Crime and Punishment (80 page)

‘Razumikhin told me just now that you're still pressing the charge against Nikolai, and that you assured him of that fact…’

He ran out of breath, nearly choking, and did not finish his sentence. He listened in a state of agitation that was beyond all words as the man who had seen right through him disavowed him own perceptions. In his ambiguous words he was greedily searching and feeling for something more final and precise.

‘Mr Razumikhin!’ Porfiry Petrovich exclaimed, as though he were relieved at having been put a question by the hitherto silent Raskolnikov. ‘Hee-hee-hee! Oh, Mr Razumikhin simply had to be got out of the way: two's company, three's a crowd. Mr Razumikhin's not your man, sir, he's just an innocent bystander; why, he came running to me with such a pale, pale face… Well, never mind about him, why get him mixed up in this? Now, as regards Mikolka, would you like to know what sort of a character he is – according to my understanding, that is? The first thing to be said is that he's still an ungrown child, and not so much a coward as a sort of artist. It's true, sir, don't laugh at my explaining him that way. He's harmless and susceptible to every influence. He has a heart; he has imagination. He likes to dance and sing, they say he tells stories in such a way that people come flocking from other parts to listen to him. He attends the school, he'll laugh to the point of collapse if you so much as show him a finger, and he drinks himself senseless, not so much from debauchery as from sheer occasion, now and then, the way a child might, when people ply him with vodka. Then there's the way he went stealing that time, yet he wasn't really aware he'd done anything wrong; because “if I picked them up off the pavement, what kind of stealing was that?” And did you know that he's a Raskolnik – or rather, not so much a Raskolnik as simply a sectarian; there were “Runners”
⁴
in his family, and it's not so long ago since he himself spent two whole years in the country under the spiritual guidance of some elder or other. All this I learned from Mikolka and his Zaraisk chums. And that's not the half of it! He actually intended to run away to a hermitage! He got the holy fever, used to stay up all night praying, reading the old, “true” books, and lost all sense of reality. St Petersburg had a powerful effect on him, especially the fair sex, and, of course, the vodka. He's a susceptible fellow, sir, and he forgot his elder and everything else as well. I have information that a certain artist here in town took a liking to him, began paying him visits, but then this incident blew up! Well, he was scared – could only think of hanging himself, or running away. What are we going to do about the image of our legal system that's developed among the common people? I
mean, some of them are absolutely terrified by the word “trial”! Who's to blame for it? Well, perhaps these new courts will have some effect. My God, I do hope so. Well, sir: while he's been in gaol he's evidently remembered his honourable elder again; the Bible's come out again, too. Have you any conception, Rodion Romanovich, of what the word “suffering” means to some of them? They don't do it for the sake of anyone in particular, but just for its own sake, purely and simply as “suffering”; all that matters is to accept suffering, and if it's from the powers-that-be, that's all to the good. I once had a case of an incredibly docile prisoner who spent a whole year in gaol, he used to read his Bible on top of the stove at nights, well, and he read and he read to the point where he suddenly, for no apparent reason, snatched up a brick and threw it at the head gaoler, who'd done nothing to arouse the man's anger. And the way he threw it: he purposely aimed it an arshin too wide, so as not to cause the man any injury! Well, we all know what happens to a prisoner who attacks an officer with an offensive weapon: and he “accepted his suffering”. So you see, I now suspect that Mikolka wants to “accept his suffering”, or something of that sort. I know that to be true, sir; I even have evidence. It's just that he doesn't know that I know. Don't you think it's amazing that a bunch of peasants like that can throw up people with such imagination? One finds them everywhere. The elder's begun to have an influence on him again, particularly after the episode with the noose – that jogged his memory. But in any case, he'll tell me everything himself, he'll show his face. Do you suppose he'll be able to keep it up? Just you wait – he'll deny it all. I'm waiting for him to show up any moment now and go back on his testimony. I've taken a liking to this Mikolka, and I'm investigating him thoroughly. And what do you think? Tee-hee! To some of the points I put to him he gave me really coherent answers – he's obviously got hold of the necessary information and cleverly prepared himself; well, but with some of the other points he got himself into a fair old mess, didn't know a single thing, hadn't the foggiest, and didn't even suspect as much! No, Rodion Romanych old chap, Mikolka's not our man! This is a murky, fantastic case, a contemporary one, an incident that belongs to
our own age, an age in which the heart of man has grown dark and muddied; in which one hears the saying quoted that “blood reinvigorates”; in which material comfort is preached as life's only aim. It's a case that involves dreams derived from books, sir, a heart that has been overstimulated by theories; in it we see a determination to take the first step, but it's a determination of a peculiar kind – the man's taken his resolve, but it's as if he'd fallen off a cliff or jumped from a steeple, as if he'd blundered into the crime like some clockwork automaton. He forgot to close the door behind him, and he killed, killed two people, because of a theory. He killed, and he didn't even bother to take the money that was there, and the things he did take he hid under a stone. It wasn't enough for him to go through torment as he stood behind the door as people were hammering at the door and ringing the bell – no, after that he had to go back to the empty apartment in a state of semi-delirium in order to remind himself of that bell, he needed to feel the chill down his spine once again… Well, that was probably caused by his illness, but what about this? He's committed a murder, yet he considers himself an honourable fellow, he has contempt for other people, goes around like some pallid angel – no, Mikolka's not our man, my dear Rodion Romanovich, Mikolka's not our man!’

