Crime and Punishment & Other Great Novels of Dostoevsky. Fyodor Dostoevsky

man’s appearance was at first sight very strange. He stared straight before him, as though seeing nothing. There was a determined gleam in his eyes; at the same time there was a deathly pallor in his face, as though he were being led to the scaffold. His white lips were faintly twitching.

      He was dressed like a workman and was of medium height, very young, slim, his hair cut in round crop, with thin spare features. The man whom he had thrust back followed him into the room and succeeded in seizing him by the shoulder; he was a warder; but Nikolay pulled his arm away.

      Several persons crowded inquisitively into the doorway. Some of them tried to get in. All this took place almost instantaneously.

      “Go away, it’s too soon! Wait till you are sent for! . . . Why have you brought him so soon?” Porfiry Petrovitch muttered, extremely annoyed, and as it were thrown out of his reckoning.

      But Nikolay suddenly knelt down.

      “What’s the matter?” cried Porfiry, surprised.

      “I am guilty! Mine is the sin! I am the murderer,” Nikolay articulated suddenly, rather breathless, but speaking fairly loudly.

      For ten seconds there was silence as though all had been struck dumb; even the warder stepped back, mechanically retreated to the door, and stood immovable.

      “What is it?” cried Porfiry Petrovitch, recovering from his momentary stupefaction.

      “I . . . am the murderer,” repeated Nikolay, after a brief pause.

      “What . . . you . . . what . . . whom did you kill?” Porfiry Petrovitch was obviously bewildered.

      Nikolay again was silent for a moment.

      “Alyona Ivanovna and her sister Lizaveta Ivanovna, I . . . killed . . . with an axe. Darkness came over me,” he added suddenly, and was again silent.

      He still remained on his knees. Porfiry Petrovitch stood for some moments as though meditating, but suddenly roused himself and waved back the uninvited spectators. They instantly vanished and closed the door. Then he looked towards Raskolnikov, who was standing in the corner, staring wildly at Nikolay and moved towards him, but stopped short, looked from Nikolay to Raskolnikov and then again at Nikolay, and seeming unable to restrain himself darted at the latter.

      “You’re in too great a hurry,” he shouted at him, almost angrily. “I didn’t ask you what came over you. . . . Speak, did you kill them?”

      “I am the murderer. . . . I want to give evidence,” Nikolay pronounced.

      “Ach! What did you kill them with?”

      “An axe. I had it ready.”

      “Ach, he is in a hurry! Alone?”

      Nikolay did not understand the question.

      “Did you do it alone?”

      “Yes, alone. And Mitka is not guilty and had no share in it.”

      “Don’t be in a hurry about Mitka! A-ach! How was it you ran downstairs like that at the time? The porters met you both!”

      “It was to put them off the scent . . . I ran after Mitka,” Nikolay replied hurriedly, as though he had prepared the answer.

      “I knew it!” cried Porfiry, with vexation. “It’s not his own tale he is telling,” he muttered as though to himself, and suddenly his eyes rested on Raskolnikov again.

      He was apparently so taken up with Nikolay that for a moment he had forgotten Raskolnikov. He was a little taken aback.

      “My dear Rodion Romanovitch, excuse me!” he flew up to him, “this won’t do; I’m afraid you must go . . . it’s no good your staying . . . I will . . . you see, what a surprise! . . . Good-bye!”

      And taking him by the arm, he showed him to the door.

      “I suppose you didn’t expect it?” said Raskolnikov who, though he had not yet fully grasped the situation, had regained his courage.

      “You did not expect it either, my friend. See how your hand is trembling! He-he!”

      “You’re trembling, too, Porfiry Petrovitch!”

      “Yes, I am; I didn’t expect it.”

      They were already at the door; Porfiry was impatient for Raskolnikov to be gone.

      “And your little surprise, aren’t you going to show it to me?” Raskolnikov said, sarcastically.

      “Why, his teeth are chattering as he asks, he-he! You are an ironical person! Come, till we meet!”

      “I believe we can say good-bye!”

      “That’s in God’s hands,” muttered Porfiry, with an unnatural smile.

      As he walked through the office, Raskolnikov noticed that many people were looking at him. Among them he saw the two porters from the house, whom he had invited that night to the police station. They stood there waiting. But he was no sooner on the stairs than he heard the voice of Porfiry Petrovitch behind him. Turning round, he saw the latter running after him, out of breath.

      “One word, Rodion Romanovitch; as to all the rest, it’s in God’s hands, but as a matter of form there are some questions I shall have to ask you . . . so we shall meet again, shan’t we?”

      And Porfiry stood still, facing him with a smile.

      “Shan’t we?” he added again.

      He seemed to want to say something more, but could not speak out.

      “You must forgive me, Porfiry Petrovitch, for what has just passed . . . I lost my temper,” began Raskolnikov, who had so far regained his courage that he felt irresistibly inclined to display his coolness.

      “Don’t mention it, don’t mention it,” Porfiry replied, almost gleefully. “I myself, too . . . I have a wicked temper, I admit it! But we shall meet again. If it’s God’s will, we may see a great deal of one another.”

      “And will get to know each other through and through?” added Raskolnikov.

      “Yes; know each other through and through,” assented Porfiry Petrovitch, and he screwed up his eyes, looking earnestly at Raskolnikov. “Now you’re going to a birthday party?”

      “To a funeral.”

      “Of course, the funeral! Take care of yourself, and get well.”

      “I don’t know what to wish you,” said Raskolnikov, who had begun to descend the stairs, but looked back again. “I should like to wish you success, but your office is such a comical one.”

      “Why comical?” Porfiry Petrovitch had turned to go, but he seemed to prick up his ears at this.

      “Why, how you must have been torturing and harassing that poor Nikolay psychologically, after your fashion, till he confessed! You must have been at him day and night, proving to him that he was the murderer, and now that he has confessed, you’ll begin vivisecting him again. ‘You are lying,’ you’ll say. ‘You are not the murderer! You can’t be! It’s not your own tale you are telling!’ You must admit it’s a comical business!”

      “He-he-he! You noticed then that I said to Nikolay just now that it was not his own tale he was telling?”

      “How could I help noticing it!”

      “He-he! You are quick-witted. You notice everything! You’ve really a playful mind! And you always fasten on the comic side . . . he-he! They say that was the marked characteristic of Gogol, among the writers.”

      “Yes, of Gogol.”

      “Yes, of Gogol. . . . I shall look forward to meeting you.”

      “So shall I.”

      Raskolnikov walked straight home. He was so muddled and bewildered that on getting home he sat for a quarter