Crime and Punishment (58 page)

‘What letter?'

‘She received a letter today; it worried her very much. Too much, in fact. I started talking about you – she asked me to shut up. Then . . . then she said that very soon, perhaps, we'd have to part; then she started thanking me very effusively for something; then she retired to her room and that was that.'

‘She received a letter?' repeated Raskolnikov pensively.

‘Yes, a letter. You didn't know? H'm.'

They both fell silent.

‘Goodbye, Rodion. I . . . there was a time, brother . . . but never mind. Goodbye . . . You see, there was a time . . . Well, goodbye! I have to go, too. I won't go drinking. I mustn't now . . . See, you're wrong!'

He was in a rush, but, having all but closed the door behind him, he suddenly opened it again and said, looking off to the side:

‘By the way, do you remember that murder? You know – Porfiry – the old woman? Well, the murderer's been found. He's confessed and supplied all the proof himself. He was one of those workmen, the decorators – fancy that! Remember how I was defending them here? You'll never believe it. All that fighting and laughing on the stairs with his friend, when the others were on their way up, I mean the caretaker and the two witnesses – well, he set it all up as a blind. Such cunning, such presence of mind – in a puppy like that! It beggars belief. He explained it all himself, admitted everything! And I fell for it! Well, I suppose he's just a genius faker and quick-thinker, a master of the red herring, and there's really nothing to be so surprised about! Why shouldn't such people exist? And as for him bottling it and confessing – well, that only makes me believe him all the more. Truer to life, somehow . . . But how I fell for it! What an ass! Sticking my neck out for them like that!'

‘But who told you all this? And why are you so interested?' asked Raskolnikov, visibly agitated.

‘Do me a favour! Why am I interested! Of all the questions! . . . It was Porfiry who told me, and others besides. Actually, he told me pretty much all of it.'

‘Porfiry?'

‘Porfiry.'

‘And . . . well?' asked Raskolnikov in fear.

‘He explained it to me quite brilliantly. Explained it psychologically, in his own way.'

‘He explained it? Explained it to you himself?'

‘Yes, yes. Well, goodbye! I've something else to tell you about later, but I have to go. Once . . . there was a time when I thought . . . But later, later! . . . No point getting drunk now. You've already got me drunk without that. I'm drunk, Rodka! Look, I'm drunk without drinking, so goodbye. I'll drop by, very soon.'

He left.

‘A political conspirator, no doubt about it!' Razumikhin decided once and for all, walking slowly down the stairs. ‘And he's roped his sister in. That's perfectly, perfectly possible given Avdotya Romanovna's character. Regular meetings, it seems . . . She dropped me hints, too, come to think of it. A few things she said . . . little things . . . hints . . . it all adds up! How else to explain this great muddle? H'm! And there was I thinking . . . Good grief, there was I thinking God knows what. Yes, sir, something came over me and I owe him an apology! It was him, in the corridor by the lamp that time, who made me think it. Ugh! What a sordid, coarse, disgraceful thing for me to think! Good on you, Mikolka, for confessing . . . Now everything else, from before, finally makes sense! That sickness of his, all those strange things he'd do, earlier on as well, back at university, always so gloomy and sullen . . . But what about this new letter? What does that mean? Something's up here as well. Who's the letter from? I've got my suspicions . . . H'm. I just have to get to the bottom of it all.'

He recalled everything he knew about Dunechka, put it all together, and his heart froze. He burst into a run.

Just as soon as Razumikhin left, Raskolnikov stood up, turned towards the window, bumped against one corner and then another, as if forgetting how cramped his hovel was, and . . . sat back down on the couch. He seemed as good as new. Another chance to fight! So there was a way out!

