Crime and Punishment (59 page)

These last words, after all that had gone before, so similar to a recantation, caught him completely by surprise. Raskolnikov started shaking all over, as if he'd been stabbed.

‘So . . . who did it?' he asked, unable to resist, gasping for air. Porfiry Petrovich all but threw himself back in his chair, as if utterly astounded by the question.

‘What do you mean – who did it?' he repeated, as if he couldn't believe his ears. ‘Why,
you
did, Rodion Romanych! With respect, sir, the murderer is you . . . ,' he almost whispered, in a voice of total conviction.

Raskolnikov leapt from the couch, stayed on his feet for a few seconds, then sat back down, not saying a word. Faint convulsions suddenly rippled across his face.

‘Your lip's trembling again, just like then,' muttered Porfiry Petrovich, almost with sympathy. ‘You seem to have misunderstood me, Rodion Romanych,' he added, after a pause, ‘hence your amazement. This is the whole reason I've come here: to leave nothing unsaid and bring everything out into the open.'

‘It wasn't me,' Raskolnikov began in a whisper, just like a frightened little child who's been caught red-handed.

‘Yes it was, Rodion Romanych. Yes it was, sir – can't be anyone else,' Porfiry whispered, with stern conviction.

They both fell silent and the silence lasted a strangely long time, ten minutes or so. Raskolnikov leant his elbows on the table and silently ruffled his hair with his fingers. Porfiry Petrovich meekly sat and waited. Then, with a sudden, contemptuous glance, Raskolnikov said:

‘Up to your old tricks again, Porfiry Petrovich? The same old ruses? Aren't you tired of it all, I wonder?'

‘Oh please – what good are tricks to me now? If there were any witnesses here, that would be another matter; but it's just the two of us. You can see for yourself that I haven't come here to chase you around like a hare and trap you. Whether or not you confess means nothing to me at this moment in time. I don't need you to convince me.'

‘So why have you come?' asked Raskolnikov irritably. ‘I'll ask you again: if you consider me guilty, why not put me inside?'

‘Now there's a question! I'll take each point in turn: firstly, arresting you just like that is no use to me.'

‘What do you mean, no use? If you're convinced, you should . . .'

‘And what if I am convinced? For now, these are mere dreams of mine, sir. What would be the point of my putting you away
to rest in peace
? You must know that yourself if you're encouraging me. Say I bring that tradesman in to prove your guilt. You'll just tell him, “Are you drunk or what? Who saw me with you? I just took you for a drunk, and quite right, too” – well, what will I say to you then? Especially as your story's more likely than his, seeing as his testimony is mere psychology, which hardly suits a mug like his, while you get straight to the point, because he's an old soak, that man, as everyone knows. And haven't I admitted to you openly, more than once, that all this psychology is double-edged and that the second edge cuts deeper than the first and is a whole lot more likely? And I still haven't got anything else on you anyway. And even though I will still arrest you and even though I've come here myself (not the done thing) to tell you about everything in advance, all the same I'm telling you straight (which is not the done thing, either) that this will be no use to me. And secondly, I've come here because . . .'

‘Oh yes – and secondly?' (Raskolnikov was still gasping.)

‘Because, as I told you before, I think I owe you an explanation. I
don't want you to think me a monster, especially when I'm sincerely fond of you, believe it or not. As a result of which, thirdly, I've come here with an open and frank suggestion: that you turn yourself in. You'll be infinitely better off, and so will I – one less thing to worry about. Very frank of me, don't you think?'

Raskolnikov thought for a minute.

‘Listen, Porfiry Petrovich: you say yourself it's mere psychology and here you are plunging into mathematics. What if you're the one who's mistaken now?'

‘No, Rodion Romanych, I'm not mistaken. I have this little mark, you see. I found it back then; a real godsend!'

‘What little mark?'

‘I'm not saying, Rodion Romanych. In any case, I have no right to put things off any longer. I'll arrest you, sir. So think about it. It's all the same to me
now
, which means I'm only thinking of you. It's for the best, Rodion Romanych – believe me!'

