When
next
morning
at
eleven
o'clock
punctually
Raskolnikov went
into
the
department
of
the
investigation
of
criminal
causes
and
sent
his
name
in
to
Porfiry Petrovitch,
he
was
surprised
at
being kept
waiting
so
long:
it
was
at
least
ten
minutes
before
he
was
summoned.
He
had
expected
that
they
would
pounce
upon
him.
But
he
stood
in
the
waiting-room,
and
people,
who
apparently had
nothing
to
do
with
him,
were
continually
passing
to
and
fro
before
him.
In
the
next
room
which
looked
like
an
office,
several
clerks
were
sitting
writing
and
obviously
they
had
no
notion
who
or
what
Raskolnikov
might
be.
He
looked
uneasily
and
suspiciously
about
him
to
see
whether
there
was
not
some
guard,
some
mysterious
watch
being kept
on
him
to
prevent
his
escape.
But
there
was
nothing
of
the
sort:
he
saw
only
the
faces
of
clerks
absorbed
in
petty
details,
then
other
people,
no
one
seemed
to
have
any
concern
with
him.
He
might
go
where
he
liked
for
them.
The
conviction
grew
stronger
in
him
that
if
that
enigmatic
man
of
yesterday,
that
phantom
sprung
out
of
the
earth, had
seen
everything,
they
would
not
have
let
him
stand
and
wait
like
that.
And
would
they
have
waited
till
he
elected
to
appear
at
eleven?
Either
the
man
had
not
yet
given
information, or...
or
simply
he
knew
nothing, had
seen
nothing
(and
how
could
he
have
seen
anything?)
and
so
all
that
had
happened
to
him
the
day
before
was
again
a
phantom
exaggerated
by
his
sick
and
overstrained imagination.
This
conjecture
had begun
to
grow
strong
the
day
before,
in
the
midst
of
all
his
alarm
and
despair.
Thinking
it
all
over
now
and
preparing
for
a
fresh
conflict,
he
was
suddenly
aware
that
he
was
trembling—and
he
felt a
rush
of
indignation
at
the
thought
that
he
was
trembling
with
fear
at
facing
that
hateful Porfiry Petrovitch.
What
he
dreaded
above
all
was
meeting
that
man
again;
he
hated
him
with
an
intense, unmitigated
hatred
and
was
afraid
his
hatred
might
betray
him.
His
indignation
was
such
that
he
ceased
trembling
at
once;
he
made
ready
to
go
in
with
a cold
and
arrogant
bearing
and
vowed
to
himself
to
keep
as
silent
as
possible,
to
watch
and
listen
and
for
once
at
least
to
control
his
overstrained nerves.
At
that
moment
he
was
summoned
to
Porfiry Petrovitch.
He
found Porfiry Petrovitch
alone
in
his
study.
His
study
was
a
room
neither
large
nor
small, furnished
with
a
large
writing-table,
that
stood
before
a sofa, upholstered
in
checked material, a bureau, a
bookcase
in
the
corner
and
several
chairs—all
government
furniture,
of
polished
yellow
wood.
In
the
further
wall
there
was
a closed door,
beyond
it
there
were
no
doubt
other
rooms.
On
Raskolnikov's
entrance
Porfiry Petrovitch had
at
once
closed
the
door
by
which
he
had
come
in
and
they
remained
alone.
He
met
his
visitor
with
an
apparently
genial
and
good-tempered air,
and
it
was
only
after
a
few
minutes
that
Raskolnikov
saw
signs
of
a
certain
awkwardness
in
him,
as
though
he
had been thrown
out
of
his
reckoning
or
caught
in
something
very
secret. "He
held
out
both
hands
to
me,
but
he
did
not
give
me
one—he
drew
it
back
in
time," struck
him
suspiciously.
Both
were
watching
each
other,
but
when
their
eyes
met,
quick
as
lightning
they
looked
away. "I brought
you
this
paper...
about
the
watch.
Here
it
is.
Is
it
all
right
or
shall
I
copy
it
again?" "What? A paper? Yes, yes, don't
be
uneasy, it's
all
right," Porfiry Petrovitch said
as
though
in
haste,
and
after
he
had said
it
he
took
the
paper
and
looked
at
it. "Yes, it's
all
right.