‘Yes, there is a way out!' Everything had become far too shut-in, sealed-up, stifling – excruciatingly, stupefyingly so. Ever since that scene with Mikolka at Porfiry's he'd been suffocating in some cramped, closed-in space. And after Mikolka, on that very same day, there was that scene at Sonya's. He hadn't managed to carry it off or end it anywhere near as well as he thought he might . . . His strength must have deserted him! All at once! And hadn't he agreed with Sonya then, agreed in his heart, that he couldn't go on like this on his own, carrying a thing like that in his soul? And Svidrigailov? An enigma, that man . . . Svidrigailov troubled him, true enough, but in a different way. Perhaps there was a fight to be had with Svidrigailov, too. Perhaps Svidrigailov also represented a way out, all of his own; but Porfiry was another matter.

So, Porfiry had gone and explained it to Razumikhin himself, explained it to him
psychologically
! Once again he'd started harping on about his damned psychology! Porfiry, really? Porfiry believing, even
for one minute, that Mikolka was guilty, after what had happened between them, after that scene, eye to eye, before Mikolka came along, for which no correct interpretation could possibly be found, save
one
? (In the course of these days, bits of that scene with Porfiry had flashed through Raskolnikov's mind more than once; recalling it in its entirety would have been too much to bear.) The words uttered between them then, their movements and gestures, the looks they exchanged, the voices they sometimes spoke in, were such that there could be no way for Mikolka of all people (that same Mikolka whom Porfiry had seen right through the moment he opened his mouth) to shake the very ground of his convictions.

And now this! Even Razumikhin had begun to suspect him! So the scene in the corridor, by the lamp, hadn't passed without consequence. He'd rushed over to Porfiry . . . But why on earth was Porfiry trying to trick him like this? What possible reason could he have for diverting Razumikhin's attention to Mikolka? He must have had something in mind; there was definitely some purpose here, but what? True, a lot of time had passed since that morning – far too much, in fact, and there had been neither sight nor sound of Porfiry. Hardly a good sign . . . Raskolnikov took his cap and walked out, plunged in thought. It was the first day in all this time when he could feel that at least he was thinking straight. ‘I have to put an end to this business with Svidrigailov,' he thought, ‘and quickly, whatever it takes. He, too, seems to be waiting, waiting for me to go to him.' At that moment, so much hatred surged from his weary heart that he might very well have been able to kill either one of them: Svidrigailov or Porfiry. At least, he sensed he could do so later, if not now. ‘We'll see, we'll see,' he kept saying to himself.

But no sooner did he open the door onto the landing than he bumped into Porfiry himself, coming the other way. For a minute, Raskolnikov froze in his tracks. Strangely enough, he wasn't very surprised to see him, and he was barely frightened. He merely shuddered and instantly pulled himself together. ‘The dénouement, perhaps! But how did he manage to come up so quietly, like a cat, and I didn't hear a thing? Surely he wasn't listening in?'

‘I see you weren't expecting anyone, Rodion Romanych,' cried Porfiry Petrovich, laughing. ‘I've been meaning to come by for ages – I was walking past and thought: why not drop in for five minutes? On your way out somewhere? I won't keep you. Just one papirosa, if I may.'

‘Sit down, Porfiry Petrovich, sit down,' said Raskolnikov to his
guest, with such a contented and friendly air that he would have been quite amazed had he been able to see himself from the outside. The leftovers and dregs were being scraped! So it is that a man may endure half an hour of mortal terror in the company of a brigand, but when the knife is finally placed at his throat, even the terror will pass. He sat directly facing Porfiry and looked at him unblinkingly. Porfiry screwed up his eyes and began lighting up.

‘Go on then, out with it, out with it,' all but leapt from Raskolnikov's heart. ‘Why, why aren't you speaking?'

‘Damn these papirosi!' Porfiry Petrovich eventually began, after lighting up and catching his breath. ‘They do nothing but harm, but I just can't stop! I'm always coughing, sir, and now I've got a tickle in my throat and I'm short of breath. I'm a cowardly sort, sir, and the other day I went to see B——
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 – he examines every patient for at least half an hour; well, he actually burst out laughing when he looked at me: he tapped, he listened – “Tobacco,” he says, “isn't doing you any favours. Your lungs are enlarged.” And how am I to give it up? What'll I replace it with? I don't drink, sir, that's the problem, heh-heh-heh. Not drinking, eh? That's the problem! You see, everything's relative, Rodion Romanych, everything's relative!'