Raskolnikov grinned back at him spitefully.

‘You know, this is more than just comical – it's shameful. Imagine I really was guilty (which I'm not saying for one moment I am), why on earth would I turn myself in to you, when you're telling me yourself that you'll put me away
to rest in peace
?'

‘Now, now, Rodion Romanych, you trust words too much. Who knows? Maybe you won't exactly
rest in peace
! After all, this is only a theory, and mine to boot. What sort of an authority am I to you? Who knows? I may be concealing one or two things from you even now. I'm hardly going to show you all my cards, am I? Heh-heh! Secondly, what do you mean, what good will it do you? Do you have any idea what sort of reduction you'll get for that? Just think about the timing! When the other man's already taken the crime upon himself and muddied the waters? And I swear to you, in the name of God, that I will fix and fiddle things
there
in such a way that your confession will come as a bolt from the blue. We'll smash all this psychology to smithereens, and I'll turn all the suspicions against you to dust, making your crime look like some kind of mental blackout, because, in all conscience, a blackout is what it was. I'm an honest man, Rodion Romanych, and I'll keep my word.'

Raskolnikov fell into a sad silence and hung his head; after a long think he finally grinned once more, but this time his smile was meek and sad:

‘Oh, don't bother!' he said, as if he were being entirely frank with Porfiry now. ‘It's not worth it! I don't want your stupid reduction!'

‘Just as I feared!' exclaimed Porfiry with feeling, as if he couldn't help it. ‘Just as I feared – you don't want our reduction.'

Raskolnikov threw him a sad, serious look.

‘Life's not to be sniffed at, you know!' Porfiry went on. ‘You've still got plenty of it ahead of you. What do you mean, you don't want it? How very impatient you are!'

‘Plenty of what ahead of me?'

‘Life! A prophet, are you? How much do you really know? Seek and ye will find.
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Perhaps this is where God's been waiting for you. And they're not forever, the shackles . . .'

‘Oh yes, the reduction . . . ,' Raskolnikov laughed.

‘What are you so frightened of? The bourgeois shame of it all? That might be the case without you even knowing it – you're young, after all! But still, you of all people should not be frightened or ashamed of turning yourself in.'

‘What do I care?' Raskolnikov whispered with contemptuous disgust, apparently reluctant even to speak. He was about to get up again, as if he wanted to leave, but sat back down in visible despair.

‘There you go! You no longer believe anything and think this is just cheap flattery. But how much of life have you actually seen? How much do you really understand? You came up with a theory, only to feel ashamed when it all collapsed, when it proved so very unoriginal! It turned out pretty badly, that's true, but even so, you're not a lost cause. You're not a complete scoundrel. In fact, you're not a scoundrel at all! At least you didn't agonize about it for long – you made straight for the final pillars. I mean, what kind of a man do I take you for? I take you for the kind of man who, even after he's had his insides ripped out, stands there smiling at his tormentors – assuming he's found something to believe in, or God. Well, find and you will live. A change of air's what you need. Suffering also has a lot to be said for it, you know. So do a bit of that. Mikolka might just be onto something, with his eagerness to suffer. I know belief doesn't come easily – but try not to complicate things. Yield to life without thinking about it. And don't worry – you'll be brought safely to shore and set on your feet. Which shore? How should I know? I just believe you've got plenty of life ahead of you. I know that to you this all sounds like a sermon
I've prepared in advance, but perhaps you'll remember it later and find it useful; that's why I'm saying it. Just as well you only killed the old hag. Had you come up with some other theory, you might have gone and done something a billion times more ghastly! Perhaps it's God we should be thanking. God might just be saving you for something; how can you know? So have a great heart and a bit less fear. What? Are you shying away from the great duty ahead of you? That would be shameful now. Having taken such a step, you'd better steel yourself. There's justice in it. So do what justice demands. I know you lack belief, but life, by heaven, will bring you to shore. You'll get a taste for it in the end. Air is what you need now – air, air!'