Nothing
more
is
needed,"
he
declared
with
the
same
rapidity
and
he
laid
the
paper
on
the
table. A
minute
later
when
he
was
talking
of
something
else
he
took
it
from
the
table
and
put
it
on
his
bureau. "Yes, yes, yes! There's
no
hurry, there's
no
hurry,"
muttered
Porfiry Petrovitch,
moving
to
and
fro
about
the
table
without
any
apparent
aim,
as
it
were
making
dashes
towards
the
window,
the
bureau
and
the
table,
at
one
moment
avoiding
Raskolnikov's
suspicious
glance,
then
again
standing
still
and
looking
him
straight
in
the
face.
His
fat
round
little
figure
looked
very
strange,
like
a
ball
rolling
from
one
side
to
the
other
and
rebounding back. "We've
plenty
of
time.
Do
you
smoke?
have
you
your
own? Here, a cigarette!"
he
went on,
offering
his
visitor
a cigarette. "You
know
I
am
receiving
you
here,
but
my
own
quarters
are
through
there,
you
know, my
government
quarters.
But
I
am
living
outside
for
the
time, I had
to
have
some
repairs
done
here. It's
almost
finished now....
Government
quarters,
you
know,
are
a
capital
thing. Eh,
what
do
you
think?" "Yes, a
capital
thing,"
answered
Raskolnikov,
looking
at
him
almost
ironically. "A
capital
thing, a
capital
thing," repeated Porfiry Petrovitch,
as
though
he
had
just
thought
of
something
quite
different. "Yes, a
capital
thing,"
he
almost
shouted
at
last, suddenly staring
at
Raskolnikov
and
stopping
short
two
steps
from
him.
This
stupid
repetition
was
too
incongruous
in
its
ineptitude
with
the
serious, brooding
and
enigmatic
glance
he
turned
upon
his
visitor.
But
this
stirred
Raskolnikov's
spleen
more
than
ever
and
he
could
not
resist
an
ironical
and
rather
incautious challenge. "Tell me, please,"
he
asked
suddenly,
looking
almost
insolently
at
him
and
taking
a
kind
of
pleasure
in
his
own
insolence. "I
believe
it's a
sort
of
legal
rule, a
sort
of
legal
tradition—for
all
investigating
lawyers—to
begin
their
attack
from
afar,
with
a trivial,
or
at
least
an
irrelevant subject,
so
as
to
encourage,
or
rather,
to
divert
the
man
they
are
cross-examining,
to
disarm
his
caution
and
then
all
at
once
to
give
him
an
unexpected knock-down blow
with
some
fatal
question. Isn't
that
so? It's a
sacred
tradition, mentioned, I fancy,
in
all
the
manuals
of
the
art?" "Yes, yes.... Why,
do
you
imagine
that
was
why
I
spoke
about
government
quarters... eh?"
And
as
he
said
this
Porfiry Petrovitch screwed
up
his
eyes
and
winked; a good-humoured,
crafty
look
passed
over
his
face.
The
wrinkles
on
his
forehead
were
smoothed
out,
his
eyes
contracted,
his
features broadened
and
he
suddenly went
off
into
a
nervous
prolonged
laugh, shaking
all
over
and
looking
Raskolnikov straight
in
the
face.
The
latter
forced
himself
to
laugh, too,
but
when
Porfiry,
seeing
that
he
was
laughing,
broke
into
such
a guffaw
that
he
turned
almost
crimson, Raskolnikov's
repulsion
overcame
all
precaution;
he
left
off
laughing, scowled
and
stared
with
hatred
at
Porfiry,
keeping
his
eyes
fixed
on
him
while
his
intentionally
prolonged
laughter
lasted.
There
was
lack
of
precaution
on
both
sides, however,
for
Porfiry Petrovitch
seemed
to
be
laughing
in
his
visitor's face
and
to
be
very
little
disturbed
at
the
annoyance
with
which
the
visitor
received it.
The
latter
fact
was
very
significant
in
Raskolnikov's eyes:
he
saw
that
Porfiry Petrovitch had
not
been embarrassed
just
before
either,
but
that
he, Raskolnikov, had
perhaps
fallen
into
a trap;
that
there
must
be
something,
some
motive
here
unknown
to
him; that, perhaps, everything
was
in
readiness
and
in
another
moment
would
break
upon
him...
