Crime and Punishment

by Fyodor Dostoyevsky

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

  'You knew?'

  'I knew. Well, so what?'

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

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

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

  For a moment Raskolnikov felt the room begin to spin.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  Raskolnikov's lips began to quiver.

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

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

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

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

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

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

  Raskolnikov looked at him with proud contempt.

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

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

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

  'What, sir? Uncertainty?' interrupted Porfiry.

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

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

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

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

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

  He grabbed his cap and made for the door.

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

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

  'Just a little surprise, sir, right there, on the other side of the door, heh-heh-heh!' (He pointed towards the locked door in the partition, which led to his government apartment.) 'I've locked it for the time being, to prevent him escaping.'

  'What are you on about? Where? What?' Raskolnikov went over to the door and tried to open it, but it was locked.

  'Locked, sir. Here's the key!'

  And, indeed, he took a key from his pocket and showed it to him.

  'You're still lying!' screeched Raskolnikov, abandoning all self-restraint. 'You're lying, you damned buffoon!' - and he charged at Porfiry, who seemed quite unafraid even as he retreated towards the door.

  'I understand everything, everything!' he shouted, leaping towards him. 'You're lying and you're taunting me, until I give myself away . . . !'

  'You could hardly give yourself away any more than you have done already, father. Look, you're in a perfect frenzy. Don't yell or I'll call people in, sir!'

  'You're lying! Nothing will happen! Call them in! You knew I was sick and you wanted to irritate me, enrage me, until I gave myself away, that's your aim! But where are your facts? I've understood everything! You haven't got any facts, just useless, worthless conjecture borrowed from Zametov! . . . You knew my character. You wanted to drive me into a frenzy, then suddenly club me round the head with priests and deputies23 . . . Is that who you're waiting for? Eh? Go on then! Where are they? Bring them in!'

  'Deputies! What deputies, father? Whatever will he imagine next? We can hardly observe the correct form, as you say, if this is how you're going to be. You don't know how things are done, my dearest . . . There's no running away from form, you'll see,' muttered Porfiry, listening in at the door.

  And indeed, at that very moment, from the other side of the door, there came some sort of noise.

  'Ah, they're coming!' cried Raskolnikov. 'You sent for them . . . You were waiting for them! You'd counted on . . . Well, bring them all in: deputies, witnesses, the whole lot . . . Go on! I'm ready! Ready!'

  But here a strange incident occurred, something so very unexpected, in the normal course of events, that there was simply no way either Raskolnikov or Porfiry Petrovich could ever have anticipated it.

  VI

  Later, recalling this moment, Raskolnikov would picture it all as follows.

  The noise behind the door suddenly grew a great deal louder and the door opened a little.

  'What's going on?' snapped Porfiry Petrovich. 'Didn't I tell you . . . ?'

  At first there was no reply, but there were clearly several men behind the door, and someone, it seemed, was being pushed aside.

  'What's going on out there, I say?' Porfiry Petrovich repeated in alarm.

  'We've brought the prisoner, Mikolai,' came someone's voice.

  'Not now! Clear off! You'll have to wait! . . . How did he get in here? What a shambles!' yelled Porfiry, rushing towards the door.

  'It was him who . . . ,' the same voice began again and suddenly broke off.

  There was a second or two, no more, of actual fighting; then, all of a sudden, someone seemed to push someone else forcefully aside, after which a very pale man stepped right into Porfiry Petrovich's office.

  This man's appearance, at first glance, was very strange. He looked straight ahead, but it was as if he didn't see anyone. His eyes flashed with determination, yet at the same time a deathly pallor covered his face, as if he were being led to his execution. His lips, now completely white, quivered faintly.

  He was still very young, dressed like a commoner, average height, skinny, pudding-bowl hair and fine, somehow dry features. The man who had been unexpectedly shoved aside was the first to chase after him into the room and managed to grab him by the shoulder - he was a guard. But, with a jerk of his arm, Mikolai wrenched himself free once again.

  Several curious faces crowded the doorway. Some wanted to get in. It all happened in the blink of an eye.

  'Clear off, it's too early! Wait to be called! . . . Why was he brought ahead of time?' Porfiry Petrovich muttered, extremely annoyed, as if knocked off his stride. But Mikolai suddenly dropped to his knees.

  'Now what?' shouted Porfiry in amazement.

  'I'm guilty! I'm the sinner! I'm the killer!' Mikolai suddenly uttered, fairly loudly, despite seeming short of breath.

  The silence lasted ten seconds or so, as if everyone had been struck dumb; even the guard shrank back from Mikolai, retreating mechanically towards
the door and standing there without moving.

  'What's going on?' cried Porfiry Petrovich, emerging from a momentary stupor.

  'I'm . . . the killer . . . ,' Mikolai repeated, after the briefest of pauses.

  'How . . . ? You . . . How . . . ? Who have you killed?'

  Porfiry Petrovich seemed quite lost.

  Again, Mikolai paused briefly.

  'Alyona Ivanovna and her sister, Lizaveta Ivanovna. I . . . killed them . . . with an axe. It was like a blackout . . . ,' Mikolai suddenly added and fell silent once more. He was still on his knees.

  Porfiry Petrovich stood still for a moment or two, as if deep in thought, then suddenly burst into motion again and began waving his arms at the uninvited witnesses. They vanished in a flash and the door closed. Next Porfiry glanced at Raskolnikov, who was standing in the corner and staring wildly at Mikolai, and made a move towards him, but suddenly stopped, looked at him, immediately transferred his gaze to Mikolai, then back to Raskolnikov, then back to Mikolai and suddenly, as if carried away, went for Mikolai again.

  'Why are you trying to get ahead of me?' he yelled at him almost spitefully. 'I don't remember asking you about blackouts . . . So, you killed them?'

  'I'm the killer . . . I'm tes . . . testifying . . . ,' uttered Mikolai.

  'Dearie me! What did you do it with?'

  'An axe. Had one ready.'

  'Dearie me, this man's in a hurry! On your own?'

  Mikolai failed to grasp the question.

  'Did you do it on your own?'

  'Yes. And Mitka's innocent and had nothing to do with it.'

  'Mitka can wait! Dear oh dear! . . . So - erm - so what on earth were you doing running down the stairs? The caretakers met the pair of you, did they not?'

  'That was to . . . distract people . . . me running out with Mitka like that,' Mikolai replied, as if he were hurrying through answers prepared in advance.

  'See, just as I thought!' cried Porfiry with spite. 'These aren't his own words!' he muttered, as if to himself, then suddenly noticed Raskolnikov again.