“Oh, it happens quite often! This observation is even wittier than your last one...”
“Thank you, sir . . .”
“Not at all, sir; but consider also that a mistake is possible only on the part of the first category, that is, the 'ordinary' people (as I have called them, perhaps rather unfortunately). In spite of their innate tendency to obedience, by some playfulness of nature that is not denied even to cows, quite a few of them like to imagine themselves progressive people, 'destroyers,' who are in on the 'new word,' and that in all sincerity, sir. And at the same time they quite often fail to notice the really newones, and even despise them as backward, shabby-minded people. But in my opinion there cannot be any significant danger here, and there is really nothing for you to be alarmed about, because they never go far. Of course, they ought to receive an occasional whipping, to remind them of their place when they get carried away, but no more than that; there isn't even any need for someone to whip them: they'll whip themselves, because they're so well behaved; some perform this service for each other, and some do it with their own hands...all the while imposing various public penances on themselves—the result is beautiful and edifying; in short, there's nothing for you to be alarmed about...Such a law exists.”
“Well, at least you've reassured me somewhat in that regard; but then there's this other worry: tell me, please, are there many of these people who have the right to put a knife into others—I mean, of these 'extraordinary' ones? I am ready to bow down, of course, but you'll agree, sir, it's a bit eerie if there are too many of them, eh?”
“Oh, don't worry about that either,” Raskolnikov went on in the same tone. “Generally, there are remarkably few people born who have a new thought, who are capable, if only slightly, of saying anything new—strangely few, in fact. One thing is clear, that the ordering of people's conception, all these categories and subdivisions, must be quite correctly and precisely determined by some law of nature. This law is as yet unknown, of course, but I believe that it exists and may one day be known. An enormous mass of people, of material, exists in the world only so that finally, through some effort, some as yet mysterious process, through some interbreeding of stocks and races, with great strain it may finally bring into the world, let's say, at least one somewhat independent man in a thousand. Perhaps one in ten thousand is born with a broader independence (I'm speaking approximately, graphically). With a still broader independence—one in a hundred thousand. Men of genius—one in millions; and great geniuses, the fulfillers of mankind—perhaps after the elapsing of many thousands of millions of people on earth. In short, I have not looked into the retort where all this takes place. But there certainly is and must be a definite law; it can be no accident.”
“What, are you two joking or something?” Razumikhin cried out at last. “Addling each other's brains, aren't you? Sitting there and poking fun at each other! Are you serious, Rodya?”
Raskolnikov silently raised his pale, almost sad face to him, and did not answer. And how strange this quiet and sad face seemed to Razumikhin next to the undisguised, intrusive, annoying, and impolitesarcasm of Porfiry.
“Well, brother, if it's really serious, then...You're right, of course, in saying that it's nothing new, and resembles everything we've read and heard a hundred times over; but what is indeed originalin it all—and, to my horror, is really yours alone—is that you do finally permit bloodshed in all conscienceand, if I may say so, even with such fanaticism...So this is the main point of your article. This permission to shed blood in all conscienceis...is to my mind more horrible than if bloodshed were officially, legally permitted . . .”
“Quite right, it's more horrible,” Porfiry echoed.
“No, you got carried away somehow! It's a mistake. I'll read it...You got carried away! You can't think like that...I'll read it.”
“That's not all in the article; it's only hinted at,” said Raskolnikov.
“Right, right, sir,” Porfiry could not sit still. “It has now become almost clear to me how you choose to look at crime, sir, but... excuse my importunity (I'm bothering you so much; I'm quite ashamed!)— you see, sir, you have reassured me greatly concerning cases of a mistaken mixing of the two categories, but...I keep being bothered by various practical cases! Now, what if some man, or youth, imagines himself a Lycurgus or a Muhammad—a future one, to be sure—and goes and starts removing all obstacles to that end...We're faced with a long campaign, and for this campaign we need money...and so he starts providing himself for the campaign...you know what I mean?”
Zamyotov suddenly snorted from his corner. Raskolnikov did not even raise his eyes to him.
“I have to agree,” he answered calmly, “that such cases must indeed occur. The vain and silly in particular fall for such bait; young men particularly.”
“So you see, sir. Well, and what then, sir?”
“Then nothing,” Raskolnikov smiled. “It's not my fault. That's how it is and always will be. Now, he just said” (he nodded towards Razu-mikhin) “that I permit the shedding of blood. What of it? Society is all too well provided with banishments, prisons, court investigators, hard labor camps—why worry? Go and catch your thief! ... ”
“And what if we do catch him?”
“Serves him right.”
“You're logical, after all. Well, sir, and what about his conscience?”
“But what business is that of yours?”
“But just out of humaneness, sir.”
“Whoever has one can suffer, if he acknowledges his error. It's a punishment for him—on top of hard labor.”
“Well, and those who are the true geniuses—the ones who are granted the right to put a knife into others,” Razumikhin asked, frowning, “they ought not to suffer at all, even for the blood they've shed?”
“Why this word ought?There's neither permission nor prohibition here. Let him suffer, if he pities his victim...Suffering and pain are always obligatory for a broad consciousness and a deep heart. Truly great men, I think, must feel great sorrow in this world,” he suddenly added pensively, not even in the tone of the conversation.
He raised his eyes, gave them all a thoughtful look, smiled, and took his cap. He was too calm, compared with when he had first come, and he felt it. Everyone rose.
“Well, sir, curse me if you like, be angry if you like, but I cannot help myself,” Porfiry Petrovich rounded off again. “Allow me one more little question (I really am bothering you, sir!); I would like to introduce just one little idea, simply so as not to forget, sir...”
“Very well, tell me your little idea,” Raskolnikov stood expectantly before him, pale and serious.
“Now then, sir...I really don't know how best to express it...it's such a playful idea...a psychological idea...Now then, sir, it really cannot be—heh, heh, heh!—that when you were writing your little article you did not regard yourself—say, just the tiniest bit—as one of the 'extraordinary' people, as saying a new word—in your sense, I mean...Isn't that so, sir?”
“It's quite possible,” Raskolnikov replied disdainfully.
Razumikhin stirred.
“And if so, sir, can it be that you yourself would venture—say, in view of certain worldly failures and constraints, or somehow for the furtherance of all mankind—to step over the obstacle?...well, for instance, to kill and rob? . . .”
And he somehow suddenly winked at him again with his left eye and laughed inaudibly—exactly as earlier.
“If I did, I would certainly not tell you,” Raskolnikov answered with defiant, haughty disdain.
“No, sir, it's just that I'm interested, properly speaking, in understanding your article, in a literary sense only, sir . . .”