‘Now what's he up to? Surely not those old tricks of the trade again!' thought Raskolnikov with disgust. The scene of their most recent meeting suddenly came back to him in its entirety, and the feeling he'd had then swept like a wave towards his heart.

‘I dropped by to see you just the day before yesterday, in the evening. Or didn't you know?' Porfiry Petrovich went on, surveying the room. ‘I came right in, to this very room. I was walking past, just like today, and thought, “Why don't I pay him a little visit?” Up I come and the door's wide open. I had a look around, waited a bit, didn't bother announcing myself to the maid – and left. You don't lock your door?'

Raskolnikov's face grew darker and darker. Porfiry seemed to guess his thoughts.

‘I've come to explain myself, Rodion Romanych, my dear chap – to explain myself! I have to. I'm obliged to,' he continued with his little smile, and even patted Raskolnikov lightly on the knee, but then, almost instantly, his face assumed a serious and preoccupied expression;
there was even, to Raskolnikov's surprise, a hint of sadness. He had never seen or imagined such an expression on his face. ‘A strange scene took place between us last time, Rodion Romanych. One might say that a strange scene took place between us at our first meeting, too; but at the time . . . Well, never mind that! Now listen: I fear I may have done you a great wrong; I can feel it, sir. Just remember how we parted: your nerves humming and your kneecaps wobbling, and my nerves humming and my kneecaps wobbling. There was even something untoward about it all, unbefitting true gentlemen. But we are true gentlemen. Whatever else we are, we are gentlemen first and foremost. That must be understood, sir. Just remember how it all ended . . . quite unseemly, sir.'

‘Now what's he up to – and who does he take me for?' Raskolnikov asked himself in amazement, lifting his head and staring, wide-eyed, at Porfiry.

‘I've come to the conclusion that we're better off being open with one another,' Porfiry went on, tipping back his head a little and lowering his eyes, as if reluctant to embarrass his former victim any more with his gaze, and disdaining his old tricks and ruses. ‘Yes, sir, we have to put a stop to all these suspicions and all these scenes. Just as well Mikolka came between us then, otherwise who knows what might have happened? I had that damned tradesman sitting behind the partition all the way through – can you imagine? You already know that, of course. Just as I know that he called on you later. But your assumption at the time was mistaken: I hadn't sent for anyone – in fact, I hadn't yet made any arrangements at all. Why not, I hear you ask? How can I put it? It was as if I myself had just been whacked around the head by this whole business. I barely even managed to send for the caretakers. (I take it you noticed them while walking past.) A thought flashed through me then, just one, as swift as lightning. You see, Rodion Romanych, at the time I was utterly convinced. So I thought, “A bird in the hand's worth two in the bush, and at least I'll get what's mine, I won't let it go.” You see, you're terribly irritable, Rodion Romanych, by your very nature, sir; too much so, in fact, despite all the other essential aspects of your character and heart, which I am vain enough to think I have at least partly grasped. Of course, even I, even then, could see that you can't always expect a man just to get up and spill all the beans. Sometimes he does, especially when you've got him at the end of his tether, but it's rare. Even I could see that. No, I thought, “I need something,
even if it's just some little mark, some little jot or tittle, but something you can actually get your hands on; it needs to be a thing, not mere psychology!” Which is why, I thought, if a man's guilty, the very least you can expect from him is something substantial. You might even be entitled to count on something entirely unexpected. Your character is what I was counting on then, Rodion Romanych. Your character, sir, more than anything else! I'd really pinned my hopes on you.'

‘But why . . . ? Why do you keep talking like this, now of all times?' Raskolnikov eventually mumbled, not even sure what he was asking. ‘What's he going on about?' he thought to himself in bewilderment. ‘Surely he can't really think I'm innocent?'