He
went straight
to
the
point
at
once,
rose
from
his
seat
and
took
his
cap. "Porfiry Petrovitch,"
he
began resolutely,
though
with
considerable
irritation, "yesterday
you
expressed a
desire
that
I
should
come
to
you
for
some
inquiries" (he laid
special
stress
on
the
word
"inquiries"). "I
have
come
and
if
you
have
anything
to
ask
me,
ask
it,
and
if
not,
allow
me
to
withdraw. I
have
no
time
to
spare.... I
have
to
be
at
the
funeral
of
that
man
who
was
run
over,
of
whom
you...
know
also,"
he
added, feeling
angry
at
once
at
having
made
this
addition
and
more
irritated
at
his
anger. "I
am
sick
of
it
all,
do
you
hear?
and
have
long
been. It's partly
what
made
me
ill.
In
short,"
he
shouted, feeling
that
the
phrase
about
his
illness
was
still
more
out
of
place, "in short,
kindly
examine
me
or
let
me
go,
at
once.
And
if
you
must
examine
me,
do
so
in
the
proper
form! I
will
not
allow
you
to
do
so
otherwise,
and
so
meanwhile, good-bye,
as
we
have
evidently
nothing
to
keep
us
now." "Good heavens!
What
do
you
mean?
What
shall
I
question
you
about?"
cackled
Porfiry Petrovitch
with
a
change
of
tone, instantly
leaving
off
laughing. "Please don't
disturb
yourself,"
he
began
fidgeting
from
place
to
place
and
fussily
making
Raskolnikov
sit
down. "There's
no
hurry, there's
no
hurry, it's
all
nonsense. Oh, no, I'm
very
glad
you've
come
to
see
me
at
last... I
look
upon
you
simply
as
a visitor.
And
as
for
my
confounded
laughter,
please
excuse
it, Rodion Romanovitch. Rodion Romanovitch?
That
is
your
name?... It's my nerves,
you
tickled
me
so
with
your
witty
observation; I
assure
you, sometimes I
shake
with
laughter
like
an
india-rubber
ball
for
half
an
hour
at
a time.... I'm
often
afraid
of
an
attack
of
paralysis.
Do
sit
down.
Please
do,
or
I
shall
think
you
are
angry..." Raskolnikov
did
not
speak;
he
listened,
watching
him,
still
frowning
angrily.
He
did
sit
down,
but
still
held
his
cap. Raskolnikov
put
down
his
cap
and
continued
listening
in
silence
with
a
serious
frowning
face
to
the
vague
and
empty chatter
of
Porfiry Petrovitch. "Does
he
really
want
to
distract
my
attention
with
his
silly
babble?" "I can't
offer
you
coffee
here;
but
why
not
spend
five
minutes
with
a friend?" Porfiry pattered on, "and
you
know
all
these
official
duties...
please
don't
mind
my running
up
and
down,
excuse
it, my
dear
fellow, I
am
very
much
afraid
of
offending
you,
but
exercise
is
absolutely
indispensable
for
me. I'm
always
sitting
and
so
glad
to
be
moving
about
for
five
minutes... I
suffer
from
my
sedentary
life... I
always
intend
to
join
a gymnasium;
they
say
that
officials
of
all
ranks,
even
Privy
Councillors,
may
be
seen
skipping
gaily
there;
there
you
have
it,
modern
science... yes, yes....
But
as
for
my
duties
here,
inquiries
and
all
such
formalities...
you
mentioned
inquiries
yourself
just
now... I
assure
you
these
interrogations
are
sometimes
more
embarrassing
for
the
interrogator
than
for
the
interrogated....
You
made
the
observation
yourself
just
now
very
aptly
and
wittily." (Raskolnikov had
made
no
observation
of
the
kind.) "One
gets
into
a muddle! A regular muddle!
One
keeps
harping
on
the
same
note,
like
a drum!
There
is
to
be
a
reform
and
we
shall
be
called
by
a
different
name,
at
least, he-he-he!
And
as
for
our
legal
tradition,
as
you
so
wittily
called
it, I
thoroughly
agree
with
you.
Every
prisoner
on
trial,
even
the
rudest
peasant,
knows
that
they
begin
by
disarming
him
with
irrelevant
questions
(as
you
so
happily
put
it)
and
then
deal
him
a knock-down blow, he-he-he!—your felicitous comparison, he-he!
So
you
really
imagined
that
I meant
by
'government quarters'... he-he!
