"Ah
these
cigarettes!" Porfiry Petrovitch
ejaculated
at
last,
having
lighted
one. "They
are
pernicious, positively pernicious,
and
yet
I can't
give
them
up! I cough, I
begin
to
have
tickling
in
my
throat
and
a
difficulty
in
breathing.
You
know
I
am
a coward, I went
lately
to
Dr. B——n;
he
always
gives
at
least
half
an
hour
to
each
patient.
He
positively laughed
looking
at
me;
he
sounded
me: 'Tobacco's
bad
for
you,'
he
said, 'your
lungs
are
affected.'
But
how
am
I
to
give
it
up?
What
is
there
to
take
its
place? I don't drink, that's
the
mischief, he-he-he,
that
I don't. Everything
is
relative, Rodion Romanovitch, everything
is
relative!" "Why, he's
playing
his
professional
tricks
again," Raskolnikov
thought
with
disgust.
All
the
circumstances
of
their
last
interview suddenly came
back
to
him,
and
he
felt a
rush
of
the
feeling
that
had
come
upon
him
then. "I came
to
see
you
the
day
before
yesterday,
in
the
evening;
you
didn't know?" Porfiry Petrovitch went on,
looking
round
the
room. "I came
into
this
very
room. I
was
passing by,
just
as
I
did
to-day,
and
I
thought
I'd
return
your
call. I walked
in
as
your
door
was
wide
open, I
looked
round,
waited
and
went
out
without
leaving
my
name
with
your
servant. Don't
you
lock
your
door?" Raskolnikov's face
grew
more
and
more
gloomy. Porfiry
seemed
to
guess
his
state
of
mind. "I've
come
to
have
it
out
with
you, Rodion Romanovitch, my
dear
fellow! I
owe
you
an
explanation
and
must
give
it
to
you,"
he
continued
with
a slight smile,
just
patting Raskolnikov's knee.
But
almost
at
the
same
instant
a
serious
and
careworn
look
came
into
his
face;
to
his
surprise
Raskolnikov
saw
a
touch
of
sadness
in
it.
He
had
never
seen
and
never
suspected
such
an
expression
in
his
face. "A
strange
scene
passed
between
us
last
time
we
met, Rodion Romanovitch.
Our
first
interview, too,
was
a
strange
one;
but
then...
and
one
thing
after
another!
This
is
the
point: I
have
perhaps
acted
unfairly
to
you; I feel it.
Do
you
remember
how
we
parted?
Your
nerves
were
unhinged
and
your
knees
were
shaking
and
so
were
mine. And,
you
know,
our
behaviour
was
unseemly,
even
ungentlemanly.
And
yet
we
are
gentlemen,
above
all,
in
any
case, gentlemen;
that
must
be
understood.
Do
you
remember
what
we
came to?...
and
it
was
quite
indecorous." "What
is
he
up
to,
what
does
he
take
me
for?" Raskolnikov
asked
himself
in
amazement,
raising
his
head
and
looking
with
open
eyes
on
Porfiry. "I've decided
openness
is
better
between
us," Porfiry Petrovitch went on,
turning
his
head
away
and
dropping
his
eyes,
as
though
unwilling
to
disconcert
his
former
victim
and
as
though
disdaining
his
former
wiles. "Yes,
such
suspicions
and
such
scenes
cannot
continue
for
long. Nikolay
put
a stop
to
it,
or
I don't
know
what
we
might
not
have
come
to.
That
damned
workman
was
sitting
at
the
time
in
the
next
room—can
you
realise
that?
You
know
that,
of
course;
and
I
am
aware
that
he
came
to
you
afterwards.
But
what
you
supposed
then
was
not
true: I had
not
sent
for
anyone, I had
made
no
kind
of
arrangements.
You
ask
why
I hadn't?
What
shall
I
say
to
you?
it
had
all
come
upon
me
so
suddenly. I had
scarcely
sent
for
the
porters (you noticed
them
as
you
went out, I
dare
say).
An
idea
flashed
upon
me; I
was
firmly
convinced
at
the
time,
you
see, Rodion Romanovitch. Come, I thought—even
if
I
let
one
thing
slip
for
a time, I
shall
get
hold
of
something
else—I shan't
lose
what
I want, anyway.