Raskolnikov couldn't help shuddering.

‘Who are you to speak like this?' he cried. ‘A prophet? From what heights of supreme tranquillity do you dispense such oracular wisdom?'

‘Who am I? A man whose best days are behind him. A man of feeling and sympathy. A man who may even know a thing or two, but whose day has come and gone. But you – you're a different matter: God has a life in store for you (and – who knows? – perhaps this will all just blow over). So what if you have to cross over into a different category of people? Don't tell me you'll miss the life of comfort – a man with a heart like yours? So what if no one sees you again for a very long time? It's not about time – it's about you. Be a sun and everyone will see you. A sun must be a sun – that's its main job. Why are you smiling again? Because I'm such a Schiller? You think I'm toadying up to you, I dare say! Well, maybe I am, heh-heh-heh! You know, Rodion Romanych, you shouldn't believe my every word. In fact, I expect you should never believe me entirely – I'm quite incorrigible, I agree. All I'll say is this: you, of all people, can judge for yourself how shoddy I am, and how honest!'

‘When are you planning to arrest me?'

‘Well, I suppose I can let you wander around for another day or two. Think about it, my dear chap, and say a few prayers. It's for the best, by heaven, for the best.'

‘And if I run away?' asked Raskolnikov with a strange grin.

‘You won't. A peasant would run; and a fashionable religious fanatic – a slave to someone else's thoughts – would run, because you need only show him the tip of your little finger, as happened to that warrant officer
13
in Gogol's play, for him to believe whatever you want
for the rest of his life. But you no longer believe in that theory of yours, do you? So what cause would you have to run? Do you really want to? It's a ghastly, difficult business, when what you need above all is life and a well-defined situation, and, of course, the right kind of air. You won't find it there, will you? You'll run away and come back of your own accord.
You can't get by without us
. But if I have you taken into custody – well, give it a month or two, maybe three, and, mark my words, you'll come forward yourself and I expect you'll be amazed at how it all happens. You won't know, even an hour before, that you're about to confess. I even think you'll end up wanting to “accept your suffering”; but don't take my word for it, think it over in your own time. Suffering, Rodion Romanych, is a great thing. Now pay no attention to my waistline and don't laugh: there's an idea in suffering, I know there is. Mikolka's right. No, you won't run away, Rodion Romanych.'

Raskolnikov rose and took his cap. Porfiry Petrovich stood up as well.

‘Going out for a walk? Should be a nice evening, unless there's a storm. Although at least that would freshen things up . . .'

He, too, picked up his cap.

‘Now please don't go getting the idea, Porfiry Petrovich,' said Raskolnikov with stern insistence, ‘that I admitted anything to you today. You're a strange man and I listened to you out of pure curiosity. I didn't admit a thing . . . Do remember that.'

‘Yes, yes, I know. I'll remember. My, he's even shaking. Don't you worry, my dear chap, your will shall be done. Have a little walk. Just don't go overboard. In any case, I have one tiny favour to ask, if you don't mind,' he added, lowering his voice. ‘It's a bit of a ticklish one, but important: if, by any chance (though I can't believe it and consider you quite incapable of it), if by any chance – by any remote chance – you should feel inclined, in the next forty or fifty hours, to have done with all this in some other way, in some fantastical manner – by, say, taking your own life (a quite ridiculous notion, but I'm sure you'll forgive me) – then please leave a short but comprehensive note. Two lines will do, just two tiny lines, not forgetting to mention the stone: it would be the noble thing to do. Well then, goodbye . . . Here's to good thoughts and fine intentions!'

Porfiry went out, looking rather hunched and, it seemed, trying not
to glance in Raskolnikov's direction. Raskolnikov walked over to the window and waited with irritable impatience until, according to his calculations, Porfiry would have left the building and headed off. Then he, too, hurried out of the room.

He was hurrying to Svidrigailov. What was he hoping for? He himself did not know. But this man held some hidden power over him. Having once realized this, he could no longer forget it. Now, moreover, the time had come.

