of teasing his young friend by reminding him of his inferiority and the great difference between them. He found him incredibly inattentive and irritable though he, Andres Semyonovich began enlarging on his favorite subject the foundation of a new special commune. The brief remarks that dropped from Piotr Petrovich between the clicking of the beads on the reckoning frame betrayed unmistakable and discourteous irony. But the humane Andres Semyonovich ascribed Piotr Petrovich's ill humor to his recent breach with Dunia and he was burning with impatience to discurs on that theme. He had something progressive to say on the subject which might console his worthy friend and could not fail to promote his development. There is some sort of festivity being prepared at that at the widows, isn't there? Piotr Petrovich asked suddenly interrupting Andres Semyonovich at the most interesting passage. Why, don't you know why I was telling you last night what I think about all such ceremonies and she invited you too, I heard. You were talking to her yesterday. I should never have expected that beggarly fool would have spent on this feast all the money she got from that other fool, Raskolnikov. I was surprised just now as I came through at the preparations there, the wines. Several people are invited. It's beyond everything. Continued Piotr Petrovich who seemed to have some object in pursuing the conversation. What, you say I am asked too? When was that? I don't remember. But I shan't go, why should I? I only said a word to her in passing yesterday of the possibility of her obtaining a year's salary as a destitute widow of a government clerk. I suppose she has invited me on that account, hasn't she? I don't intend to go either. I should think not after giving her a thrashing. You might well hesitate. Who thrashed? Cried the Beziatnikov, flustered and blushing. Why, you thrashed Katerina Ivanovna a month ago. I heard so yesterday. So that's what your convictions amount to. And the woman questioned too, wasn't quite sound. In Piotr Petrovich, as though comforted, went back to clicking his beads. It's all slander and nonsense! Cried the Beziatnikov, who was always afraid of illusions to the subject. It was not like that at all. It was quite different. You heard it wrong. It's a libel. I was simply defending myself. She rushed at me first with her nails. She pulled out all my whiskers. It's permissible for anyone, I should hope, to defend himself, and I never allow anyone to use violence to me on principle. For it's an act of despotism. What was I to do? I simply pushed her back. Vision went on laughing maliciously. You keep on like that because you're out of humor yourself. But that's nonsense and it has nothing. Nothing, whatever to do with the woman questioned. You don't understand. I used to think, indeed, that if women are equal to men in all respects, even in strength as is maintained now, there ought to be equality in that too. Of course, I reflected afterwards that such a question ought not really to arise. For there ought not to be fighting. And in the future society, fighting is unthinkable. And that it would be a queer thing to seek for equality in fighting. I'm not so stupid, though, of course, there is fighting. There won't be later, but at present there is. Confounded. How muddled one gets with you. It's not on that account that I'm not going. I'm not going on principle. Not to take part in the revolting convention of memorial dinners, that's why. Though, of course, one might go to laugh at it. I'm sorry there won't be any priests at it. I should certainly go if there were. Then you would sit down at another man's table and insult it and those who invited you, eh? Certainly not insult, but protest. I should do it with a good object. I might indirectly assist the cause of enlightenment and propaganda. It's a duty of every man to work for enlightenment and propaganda, and the more harshly perhaps the better. I might drop a seed, an idea, and something might grow up from that seed. How should I be insulting them? They might be offended at first, but afterwards they'd see I'd done them a service. You know, Terabyeva, who is in the community now, was blamed because when she left her family and devoted herself, she wrote to her father and mother that she wouldn't go on living conventionally and was entering on a free marriage and it was said that that was too harsh, that she might have spared them and have written more kindly. I think that's all nonsense. There's no need of softness. On the contrary, what's wanted is protest. Varence had been married seven years. She abandoned her two children. She told her husband straight out in a letter. I have realized that I cannot be happy with you. I can never forgive you that you have deceived me by concealing from me