You
are
nervously
irritable, Rodion Romanovitch,
by
temperament; it's
out
of
proportion
with
other
qualities
of
your
heart
and
character,
which
I
flatter
myself
I
have
to
some
extent
divined.
Of
course
I
did
reflect
even
then
that
it
does
not
always
happen
that
a
man
gets
up
and
blurts
out
his
whole
story.
It
does
happen
sometimes,
if
you
make
a
man
lose
all
patience,
though
even
then
it's rare. I
was
capable
of
realising
that.
If
I
only
had a fact, I thought,
the
least
little
fact
to
go
upon,
something
I
could
lay
hold
of,
something
tangible,
not
merely psychological.
For
if
a
man
is
guilty,
you
must
be
able
to
get
something
substantial
out
of
him;
one
may
reckon
upon
most
surprising
results
indeed. I
was
reckoning
on
your
temperament, Rodion Romanovitch,
on
your
temperament
above
all
things! I had
great
hopes
of
you
at
that
time." "But
what
are
you
driving
at
now?" Raskolnikov
muttered
at
last,
asking
the
question
without
thinking. "What
is
he
talking about?"
he
wondered
distractedly, "does
he
really
take
me
to
be
innocent?" "What
am
I
driving
at? I've
come
to
explain
myself, I
consider
it
my duty,
so
to
speak. I
want
to
make
clear
to
you
how
the
whole
business,
the
whole
misunderstanding arose. I've
caused
you
a
great
deal
of
suffering, Rodion Romanovitch. I
am
not
a monster. I
understand
what
it
must
mean
for
a
man
who
has been unfortunate,
but
who
is
proud,
imperious
and
above
all, impatient,
to
have
to
bear
such
treatment! I
regard
you
in
any
case
as
a
man
of
noble
character
and
not
without
elements
of
magnanimity,
though
I don't
agree
with
all
your
convictions. I wanted
to
tell
you
this
first, frankly
and
quite
sincerely,
for
above
all
I don't
want
to
deceive
you.
When
I
made
your
acquaintance, I felt
attracted
by
you.
Perhaps
you
will
laugh
at
my
saying
so.
You
have
a
right
to. I
know
you
disliked
me
from
the
first
and
indeed
you've
no
reason
to
like
me.
You
may
think
what
you
like,
but
I
desire
now
to
do
all
I
can
to
efface
that
impression
and
to
show
that
I
am
a
man
of
heart
and
conscience. I
speak
sincerely." Porfiry Petrovitch
made
a dignified pause. Raskolnikov felt a
rush
of
renewed
alarm.
The
thought
that
Porfiry
believed
him
to
be
innocent
began
to
make
him
uneasy. "Now,
why
need
you
have
come?
Your
laughter, too,
as
you
came in,
do
you
remember? I
saw
it
all
plain
as
daylight,
but
if
I hadn't
expected
you
so
specially, I
should
not
have
noticed
anything
in
your
laughter.
You
see
what
influence
a mood has! Mr. Razumihin then—ah,
that
stone,
that
stone
under
which
the
things
were
hidden! I
seem
to
see
it
somewhere
in
a kitchen garden.
It
was
in
a kitchen garden,
you
told
Zametov
and
afterwards
you
repeated
that
in
my office?
And
when
we
began picking
your
article
to
pieces,
how
you
explained
it!
One
could
take
every
word
of
yours
in
two
senses,
as
though
there
were
another
meaning hidden. "So
in
this
way, Rodion Romanovitch, I reached
the
furthest limit,
and
knocking
my
head
against a post, I
pulled
myself
up,
asking
myself
what
I
was
about.
After
all, I said,
you
can
take
it
all
in
another
sense
if
you
like,
and
it's
more
natural
so, indeed. I couldn't
help
admitting
it
was
more
natural. I
was
bothered! 'No, I'd
better
get
hold
of
some
little
fact' I said.
