CHAPTER VI

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!”

“I believe we can say _good-bye_!”

“That’s in God’s hands,” muttered Porfiry, with an unnatural smile.

As he walked through the office, Raskolnikov noticed that many people

were looking at him. Among them he saw the two porters from _the_ house,

whom he had invited that night to the police station. They stood there

waiting. But he was no sooner on the stairs than he heard the voice of

Porfiry Petrovitch behind him. Turning round, he saw the latter running

after him, out of breath.

“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.

But how imminent? His position gradually became clear to him.

Remembering, sketchily, the main outlines of his recent scene with

Porfiry, he could not help shuddering again with horror. Of course,

he did not yet know all Porfiry’s aims, he could not see into all his

calculations. But he had already partly shown his hand, and no one knew

better than Raskolnikov how terrible Porfiry’s “lead” had been for

him. A little more and he _might_ have given himself away completely,

circumstantially. Knowing his nervous temperament and from the first

glance seeing through him, Porfiry, though playing a bold game, was

bound to win. There’s no denying that Raskolnikov had compromised

himself seriously, but no _facts_ had come to light as yet; there was

nothing positive. But was he taking a true view of the position? Wasn’t

he mistaken? What had Porfiry been trying to get at? Had he really some

surprise prepared for him? And what was it? Had he really been expecting

something or not? How would they have parted if it had not been for the

unexpected appearance of Nikolay?

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....”

But as he was about to open the door, it began opening of itself. He

started and moved back. The door opened gently and slowly, and there

suddenly appeared a figure--yesterday’s visitor _from underground_.

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....

So this was the solution of yesterday’s horror. The most awful thought

was that he had been actually almost lost, had almost done for himself

on account of such a _trivial_ circumstance. So this man could tell

nothing except his asking about the flat and the blood stains. So

Porfiry, too, had nothing but that _delirium_, no facts but this

_psychology_ which _cuts both ways_, nothing positive. So if no more

facts come to light (and they must not, they must not!) then... then

what can they do to him? How can they convict him, even if they arrest

him? And Porfiry then had only just heard about the flat and had not

known about it before.

“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.”