Crime and Punishment (44 page)

Porfiry Petrovich paused for a moment to catch his breath. On and on he prattled with his meaningless, empty phrases, occasionally coming out with a few enigmatic words before immediately lapsing back into nonsense again. By now he was virtually running around the room, making his chubby little legs work faster and faster, keeping his eyes to the floor, tucking his right arm behind his back and continuously waving his left in a variety of gestures, all astonishingly ill-matched to his words. Raskolnikov suddenly noticed how, running around the room, he appeared to pause at least twice by the door, as if he were listening in . . . ‘Is he waiting for something?' he wondered.

‘I must say, you're absolutely right, sir,' Porfiry set off again, looking cheerfully and with extraordinary frankness at Raskolnikov (causing the latter to shudder and instantly brace himself), ‘absolutely right to mock these legal formalities of ours with such wit, heh-heh! These (or at least some of these) profound psychological techniques are of course quite absurd, sir, and I dare say useless, too, especially when they are very inhibited by form. Yes, sir . . . I'm back to form again: imagine that I had deemed or, better, suspected someone – anyone, anyone at all – to be a criminal, in some case that had been entrusted to me . . . You're studying to be a lawyer, Rodion Romanovich, are you not?'

‘Yes, I was . . .'

‘Well, here's a little example, as it were, for the future – although far be it from me, of course, to teach you anything: just look at those articles you've been publishing on the subject of crime! No, sir, allow me to put this example to you for its purely factual interest. Say, for example, that I considered someone, anyone, a criminal, why ever, I ask you, would I trouble him ahead of time, even if I had evidence against him? There are those, of course, whom I'm obliged to arrest promptly, but this man may have a quite different character; so why not let him wander around town a bit? Heh-heh-heh! No, I can see you're not quite following, so let me illustrate the point more clearly: if, for example, I lock him up too soon, I may end up providing him with, as it were, moral support, heh-heh! I see you're laughing.' (Laughter was the last thing on Raskolnikov's mind: he sat tight-lipped, keeping his inflamed gaze fixed on Porfiry Petrovich's eyes.) ‘But that's how it is, sir, especially with certain individuals, because you get all kinds of people and only one procedure. You saw fit to mention evidence just now, but with respect, father, even supposing there is evidence, still, evidence is a double-edged thing, for the most part anyway, and as you know I'm an investigator and hence, I admit, a weakling: I'd like to set out the case with, as it were, mathematical clarity. I'd like a bit of evidence that looks like two times two! Like direct and incontrovertible proof! But if I lock him up before time – even if I'm quite sure it's
him
 – I may very well end up depriving myself of the chance to get any more out of him. Why? Because I'll be defining his situation for him, as it were. I'll be defining him psychologically, so to speak, and reassuring him, and then he'll withdraw from me into his shell: it'll have finally got through to him that he's a prisoner. I'm told that down there in
Sebastopol, straight after the Battle of Alma,
21
all the clever folk were terrified at the prospect of the enemy launching an open attack any moment and taking Sebastopol there and then; but when they saw that the enemy had chosen a regular siege instead and was digging the first line of trenches, why, the clever folk, I'm told, were simply delighted, sir, and felt quite reassured: it meant that the whole thing would drag on for at least another two months, because a regular siege might take forever! Again you're laughing, again you don't believe me. Well, I suppose you have a point, too. Yes, you're right, sir, you're right! These are all one-offs, I agree. The case I've just described really is a one-off, sir! But here's what we need to bear in mind, dear sweet Rodion Romanovich: typical cases, the very same ones according to which all the legal forms and principles are tailored and calculated and written up in books, simply do not exist, sir, by virtue of the fact that each and every deed, each and every – for want of a better example – crime, just as soon as it occurs in reality, immediately becomes a one-off, sir; in fact, sometimes it's like nothing that's ever gone before. Certain such cases are utterly comic, sir. But if I leave a gentleman well alone, don't bring him in, don't disturb him, just let him know, or at least suspect, every hour and every minute, that I know everything, all the ins and outs, that I'm following him day and night, keeping him forever in my sight, just let him feel the constant weight of suspicion and fear, then, mark my words, he'll become quite dizzy, yes indeedy; he'll come to me himself and he might even go and do something after which two and two really will make four and it will all look perfectly mathematical – and very nice that would be, too. Even the most coarse-cut peasant is quite capable of this sort of thing, to say nothing of our good friend, brainy modern man, whose development has taken a particular slant! Because, my dear chap, it's terribly important to understand which slant a man's development has taken. And what about nerves, sir? Nerves, you've forgotten all about them! After all, nowadays everyone's so sick and gaunt and irritable! . . . And what about bile? They're all bursting with it! This, in its way, is a goldmine, sir, let me tell you! And why should I worry about him walking freely around town? Let him wander as much as he likes, for now; after all, I already know I've got my catch and he can't run away! I mean, where would he run to? Heh-heh! Abroad? A Pole would run abroad, but
he
never would, especially when I'm watching him and I've taken certain precautions. Or perhaps he'd run away to the darkest depths of his
homeland? But that's where the peasants live, real, rustic, Russian muzhiks; our advanced modern man would rather be locked up than live with anyone as foreign as our muzhik, heh-heh! But this is just superficial nonsense. What does it mean: run away? That's mere form. It's not the main thing. The reason he won't run away from me isn't just that he's got nowhere to run away to; it's that he won't run away
psychologically
, heh-heh! What a lovely little phrase! The laws of nature won't let him run away, even if he did have somewhere to go. Ever seen a moth near a candle? Well, that's how he'll be, forever circling around me, like a moth around a candle; freedom will sour, he'll start thinking too much, entangling himself, worrying himself to death! . . . And if that's not enough, he'll even present me with some mathematical trick, like two times two – I just need to give him a long enough entr'acte . . . And that's how he'll be, going round and round in circles, the radius narrowing and narrowing, and – hop! – straight into my mouth, where I'll swallow him up, sir, and how very nice that will be, heh-heh-heh! You don't believe me?'