So
when
I
heard
of
the
bell-ringing, I
held
my
breath
and
was
all
in
a tremor. 'Here
is
my
little
fact,'
thought
I,
and
I didn't
think
it
over, I simply wouldn't. I
would
have
given
a
thousand
roubles
at
that
minute
to
have
seen
you
with
my
own
eyes,
when
you
walked a
hundred
paces
beside
that
workman,
after
he
had
called
you
murderer
to
your
face,
and
you
did
not
dare
to
ask
him
a
question
all
the
way.
And
then
what
about
your
trembling,
what
about
your
bell-ringing
in
your
illness,
in
semi-delirium? "Razumihin
told
me
just
now
that
you
think
Nikolay
guilty
and
had yourself assured
him
of
it...."
His
voice
failed
him,
and
he
broke
off.
He
had been
listening
in
indescribable
agitation,
as
this
man
who
had
seen
through
and
through
him, went
back
upon
himself.
He
was
afraid
of
believing
it
and
did
not
believe
it.
In
those
still
ambiguous
words
he
kept
eagerly
looking
for
something
more
definite
and
conclusive. "Mr. Razumihin!" cried Porfiry Petrovitch, seeming
glad
of
a
question
from
Raskolnikov,
who
had
till
then
been silent. "He-he-he!
But
I had
to
put
Mr. Razumihin off;
two
is
company,
three
is
none. Mr. Razumihin
is
not
the
right
man, besides
he
is
an
outsider.
He
came running
to
me
with
a
pale
face....
But
never
mind
him,
why
bring
him
in?
To
return
to
Nikolay,
would
you
like
to
know
what
sort
of
a type
he
is,
how
I
understand
him,
that
is?
To
begin
with,
he
is
still
a
child
and
not
exactly a coward,
but
something
by
way
of
an
artist. Really, don't laugh
at
my
describing
him
so.
He
is
innocent
and
responsive
to
influence.
He
has a heart,
and
is
a
fantastic
fellow.
He
sings
and
dances,
he
tells
stories,
they
say,
so
that
people
come
from
other
villages
to
hear
him.
He
attends
school
too,
and
laughs
till
he
cries
if
you
hold
up
a
finger
to
him;
he
will
drink
himself
senseless—not
as
a regular vice,
but
at
times,
when
people
treat him,
like
a child.
And
he
stole, too, then,
without
knowing
it
himself,
for
'How
can
it
be
stealing,
if
one
picks
it
up?'
And
do
you
know
he
is
an
Old
Believer,
or
rather
a dissenter?
There
have
been Wanderers[*]
in
his
family,
and
he
was
for
two
years
in
his
village
under
the
spiritual guidance
of
a
certain
elder. I learnt
all
this
from
Nikolay
and
from
his
fellow
villagers.
And
what's more,
he
wanted
to
run
into
the
wilderness!
He
was
full
of
fervour,
prayed
at
night, read
the
old
books, 'the true' ones,
and
read
himself
crazy. "Petersburg had a
great
effect
upon
him, especially
the
women
and
the
wine.
He
responds
to
everything
and
he
forgot
the
elder
and
all
that. I learnt
that
an
artist
here
took
a fancy
to
him,
and
used
to
go
and
see
him,
and
now
this
business
came
upon
him. "Well,
he
was
frightened,
he
tried
to
hang
himself!
He
ran
away!
How
can
one
get
over
the
idea
the
people
have
of
Russian
legal
proceedings?
The
very
word
'trial' frightens
some
of
them.
Whose
fault
is
it?
We
shall
see
what
the
new
juries
will
do.
God
grant
they
do
good! Well,
in
prison,
it
seems,
he
remembered
the
venerable
elder;
the
Bible, too,
made
its
appearance
again.
Do
you
know, Rodion Romanovitch,
the
force
of
the
word
'suffering'
among
some
of
these
people! It's
not
a
question
of
suffering
for
someone's benefit,
but
simply, 'one
must
suffer.'
If
they
suffer
at
the
hands
of
the
authorities,
so
much
the
better.
