'Damn you!' he roared with a great swing of his arm, which smacked straight into a little round table bearing an emptied glass of tea. Everything went flying with a clink and a tinkle.
'No need to break the chairs, gentlemen - there's the public purse to think about!'12 shouted Porfiry Petrovich gaily.
The scene was as follows: Raskolnikov, his hand forgotten in that of his host, was still laughing, but, not wishing to overdo it, was waiting for the right moment to stop. Razumikhin, hopelessly embarrassed by the toppled table and broken glass, glowered at the fragments, spat and turned around sharply to face the window, with his back to his audience and his face all furrowed, looking out of the window and seeing nothing. Porfiry Petrovich was laughing and was eager to do so, but it was also clear that he was waiting for an explanation. On a chair in the corner sat Zametov, who had half-risen when the guests came in and was waiting expectantly, his lips parted to form a smile, though he was looking at the whole scene with bewilderment, not to say scepticism, and at Raskolnikov even with a certain discomfort. Zametov's presence came as an unpleasant shock to Raskolnikov.
'What's he doing here?' went through his mind.
'Please forgive me,' he began, with a great show of embarrassment, 'Raskolnikov . . .'
'Don't mention it. It's my pleasure, sir, and a pleasure to see you make such an entrance . . . But isn't he even going to say hello?' said Porfiry Petrovich, with a nod in the direction of Razumikhin.
'I can't think why he's so mad at me. I merely said to him, on the way over, that he's like Romeo and . . . and proved it, and that's really all there was to it.'
'Swine!' Razumikhin shot back, without turning round.
'He must have had good reason to get so upset about one little word,' laughed Porfiry.
'Look at you - investigator! . . . Well, to hell with you all anyway!' snapped Razumikhin, before he, too, suddenly burst out laughing and, with a cheerful expression, as if nothing had happened, walked up to Porfiry Petrovich.
'Enough of this! We're idiots, the lot of us. Now then: my friend, Rodion Romanovich Raskolnikov, has heard a lot about you and was keen to meet you, that's the first thing; secondly, he's here on a bit of business. Ha! Zametov! What are you doing here? Don't tell me you know each other? When did that happen?'
'Now what?' thought Raskolnikov anxiously.
Zametov seemed embarrassed, though only a little.
'We met yesterday, at your place,' was his nonchalant reply.
'Oh well, that's one less job for me, then. All last week he was pestering me to arrange an introduction with you, Porfiry, but I see you're already in cahoots . . . Now where's your tobacco?'
Porfiry Petrovich was dressed for indoors - a dressing gown, immaculate linen and soft, down-at-heel shoes. He was a man of about thirty-five, of somewhat less than average height, plump and even with a bit of a belly, clean-shaven, with neither a moustache nor whiskers, and with thick cropped hair on a big round head, its roundness somehow especially marked from behind. His puffy, round and slightly snub-nosed face was of a sickly, dark-yellow hue, but lively enough and with a touch of mockery about it. It might even have been good-natured, were it not for the expression of the eyes, with their vaguely watery sheen and lashes that were almost white and kept blinking, as if winking at someone. This expression was somehow strangely at odds with his general appearance, which even had something womanish about it, and imparted a far more serious aspect than might have been expected at first glance.
As soon as Porfiry Petrovich heard that his visitor had come 'on a bit of business', he immediately offered him a seat on the couch, sat himself down at the other end and stared at his guest, eagerly waiting for him to explain what this business was, with that emphatically and excessively serious attention which can be quite oppressive and disconcerting when first encountered, especially in a stranger and especially when what you are explaining is, in your own opinion, completely incommensurate with the unusual solicitude being shown to you. But Raskolnikov, in a few brief and coherent sentences, lucidly and precisely explained the matter and was so satisfied with his efforts that he even managed to take a good look at Porfiry. Nor did Porfiry Petrovich take his eyes off Raskolnikov, during all this time. Razumikhin, who had sat down opposite them at the same table, was following Raskolnikov's summary with a burning impatience, constantly shifting his eyes from one to the other and back again, which seemed a little excessive.
'Idiot!' Raskolnikov swore to himself.