You
are
an
ironical person. Come. I won't
go
on! Ah,
by
the
way, yes!
One
word
leads
to
another.
You
spoke
of
formality
just
now,
apropos
of
the
inquiry,
you
know.
But
what's
the
use
of
formality?
In
many
cases
it's nonsense. Sometimes
one
has a
friendly
chat
and
gets
a
good
deal
more
out
of
it.
One
can
always
fall
back
on
formality,
allow
me
to
assure
you.
And
after
all,
what
does
it
amount to?
An
examining
lawyer
cannot
be
bounded
by
formality
at
every
step.
The
work
of
investigation
is,
so
to
speak, a
free
art
in
its
own
way, he-he-he!" Porfiry Petrovitch
took
breath
a moment.
He
had simply babbled
on
uttering
empty phrases,
letting
slip a
few
enigmatic
words
and
again
reverting
to
incoherence.
He
was
almost
running
about
the
room,
moving
his
fat
little
legs
quicker
and
quicker,
looking
at
the
ground,
with
his
right
hand
behind
his
back,
while
with
his
left
making
gesticulations
that
were
extraordinarily
incongruous
with
his
words. Raskolnikov suddenly noticed
that
as
he
ran
about
the
room
he
seemed
twice
to
stop
for
a
moment
near
the
door,
as
though
he
were
listening. "Is
he
expecting
anything?" "You
are
certainly
quite
right
about
it," Porfiry began gaily,
looking
with
extraordinary
simplicity
at
Raskolnikov (which startled
him
and
instantly
put
him
on
his
guard); "certainly
quite
right
in
laughing
so
wittily
at
our
legal
forms, he-he!
Some
of
these
elaborate
psychological
methods
are
exceedingly
ridiculous
and
perhaps
useless,
if
one
adheres
too
closely
to
the
forms. Yes... I
am
talking
of
forms
again. Well,
if
I recognise,
or
more
strictly speaking,
if
I suspect someone
or
other
to
be
a criminal
in
any
case
entrusted
to
me... you're
reading
for
the
law,
of
course, Rodion Romanovitch?" "Yes, I was..." "Well,
then
it
is
a
precedent
for
you
for
the
future—though don't
suppose
I
should
venture
to
instruct
you
after
the
articles
you
publish
about
crime! No, I simply
make
bold
to
state
it
by
way
of
fact,
if
I
took
this
man
or
that
for
a criminal, why, I ask,
should
I worry
him
prematurely,
even
though
I had evidence against him?
In
one
case
I
may
be
bound,
for
instance,
to
arrest
a
man
at
once,
but
another
may
be
in
quite
a
different
position,
you
know,
so
why
shouldn't I
let
him
walk
about
the
town
a bit? he-he-he!
But
I
see
you
don't
quite
understand,
so
I'll
give
you
a clearer example.
If
I
put
him
in
prison
too
soon, I
may
very
likely
give
him,
so
to
speak,
moral
support, he-he! You're laughing?" Raskolnikov had
no
idea
of
laughing.
He
was
sitting
with
compressed lips,
his
feverish
eyes
fixed
on
Porfiry Petrovitch's. Raskolnikov
made
no
reply;
he
sat
pale
and
motionless,
still
gazing
with
the
same
intensity
into
Porfiry's face. "It's a lesson,"
he
thought,
turning
cold. "This
is
beyond
the
cat
playing
with
a mouse,
like
yesterday.
He
can't
be
showing
off
his
power
with
no
motive...
prompting
me;
he
is
far
too
clever
for
that...
he
must
have
another
object.
What
is
it? It's
all
nonsense, my friend,
you
are
pretending,
to
scare
me! You've
no
proofs
and
the
man
I
saw
had
no
real
existence.
You
simply
want
to
make
me
lose
my head,
to
work
me
up
beforehand
and
so
to
crush me.
But
you
are
wrong,
you
won't
do
it!
But
why
give
me
such
a hint?
Is
he
reckoning
on
my
shattered
nerves? No, my friend,
you
are
wrong,
you
won't
do
it
even
though
you
have
some
trap
for
me...
let
us
see
what
you
have
in
store
for
me."
And
he
braced
himself
to
face a
terrible
and
unknown
ordeal.
At
times
he
longed
to
fall
on
Porfiry
and
strangle
him.
This
anger
was
what
he
dreaded
from
the
beginning.