that there is another organization of society by means of the communities. I have only lately learned it from a great-hearted man, to whom I have given myself and with whom I am establishing a community. I speak plainly because I consider it dishonest to deceive you. Do as you think best. Do not hope to get me back. You are too late. I hope you will be happy. That's how letters like that ought to be written. Is that Terabyeva? The one you said had made a third free marriage? No, it's only the second, really. But what if it were the fourth? What if it were the fifteenth? That's all nonsense. And if ever I regretted the death of my father and mother, it is now. And I sometimes think if my parents were living, what a protest I would have aimed at them. I would have done something on purpose. I would have shown them. I would have astonished them. I am really sorry there is no one. Too surprised. Well, be that as you will. But tell me this. Do you know the dead man's daughter, the delicate looking little thing? It's true what they say about her, isn't it? What of it? I think that is, it is my own personal conviction that this is the normal condition of women. Why not? I mean, this d'Angon. In our present society it is not altogether normal because it is compulsory, but in the future society it will be perfectly normal because it will be voluntary. Even as it is, she was quite right. She was suffering, and that was her asset, so to speak. Her capital, which she had a perfect right to dispose of. Of course, in the future society there will be no need of assets, but her part will have another significance, rational, and in harmony with her environment. As to Sophia Semyonovna personally, I regard her action as a vigorous protest against the organisation of society, and I respect her deeply for it. I rejoice indeed when I look at her. I was told that you got her turned out of these lodgings. The Busyatnikov was enraged. That's another slander! He yelled. It was not so at all. That was all Katharina Ivanovna's invention, for she did not understand. And I never made love to Sophia Semyonovna. I was simply developing her, entirely disinterestedly, trying to rouse her to protest. All I wanted was her protest, and Sophia Semyonovna could not have remained here anyway. Have you asked her to join your community? You keep on laughing, and very inappropriately. Allow me to tell you. You don't understand. There is no such role in a community. The community is established that there should be no such roles. In a community such a role is essentially transformed, and what is stupid here is sensible there. What, under present conditions, is unnatural, becomes perfectly natural in the community. It all depends on the environment. It's all the environment, and man himself is nothing. And I am on good terms with Sophia Semyonovna to this day, which is a proof that she never regarded me as having wronged her. I am trying now to attract her to the community, but on quite a different footing. What are you laughing at? We are trying to establish a community of our own, a special one, on a broader basis. We have gone further in our convictions. We reject more, and meanwhile I am still developing Sophia Semyonovna. She has a beautiful, beautiful character. And you take advantage of her fine character, eh? No, no, oh no, on the contrary. Oh, on the contrary. A queer thing to say. Believe me. Why should I disguise it? In fact, I feel it strange myself how timid, chaste and modern she is with me. And you, of course, are developing her. Trying to prove to her that all that modesty is nonsense? Not at all, not at all. How coarsely, how stupidly, excuse me saying so, you misunderstand the word development. Good heavens, how crude you still are. We are striving for the freedom of women, and you have only one idea in your head. Setting aside the general question of chastity and feminine modesty as useless in themselves and indeed prejudices, I fully accept her chastity with me, because that's for her to decide. Of course, if she were to tell me herself that she wanted me, I should think myself very lucky, because I like the girl very much. But as it is, no one has ever treated her more courteously than I, with more respect for her dignity. I wait in hopes that's all. You had much better make her a present of something. I bet you never thought of that. You don't understand, as I've told you already. Of course, she is in such a position, but it's another question, quite another question. You simply despise her. Seeing a fact which you mistakenly considered deserving of contempt, you refuse to take a humane view of a fellow creature. You don't know what a character she is. I am only sorry that of late she has quite given up reading and borrowing books. I used to lend them to her. I'm