‘Why am I talking like this? I came to explain myself, sir. I consider it, so to speak, my sacred duty. I want to tell you everything, the whole story of that blackout, so to speak. I've put you through a lot, Rodion Romanych. I'm no monster, sir. After all, even I can see what a burden all this must be for a man who's dejected but proud, masterful and impatient – especially the last! At any rate, I consider you the noblest of men and not without signs of magnanimity, though I cannot go along with all your convictions and feel obliged to say so in advance, frankly and quite sincerely, for the last thing I wish to do is deceive you. I developed a fondness for you after we met. Perhaps you find all this rather hilarious? You have every right, sir. I know you disliked me the moment you saw me – and indeed, there's really nothing to like me for. Think what you will, but I want to do all I can to make up for this first impression and prove that even I have a heart and a conscience. I'm being sincere, sir.'

There was a dignified pause. Raskolnikov felt a surge of a new kind of fear. The thought that Porfiry considered him innocent had suddenly begun to frighten him.

‘Going through it all from A to Z and describing how it suddenly began back then seems hardly necessary,' Porfiry Petrovich continued. ‘In fact, it would be quite redundant. And anyway, I'm probably not up to it, sir. After all, how can this be properly explained? First there were rumours. What kind of rumours, who started them and when . . . and why, to put it bluntly, your name came up – this too, I think, is redundant. For me personally, it began quite fortuitously, from a completely fortuitous fortuity that might very easily have never happened – which? H'm, nothing to be said here either, I think. At the time, all these rumours and fortuities merged in my mind into a single thought.
If you're going to confess, you should confess everything, so I'll be frank and say I was the first to pounce on you. The labels the old woman had scribbled on her items, say, and all the rest of it – well, it's neither here nor there, sir. You could find a hundred things like that. I also happened to learn in detail, then, of the scene in the district police bureau, also quite fortuitously, sir, and not merely in passing, but from a special, first-rate storyteller, who, without knowing it himself, had really mastered this scene. You see, it all adds up, Rodion Romanych, my dear chap, it all adds up! How could I not be swayed in a particular direction? A hundred rabbits never make a horse, and a hundred suspicions never make a proof, as a certain English proverb has it,
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but that's just the voice of reason. What's one to do about the passions? That's the real question, because even an investigator is human. I was also reminded of that little article of yours in that journal, remember? You spoke about it in some detail during your very first visit. I scoffed at you then, but that was just to provoke you. You are, I repeat, terribly impatient and terribly sick, Rodion Romanych. As for your being daring, arrogant, serious and . . . a man of feeling, a man who's already felt a great deal – well, I've known that all along, sir. All these sensations are not unknown to me and your little article struck a chord when I read it. It was hatched during sleepless nights, at white heat, with a heaving, thumping heart, with suppressed enthusiasm. But it's dangerous, this suppressed, proud enthusiasm of youth! I scoffed at you at the time, but now I can tell you how much I adore – speaking purely as an amateur – these youthful, hot-blooded tests of the pen. Smoke, mist, and in the mist, the plucking of a string.
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Your article is absurd and fantastical, but contains flashes of pure sincerity, not to mention the incorruptible pride of youth and the audacity of despair; it's a gloomy little article, sir, and a very good thing too. I read it through, put it aside and thought: “I fear for this man!” Now tell me: after a precedent like that, how could I be indifferent about what followed? Heavens above! But what am I actually saying here? Am I really asserting anything? At the time, I merely made a mental note. What have we got here, I wondered? Nothing, precisely nothing, nothing to the nth degree, perhaps. And anyway, it's positively unseemly for an investigator like me to get so excited: I've got Mikolka right here, with facts to boot. Say what you like, but facts are facts! He's at it, too, bringing his own psychology into it. He'll keep me busy, don't you worry. It's a matter of life and death, after all. And