In
my time
there
was
a
very
meek
and
mild
prisoner
who
spent a
whole
year
in
prison
always
reading
his
Bible
on
the
stove
at
night
and
he
read
himself
crazy,
and
so
crazy,
do
you
know,
that
one
day,
apropos
of
nothing,
he
seized
a
brick
and
flung
it
at
the
governor;
though
he
had
done
him
no
harm.
And
the
way
he
threw
it
too:
aimed
it
a
yard
on
one
side
on
purpose,
for
fear
of
hurting him. Well,
we
know
what
happens
to
a
prisoner
who
assaults
an
officer
with
a weapon.
So
'he
took
his
suffering.' "So I suspect
now
that
Nikolay
wants
to
take
his
suffering
or
something
of
the
sort. I
know
it
for
certain
from
facts, indeed.
Only
he
doesn't
know
that
I know. What,
you
don't
admit
that
there
are
such
fantastic
people
among
the
peasants?
Lots
of
them.
The
elder
now
has begun
influencing
him, especially
since
he
tried
to
hang
himself.
But
he'll
come
and
tell
me
all
himself.
You
think
he'll
hold
out?
Wait
a bit, he'll
take
his
words
back. I
am
waiting
from
hour
to
hour
for
him
to
come
and
abjure
his
evidence. I
have
come
to
like
that
Nikolay
and
am
studying
him
in
detail.
And
what
do
you
think? He-he!
He
answered
me
very
plausibly
on
some
points,
he
obviously
had
collected
some
evidence
and
prepared
himself
cleverly.
But
on
other
points
he
is
simply
at
sea,
knows
nothing
and
doesn't
even
suspect
that
he
doesn't know! "No, Rodion Romanovitch, Nikolay doesn't
come
in!
This
is
a fantastic, gloomy business, a
modern
case,
an
incident
of
to-day
when
the
heart
of
man
is
troubled,
when
the
phrase
is
quoted
that
blood 'renews,'
when
comfort
is
preached
as
the
aim
of
life.
Here
we
have
bookish dreams, a
heart
unhinged
by
theories.
Here
we
see
resolution
in
the
first
stage,
but
resolution
of
a
special
kind:
he
resolved
to
do
it
like
jumping
over
a
precipice
or
from
a bell
tower
and
his
legs
shook
as
he
went
to
the
crime.
He
forgot
to
shut
the
door
after
him,
and
murdered
two
people
for
a theory.
He
committed
the
murder
and
couldn't
take
the
money,
and
what
he
did
manage
to
snatch
up
he
hid
under
a stone.
It
wasn't
enough
for
him
to
suffer
agony
behind
the
door
while
they
battered
at
the
door
and
rung
the
bell, no,
he
had
to
go
to
the
empty lodging,
half
delirious,
to
recall
the
bell-ringing,
he
wanted
to
feel
the
cold shiver
over
again.... Well,
that
we
grant,
was
through
illness,
but
consider
this:
he
is
a murderer,
but
looks
upon
himself
as
an
honest
man,
despises
others,
poses
as
injured
innocence. No, that's
not
the
work
of
a Nikolay, my
dear
Rodion Romanovitch!"
All
that
had been said
before
had
sounded
so
like
a recantation
that
these
words
were
too
great
a shock. Raskolnikov shuddered
as
though
he
had been stabbed. "Then...
who
then...
is
the
murderer?"
he
asked
in
a breathless voice,
unable
to
restrain
himself. Porfiry Petrovitch sank
back
in
his
chair,
as
though
he
were
amazed
at
the
question. Raskolnikov leapt
from
the
sofa, stood
up
for
a
few
seconds
and
sat
down
again
without
uttering
a word.
His
face twitched convulsively. "Your
lip
is
twitching
just
as
it
did
before," Porfiry Petrovitch
observed
almost
sympathetically. "You've been misunderstanding me, I think, Rodion Romanovitch,"
he
added
after
a
brief
pause, "that's
why
you
are
so
surprised. I came
on
purpose
to
tell
you
everything
and
deal
openly
with
you." "It
was
not
I
murdered
her," Raskolnikov whispered
like
a frightened
child
caught
in
the
act. "No,
it
was
you,
you
Rodion Romanovitch,
and
no
one
else," Porfiry whispered sternly,
with
conviction.