sorry too, that with all the energy and resolution in protesting, which she has already shown once, she has little self-reliance, little, so to say, independence, so as to break free from certain prejudices and certain foolish ideas. Yet she thoroughly understands some questions, for instance about kissing of hands. That is, that it's an insult to a woman for a man to kiss her hand, because it's a sign of inequality. We had a debate about it, and I described it to her. She listened attentively to an account of the workman's associations in France too. Now I am explaining the question of coming into the room in the future society. And what's that, pray? We had a debate lately on the question. As a member of the community, the right to enter another member's room, whether man or woman, at any time. And we decided that he has. It might be at an inconvenient moment. The bziatnikov was really angry. You were always thinking of something unpleasant. He cried with aversion. How vexed I am that when I was expounding our system, I referred prematurely to the question of personal privacy. It's always a stumbling block to people like you. They turn it into ridicule before they understand it. And how proud they are of it too. I've often maintained that that question should not be approached by a novice till he has a firm faith in the system. And tell me, please, what do you find so shameful, even in cesspools? I should be the first to be ready to clean out any cesspool you like. And it's not a question of self-sacrifice. It's simply work. Honourable, useful work, which is as good as any other. And much better than the work of a Raphael and a Pushkin, because it is more useful. And more honourable. More honourable. What do you mean by more honourable? I don't understand such expressions to describe human activity. More honourable. Nobler. All those are old-fashioned prejudices which I reject. Everything which is of use to mankind is honourable. I only understand one word. Useful. You can snicker as much as you like, but that's so. Piotr Petrovich laughed heartily. He had finished counting the money and was putting it away. But some of the notes he left on the table. The cesspool question had already been a subject of dispute between them. What was absurd was that it made Lebeziatnikov really angry, wild-amused Lusian, and at that moment he particularly wanted to anger his young friend. It's your ill luck yesterday that makes you so ill-humoured and annoying. Blurted out Lebeziatnikov, who in spite of his independence and his protests did not venture to oppose Piotr Petrovich and still behaved to him with some of the respect habitual in earlier years. You'd better tell me this. Piotr Petrovich interrupted with hearty displeasure. Can you, or rather, are you really friendly enough with that young person to ask her to step in here for a minute? I think they've all come back from a cemetery. I heard the sound of steps. I want to see her, that young person. What for? Lebeziatnikov asked with surprise. Oh, I want to. I am leaving here today or tomorrow and therefore I wanted to speak to her about... However, you may be present during the interview. It's better you should be indeed, for there's no knowing what you might imagine. I shan't imagine anything. I only asked. If you've anything to say to her, nothing is easier than to call her in. I'll go directly and you may be sure I won't be in your way. Five minutes later Lebeziatnikov came in with Sonia. She came in very much surprised and overcome with shyness as usual. She was always shy in such circumstances that she was always afraid of new people. She had been as a child and was even more so now. Pyotr Petrovich met her politely and affably, but with a certain shade of bantering familiarity, which in his opinion was suitable for a man of his respectability and weight in dealing with a creature so young and so interesting as she. He hastened to reassure her and made her sit down facing him at the table. Sonia sat down, looked about her at Lebeziatnikov at the notes lying on the table and then again at Pyotr Petrovich the notes remained riveted on him. Lebeziatnikov was moving to the door. Pyotr Petrovich signed to Sonia to remain seated and stopped Lebeziatnikov. Is Raskolnikov in there? Has he come? He asked him in a whisper. Raskolnikov? Yes. Why? Yes, he is there. I saw him just come in. Why? Well, I particularly beg you to remain here with us and not to leave me alone with this young woman. I only want a few words with her, but God knows what they may make of it. I shouldn't like Raskolnikov to repeat anything. You understand what I mean. I understand. Lebeziatnikov saw the point. Yes, you are right. Of course, I am convinced personally that you have no reason to be uneasy, but still you are right. Certainly