why am I explaining all this to you now? Because I want you to know; because I don't want you to blame me, in your heart and mind, for my malicious behaviour back then. There was no malice, sir, honest – heh-heh! What? Do you think I didn't have this room searched? Of course I did, sir, heh-heh, of course I did, while you were laid up sick right here in your bed. Not officially and not in person, but I did. Every last hair in your lodgings was inspected, the trail as fresh as could be; but –
umsonst
!
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I thought, “He'll come himself, this man. He'll come all by himself, and soon, very soon; he's bound to, if he's guilty. Others wouldn't, but this one will.” Remember how Mr Razumikhin became so indiscreet with you all of a sudden? We arranged that to get you worried; we started the rumour deliberately, counting on his indiscretion; after all, Mr Razumikhin is the kind of man who can't endure his own indignation. It was your fury and your brazen audacity that leapt out at Mr Zametov most of all: fancy blurting out in the tavern, “I'm the murderer!” Too daring, too bold. “If he's guilty,” I thought, “what a fighter he must be!” Yes, that's what I thought. I was waiting, sir. I was on tenterhooks. You'd simply crushed Zametov and . . . well, that's precisely the problem: this damned psychology cuts both ways! I was waiting for you to come, when suddenly – like a gift from God – there you were! My heart just leapt. Good grief! What made you come just then? And that laughter of yours when you came in – remember? It was as if I could see everything through a pane of glass, though if I hadn't been waiting for you like that I wouldn't have noticed a thing, not a thing. Goes to show how everything depends on our state of mind! And when I think of Mr Razumikhin then . . . oh yes! The stone, the stone – remember? – the stone under which the items were hidden? I can almost see it there, in some vegetable patch – you did say vegetable patch, didn't you? To Zametov, I mean, and then again in my office? And then, when we started analysing that article of yours, when you started setting out your argument – well, your every word seemed to have a double meaning, as if there were another word just beneath it! And that, Rodion Romanych, is how I reached the final pillars,
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banged my head on them and came to my senses. Stop there, I said to myself! After all, you could explain all this, from start to finish, in a completely different way if you wanted to, and it might even come out sounding more natural. Sheer torture, sir! “No,” I thought, “I'm better off with some little mark or other!” And then, when I heard about
those little bells, I almost froze on the spot. I even got the shivers. “Well,” I thought, “there's the mark I'm after! Right there!” Not that I really thought it through at the time – I didn't want to. I'd have given a thousand roubles of my own money at that moment simply to look at you
with my own eyes
: to watch you walking a hundred paces side by side with that tradesman after he said “murderer” straight to your face, not daring to ask him anything, for the entire one hundred paces! And that chill in your spine? Those bells, when you were sick, half-delirious? So you see, Rodion Romanych, can you really be surprised at my playing games with you then? And why did you have to come right then, at that very moment? It was as if you, too, were being nudged by someone, and if Mikolka hadn't come between us, well . . . Remember him, Mikolka? Did he stick in your mind? What a thunderbolt! Out of a great black cloud! A veritable crash of thunder! So how did I greet him? Well, I didn't fall for it, not for a moment, as you saw yourself! As if I would! Later on, once you'd left, he started giving me extremely polished answers on certain points, which astonished even me, and after that I didn't believe a thing he said! Adamant is the word for it, I believe. “No way,” I thought. “Mikolka? Mikolka Schmikolka!”'

‘Razumikhin was telling me just now that you still hold Mikolka responsible and that you assured Razumikhin of the fact yourself . . .'

He was struggling for breath and couldn't finish. He listened with indescribable agitation as the man who'd seen right through him disavowed himself. He was scared to believe it, and didn't believe it. In these still-ambiguous words he hungrily sought something more precise and definitive.