On the way he was tormented by one question in particular: had Svidrigailov been to see Porfiry?

As far as he could tell – and he would have sworn to it – no, he hadn't! Again and again he asked himself this question, recalling Porfiry's entire visit, and concluded: no, he hadn't. Of course he hadn't!

But if he hadn't yet been to see Porfiry, might he still go?

It seemed to him now that he wouldn't, not for the time being. Why? He couldn't have answered this question either, and he certainly didn't want to start racking his brains over it now. All this was a torment to him, but at the same time it was as if he couldn't really care less. It was strange – no one, perhaps, would have believed him – but he felt no more than a faint, absent-minded concern about his current, immediate fate. Something else was tormenting him, something far more important, extraordinarily so – about himself and no one else, something different, something crucial. What was more, he felt boundlessly weary at heart, even though his mind was working better that morning than at any time during these recent days.

And was there now any point, after all that had happened, in trying to overcome all these new, paltry obstacles? Was there any point, say, in scheming to stop some Svidrigailov or other from visiting Porfiry; in researching, making enquiries, wasting time on him?

How sick and tired he was of it all!

And yet, here he was hurrying to Svidrigailov. Surely he wasn't expecting anything
new
from him, any pointers, a way out? How people clutch at straws! Or was it fate, some instinct or other, that was bringing them together? Perhaps it was just weariness, despair; perhaps it wasn't Svidrigailov he needed but someone else, and Svidrigailov just
happened to be there. Sonya? But why go to Sonya now? To beg her tears again? But Sonya terrified him. Sonya was an implacable sentence, an irrevocable decision. It was her road or his. Now more than ever he was in no condition to see her. Wasn't he better off probing Svidrigailov? He found himself admitting that he really did seem to need that man for something, and had done for some time.

And yet, what could they ever have in common? Even their villainy could not be the same. That man, furthermore, was extremely unpleasant, exceptionally depraved (it was obvious), sly and deceitful (how could he not be?) and, perhaps, downright nasty. There were all sorts of stories about him. True, he was going to great lengths for Katerina Ivanovna's children; but who could say why or what it meant? That man was always plotting.

One other thought kept occurring to Raskolnikov, day in day out, causing him terrible anxiety; so unbearable was it that he even tried to chase it away. He'd think: Svidrigailov was always hovering around him, and was still doing so now; Svidrigailov had learned his secret; Svidrigailov used to have designs on Dunya. What if he still did? It was almost certain that yes,
he did
. And what if now, having learned his secret and thus gained power over him, he decided to use that power as a weapon against Dunya?

This thought tormented him even during his sleep, but never had it struck him so consciously, so vividly, as it did now, on his way to Svidrigailov. This thought alone was enough to plunge him into dark fury. Firstly, that would change everything, his own situation included: he'd have to reveal his secret to Dunechka without delay. He would, perhaps, have to give himself up so as to dissuade Dunechka from taking some reckless step. And the letter? Dunechka had received it only this morning! From whom in Petersburg might she receive a letter? (Surely not Luzhin?) True, he'd left Razumikhin on guard, but Razumikhin didn't know anything. Perhaps he ought to open up to Razumikhin as well? The very thought disgusted him.

‘In any case, I have to see Svidrigailov as soon as possible,' he decided definitively. ‘Thankfully, it's not the details I need so much as the essence of the thing. But if he really is capable of it, if Svidrigailov really is scheming against Dunya – then . . .'