'You ought to submit a statement to the police,' Porfiry responded with the most business-like air, 'to the effect, sir, that being apprised of such-and-such an incident - the murder, I mean - you are requesting, in your turn, that the investigator entrusted with this matter be informed that items such-and-such belong to you and that you wish to redeem them . . . or whatever . . . but they'll write it for you themselves, in any case.'
'The problem is,' said Raskolnikov, with as much embarrassment as he could muster, 'that I'm a bit out of pocket right now . . . and I can't even stump up the petty cash for . . . You see, for the moment all I wish to do is declare that the items are mine, and when the money comes in . . .'
'Makes no odds, sir,' replied Porfiry Petrovich, unmoved by this clarification about the state of his finances, 'but if you prefer you may write directly to me to the same effect, namely, that being apprised of such-and-such and declaring items such-and-such to be mine, I request . . .'
'Ordinary paper13 will do, I take it?' Raskolnikov hastened to interrupt, expressing his interest once again in the financial side of the matter.
'Oh, as ordinary as you like, sir!' - and Porfiry Petrovich suddenly looked at him with a sort of blatant mockery, narrowing his eyes and even winking at him. Or perhaps this was just Raskolnikov's impression, for it lasted no more than an instant. In any case, something of the sort occurred. Raskolnikov could have sworn he winked at him, the devil only knew why.
'He knows!' flashed through him like lightning.
'Forgive me for bothering you with such trifles,' he went on, somewhat knocked off his stride. 'My items are only worth five roubles, but they're especially dear to me, as a memento of who they came from, and I admit I had a real fright when I heard . . .'
'So that's why you got in such a flap yesterday when I blurted out to Zosimov that Porfiry was questioning the pawners?' Razumikhin put in, with obvious intent.
This was too much to bear and Raskolnikov's black eyes flashed fire in the direction of Razumikhin. But he instantly came to his senses.
'You seem to be making fun of me, brother?' he said to him with artfully affected irritation. 'I understand that in your eyes a bit of junk may not be worth all this fuss, but that's no reason to think me either selfish or greedy, and in my eyes these two paltry little things might not be junk at all. Didn't I tell you just now that the silver watch, which is barely worth a copeck, is the only thing of my father's to have survived? Laugh all you like, but my mother has come to see me' - he suddenly turned to Porfiry - 'and if she were to find out' - he turned back sharply to Razumikhin, trying his best to make his voice tremble - 'that the watch has vanished, she'd be distraught, I swear! Women!'
'No! That's not what I meant at all! Quite the opposite!' cried an aggrieved Razumikhin.
'Any good? Natural enough? Not over the top?' Raskolnikov asked himself anxiously. 'Why did I go and say "women"?'
'So your mother has come to see you, has she?' Porfiry Petrovich enquired for some reason.
'Yes.'
'And she arrived when, sir?'
'Yesterday evening.'
Porfiry fell silent, as if working something out.
'There's no way your items could have vanished, no way at all,' he continued calmly and coldly. 'After all, I've been expecting you here for some time.'
And then, as if nothing had happened, he set about offering an ashtray to Razumikhin, who was scattering ash all over the rug. Raskolnikov flinched, but Porfiry, still preoccupied with Razumikhin's
papirosa, appeared not to notice.
'What did you say? Expecting him? But how could you know he'd been pawning things there too?' Razumikhin shouted.
Porfiry Petrovich addressed Raskolnikov directly:
'Both your items, the ring and the watch, were found at hers wrapped up in the same piece of paper, and your name was clearly marked on the paper in pencil, as was the day of the month when she received them from you . . .'
'How very perceptive of you . . . ,' said Raskolnikov, forcing an awkward grin and trying his best to look him straight in the eye; but he couldn't restrain himself and suddenly added: 'I said that just now because there must have been a great number of pawners . . . and it would have been hard for you to remember them all . . . Yet you remember them all so clearly and . . . and . . .'
('How stupid! How pathetic! Why did I go and say that?')
'Nearly all the pawners have now been identified - you alone did not see fit to visit,' Porfiry replied, with a barely discernible hint of mockery.
'I wasn't entirely well.'
'So I heard, sir. I even heard that you were terribly upset about something. You seem somewhat pale even now?'
