When
he
remembered
the
scene
afterwards,
this
is
how
Raskolnikov
saw
it.
The
noise
behind
the
door
increased,
and
suddenly
the
door
was
opened
a little. "What
is
it?" cried Porfiry Petrovitch, annoyed. "Why, I gave orders..."
For
an
instant
there
was
no
answer,
but
it
was
evident
that
there
were
several
persons
at
the
door,
and
that
they
were
apparently
pushing
somebody back. "What
is
it?" Porfiry Petrovitch repeated, uneasily. "The
prisoner
Nikolay has been brought," someone answered. "He
is
not
wanted!
Take
him
away!
Let
him
wait! What's
he
doing here?
How
irregular!" cried Porfiry,
rushing
to
the
door. "But he..." began
the
same
voice,
and
suddenly ceased.
Two
seconds,
not
more,
were
spent
in
actual
struggle,
then
someone gave a
violent
shove,
and
then
a man,
very
pale, strode
into
the
room.
This
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!" "That's
in
God's hands,"
muttered
Porfiry,
with
an
unnatural smile. "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
of
an
hour
on
the
sofa, trying
to
collect
his
thoughts.
He
did
not
attempt
to
think
about
Nikolay;
he
was
stupefied;
he
felt
that
his
confession
was
something
inexplicable, amazing—something
beyond
his
understanding.
But
Nikolay's
confession
was
an
actual
fact.
The
consequences
of
this
fact
were
clear
to
him
at
once,
its
falsehood
could
not
fail
to
be
discovered,
and
then
they
would
be
after
him
again.
Till
then,
at
least,
he
was
free
and
must
do
something
for
himself,
for
the
danger
was
imminent. Porfiry had shown
almost
all
his
cards—of course,
he
had
risked
something
in
showing
them—and
if
he
had really had
anything
up
his
sleeve
(Raskolnikov reflected),
he
would
have
shown that, too.
What
was
that
"surprise"?
Was
it
a joke? Had
it
meant anything?
Could
it
have
concealed
anything
like
a fact, a
piece
of
positive evidence?
His
yesterday's visitor?
What
had
become
of
him?
Where
was
he
to-day?
If
Porfiry really had
any
evidence,
it
must
be
connected
with
him....
He
sat
on
the
sofa
with
his
elbows
on
his
knees
and
his
face
hidden
in
his
hands.
He
was
still
shivering
nervously.
At
last
he
got up,
took
his
cap,
thought
a minute,
and
went
to
the
door.
He
had a
sort
of
presentiment
that
for
to-day,
at
least,
he
might
consider
himself
out
of
danger.
He
had a
sudden
sense
almost
of
joy;
he
wanted
to
make
haste
to
Katerina Ivanovna's.
He
would
be
too
late
for
the
funeral,
of
course,
but
he
would
be
in
time
for
the
memorial
dinner,
and
there
at
once
he
would
see
Sonia.
He
stood still,
thought
a moment,
and
a suffering
smile
came
for
a
moment
on
to
his
lips. "To-day! To-day,"
he
repeated
to
himself. "Yes, to-day!
So
it
must
be...."
The
man
stood
in
the
doorway,
looked
at
Raskolnikov
without
speaking,
and
took
a
step
forward
into
the
room.
He
was
exactly
the
same
as
yesterday;
the
same
figure,
the
same
dress,
but
there
was
a
great
change
in
his
face;
he
looked
dejected
and
sighed deeply.
If
he
had
only
put
his
hand
up
to
his
cheek
and
leaned
his
head
on
one
side
he
would
have
looked
exactly
like
a
peasant
woman. "What
do
you
want?"
asked
Raskolnikov, numb
with
terror.
The
man
was
still
silent,
but
suddenly
he
bowed
down
almost
to
the
ground, touching
it
with
his
finger. "What
is
it?" cried Raskolnikov. "I
have
sinned,"
the
man
articulated softly. "How?" "By
evil
thoughts."
They
looked
at
one
another. "I
was
vexed.
When
you
came,
perhaps
in
drink,
and
bade
the
porters
go
to
the
police
station
and
asked
about
the
blood, I
was
vexed
that
they
let
you
go
and
took
you
for
drunken. I
was
so
vexed
that
I lost my sleep.