Raskolnikov had become so weary by now, after this whole month, that he had only one answer to such questions: ‘Then I'll kill him,' he thought, in cold despair. A heavy feeling pressed down on his heart. He
stopped in the middle of the street and looked around: which road had he taken and where had he ended up? He was on ——sky Prospect,
14
some thirty or forty paces from Haymarket, which he'd crossed just now. A tavern took up the whole of the first floor of the building to his left. All the windows were wide open. Judging by the amount of people he could see moving about in them, the tavern was full to bursting. He could hear a group of professional singers, a clarinet, a violin, the thudding of a Turkish drum, and women shrieking. He was about to turn back, wondering why on earth he'd taken ——sky Prospect, when suddenly, in one of the furthest open windows, at a tea table by the window, with a pipe between his teeth, he spotted Svidrigailov. He was astounded, horrified. Svidrigailov was observing him in silence and, to Raskolnikov's further astonishment, seemed to be on the point of getting up, so as to slip away before being seen. Raskolnikov instantly pretended not to have seen him and to be looking elsewhere, lost in thought, while continuing to observe him out of the corner of his eye. His heart was racing. So he was right: Svidrigailov didn't want to be seen. He'd taken his pipe from his mouth and was just about to hide; but, having got up and moved the table, he must have suddenly noticed that Raskolnikov could see him and was observing him. Something happened between them not unlike the scene of their first encounter in Raskolnikov's room, while he was sleeping. A roguish grin broke out over Svidrigailov's face, growing broader and broader. The two men knew that each was observing the other. Eventually Svidrigailov burst into raucous laughter.

‘Well, well! In you come then, if that's what you're after. Here I am!' he shouted from the window.

Raskolnikov went up to the tavern.

He found him in a very small back room with only one window; it adjoined a large saloon, where, seated around twenty little tables and deafened by the desperate singing of the chorus, merchants, civil servants and all sorts were drinking tea. From somewhere there came the clicking of billiard balls. On the little table in front of Svidrigailov stood an open bottle of champagne and a half-filled glass. The room also contained a boy playing a small hand organ, and a strapping, red-cheeked girl wearing a tucked-up, striped skirt and a Tyrolean hat with ribbons – she was a singer, aged eighteen or so, who, despite the chorus in the next room, was performing some maudlin song in a hoarse contralto, accompanied by the young boy on the hand organ . . .

‘All right, that'll do,' Svidrigailov interrupted her when Raskolnikov came in.

The girl broke off her song at once and lingered in deferential anticipation. There had been a hint of seriousness and deference in her expression even while she was singing her doggerel rhymes.

‘Hey, Filipp, a glass!' shouted Svidrigailov.

‘I'm not drinking,' said Raskolnikov.

‘As you wish. It's not for you anyway. Have a drink, Katya! I won't be needing you any more today, so off you go!' He poured her a full glass of wine and took out a yellow banknote. Katya drained the glass in one go – without a break, in twenty gulps, as women do – took the note, kissed Svidrigailov's hand, with the latter's gravest consent, and went out, with the little boy in tow. Both had been brought in off the street. Svidrigailov had been in Petersburg for less than a week, yet he was already on a patriarchal footing with all and sundry. He was also on familiar terms with the servant at the tavern, Filipp, who fawned on him. The door to the saloon was kept locked. Svidrigailov was very much at home in this room and probably spent whole days in it. The tavern was filthy and shabby, even by average standards.

‘I was looking for you,' Raskolnikov began, ‘but why did I suddenly turn into ——sky from Haymarket just now? I never turn off there or take this street. I always turn right from Haymarket. And anyway, this isn't the way to your place. I turned and there you were! How strange!'

‘Why don't you call a spade a spade? It's a miracle!'

‘Because it might be mere chance.'

‘What is it about these people?' Svidrigailov guffawed. ‘They'll never admit a miracle, even if it's what they believe inside! I mean, you say yourself it “might” be mere chance. And how very chicken-hearted people are about their opinion – it beggars belief, Rodion Romanych! I don't mean you. You've got your own opinion and you weren't too afraid to have one. That's why I became interested in you.'

‘Nothing else?'

‘Isn't that enough?'

There was no mistaking Svidrigailov's excitement, however faint (he'd drunk no more than half a glass).

‘If you ask me, you came to see me before you discovered that I'm capable of having what you call my own opinion,' Raskolnikov remarked.

‘Well, things were different then. We each have our own steps to
take. But as for the miracle – well, what can I say? You must have slept through the last two or three days. I suggested this tavern to you myself and there's nothing remotely miraculous about the fact that you came straight here. I explained the entire route to you, the precise location and the hours at which I may be found here. Remember?'