He
felt
that
his
parched
lips
were
flecked
with
foam,
his
heart
was
throbbing.
But
he
was
still
determined
not
to
speak
till
the
right
moment.
He
realised
that
this
was
the
best
policy
in
his
position,
because
instead
of
saying
too
much
he
would
be
irritating
his
enemy
by
his
silence
and
provoking
him
into
speaking
too
freely. Anyhow,
this
was
what
he
hoped
for. "Oh, don't trouble, please," cried Raskolnikov
and
he
suddenly
broke
into
a laugh. "Please don't trouble." Porfiry stood facing him,
paused
a
moment
and
suddenly
he
too
laughed. Raskolnikov got
up
from
the
sofa,
abruptly
checking
his
hysterical
laughter. "Porfiry Petrovitch,"
he
began,
speaking
loudly
and
distinctly,
though
his
legs
trembled
and
he
could
scarcely
stand. "I
see
clearly
at
last
that
you
actually suspect
me
of
murdering
that
old
woman
and
her
sister
Lizaveta.
Let
me
tell
you
for
my
part
that
I
am
sick
of
this.
If
you
find
that
you
have
a
right
to
prosecute
me
legally,
to
arrest
me,
then
prosecute
me,
arrest
me.
But
I
will
not
let
myself
be
jeered
at
to
my face
and
worried..."
His
lips
trembled,
his
eyes
glowed
with
fury
and
he
could
not
restrain
his
voice. "I won't
allow
it!"
he
shouted,
bringing
his
fist
down
on
the
table. "Do
you
hear
that, Porfiry Petrovitch? I won't
allow
it." "Good heavens!
What
does
it
mean?" cried Porfiry Petrovitch, apparently
quite
frightened. "Rodion Romanovitch, my
dear
fellow,
what
is
the
matter
with
you?" "I won't
allow
it," Raskolnikov shouted again. "Hush, my
dear
man! They'll
hear
and
come
in.
Just
think,
what
could
we
say
to
them?" Porfiry Petrovitch whispered
in
horror,
bringing
his
face close
to
Raskolnikov's. "I won't
allow
it, I won't
allow
it," Raskolnikov repeated mechanically,
but
he
too
spoke
in
a
sudden
whisper. Porfiry
turned
quickly
and
ran
to
open
the
window. "Some
fresh
air!
And
you
must
have
some
water, my
dear
fellow. You're ill!"
and
he
was
running
to
the
door
to
call
for
some
when
he
found a decanter
of
water
in
the
corner. "Come,
drink
a little,"
he
whispered,
rushing
up
to
him
with
the
decanter. "It
will
be
sure
to
do
you
good." Porfiry Petrovitch's alarm
and
sympathy
were
so
natural
that
Raskolnikov
was
silent
and
began
looking
at
him
with
wild curiosity.
He
did
not
take
the
water, however. "Rodion Romanovitch, my
dear
fellow, you'll
drive
yourself
out
of
your
mind, I
assure
you, ach, ach!
Have
some
water,
do
drink
a little."
He
forced
him
to
take
the
glass. Raskolnikov
raised
it
mechanically
to
his
lips,
but
set
it
on
the
table
again
with
disgust. "Yes, you've had a
little
attack! You'll
bring
back
your
illness again, my
dear
fellow," Porfiry Petrovitch
cackled
with
friendly
sympathy,
though
he
still
looked
rather
disconcerted. "Good heavens,
you
must
take
more
care
of
yourself! Dmitri Prokofitch
was
here, came
to
see
me
yesterday—I know, I know, I've a nasty, ironical temper,
but
what
they
made
of
it!...
Good
heavens,
he
came
yesterday
after
you'd been.
We
dined
and
he
talked
and
talked away,
and
I
could
only
throw
up
my
hands
in
despair!
Did
he
come
from
you?
But
do
sit
down,
for
mercy's sake,
sit
down!" "No,
not
from
me,
but
I
knew
he
went
to
you
and
why
he
went," Raskolnikov
answered
sharply. "You knew?" "I knew.
What
of
it?" Raskolnikov sat down;
he
no
longer
shivered,
he
was
hot
all
over.
In
amazement
he
listened
with
strained
attention
to
Porfiry Petrovitch
who
still
seemed
frightened
as
he
looked
after
him
with
friendly
solicitude.