These last words, following as they did on all that had gone before and had seemed like a disavowal, were wholly unexpected. Raskolnikov shuddered as though he had been run through by a blade.

‘Then… who… is the murderer?’ he asked, unable to restrain himself, in a gasping voice. Porfiry Petrovich fairly reeled back in his chair, as though this question was so unexpected that he was amazed by it.

‘Who is the murderer?…’ he said, as though unable to believe his ears. ‘Why,
you
are the murderer, Rodion Romanovich! You are, sir…’ he added almost in a whisper, in a voice of total conviction.

Raskolnikov leapt from the sofa, stood there for a few seconds and sat down again, without saying a word. Faint convulsions suddenly passed across his whole face.

‘That lip of yours is quivering again, the way it did that time,’ Porfiry Petrovich muttered, almost with sympathy. ‘I don't think you've quite understood me, Rodion Romanych,’ he added, after a slight pause, ‘and that's why you're so dumbfounded. I came here with the specific purpose of saying everything and bringing the matter out into the open.’

‘It wasn't me, I didn't do it,’ Raskolnikov whispered, the way little children do when they are caught redhanded.

‘Yes, Rodion Romanych, sir, it was you and no one else, sir,’ Porfiry whispered sternly and with conviction.

They both fell silent, and their silence lasted a strangely long time, some ten minutes. Raskolnikov leaned his elbows on the table and ran his fingers through his hair, not saying anything. Porfiry Petrovich sat quietly waiting. Suddenly Raskolnikov gave Porfiry a contemptuous look.

‘Up to your old capers again, Porfiry Petrovich? Still pursuing those methods of yours? I really wonder you're not sick of them by now!’

‘Hah! That will do! What methods do I need now? It would be different if there were witnesses here; as it is, we're whispering in private. You can see for yourself that I haven't come here in order to hunt you down and trap you like a hare. Whether you confess or not is a matter of indifference to me right at this moment. In my own mind I'm convinced, and I don't need you to help me.’

‘If that's so, why did you come here?’ Raskolnikov asked, irritably. ‘I'll put the question again: if you think I'm guilty, why don't you put me in prison?’

‘Well now, there's a question! I'll answer it in stages: in the first place, it wouldn't do me any good to place you directly under arrest.’

‘What do you mean, it wouldn't do you any good? If you're convinced, then you must…’

‘Oh, what does it matter that I'm convinced? I mean, all this is still just a dream of mine, sir. Why should I put you
into retirement
like that? You yourself must know that's what it would be tantamount to, since you're asking me to do it. Say, for example, I were to bring you face to face with that wretched
little artisan, and you said to him: “Are you drunk, or something? Who saw you with me? I simply thought you were a drunk, and you
were
drunk, in any case” – well, what would I be able to say to that, particularly since your version of events is more probable than his, because his testimony consists of nothing but psychology – which is almost an insult to his ugly mug – and you've hit the nail on the head, because the villain drinks like a fish and everyone knows it. And then there's the fact that I myself have already several times openly confessed to you that this psychology stuff is a two-edged weapon, that its other edge is always going to be larger and more plausible, and that apart from it, I haven't so far got anything on you. And even though I'm going to put you inside in any case, and have actually come here (though it's not official etiquette) in order to caution you about it in advance, I will tell you straight out (though again it's not official etiquette) that it won't do me any good. Well sir, and in the second place, I've come to see you…’

‘Yes, and in the second place?’ (Raskolnikov was still gasping.)