'I'm not remotely pale . . . in fact, I'm perfectly well!' Raskolnikov snapped back, suddenly changing his tone. The spite was bubbling up inside him and he couldn't keep it down. 'I'll end up saying something I regret!' flashed through his mind once more. 'But why must they torment me?'
'Perfectly well, did he say?' Razumikhin jumped in. 'Poppycock! Even yesterday you were still raving, almost out of your mind . . . Consider this, Porfiry: he could barely stand, but the second Zosimov and I turned our backs yesterday he got dressed, made off and gadded about somewhere until it was nearly midnight, and all this, let me tell you, when he was completely and utterly delirious. Can you imagine? A most extraordinary case!'
'Completely and utterly delirious! Really? Well I never!' said Porfiry, with a womanish shake of the head.
'What nonsense! Don't believe him! Though actually, you don't believe a word of this anyway!' Raskolnikov let slip in his anger. But Porfiry Petrovich appeared not to hear these strange words.
'But how could you have gone out if you weren't delirious?' asked Razumikhin with a sudden rush of excitement. 'Why did you go out? What for? . . . And why so secretly? You can't have been thinking straight, can you? I can be frank with you now the danger's passed!'
'I was sick to death of them yesterday,' Raskolnikov suddenly told Porfiry with an insolent, defiant sneer, 'so I ran off to rent a place where they couldn't find me, and took a pile of money with me. Mr Zametov over there saw the cash. Well, Mr Zametov: was I delirious yesterday or was I clever? You settle the argument.'
He could have strangled Zametov there and then. The way he was looking at him without saying anything was more than he could stand.
'If you ask me, you were speaking perfectly sensibly and even cunningly, sir, only you were much too irritable,' came Zametov's dry response.
'And today,' Porfiry Petrovich put in, 'Nikodim Fomich was telling me that he met you yesterday, at a terribly late hour, in the apartment of a man who'd been trampled by horses, a civil servant . . .'
'There you go - that civil servant!' Razumikhin exclaimed. 'I mean, what was that if not crazy? You gave away your every last copeck to a widow for the funeral! All right, you felt like helping out - so give her fifteen roubles, give her twenty, or at least leave yourself three, but no, you had to fork out all twenty-five!'
'What if I've found a hidden treasure somewhere and you don't know? Wouldn't that explain my fit of generosity yesterday? . . . Mr Zametov over there knows all about it! . . . Please excuse us,' he said to Porfiry, lips trembling, 'for bothering you with half an hour of such silliness. I expect you've had quite enough of us, eh?'
'The very idea, sir! On the contrary, on the contrary! If only you knew how much you intrigue me! How interesting it is to observe you and listen to you . . . and, I must admit, I'm so glad you've seen fit to visit at last . . .'
'You might at least offer us some tea! I'm parched!' cried Razumikhin.
'A splendid idea! Perhaps everyone will have a cup. But how about something a touch . . . more substantial, before the tea, I mean?'
'Get out!'
Porfiry Petrovich went off to order the tea.
Thoughts whirled in Raskolnikov's mind. He was terribly annoyed.