And
remembering
the
address
we
came
here
yesterday
and
asked
for
you...." "Who came?" Raskolnikov interrupted, instantly
beginning
to
recollect. "I did, I've
wronged
you." "Then
you
come
from
that
house?" "I
was
standing
at
the
gate
with
them... don't
you
remember?
We
have
carried
on
our
trade
in
that
house
for
years
past.
We
cure
and
prepare
hides,
we
take
work
home...
most
of
all
I
was
vexed...."
And
the
whole
scene
of
the
day
before
yesterday
in
the
gateway came clearly
before
Raskolnikov's mind;
he
recollected
that
there
had been
several
people
there
besides
the
porters, women
among
them.
He
remembered
one
voice had
suggested
taking
him
straight
to
the
police-station.
He
could
not
recall
the
face
of
the
speaker,
and
even
now
he
did
not
recognise
it,
but
he
remembered
that
he
had
turned
round
and
made
him
some
answer.... "Was
it
you
who
told
Porfiry...
that
I'd been there?"
he
cried, struck
by
a
sudden
idea. "What Porfiry?" "The
head
of
the
detective department?" "Yes.
The
porters
did
not
go
there,
but
I went." "To-day?" "I got
there
two
minutes
before
you.
And
I heard, I
heard
it
all,
how
he
worried you." "Where? What? When?" "Why,
in
the
next
room. I
was
sitting
there
all
the
time." "What? Why,
then
you
were
the
surprise?
But
how
could
it
happen?
Upon
my word!" "I
saw
that
the
porters
did
not
want
to
do
what
I said," began
the
man; "for it's
too
late, said they,
and
maybe he'll
be
angry
that
we
did
not
come
at
the
time. I
was
vexed
and
I lost my sleep,
and
I began
making
inquiries.
And
finding
out
yesterday
where
to
go, I went to-day.
The
first
time I went
he
wasn't there,
when
I came
an
hour
later
he
couldn't
see
me. I went
the
third
time,
and
they
showed
me
in. I
informed
him
of
everything,
just
as
it
happened,
and
he
began skipping
about
the
room
and
punching
himself
on
the
chest. 'What
do
you
scoundrels
mean
by
it?
If
I'd known
about
it
I
should
have
arrested him!'
Then
he
ran
out,
called
somebody
and
began talking
to
him
in
the
corner,
then
he
turned
to
me, scolding
and
questioning
me.
He
scolded
me
a
great
deal;
and
I
told
him
everything,
and
I
told
him
that
you
didn't
dare
to
say
a
word
in
answer
to
me
yesterday
and
that
you
didn't
recognise
me.
And
he
fell
to
running
about
again
and
kept
hitting
himself
on
the
chest,
and
getting
angry
and
running about,
and
when
you
were
announced
he
told
me
to
go
into
the
next
room. 'Sit
there
a bit,'
he
said. 'Don't move, whatever
you
may
hear.'
And
he
set
a chair
there
for
me
and
locked
me
in. 'Perhaps,'
he
said, 'I
may
call
you.'
And
when
Nikolay'd been brought
he
let
me
out
as
soon
as
you
were
gone. 'I
shall
send
for
you
again
and
question
you,'
he
said." "And
did
he
question
Nikolay
while
you
were
there?" "He got
rid
of
me
as
he
did
of
you,
before
he
spoke
to
Nikolay."
The
man
stood still,
and
again
suddenly
bowed
down, touching
the
ground
with
his
finger. "Forgive
me
for
my
evil
thoughts,
and
my slander." "May
God
forgive
you,"
answered
Raskolnikov.
And
as
he
said this,
the
man
bowed
down
again,
but
not
to
the
ground,
turned
slowly
and
went
out
of
the
room. "It
all
cuts
both
ways,
now
it
all
cuts
both
ways," repeated Raskolnikov,
and
he
went
out
more
confident
than
ever. "Now we'll
make
a
fight
for
it,"
he
said,
with
a
malicious
smile,
as
he
went
down
the
stairs.
His
malice
was
aimed
at
himself;
with
shame
and
contempt
he
recollected
his
"cowardice."