But
he
did
not
believe
a
word
he
said,
though
he
felt a
strange
inclination
to
believe. Porfiry's unexpected
words
about
the
flat
had
utterly
overwhelmed him. "How
can
it
be,
he
knows
about
the
flat
then,"
he
thought
suddenly, "and
he
tells
it
me
himself!" "Yes,
in
our
legal
practice
there
was
a
case
almost
exactly similar, a
case
of
morbid
psychology," Porfiry went
on
quickly. "A
man
confessed
to
murder
and
how
he
kept
it
up!
It
was
a regular hallucination;
he
brought forward facts,
he
imposed
upon
everyone
and
why?
He
had been partly,
but
only
partly, unintentionally
the
cause
of
a
murder
and
when
he
knew
that
he
had
given
the
murderers
the
opportunity,
he
sank
into
dejection,
it
got
on
his
mind
and
turned
his
brain,
he
began
imagining
things
and
he
persuaded
himself
that
he
was
the
murderer.
But
at
last
the
High Court
of
Appeal
went
into
it
and
the
poor
fellow
was
acquitted
and
put
under
proper
care.
Thanks
to
the
Court
of
Appeal! Tut-tut-tut! Why, my
dear
fellow,
you
may
drive
yourself
into
delirium
if
you
have
the
impulse
to
work
upon
your
nerves,
to
go
ringing bells
at
night
and
asking
about
blood! I've studied
all
this
morbid
psychology
in
my practice. A
man
is
sometimes
tempted
to
jump
out
of
a
window
or
from
a belfry.
Just
the
same
with
bell-ringing.... It's
all
illness, Rodion Romanovitch!
You
have
begun
to
neglect
your
illness.
You
should
consult
an
experienced doctor, what's
the
good
of
that
fat
fellow?
You
are
lightheaded!
You
were
delirious
when
you
did
all
this!"
For
a
moment
Raskolnikov felt everything going round. "Is
it
possible,
is
it
possible," flashed
through
his
mind, "that
he
is
still
lying?
He
can't be,
he
can't be."
He
rejected
that
idea, feeling
to
what
a
degree
of
fury
it
might
drive
him, feeling
that
that
fury
might
drive
him
mad. "I
was
not
delirious. I
knew
what
I
was
doing,"
he
cried, straining
every
faculty
to
penetrate
Porfiry's game, "I
was
quite
myself,
do
you
hear?" "Yes, I
hear
and
understand.
You
said
yesterday
you
were
not
delirious,
you
were
particularly
emphatic
about
it! I
understand
all
you
can
tell
me! A-ach!... Listen, Rodion Romanovitch, my
dear
fellow.
If
you
were
actually a criminal,
or
were
somehow mixed
up
in
this
damnable
business,
would
you
insist
that
you
were
not
delirious
but
in
full
possession
of
your
faculties?
And
so
emphatically
and
persistently?
Would
it
be
possible?
Quite
impossible,
to
my thinking.
If
you
had
anything
on
your
conscience,
you
certainly
ought
to
insist
that
you
were
delirious. That's so, isn't it?"
There
was
a
note
of
slyness
in
this
inquiry. Raskolnikov
drew
back
on
the
sofa
as
Porfiry bent
over
him
and
stared
in
silent
perplexity
at
him. "Another
thing
about
Razumihin—you certainly
ought
to
have
said
that
he
came
of
his
own
accord,
to
have
concealed
your
part
in
it!
But
you
don't
conceal
it!
You
lay
stress
on
his
coming
at
your
instigation." Raskolnikov had
not
done
so. A chill went
down
his
back. "You
keep
telling lies,"
he
said
slowly
and
weakly, twisting
his
lips
into
a sickly smile, "you
are
trying
again
to
show
that
you
know
all
my game,
that
you
know
all
I
shall
say
beforehand,"
he
said,
conscious
himself
that
he
was
not
weighing
his
words
as
he
ought. "You
want
to
frighten me...
or
you
are
simply laughing
at
me..."
He
still
stared
at
him
as
he
said
this
and
again
there
was
a
light
of
intense
hatred
in
his
eyes. "You
keep
lying,"
he
said. "You
know
perfectly
well
that
the
best
policy
for
the
criminal
is
to
tell
the
truth
as
nearly
as
possible...
to
conceal
as
little
as
possible. I don't
believe
you!" "What a
wily
person
you
are!" Porfiry tittered, "there's
no
catching you; you've a perfect monomania.