‘Mr Razumikhin – ha!' cried Porfiry Petrovich, apparently delighted to be asked this question by Raskolnikov, silent for so long. ‘Heh-heh-heh! I misled Mr Razumikhin on purpose, and just as well: two's company, three's a crowd. Mr Razumikhin's got nothing to do with it. Fancy running over to me like that, pale as a sheet . . . Well, God bless him – why mix him up in all this? But perhaps you'd like to know more about Mikolka? About the sort of
sujet
we've got here – as I understand it, that is? First and foremost, he's still a child,
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still wet behind the ears; not exactly a coward, more like an artist of one kind or another. You mustn't laugh, sir, at my explaining him like this. Innocent and highly impressionable. With a heart and a lively imagination. He can sing, he can dance and when he tells stories people come to listen from all over, apparently. He
can go to school, laugh till he drops just from someone holding up a finger, or drink himself senseless, not from debauchery, more like a child, in spurts, whenever someone offers. He stole that time without even realizing it. “It's finders keepers, ain't it?” And do you know he's a “Raskolnik”, a schismatic; actually, not so much a schismatic as simply a sectarian; there were “Runners” among his ancestors, and not so long ago, out in the country, he spent two whole years under the wing of a certain Elder.
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I learned all this from Mikolka himself and from his Zaraisk chums. He even wanted to run off into the wilderness! A zealous sort – prayed to God all night, kept reading the old, “true” books
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and read himself silly. Petersburg had a powerful effect on him, especially the fairer sex, and the drink, of course. Impressionable, sir – forgot all about his Elder and everything else. A certain artist here took a liking to him, I'm told, and started visiting him, then this came along! Well, he got scared. “Find me a noose! Where can I run?” So much for the common folk's opinion of our legal process! The very word “trial” is enough to put the wind up some of them. Who's to blame? The new courts
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will have something to say about it. Or at least, I hope they will! Anyway, sir, while in jail he must have remembered about his good old Elder; the Bible's made a reappearance, too. Do you have any idea, Rodion Romanych, what the word “suffering” means to some people? Not suffering for anyone's sake, but simply because “I must suffer”? Because one must accept one's suffering, and if it comes from the authorities so much the better. In my time, there was a convict, meek as a lamb, who spent a whole year in prison, sat on the stove all night reading the Bible, and really did read himself silly, to the point that one day, out of the blue, he picked up a brick and hurled it at the warden, without the slightest provocation. You should have seen how he threw it: he missed by a yard so as not to hurt him! We all know what happens to a convict who attacks an officer with a weapon: well then, he “accepted his suffering”. So my suspicion now is that Mikolka wants to “accept his suffering” or something of the kind. I'm sure of it, sir – I've even got the facts to prove it. It's just that he doesn't know that I know. Why, do you really find it so inconceivable that such fantastical people should emerge from the common folk? They're two a penny! Now the Elder's back on the scene, especially after that business with the noose. Anyway, he'll come and tell me everything himself. You think he'll hold out? Just you wait: he'll change his tune! I'm waiting for him to come any moment and go back on his testimony. I've taken a shine to this Mikolka. I'm making a thorough study of him. And guess what? Heh-heh! On
certain points his answers were very polished indeed – he was clearly well informed and well prepared – but on others he was utterly clueless and completely unaware of his own ignorance! No, Rodion Romanych, Mikolka's not our man! What we've got here, sir, is a fantastical, dark deed, a modern deed, a deed of our time, when the heart of man has clouded over; when there's talk of “renewal” through bloodshed;
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when people preach about anything and everything from a position of comfort. What we have here are bookish dreams, sir, a heart stirred up by theories, a visible determination to take the first step, but determination of a particular kind – as if he were throwing himself off a cliff or a bell tower, and when he did get to the scene of the crime he hadn't a clue how he'd got there. Forgot to close the door behind him, but still did it, still murdered two people, in accordance with the theory. Murdered, but didn't manage to take the money, and what he did grab he hid beneath a stone. The torment of sitting inside the old woman's apartment while the door was being forced and the bell was ringing wasn't enough for him – no, later on back he came to the empty apartment, half-delirious, to remind himself of that little bell, desperate to experience once again the chill down his spine . . . He was sick, you might say, but how about this: he murdered, but thinks himself honest, holds others in contempt, wanders around like a pale-faced angel – no, Rodion Romanych, my dear chap, Mikolka's not our man – not a chance!'