Raskolnikov didn't reply. He sat pale and motionless, staring into Porfiry's face with the same intensity as before.

‘A nice little lesson!' he thought with a chill. ‘This isn't even cat-and-mouse like it was yesterday. And it's not a pointless show of strength, either . . . He wants me to know he's far too clever for that. There's some other purpose here. But what? You're wasting your breath, trying to frighten and fool me! You've no proof and the man from yesterday doesn't exist! You just want to confuse me, irritate me and, when I'm good and ready, gobble me up. Only it won't work; you'll come unstuck! But why make it so obvious? . . . Counting on my sick nerves, are we? . . . No, my friend, this won't work, whatever it is you've prepared over there . . . Well, let's see what that is exactly.'

He summoned all his strength, bracing himself for some dreadful and unknown catastrophe. There were moments when he felt like throwing himself on Porfiry and strangling him on the spot. Even as he was walking in, this anger had frightened him. He could feel how dry his mouth was, how his heart was thumping, how his lips were caked with foam. But still he was determined to say nothing for now. He realized that these were the best tactics in his situation, because not only would he not blurt anything out, but his silence would irritate his adversary, who might himself let something slip. Or so he hoped.

‘No, I see you don't believe me, sir. You think these are just my
harmless japes,' Porfiry went on, becoming ever more cheerful, constantly giggling with pleasure and setting off again around the room. ‘Well, I suppose you're right, sir. Even my shape was thus arranged by God Himself merely to arouse comical thoughts in others; a buffoon, sir. But here's what I'll tell you, father, and I'll say it again: you, Rodion Romanovich – please excuse an old man – are still young, sir, in the first flush of youth, as it were, which is why you value the human intellect above all else, like all young people. The play of wit and the abstract arguments of reason seduce you, sir. And that's just like the old Austrian Hofkriegsrat, for example, if my limited understanding of war serves me right: on paper, they'd already crushed Napoleon and taken him captive – they'd worked it all out so cleverly and totted everything up at their desks – but lo and behold, General Mack
22
goes and surrenders with his entire army, heh-heh-heh! Yes, I see you're laughing at me, Rodion Romanovich: here am I, a civilian through and through, plucking all my examples from military history. But what can I do? Military science is a weakness of mine. How I love to read all those communiqués . . . I'm in the wrong job, no two ways about it. My place is in the military, sir, really it is. I might never have made a Napoleon, but I'd have risen to the rank of major, heh-heh-heh! Well then, my dearest, let me tell you the whole truth, in every detail, about those
one-offs
: reality and human nature, my good sir, are not to be dismissed – they sometimes play havoc with the most perspicacious of calculations! Heed the words of an old man, Rodion Romanovich, I'm being serious,' (saying this, Porfiry Petrovich, all of thirty-five, really did seem to age: even his voice changed and he became all twisted) ‘and what's more, I'm a candid sort of man . . . Am I candid? What's your opinion? It certainly looks that way: why, I'm telling you all manner of things without being asked, nor do I expect any reward, heh-heh! Well, then, I resume. Wit, if