‘I must have forgotten,' replied Raskolnikov with astonishment.

‘I believe you. I told you twice. The address imprinted itself automatically in your memory. You took this turning automatically as well, unaware that you were heading in exactly the right direction. Even when I was speaking to you about it, I didn't think you'd understood me. You do give yourself away, Rodion Romanych. And another thing: I'm convinced that Petersburg is full of people who walk around talking to themselves. People who are halfway mad. If we had any scholars worth the name, then doctors, jurists and philosophers could carry out priceless studies in this city, each according to his specialism. Where else would you find so many dark, drastic, strange influences on the soul of man? Consider the influence of the climate alone! And yet this is the administrative centre of all Russia; the whole country should reflect its character. But that's not the point now. The point is that I've observed you on several occasions. You leave your building, still holding your head up. Twenty or so paces later, you've already lowered it and clasp your hands behind your back. You're looking but no longer seeing, whether ahead of you or to the sides. Eventually, you begin to move your lips and talk to yourself. From time to time you even free one of your arms and declaim something. And in the end you stop for an age in the middle of the street. It's simply no good, sir. You might be noticed by someone else as well, and you wouldn't want that. In the end, it's all the same to me, and I can't cure you, but you must understand me.'

‘Do you know I'm being followed?' asked Raskolnikov with a searching look.

‘No, I don't know anything,' Svidrigailov replied with apparent surprise.

‘Then let's leave me out of it,' mumbled Raskolnikov, frowning.

‘All right then, we'll leave you out of it.'

‘Perhaps you should tell me, seeing as you come here to drink and seeing as you yourself have twice suggested I come to see you here, why, when I was looking through the window from the street just now, you hid and wanted to leave? I saw it quite clearly.'

‘Heh-heh! And why, when I was standing on your threshold, did you lie on your sofa with your eyes closed and pretend you were sleeping, when you weren't sleeping at all? I saw it quite clearly.'

‘I might have had . . . reasons . . . as you know yourself.'

‘And I may have had my reasons, though you'll never know them.'

Raskolnikov lowered his right elbow onto the table, supported his chin with the fingers of his right hand and fixed his eyes on Svidrigailov. For about a minute he studied his face, which had always fascinated him, even before. It was a strange sort of face, not unlike a mask: white and bright red, with cherry red lips, a light blond beard and, still, a full head of blond hair. His eyes were a little too blue somehow, and their gaze a little too heavy and static. There was something terribly unpleasant about this beautiful and, for its age, exceptionally youthful face. Svidrigailov was foppishly dressed in light, summery clothes, and sporting especially stylish linen. On one hand he wore an enormous ring with an expensive stone.

‘Do I really have to deal with the likes of you as well?' said Raskolnikov, coming out into the open in a sudden fit of impatience. ‘You may be the most dangerous person there is, if you put your mind to it, but I refuse to put myself through any more of this. I'll show you right now that I value myself less than you must think. I've come to tell you frankly that if you still harbour your old intentions towards my sister and if, to that end, you're planning to exploit any recent revelations, then I'll kill you before you manage to throw me in jail. I give you my word: you know I'll honour it. Secondly, if you have something you want to tell me – I've had that impression all along – then say it now, because time is precious and very soon, perhaps, it will be too late.'

‘But why this great hurry – where do you have to go?' asked Svidrigailov, examining him with some curiosity.

‘We each have our own steps to take,' said Raskolnikov, with gloomy impatience.

‘Only a minute ago you were urging openness, yet you refuse to answer the first question I ask you,' Svidrigailov remarked with a smile. ‘You always think I'm plotting something, hence all these suspicious glances. Well, that's quite understandable in your situation. But however much I want us to become closer, I'm not going to burden myself with the task of trying to persuade you otherwise. The game, by heaven, is not worth the candle, and in any case there was nothing in particular that I was planning to speak to you about.'