'The main thing is they're not even concealing it. They're not even going to be polite about it! But what cause did you have, seeing as we've never met, to talk to Nikodim Fomich about me? So they can't even be bothered to conceal the fact that they're hounding me like a pack of dogs! Spitting in my face, that's what they're doing!' He was shaking with fury. 'Hit me if you have to, but don't play cat-and-mouse. That's bad form, Porfiry Petrovich, and I may not stand for it, sir! . . . I'll get up and I'll blurt out the whole truth right in your faces; then you'll see how much I despise you!' He could barely catch his breath. 'But what if I'm imagining this? What if this is just a mirage and I've got everything wrong, if I'm angry through lack of experience, too angry to keep up my despicable act? Perhaps there's no intent in any of this. Their words are all ordinary enough, but there's something about them . . . something about these everyday phrases . . . Why did he say "at hers" so bluntly? Why did Zametov add that I was speaking cunningly? Why do they take this tone? Yes . . . their tone . . . Razumikhin was sitting right here - why doesn't he sense anything? That harmless dimwit never senses anything! . . . And here's the fever again! . . . Did Porfiry wink at me before or didn't he? What nonsense; why should he wink? Working on my nerves, are they? Or just teasing me? Either this is all a mirage or else they know! . . . Even Zametov's got a nerve . . . Hasn't he? . . . Changed his mind overnight. I had a feeling he would! He's quite at home here, though it's his first time. Porfiry doesn't even think of him as his guest and sits with his back to him. They're in cahoots! And all because of me, I'm sure of it! I'm sure they were speaking about me before we got here! . . . Do they know about the apartment, then? The sooner the better! . . . When I said I'd run off to rent a place yesterday he let it go, he didn't react . . . Very clever of me to slip that in: it'll come in handy later on! . . . Delirious, they say! . . . Ha-ha-ha! He knows all about yesterday evening! And didn't know about Mother's arrival! . . . That witch even put the date, with a pencil! . . . Rubbish, you won't catch me so easily! These aren't facts yet - just a mirage! No, you give me facts, if you have any! The apartment's not a fact, either, it's delirium; I know what to say to them . . . Do they know about the apartment? I won't leave till they tell me! Why have I come here? My being angry now - that's a fact, I suppose! Ugh, how irritable I am! But maybe that's good; the sick man's act . . . He's feeling me out. Hoping to confuse me. Why have I come here?'
All this swept through his mind like lightning.
Porfiry Petrovich was back in a flash. He seemed merrier, somehow.
'You know, brother, my head's aching from last night at your place . . . I feel a wreck,' he began in a quite different tone, turning to Razumikhin and laughing.
'You had a good time, then? I left you at the most interesting point, remember? Who won?'
'No one, of course. We alighted on the sempiternal question, our heads in the heavens.'
'Can you imagine, Rodya, what it was they alighted on yesterday: does crime exist or does it not? Didn't I say the devil would have blushed to hear them?'
'What's so surprising about that? Just an ordinary sociological question,' replied Raskolnikov absently.
'That's not how it was formulated,' remarked Porfiry.
'Not exactly, that's true,' Razumikhin hurriedly agreed, as excited as ever. 'Rodion, just listen to this and tell me what you think. I want to know. I was at my wits' end with them yesterday and was just waiting for you. I'd even told them you'd be coming . . . It all began with the socialist position. No surprises there: crime is a protest against the abnormality of the social order - and that's all there is to it! T
hey accept no other causes! Nothing else!'
'Liar!' cried Porfiry Petrovich. He was becoming increasingly animated and laughed whenever he looked at Razumikhin, which only goaded him on.
'Nothing else at all!' Razumikhin interrupted him hotly. 'And I'm not lying! . . . I'll show you the kind of books they write: with them it's always "the environment"14 that's to blame and nothing else! They love that word! Their conclusion? The proper organization of society would lead to all crime disappearing at once, as there'd be no reason to protest and everyone would become righteous, just like that. Human nature is discounted, banished, surplus to requirements! With them it's not humanity, which, having developed along its historical, living path to the end, will eventually turn into a normal society on its own, but rather the social system, which, emerging from some kind of mathematical head, will immediately organize all humanity and make it righteous and sinless, just like that, quicker than any living process, and without the need for any historical, living path! That's why they have such an instinctive dislike of history: "mere chaos and stupidity" - stupidity being the only explanation required. And that's why they have such a dislike of life as a living process: a living soul is the last thing they want! Living souls demand life; living souls don't obey mechanics; living souls are suspicious; living souls are reactionary! Whereas here - all right, there may be a whiff of carrion about it, and you could make it from rubber if you had to, but at least it's not alive, at least it has no will, at least it's slavish and it won't rebel! So all that's left is to lay bricks for the phalanstery15 and arrange the corridors and rooms! Well, the phalanstery may be ready, but your nature is not: it wants life; it wants to complete its living process; it's a bit too early for the cemetery! You can't leap over nature by logic alone! Logic foresees three eventualities, but there's a million of them! So cut them all off, the whole million, and boil everything down to just one thing: comfort! The easy solution! Seductively simple! No need to think! That's the main thing - no need to think! All life's mystery reduced to two printer's sheets!'