So
you
don't
believe
me?
But
still
you
do
believe
me,
you
believe
a quarter; I'll
soon
make
you
believe
the
whole,
because
I
have
a
sincere
liking
for
you
and
genuinely
wish
you
good." Raskolnikov's
lips
trembled. "Yes, I do," went
on
Porfiry, touching Raskolnikov's
arm
genially, "you
must
take
care
of
your
illness. Besides,
your
mother
and
sister
are
here
now;
you
must
think
of
them.
You
must
soothe
and
comfort
them
and
you
do
nothing
but
frighten them..." "What has
that
to
do
with
you?
How
do
you
know
it?
What
concern
is
it
of
yours?
You
are
keeping
watch
on
me
and
want
to
let
me
know
it?" "Good heavens! Why, I learnt
it
all
from
you
yourself!
You
don't notice
that
in
your
excitement
you
tell
me
and
others
everything.
From
Razumihin, too, I learnt a
number
of
interesting
details
yesterday. No,
you
interrupted me,
but
I
must
tell
you
that,
for
all
your
wit,
your
suspiciousness
makes
you
lose
the
common-sense view
of
things.
To
return
to
bell-ringing,
for
instance. I,
an
examining
lawyer,
have
betrayed
a precious
thing
like
that, a
real
fact
(for
it
is
a
fact
worth
having),
and
you
see
nothing
in
it! Why,
if
I had
the
slightest
suspicion
of
you,
should
I
have
acted
like
that? No, I
should
first
have
disarmed
your
suspicions
and
not
let
you
see
I
knew
of
that
fact,
should
have
diverted
your
attention
and
suddenly
have
dealt
you
a knock-down blow (your expression) saying: 'And
what
were
you
doing, sir, pray,
at
ten
or
nearly
eleven
at
the
murdered
woman's
flat
and
why
did
you
ring
the
bell
and
why
did
you
ask
about
blood?
And
why
did
you
invite
the
porters
to
go
with
you
to
the
police
station,
to
the
lieutenant?' That's
how
I
ought
to
have
acted
if
I had a
grain
of
suspicion
of
you. I
ought
to
have
taken
your
evidence
in
due
form,
searched
your
lodging
and
perhaps
have
arrested you, too...
so
I
have
no
suspicion
of
you,
since
I
have
not
done
that!
But
you
can't
look
at
it
normally
and
you
see
nothing, I
say
again." Raskolnikov started
so
that
Porfiry Petrovitch
could
not
fail
to
perceive
it. "You
are
lying
all
the
while,"
he
cried, "I don't
know
your
object,
but
you
are
lying.
You
did
not
speak
like
that
just
now
and
I cannot
be
mistaken!" "I
am
lying?" Porfiry repeated, apparently incensed,
but
preserving a good-humoured
and
ironical face,
as
though
he
were
not
in
the
least
concerned
at
Raskolnikov's
opinion
of
him. "I
am
lying...
but
how
did
I treat
you
just
now, I,
the
examining
lawyer?
Prompting
you
and
giving
you
every
means
for
your
defence; illness, I said, delirium, injury, melancholy
and
the
police
officers
and
all
the
rest
of
it? Ah! He-he-he! Though, indeed,
all
those
psychological
means
of
defence
are
not
very
reliable
and
cut
both
ways: illness, delirium, I don't remember—that's
all
right,
but
why, my
good
sir,
in
your
illness
and
in
your
delirium
were
you
haunted
by
just
those
delusions
and
not
by
any
others?
There
may
have
been others, eh? He-he-he!" Raskolnikov
looked
haughtily
and
contemptuously
at
him. "Briefly,"
he
said loudly
and
imperiously, rising
to
his
feet
and
in
so
doing
pushing
Porfiry
back
a little, "briefly, I
want
to
know,
do
you
acknowledge
me
perfectly
free
from
suspicion
or
not?
Tell
me, Porfiry Petrovitch,
tell
me
once
for
all
and
make
haste!" "What a
business
I'm
having
with
you!" cried Porfiry
with
a perfectly good-humoured,
sly
and
composed face. "And
why
do
you
want
to
know,
why
do
you
want
to
know
so
much,
since
they
haven't begun
to
worry you? Why,
you
are
like
a
child
asking
for
matches!
And
why
are
you
so
uneasy?