‘Because, as I told you just now, I consider it my duty to offer you an explanation. I don't want you to see me as a monster, particularly as I'm sincerely fond of you, believe it or not. In consequence of which, in the third place, I've come to you with an open and straightforward proposition – that you should file a plea of guilty. That would be countless times better for you, and better for me, too – because then it would be over and done with. Well, what do you say – am I making sense to you?’

Raskolnikov thought for a moment.

‘What I say is this, Porfiry Petrovich: I mean, you've been telling me yourself that it's all just psychology, yet here you are wandering over into mathematics. What if you're simply mistaken?’

‘No, Rodion Romanych, I'm not mistaken. I am in possession of a certain little detail. You see, it was something I found at the time, sir; the Lord sent it to me!’

‘What little detail?’

‘I'm not going to tell you, Rodion Romanych. And in any case I don't have the right to delay any longer; I'm going to put
you inside, sir. So reflect on it:
right now
it's all the same to me, and consequently, consequently I'm only thinking of you. I swear to God, it will be better for you, Rodion Romanych!’

Raskolnikov smiled an ironic, malevolent smile.

‘Why, this is not only ridiculous, it's downright shameless. I mean, even if I were guilty (which I don't for one moment admit), why should I file a plea of guilty with you when you yourself say that when you put me inside it'll be as if I'd been put
into retirement
?’

‘Ah, Rodion Romanych, don't place too much credence in words; it may be no sort of
retirement
at all! I mean, that's only a theory, and my own, to boot, and what kind of an authority am I to you? It's quite possible that I'm concealing something from you even now, sir. I'm not just going to produce everything and suddenly lay it all before you, hee-hee! And there's another thing: how can you ask why you should file a plea of guilty? Have you any idea what a reduction in your sentence that would mean? I mean, when would you be doing it, at what kind of a moment? Just think about that! When another man's already accepted responsibility for the crime and got the whole case in a mess? And I swear to God himself that I'll fabricate a thing or two and arrange it with the authorities so that your plea will come as something totally unexpected. We'll completely demolish all that psychology, I'll convert all those suspicions about you into thin air, so that your crime will look like some kind of a brainstorm, because, in all conscience, a brainstorm is what it was. I'm a decent man, Rodion Romanych, and I'll keep my word.’

Raskolnikov fell sadly silent and let his head droop; he thought for a long time and at length smiled his ironic smile once more: this time, however, it was meek and mournful.

‘No, I don't want it!’ he said, as though he had completely given up trying to hide anything from Porfiry. ‘It isn't worth it! I really don't want your reduction!’

‘Ah! That was what I was afraid of!’ Porfiry Petrovich exclaimed heatedly and almost in spite of himself. ‘That was what I was afraid of: that you wouldn't want our reduction.’

Raskolnikov looked at him sadly and reprovingly.

‘I say, don't turn your nose up at life!’ Porfiry went on. ‘You've still a great deal ahead of you. What do you mean, you don't want a reduction, what do you mean? You impatient man!’

‘A lot of what ahead of me?’

‘Life! What are you, a prophet? What do you know? Seek and ye shall find. Perhaps God's been waiting for you in all this. And you won't wear them for ever, the fetters…’

‘No, I'll get a reduction,’ Raskolnikov laughed.

‘What is it that you're scared of – the bourgeois shame? It may be that you're scared of it without realizing it – because you're young! Yet you know, you shouldn't feel any fear or shame at filing a plea of guilty.’

‘Ha-ah! I don't give a spit for all that!’ Raskolnikov whispered contemptuously and with revulsion, as though he did not even want to speak. He started to get up, as though he were about to go off somewhere, but then sat down again in visible despair.