“Himself, himself. Good-bye! I'll tell you a bit more later, but right now I have something to do. There...there was a time when I thought...But what of it; later! ... Why should I get drunk now. You've got me drunk without wine. Because I am drunk, Rodka! I'm drunk without wine now. Well, good-bye; I'll come again, very soon.”
He walked out.
“He's a political conspirator, he is, for sure, for sure!” Razumikhin decided to himself finally, as he slowly went down the stairs. “And he's drawn his sister into it; that's very, very likely, given Avdotya Romanovna's character. They've started meeting together . .. And she, too, dropped me a hint. It all comes out precisely that way, from many of her words...and phrases...and hints! And how else can all this tangle be explained? Hm! And I almost thought...Oh, Lord, how could I dream of it! Yes, sir, that was an eclipse, and I am guilty before him! It was he who brought this eclipse on me then, by the light, in the corridor. Pah! What a nasty, crude, mean thought on my part! Good boy, Mikolka, for confessing...And all the earlier things are explained now! That illness of his then, all that strange behavior, even before, before, still at the university, he was always so gloomy, sullen...But then, what does this letter mean? There might be something there as well. Who is the letter from? I suspect... Hm. No, I'm going to find it all out.”
He remembered and put together everything about Dunechka, and his heart sank. He tore from his place and ran.
Raskolnikov, as soon as Razumikhin left, got up, turned towards the window, bumped into one corner, then into another, as if forgetting how small his kennel was, and...sat down again on the sofa. He was altogether renewed, as it were; again the fight—it meant a way out had been found!
“Yes, it means a way out has been found! For everything had become too stifling and confined, too painfully oppressive, overcome by some sort of druggedness. Since that very scene with Mikolka at Porfiry's, he had been suffocating in a cramped space, with no way out. After Mikolka, on the same day, there had been the scene at Sonya's; he had handled it and ended it not at all, not at all as he might have imagined to himself beforehand...which meant he had become weak, instantly and radically! All at once! And he had agreed with Sonya then, he had agreed, agreed in his heart, that he would not be able to live like that, alone, with such a thing on his soul! And Svidrigailov? Svidrigailov's a riddle...Svidrigailov troubles him, it's true, but somehow not from that side. Maybe he'll have to face a struggle with Svidrigailov as well. Svidrigailov may also be a whole way out; but Porfiry's a different matter.
“So it was Porfiry himself who explained it to Razumikhin, explained it psychologically!He's bringing in his cursed psychology again! Porfiry, indeed! As if Porfiry could believe even for a moment in Mikolka's guilt, after what had passed between them then, after that face-to-face scene just before Mikolka, of which there could be no correct interpretation except one!”(Several times during those days scraps of that whole scene with Porfiry had flashed and recalled themselves to Raskolnikov; he could not have borne the recollection as a whole.) “Such words had been spoken between them then, such movements and gestures had been made, such looks had been exchanged, certain things had been said in such a tone, it had reached such limits, that thereafter it was not for Mikolka (whom Porfiry had figured out by heart from the first word and gesture), it was not for Mikolka to shake the very foundations of his convictions.
“And now look! Even Razumikhin has begun to suspect! So that scene in the corridor, by the light, did not go in vain. He went rushing to Porfiry...But why did the man start hoodwinking him like that? What is he aiming at in using Mikolka as a blind with Razumikhin? He certainly must have something in mind; there's an intention here, but what? True, much time has passed since that morning—much too much, and not a word or a breath from Porfiry. Well, that, of course, was worse than...” Raskolnikov took his cap and, pensive, started out of the room. For the first day in all that time he felt himself, at least, of sound mind. “I must finish with Svidrigailov,” he thought, “at all costs, as soon as possible: he, too, seems to be waiting for me to come to him.” And at that moment such hatred rose up from his weary heart that he might have killed either one of them: Svidrigailov or Porfiry. At least he felt that if not now, then later he would be able to do so. “We'll see, we'll see,” he repeated silently.
But no sooner had he opened the door to the entryway than he suddenly ran into Porfiry himself. He was coming in. Raskolnikov was dumbfounded for a moment. Strangely, he was not very surprised to see Porfiry and was almost not afraid of him. He was merely startled, but he quickly, instantly, readied himself. “The denouement, perhaps! But how is it that he came up so softly, like a cat, and I heard nothing? Can he have been eavesdropping?”
“You weren't expecting a visitor, Rodion Romanovich,” Porfiry Petrovich exclaimed, laughing. “I've been meaning to drop in for a long time; then I was passing by and thought—why not stop for five minutes and see how he is? Are you on your way somewhere? I won't keep you. Just one little cigarette, if I may.”
