This, he recalled, was the day fixed for Katerina Ivanovna's funeral, and he was relieved to have missed it. Nastasya brought him some food. He ate and drank with gusto, almost greedily. His mind felt fresher and he himself calmer than at any point in these last three days. He even felt a passing surprise at his earlier surges of panic. The door opened and Razumikhin walked in.
'Ha! He's eating, so he can't be that sick!' said Razumikhin, grabbing a chair and sitting down at the table, opposite Raskolnikov. He was very worried about something and made no attempt to hide the fact. He spoke with evident vexation, but without hurrying and even without raising his voice very much. One might have thought that some special, even all-consuming purpose had taken hold of him. 'Listen,' he began decisively, 'you can all go to hell as far as I'm concerned, but what I see now tells me clearly that I don't understand a thing; but please, don't think I've come here to interrogate you. As if I care! Go ahead and reveal everything, all your secrets, and I might very well not even listen - I'll spit and walk away. I only came to find out in person, once and for all: is it true, first of all, that you're mad? You see, there's this notion about you (among some people, somewhere) that you might be mad or very much that way inclined. I'll admit that I myself was strongly tempted to support this opinion, firstly, on account of your stupid and not infrequently beastly actions (which are beyond explanation), and secondly, on account of your recent behaviour towards your mother and sister. Only a monster and a scoundrel, if not a madman, could have behaved towards them as you did; therefore, you are mad . . .'
'When did you last see them?'
'Just now. So you've not seen them since then? Where do you keep gadding off to, eh? This is the fourth time I've come by. Your mother's been seriously ill since yesterday. She wanted to visit you. Avdotya Romanovna tried to stop her, but she wasn't having any of it: "If he's sick, if he's disturbed, who'll help him if not his mother?" We all came over together - we could hardly let her go on her own. Begged her to calm down all the way to your door. Came in, but you were out. She sat right here. Sat here for ten minutes, with us silently hovering over her. She got up and said: "If he's out and about, which means he must be well and has forgotten all about his mother, then it's unseemly and shameful for me to loiter on the threshold, begging for a kiss as if it were charity." She went back home and took to her bed. Now she's running a fever. "He can find time for his girl, I see." By that she means Sofya Semyonovna, your fiancee or lover - don't ask me. I set off straight away to see Sofya Semyonovna, because, brother, I wanted to get to the bottom of it all. I walk in and what do I find? A coffin, children crying. Sofya Semyonovna measuring their mourning dresses. No sign of you. I looked, apologized and left, and reported back to Avdotya Romanovna. So it was all rubbish and there was no girl; madness, more likely. But here you are wolfing down beef as if you haven't eaten for three days. Fair enough, the mad have to eat too; but even though you've not said a word to me, you're . . . not mad! I'll swear on it. If there's one thing you're not, it's mad! In short, you can all go to hell, because there's some mystery here, some secret; and I don't intend to rack my brains wondering what you're all hiding. I only came over here to shout and swear,' he concluded, getting up, 'and to get it all off my chest, but I know what I'm going to do next!'
'And what do you want to do next?'
'Why should you care what I want to do next?'
'Mind you stay away from the bottle!'
'How on earth did you guess?'
'Do me a favour!'
Razumikhin fell silent for a minute.
'You've always been a rational sort and you've never, ever been mad,' he suddenly remarked with feeling. 'Yes, I'll hit the bottle! See you!' - and he made as if to leave.
'You know, Razumikhin, I was speaking about you with my sister - must have been the day before yesterday.'
'About me? But . . . where on earth could you have seen her the day before yesterday?' asked Razumikhin, suddenly stopping and even turning a little pale. One look at him was enough to feel the slow, tense thumping of his heart.
'She came here, all alone, sat here and talked to me.'
'She came here?'
'Yes.'
'So what did you say . . . about me, I mean?'
'I told her that you're a very good, honest and hard-working man. I didn't tell her you love her - she already knows.'
'She already knows?'
'Of course she knows! Wherever I go and whatever happens to me, you'll still be their Providence. I am, you might say, handing them over to you, Razumikhin. I say this because I know full well how much you love her and I know your heart is pure. I also know that she can love you and perhaps already does. Now it's for you to decide, whether or not to go boozing.'
'Rodka . . . You see . . . Well . . . Ah, damn it all! And where are you off to anyway? You see, if this is all a secret, fine! But I'll . . . I'll discover this secret . . . And I bet it's something completely idiotic, something dreadfully trivial, and that it's all your own doing. Never mind - you're a smashing lad! A smashing lad!'
'I was just about to add, before you interrupted, that it was very sensible of you to decide earlier on to leave these mysteries and secrets alone. Forget all about them. You'll find everything out in your own time, just when you need to. Yesterday someone was telling me that air is what man needs - air, air! I'm just about to go and see him and find out what he means.'
Razumikhin stood there, pensive and uneasy, trying to work something out.
'He's a political conspirator!1 No doubt about it! And he's on the verge of some drastic step - no doubt about it! And . . . and Dunya knows . . . ,' he suddenly thought to himself.
'So Avdotya Romanovna comes to see you,' he said, enunciating every syllable, 'but the person you want to see is a man who tells you that what you need is air, more air and . . . and so this letter . . . must also have something to do with that,' he concluded, as if talking to himself.
'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 denouement, 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?'
II
'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----2 - 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 gen
tlemen. 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.'