They
were
both
silent
and
the
silence
lasted
strangely
long,
about
ten
minutes. Raskolnikov
put
his
elbow
on
the
table
and
passed
his
fingers
through
his
hair. Porfiry Petrovitch sat
quietly
waiting. Suddenly Raskolnikov
looked
scornfully
at
Porfiry. "You
are
at
your
old
tricks
again, Porfiry Petrovitch!
Your
old
method
again. I
wonder
you
don't
get
sick
of
it!" "Oh, stop that,
what
does
that
matter
now?
It
would
be
a
different
matter
if
there
were
witnesses present,
but
we
are
whispering
alone.
You
see
yourself
that
I
have
not
come
to
chase
and
capture
you
like
a hare.
Whether
you
confess
it
or
not
is
nothing
to
me
now;
for
myself, I
am
convinced
without
it." "If so,
what
did
you
come
for?" Raskolnikov
asked
irritably. "I
ask
you
the
same
question
again:
if
you
consider
me
guilty,
why
don't
you
take
me
to
prison?" "Oh, that's
your
question! I
will
answer
you,
point
for
point.
In
the
first
place,
to
arrest
you
so
directly
is
not
to
my interest." "How so?
If
you
are
convinced
you
ought...." "Ach,
what
if
I
am
convinced? That's
only
my
dream
for
the
time.
Why
should
I
put
you
in
safety?
You
know
that's it,
since
you
ask
me
to
do
it.
If
I
confront
you
with
that
workman
for
instance
and
you
say
to
him
'were
you
drunk
or
not?
Who
saw
me
with
you? I simply
took
you
to
be
drunk,
and
you
were
drunk, too.' Well,
what
could
I answer, especially
as
your
story
is
a
more
likely
one
than
his?
for
there's
nothing
but
psychology
to
support
his
evidence—that's
almost
unseemly
with
his
ugly
mug,
while
you
hit
the
mark
exactly,
for
the
rascal
is
an
inveterate
drunkard
and
notoriously
so.
And
I
have
myself
admitted
candidly
several
times
already
that
that
psychology
can
be
taken
in
two
ways
and
that
the
second
way
is
stronger
and
looks
far
more
probable,
and
that
apart
from
that
I
have
as
yet
nothing
against you.
And
though
I
shall
put
you
in
prison
and
indeed
have
come—quite
contrary
to
etiquette—to
inform
you
of
it
beforehand,
yet
I
tell
you
frankly,
also
contrary
to
etiquette,
that
it
won't
be
to
my advantage. Well, secondly, I've
come
to
you
because..." "Yes, yes, secondly?" Raskolnikov
was
listening
breathless. "Because,
as
I
told
you
just
now, I
consider
I
owe
you
an
explanation. I don't
want
you
to
look
upon
me
as
a monster,
as
I
have
a
genuine
liking
for
you,
you
may
believe
me
or
not.
And
in
the
third
place
I've
come
to
you
with
a
direct
and
open
proposition—that
you
should
surrender
and
confess.
It
will
be
infinitely
more
to
your
advantage
and
to
my
advantage
too,
for
my task
will
be
done. Well,
is
this
open
on
my
part
or
not?" Raskolnikov
thought
a minute. "Listen, Porfiry Petrovitch.
You
said
just
now
you
have
nothing
but
psychology
to
go
on,
yet
now
you've gone
on
mathematics. Well,
what
if
you
are
mistaken yourself, now?" "No, Rodion Romanovitch, I
am
not
mistaken. I
have
a
little
fact
even
then,
Providence
sent
it
me." "What
little
fact?" Raskolnikov
smiled
malignantly. "That's
not
simply ridiculous, it's positively shameless. Why,
even
if
I
were
guilty,
which
I don't admit,
what
reason
should
I
have
to
confess,
when
you
tell
me
yourself
that
I
shall
be
in
greater
safety
in
prison?" "Ah, Rodion Romanovitch, don't
put
too
much
faith
in
words,
perhaps
prison
will
not
be
altogether a restful place. That's
only
theory
and
my theory,
and
what
authority
am
I
for
you? Perhaps, too,
even
now
I
am
hiding
something
from
you? I can't
lay
bare
everything, he-he!