you ask me, is a marvellous thing, sir. It is, so to speak, nature's adornment and life's consolation, and when you see the sort of tricks it pulls off, why, what chance, it would seem, does a poor little investigator have against it? Especially when you consider that he himself gets carried away by his own fantasies, as is always the case, seeing as he, too, is human! But human nature, sir, is precisely what saves the poor little investigator, and there's the rub! That's what never occurs to young people carried away by their own wit and “striding over every obstacle” (as you so wittily and cunningly put it). Granted, he may tell a few lies, this man,
I mean,
this one-off
, this incognito, and he'll tell them in a most excellent and cunning way. His victory, it would seem, is assured, and the fruits of his wit stand ready to be plucked, but . . . lo and behold, in the most interesting, most scandalous place, what does he do but faint! Granted, he's sick, and it can get terribly stuffy indoors, but nevertheless! Nevertheless, sir, he's sown a thought! His lies may have been quite superlative, but he failed to make allowances for human nature! There it is, the traitor! On another occasion, caught up in the play of his wit, he'll try to make a fool of the man who suspects him, he'll turn pale as if on purpose, as if he's acting, but the way he does it will be
all too natural
, seem all too true, and once again he'll have planted a thought! Even if he does deceive him at first, overnight the other chap will think it over, if he's no fool himself. And it's like that every step of the way, sir! Trust me, he'll start running ahead, poking his head in where he's not even wanted, talking nineteen to the dozen when he'd be better off saying nothing, coming out with various allegories, heh-heh! He'll turn up unannounced and ask: why's nobody come for me yet? Heh-heh-heh! And, you know, this can happen to the very wittiest men, to psychologists and literary types! Nature is a mirror, sir, a mirror of the most transparent kind! Look and admire! Yes indeedy! Now why are you so pale, Rodion Romanovich? Perhaps the room's too stuffy for you. Perhaps I should open a window?'

‘Oh, don't you worry about that,' cried Raskolnikov and suddenly guffawed. ‘Please don't worry about that!'

Porfiry stopped in front of him, waited a bit and suddenly began to guffaw as well. Raskolnikov rose from the couch, suddenly cutting short his own, perfectly convulsive laughter.

‘Porfiry Petrovich!' he said loudly and distinctly, though barely standing on his trembling legs. ‘It's finally become quite clear to me that you firmly suspect me of the murder of that old woman and her sister Lizaveta. For my part, I declare to you that I'm completely fed up with all this and have been for some time. If you deem that you have the right to prosecute me in accordance with the law, then prosecute; to arrest, then arrest me. But I won't allow anyone to laugh in my face and torment me.'

Suddenly his lips began to quiver, his eyes flashed with fury and his voice, hitherto restrained, boomed out.

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

‘Good Lord, not again!' cried Porfiry Petrovich, looking thoroughly alarmed. ‘Father! Rodion Romanovich! Dearest! What's the matter?'

‘I won't allow it!' Raskolnikov started yelling again.

‘Hush, father! Or they'll hear you and come. And then what will we tell them? Think about that!' Porfiry Petrovich whispered in horror, bringing his face very close to Raskolnikov's.