Why
do
you
force
yourself
upon
us, eh? He-he-he!" "I repeat," Raskolnikov cried furiously, "that I can't
put
up
with
it!" "With what? Uncertainty?" interrupted Porfiry. "Don't jeer
at
me! I won't
have
it! I
tell
you
I won't
have
it. I can't
and
I won't,
do
you
hear,
do
you
hear?"
he
shouted,
bringing
his
fist
down
on
the
table again. "Hush! Hush! They'll overhear! I
warn
you
seriously,
take
care
of
yourself. I
am
not
joking," Porfiry whispered,
but
this
time
there
was
not
the
look
of
old
womanish
good
nature
and
alarm
in
his
face.
Now
he
was
peremptory, stern,
frowning
and
for
once
laying
aside
all
mystification.
But
this
was
only
for
an
instant. Raskolnikov, bewildered, suddenly
fell
into
actual
frenzy, but,
strange
to
say,
he
again
obeyed
the
command
to
speak
quietly,
though
he
was
in
a perfect
paroxysm
of
fury. "I
will
not
allow
myself
to
be
tortured,"
he
whispered, instantly
recognising
with
hatred
that
he
could
not
help
obeying
the
command
and
driven
to
even
greater
fury
by
the
thought. "Arrest me,
search
me,
but
kindly
act
in
due
form
and
don't
play
with
me! Don't dare!" "Don't worry
about
the
form," Porfiry interrupted
with
the
same
sly
smile,
as
it
were,
gloating
with
enjoyment
over
Raskolnikov. "I invited
you
to
see
me
quite
in
a
friendly
way." "I don't
want
your
friendship
and
I
spit
on
it!
Do
you
hear? And, here, I
take
my
cap
and
go.
What
will
you
say
now
if
you
mean
to
arrest
me?"
He
took
up
his
cap
and
went
to
the
door. "And won't
you
see
my
little
surprise?" chuckled Porfiry,
again
taking
him
by
the
arm
and
stopping
him
at
the
door.
He
seemed
to
become
more
playful
and
good-humoured
which
maddened Raskolnikov. "What surprise?"
he
asked, standing
still
and
looking
at
Porfiry
in
alarm. "My
little
surprise, it's sitting
there
behind
the
door, he-he-he!" (He pointed
to
the
locked
door.) "I
locked
him
in
that
he
should
not
escape." "What
is
it? Where? What?..." Raskolnikov walked
to
the
door
and
would
have
opened
it,
but
it
was
locked. "It's locked,
here
is
the
key!"
And
he
brought a
key
out
of
his
pocket. "You
are
lying,"
roared
Raskolnikov
without
restraint, "you lie,
you
damned
punchinello!"
and
he
rushed
at
Porfiry
who
retreated
to
the
other
door,
not
at
all
alarmed. "I
understand
it
all!
You
are
lying
and
mocking
so
that
I
may
betray
myself
to
you..." "Why,
you
could
not
betray
yourself
any
further, my
dear
Rodion Romanovitch.
You
are
in
a passion. Don't shout, I
shall
call
the
clerks." "You
are
lying!
Call
the
clerks!
You
knew
I
was
ill
and
tried
to
work
me
into
a frenzy
to
make
me
betray
myself,
that
was
your
object! Produce
your
facts! I
understand
it
all. You've
no
evidence,
you
have
only
wretched
rubbishly
suspicions
like
Zametov's!
You
knew
my character,
you
wanted
to
drive
me
to
fury
and
then
to
knock
me
down
with
priests
and
deputies....
Are
you
waiting
for
them? eh!
What
are
you
waiting
for?
Where
are
they? Produce them?" "Why deputies, my
good
man?
What
things
people
will
imagine!
And
to
do
so
would
not
be
acting
in
form
as
you
say,
you
don't
know
the
business, my
dear
fellow....
And
there's
no
escaping
form,
as
you
see," Porfiry muttered,
listening
at
the
door
through
which
a
noise
could
be
heard. "Ah, they're coming," cried Raskolnikov. "You've sent
for
them!
You
expected
them! Well, produce
them
all:
your
deputies,
your
witnesses,
what
you
like!... I
am
ready!"
But
at
this
moment
a
strange
incident
occurred,
something
so
unexpected
that
neither
Raskolnikov
nor
Porfiry Petrovitch
could
have
looked
for
such
a
conclusion
to
their
interview.