“Sit down, Porfiry Petrovich, do sit down.” Raskolnikov invited his visitor to take a seat, ostensibly in so pleased and friendly a manner that he would indeed have marveled could he have seen himself. The dregs, the leavings, were being scraped out! Thus a man will sometimes suffer half an hour of mortal fear with a robber, but once the knife is finally at his throat, even fear vanishes. He sat down facing Porfiry and looked at him without blinking. Porfiry narrowed his eyes and began lighting a cigarette.
“Well, speak, speak” seemed about to leap from Raskolnikov's heart. “Well, why, why, why don't you speak?”
II
“These cigarettes, really!” Porfiry finally began to speak, having lighted up and caught his breath. “Harm, nothing but harm, yet I can't give them up! I cough, sir, there's a tickling in the throat and a shortness of breath. I'm a coward, you know, so the other day I went to ------n; he examines every patient for a minimum of half an hour; he even burst out laughing when he looked at me: he tapped and listened—by the way, he said, tobacco's not good for you, your lungs are distended. Well, and how am I going to quit? What'll I replace it with? I don't drink, sir, that's the whole trouble, heh, heh, heh—that I don't drink, that's the trouble! Everything's relative, Rodion Romanych, everything's relative!”
“What is this? Is he starting with the same old officialism again, or what!” Raskolnikov thought with loathing. The whole scene of their last meeting suddenly came back to him, and a wave of the same feeling as then flooded his heart.
“I already came to see you two days ago, in the evening—didn't you know?” Porfiry Petrovich continued, looking around the room. “I came in, into this same room. Like today, I was passing by and thought—why not repay his little visit? I came up, the door was wide open; I looked around, waited, and didn't even tell the maid—just went away. You don't lock your place?”
Raskolnikov's face was growing darker and darker. Porfiry seemed to guess his thoughts.
“I've come to explain myself, my good Rodion Romanych, to explain myself, sir! I'm obliged, and I owe you an explanation, sir,” he went on with a little smile, and even slapped Raskolnikov lightly on the knee with his palm, but at almost the same moment his face suddenly assumed a serious and preoccupied air; it even became as if veiled with sadness, to Raskolnikov's surprise. He had never yet seen or suspected him of having such a face. “A strange scene took place between us last time, Rodion Romanych. One might say that in our first meeting, too, a strange scene also took place between us; but then...Well, so one thing leads to another! You see, sir, I have perhaps come out very guilty before you; I feel it, sir. For you must remember how we parted: your nerves were humming and your knees trembling, and my nerves were humming and my knees trembling. And, you know, it came out somehow improperly between us then, not in gentlemanly fashion. And we are gentlemen, after all; that is, in any case, we are gentlemen first—that has to be understood, sir. You must remember what it was coming to...even altogether indecent, sir.”
“What's with him? Who does he think I am?” Raskolnikov asked himself in amazement, raising his head and staring at Porfiry.
“In my judgment, it would be better now if we were to proceed with frankness,” Porfiry Petrovich continued, throwing his head back slightly and lowering his eyes, as if wishing no longer to embarrass his former victim with his look, and as if scorning his former ways and tricks. “Yes, sir, such suspicions and such scenes cannot go on for long. Mikolka resolved it for us then, otherwise I don't know what it would have come to between us. That cursed little tradesman was sitting behind my partition then—can you imagine? Of course, you know that already, and I am informed that he went to see you afterwards; but what you supposed then was not true: I hadn't sent for anyone, and I hadn't made any arrangements yet. You ask why I hadn't made any arrangements? What can I say: I was as if bowled over by it all then. I'd barely even managed to send for the caretakers. (I'll bet you noticed the caretakers as you passed by.) A thought raced through me then, a certain thought, quick as lightning; I was firmly convinced then, you see, Rodion Romanych. After all, I thought, though I may let one slip for a time, I'll catch another by the tail—but what's mine, what's mine, at least, I won't let slip. You are all too irritable, Rodion Romanych, by nature, sir; even too much so, sir, what with all the other basic qualities of your character and heart, which I flatter myself with the hope of having partly comprehended, sir. Well, of course, even then I, too, could consider that it doesn't always happen for a man just to stand up and blurt out all his innermost secrets. Though it does happen, especially when the man has been driven out of all patience, but, in any case, rarely. That I, too, could consider for myself. No, I thought, if only I had at least some little trace! At least the tiniest little trace, just one, but one you could get your hands on, some real thing, not just this psychology. Because, I thought, if a man is guilty, then, of course, it's possible anyway to expect something substantial from him; it's even permissible to count on the most unexpected results. I was counting on your character, Rodion Romanych, on your character most of all! I had much hope in you then.”