And
how
can
you
ask
what
advantage? Don't
you
know
how
it
would
lessen
your
sentence?
You
would
be
confessing
at
a
moment
when
another
man
has taken
the
crime
on
himself
and
so
has muddled
the
whole
case.
Consider
that! I
swear
before
God
that
I
will
so
arrange
that
your
confession
shall
come
as
a complete surprise.
We
will
make
a clean
sweep
of
all
these
psychological
points,
of
a
suspicion
against you,
so
that
your
crime
will
appear
to
have
been
something
like
an
aberration,
for
in
truth
it
was
an
aberration. I
am
an
honest
man, Rodion Romanovitch,
and
will
keep
my word." Raskolnikov
maintained
a mournful silence
and
let
his
head
sink dejectedly.
He
pondered
a
long
while
and
at
last
smiled
again,
but
his
smile
was
sad
and
gentle. "No!"
he
said, apparently
abandoning
all
attempt
to
keep
up
appearances
with
Porfiry, "it's
not
worth
it, I don't
care
about
lessening
the
sentence!" "That's
just
what
I
was
afraid
of!" Porfiry cried warmly and,
as
it
seemed, involuntarily. "That's
just
what
I feared,
that
you
wouldn't
care
about
the
mitigation
of
sentence." Raskolnikov
looked
sadly
and
expressively
at
him. "Ah, don't
disdain
life!" Porfiry went on. "You
have
a
great
deal
of
it
still
before
you.
How
can
you
say
you
don't
want
a
mitigation
of
sentence?
You
are
an
impatient
fellow!" "A
great
deal
of
what
lies
before
me?" "Of life.
What
sort
of
prophet
are
you,
do
you
know
much
about
it?
Seek
and
ye
shall
find.
This
may
be
God's
means
for
bringing
you
to
Him.
And
it's
not
for
ever,
the
bondage...." "The time
will
be
shortened," laughed Raskolnikov. "Ach,
hang
it!" Raskolnikov whispered
with
loathing
and
contempt,
as
though
he
did
not
want
to
speak
aloud.
He
got
up
again
as
though
he
meant
to
go
away,
but
sat
down
again
in
evident
despair. "Hang it,
if
you
like! You've lost
faith
and
you
think
that
I
am
grossly flattering you;
but
how
long
has
your
life
been?
How
much
do
you
understand?
You
made
up
a
theory
and
then
were
ashamed
that
it
broke
down
and
turned
out
to
be
not
at
all
original!
It
turned
out
something
base, that's true,
but
you
are
not
hopelessly base.
By
no
means
so
base!
At
least
you
didn't
deceive
yourself
for
long,
you
went straight
to
the
furthest
point
at
one
bound.
How
do
I
regard
you? I
regard
you
as
one
of
those
men
who
would
stand
and
smile
at
their
torturer
while
he
cuts
their
entrails
out,
if
only
they
have
found
faith
or
God. Find
it
and
you
will
live.
You
have
long
needed
a
change
of
air. Suffering, too,
is
a
good
thing. Suffer! Maybe Nikolay
is
right
in
wanting
to
suffer. I
know
you
don't
believe
in
it—but don't
be
over-wise; fling yourself straight
into
life,
without
deliberation; don't
be
afraid—the flood
will
bear
you
to
the
bank
and
set
you
safe
on
your
feet again.
What
bank?
How
can
I tell? I
only
believe
that
you
have
long
life
before
you. I
know
that
you
take
all
my
words
now
for
a
set
speech
prepared
beforehand,
but
maybe
you
will
remember
them
after.
They
may
be
of
use
some
time. That's
why
I speak. It's
as
well
that
you
only
killed
the
old
woman.
If
you'd
invented
another
theory
you
might
perhaps
have
done
something
a
thousand
times
more
hideous.
You
ought
to
thank
God, perhaps.
How
do
you
know?
Perhaps
God
is
saving
you
for
something.
But
keep
a
good
heart
and
have
less
fear!