I'll stay. I'll stand here at the window and not be in your way. I think you are right. Petrovich returned to the sofa, sat down opposite Sonya, looked attentively at her, and assumed an extremely dignified, even severe expression, as much as to say. Don't you make any mistake, madam? Sonya was overwhelmed with embarrassment. In the first place, Sofias Mionovna, will you make my excuses to your respected mama? That's right, isn't it? Katierina Ivanovna stands in the place of a mother to you. Pyotr Petrovich began with great dignity, though affably. It was evident that his intentions were friendly. Quite so, yes, the place of a mother. Sonya answered, timidly and hurriedly. Then will you make my apologies to her? Through inevitable circumstances I am forced to be absent and shall not be at the dinner in spite of your mama's kind invitation. Yes, I'll tell her at once. And Sonya hastily jumped up from her seat. Wait, that's not all. Pyotr Petrovich detained her, smiling at her simplicity and ignorance of good manners. And you know me little, my dear Sofias Mionovna, if you suppose I would have ventured to trouble a person like you, for a matter of so little consequence affecting myself only. I have another object. Sonya sat down hurriedly. Her eyes rested again for an instant on the gray and rainbow-colored notes that remained on the table, but she quickly looked away and fixed her eyes on Pyotr Petrovich. She felt it horribly and decorous, especially for her, to look at another person's money. She stared at the gold eyeglass which Pyotr Petrovich held in his hand and at the massive and extremely handsome ring with a yellow stone on his middle finger. But suddenly she looked away and, not knowing where to turn, ended by staring Pyotr Petrovich again straight in the face. After a pause of still greater dignity, he continued, I tanced yesterday, in passing, to exchange a couple of words with Katerina Ivanovna, poor woman. That was sufficient to enable me to ascertain that she is an opposition, preternatural, if one may so express it. Yes, preternatural. Sonya hurriedly assented. Or it would be simpler and more comprehensible to say ill. Yes, simpler and more comprehend—yes, ill. Quite so. So then, from a feeling of humanity, and so to speak, compassion, I should be glad to be of service to her in any way for seeing her unfortunate position. I believe the whole of this poverty-stricken family depends now entirely on you. Allow me to ask. Sonya rose to her feet. Did you say something to her yesterday of the possibility of a pension? Because she told me you had undertaken to get her one. Was that true? Not in the slightest, and indeed it's an absurdity. I merely hinted at her obtaining temporary assistance, as the widow of an official who had died in the service, if only she has patronage. But apparently your late parent had not served his fault and had not indeed been in the service at all of late. In fact, if there could be any hope, it would be very ephemeral, because there would be no claim for assistance in that case, far from it. And she is dreaming of a pension already. Go ahead, lady. Yes, she is, for she is credulous and good-hearted, and she believes everything from the goodness of her heart and, and she is like that. Yes, you must excuse her. Said Sonya, and again she got up to go. But you haven't heard what I have to say. No, I haven't heard. Muttered Sonya. Then sit down. She was terribly confused. She sat down again a third time. Seeing her position with her unfortunate little ones, I should be glad, as I have said before, so far as lies in my power, to be of service. That is, so far as is in my power, not more. One might, for instance, get up a subscription for her, or a lottery, something of the sort, such as is always arranged in such cases by friends or even outsiders, desirous of assisting people. It was of that I intended to speak to you. It might be done. Yes, yes, God will repay you for it. Faulted Sonya, gazing intently at Piotr Petrovich. It might be, but we will talk of it later. We might begin it today. We will talk it over this evening and lay the foundation, so to speak. Come to me at seven o'clock. Mr. Lebizyatnikov, I hope will assist us. But there is one circumstance of which I ought to warn you beforehand, and for which I venture to trouble you, Sophia Smionovna, to come here. In my opinion, money cannot be. Indeed, it's unsafe to put it into Katerina Ivanovna's own hands. The dinner today is a proof of that. Though she has not, so to speak, a crust of bread for tomorrow, and, well, boots or shoes or anything, she has bought today Jamaica rum, and even, I believe, Madeira and... and coffee. I saw it as I passed through. Tomorrow it will all fall upon you again. They won't have a crust of bread. It's absurd, really, and so, to my thinking, a subscription ought to be raised so that the unhappy widow should not know of the money, but only you, for instance. Am I right? I don't know. This is only today. Once in her life she was so anxious to do honour to celebrate the memory, and she is very sensible. But just as you think, and I shall be very, very... they will all be, and God will reward and the orphans. Sonia burst into tears. Very well, then. Keep it in mind. And now, will you accept the benefit of your relation, the small sum that I am able to spare from me personally? I am very anxious that my name should not be mentioned in connection with it. Here, having, so to speak, anxieties of my own, I cannot do more. In Piotr Petrovich held out to Sonia a ten-ruble note carefully unfolded. Sonia took it, flushed crimson, jumped up, muttered something and began taking leave. Piotr Petrovich accompanied her ceremoniously to the door. She got out of the room at last, agitated and distressed, and returned to Katerina Ivanovna, overwhelmed with confusion. All this time, Lebusietnikov had stood at the window or walked about the room, anxious not to interrupt the conversation. When Sonia had gone, he walked up to Piotr Petrovich and solemnly held out his hand. I heard and saw everything. He said, laying stress on the last verb. That is honourable. I mean to say it's humane. You wanted to avoid gratitude. I saw. And although I cannot, I confess, in principle sympathise with private charity, for it not only fails to eradicate the evil, but even promotes it. Yet I must admit that I saw your action with pleasure. Yes, yes, I like it. That's all nonsense. Muttered Piotr Petrovich, somewhat disconcerted, looking carefully at Lebusietnikov. No, it's not nonsense. A man who has suffered distress and annoyance as you did yesterday, and who yet can sympathise with the misery of others, such a man, even though he is making a social mistake, is still deserving of respect. I did not expect it indeed of you, Piotr Petrovich, especially as according to your ideas, what a drawback your ideas are to you. How distressed you are, for instance, by your ill luck yesterday. Cryed the simple heart of Lebusietnikov, who felt a return of affection for Piotr Petrovich. And what do you want with marriage, with legal marriage, my dear noble Piotr Petrovich? Why do you cling to this legality of marriage? Well, you may beat me if you like, but I am positively glad it hasn't come off, that you are free, that you are not quite lost for humanity. You see, I've spoken my mind. Because I don't want in your free marriage to be made a fool of, and to bring up another man's children, that's why I want legal marriage. Lucian replied in order to make some answer. He seemed preoccupied by something. Children. You referred to children. Lebusietnikov started off like a war horse at the trumpet call. Children are a social question of first importance, I agree. But the question of children has another solution. Some refuse to have children altogether because they suggest the institution of the family. We'll speak of children later, but now as to the question of honour, I confess, that's my weak point. That horrid military bushkin expression is unthinkable in the dictionary of the future. What does it mean, indeed? It's nonsense. There will be no deception in a free marriage. That is only the natural consequence of a legal marriage, so to say. It's corrective, a protest. So that, indeed, it's not humiliating. And if I ever, to suppose an absurdity, were to be legally married, I should be positively glad of it. I should say to my wife, my dear, hitherto I have loved you. Now I respect you, for you've shown you can protest. You laugh. That's because you are incapable of getting away from prejudices. Can't found at all. I understand now where the unpleasantness is of being deceived in a legal marriage, but it's simply a despicable consequence of a despicable position in which both are humiliated. When the deception is open, as in a free marriage, then it does not exist. It's unthinkable. Your wife will only prove how she respects you by considering you incapable of her happiness and avenging yourself on her for her new husband. Damn it all. I sometimes dream if I were to be married. I mean if I were to marry, legally or not, it's just the same. I should present my wife with a lover if she had not found one for herself. My dear, I should say, I love you, but even more than that, I desire you to respect me. See, am I not right? Piotr Petrovich sniggered as he listened, but without much merriment. He hardly heard it indeed. He was preoccupied with something else, and even the Bizetnikov at last noticed it. Piotr Petrovich seemed excited and rubbed his hands. The Bizetnikov remembered all this and reflected upon it afterwards.