Are
you
afraid
of
the
great
expiation
before
you? No,
it
would
be
shameful
to
be
afraid
of
it.
Since
you
have
taken
such
a step,
you
must
harden
your
heart.
There
is
justice
in
it.
You
must
fulfil
the
demands
of
justice. I
know
that
you
don't
believe
it,
but
indeed,
life
will
bring
you
through.
You
will
live
it
down
in
time.
What
you
need
now
is
fresh
air,
fresh
air,
fresh
air!" Raskolnikov positively started. "But
who
are
you?
what
prophet
are
you?
From
the
height
of
what
majestic
calm
do
you
proclaim
these
words
of
wisdom?" "Who
am
I? I
am
a
man
with
nothing
to
hope
for, that's all. A
man
perhaps
of
feeling
and
sympathy, maybe
of
some
knowledge
too,
but
my
day
is
over.
But
you
are
a
different
matter,
there
is
life
waiting
for
you. Though,
who
knows? maybe
your
life, too,
will
pass
off
in
smoke
and
come
to
nothing. Come,
what
does
it
matter,
that
you
will
pass
into
another
class
of
men? It's
not
comfort
you
regret,
with
your
heart!
What
of
it
that
perhaps
no
one
will
see
you
for
so
long? It's
not
time,
but
yourself
that
will
decide
that.
Be
the
sun
and
all
will
see
you.
The
sun
has
before
all
to
be
the
sun.
Why
are
you
smiling
again?
At
my being
such
a Schiller? I
bet
you're
imagining
that
I
am
trying
to
get
round
you
by
flattery. Well,
perhaps
I am, he-he-he!
Perhaps
you'd
better
not
believe
my word,
perhaps
you'd
better
never
believe
it
altogether—I'm
made
that
way, I
confess
it.
But
let
me
add,
you
can
judge
for
yourself, I think,
how
far
I
am
a base
sort
of
man
and
how
far
I
am
honest." "When
do
you
mean
to
arrest
me?" "Well, I
can
let
you
walk
about
another
day
or
two.
Think
it
over, my
dear
fellow,
and
pray
to
God. It's
more
in
your
interest,
believe
me." "And
what
if
I
run
away?"
asked
Raskolnikov
with
a
strange
smile. Raskolnikov got
up
and
took
his
cap. Porfiry Petrovitch
also
rose. "Are
you
going
for
a walk?
The
evening
will
be
fine,
if
only
we
don't
have
a storm.
Though
it
would
be
a
good
thing
to
freshen
the
air." He, too,
took
his
cap. "Porfiry Petrovitch,
please
don't
take
up
the
notion
that
I
have
confessed
to
you
to-day," Raskolnikov pronounced
with
sullen
insistence. "You're a
strange
man
and
I
have
listened
to
you
from
simple
curiosity.
But
I
have
admitted
nothing,
remember
that!" "Oh, I
know
that, I'll remember.
Look
at
him, he's trembling! Don't
be
uneasy, my
dear
fellow,
have
it
your
own
way. Walk
about
a bit,
you
won't
be
able
to
walk
too
far.
If
anything
happens, I
have
one
request
to
make
of
you,"
he
added,
dropping
his
voice. "It's
an
awkward one,
but
important.
If
anything
were
to
happen
(though
indeed
I don't
believe
in
it
and
think
you
quite
incapable
of
it),
yet
in
case
you
were
taken
during
these
forty
or
fifty
hours
with
the
notion
of
putting
an
end
to
the
business
in
some
other
way,
in
some
fantastic
fashion—laying
hands
on
yourself—(it's
an
absurd
proposition,
but
you
must
forgive
me
for
it)
do
leave
a
brief
but
precise
note,
only
two
lines,
and
mention
the
stone.
It
will
be
more
generous. Come,
till
we
meet!
Good
thoughts
and
sound
decisions
to
you!" Porfiry went out,
stooping
and
avoiding
looking
at
Raskolnikov.
The
latter
went
to
the
window
and
waited
with
irritable
impatience
till
he
calculated
that
Porfiry had reached
the
street
and
moved
away.
Then
he
too
went hurriedly
out
of
the
room.