Dowd Siobhan - The London Eye Mystery 29 page

himself to laugh, too, but when Porfiry, seeing that he was laughing,

broke into such a guffaw that he turned almost crimson, Raskolnikov's

repulsion overcame all precaution; he left off laughing, scowled and

stared with hatred at Porfiry, keeping his eyes fixed on him while his

intentionally prolonged laughter lasted. There was lack of precaution on

both sides, however, for Porfiry Petrovitch seemed to be laughing in

his visitor's face and to be very little disturbed at the annoyance with

which the visitor received it. The latter fact was very significant

in Raskolnikov's eyes: he saw that Porfiry Petrovitch had not been

embarrassed just before either, but that he, Raskolnikov, had perhaps

fallen into a trap; that there must be something, some motive here

unknown to him; that, perhaps, everything was in readiness and in

another moment would break upon him...

He went straight to the point at once, rose from his seat and took his

cap.

"Porfiry Petrovitch," he began resolutely, though with considerable

irritation, "yesterday you expressed a desire that I should come to you

for some inquiries" (he laid special stress on the word "inquiries"). "I

have come and if you have anything to ask me, ask it, and if not, allow

me to withdraw. I have no time to spare.... I have to be at the funeral

of that man who was run over, of whom you... know also," he added,

feeling angry at once at having made this addition and more irritated at

his anger. "I am sick of it all, do you hear? and have long been. It's

partly what made me ill. In short," he shouted, feeling that the phrase

about his illness was still more out of place, "in short, kindly examine

me or let me go, at once. And if you must examine me, do so in the

proper form! I will not allow you to do so otherwise, and so meanwhile,

good-bye, as we have evidently nothing to keep us now."

"Good heavens! What do you mean? What shall I question you about?"

cackled Porfiry Petrovitch with a change of tone, instantly leaving off

laughing. "Please don't disturb yourself," he began fidgeting from place

to place and fussily making Raskolnikov sit down. "There's no hurry,

there's no hurry, it's all nonsense. Oh, no, I'm very glad you've come

to see me at last... I look upon you simply as a visitor. And as for

my confounded laughter, please excuse it, Rodion Romanovitch. Rodion

Romanovitch? That is your name?... It's my nerves, you tickled me

so with your witty observation; I assure you, sometimes I shake with

laughter like an india-rubber ball for half an hour at a time.... I'm

often afraid of an attack of paralysis. Do sit down. Please do, or I

shall think you are angry..."

Raskolnikov did not speak; he listened, watching him, still frowning

angrily. He did sit down, but still held his cap.

"I must tell you one thing about myself, my dear Rodion Romanovitch,"

Porfiry Petrovitch continued, moving about the room and again avoiding

his visitor's eyes. "You see, I'm a bachelor, a man of no consequence

and not used to society; besides, I have nothing before me, I'm set, I'm

running to seed and... and have you noticed, Rodion Romanovitch, that in

our Petersburg circles, if two clever men meet who are not intimate, but

respect each other, like you and me, it takes them half an hour before

they can find a subject for conversation--they are dumb, they sit

opposite each other and feel awkward. Everyone has subjects of

conversation, ladies for instance... people in high society always have

their subjects of conversation, _c'est de rigueur_, but people of the

middle sort like us, thinking people that is, are always tongue-tied

and awkward. What is the reason of it? Whether it is the lack of public

interest, or whether it is we are so honest we don't want to deceive one

another, I don't know. What do you think? Do put down your cap, it

looks as if you were just going, it makes me uncomfortable... I am so

delighted..."

Raskolnikov put down his cap and continued listening in silence with

a serious frowning face to the vague and empty chatter of Porfiry

Petrovitch. "Does he really want to distract my attention with his silly

babble?"

"I can't offer you coffee here; but why not spend five minutes with a

friend?" Porfiry pattered on, "and you know all these official

duties... please don't mind my running up and down, excuse it, my dear

fellow, I am very much afraid of offending you, but exercise is

absolutely indispensable for me. I'm always sitting and so glad to be

moving about for five minutes... I suffer from my sedentary life... I

always intend to join a gymnasium; they say that officials of all ranks,

even Privy Councillors, may be seen skipping gaily there; there you have

it, modern science... yes, yes.... But as for my duties here, inquiries

and all such formalities... you mentioned inquiries yourself just now...

I assure you these interrogations are sometimes more embarrassing for

the interrogator than for the interrogated.... You made the observation

yourself just now very aptly and wittily." (Raskolnikov had made no

observation of the kind.) "One gets into a muddle! A regular muddle! One

keeps harping on the same note, like a drum! There is to be a reform and

we shall be called by a different name, at least, he-he-he! And as for

our legal tradition, as you so wittily called it, I thoroughly agree

with you. Every prisoner on trial, even the rudest peasant, knows that

they begin by disarming him with irrelevant questions (as you so happily

put it) and then deal him a knock-down blow, he-he-he!--your felicitous

comparison, he-he! So you really imagined that I meant by 'government

quarters'... he-he! You are an ironical person. Come. I won't go on! Ah,

by the way, yes! One word leads to another. You spoke of formality just

now, apropos of the inquiry, you know. But what's the use of formality?

In many cases it's nonsense. Sometimes one has a friendly chat and gets

a good deal more out of it. One can always fall back on formality, allow

me to assure you. And after all, what does it amount to? An examining

lawyer cannot be bounded by formality at every step. The work of

investigation is, so to speak, a free art in its own way, he-he-he!"

Porfiry Petrovitch took breath a moment. He had simply babbled on

uttering empty phrases, letting slip a few enigmatic words and again

reverting to incoherence. He was almost running about the room, moving

his fat little legs quicker and quicker, looking at the ground, with his

right hand behind his back, while with his left making gesticulations

that were extraordinarily incongruous with his words. Raskolnikov

suddenly noticed that as he ran about the room he seemed twice to stop

for a moment near the door, as though he were listening.

"Is he expecting anything?"

"You are certainly quite right about it," Porfiry began gaily, looking

with extraordinary simplicity at Raskolnikov (which startled him and

instantly put him on his guard); "certainly quite right in laughing so

wittily at our legal forms, he-he! Some of these elaborate psychological

methods are exceedingly ridiculous and perhaps useless, if one adheres

too closely to the forms. Yes... I am talking of forms again. Well, if

I recognise, or more strictly speaking, if I suspect someone or other to

be a criminal in any case entrusted to me... you're reading for the law,

of course, Rodion Romanovitch?"

"Yes, I was..."

"Well, then it is a precedent for you for the future--though don't

suppose I should venture to instruct you after the articles you publish

about crime! No, I simply make bold to state it by way of fact, if I

took this man or that for a criminal, why, I ask, should I worry him

prematurely, even though I had evidence against him? In one case I may

be bound, for instance, to arrest a man at once, but another may be in

quite a different position, you know, so why shouldn't I let him walk

about the town a bit? he-he-he! But I see you don't quite understand, so

I'll give you a clearer example. If I put him in prison too soon, I

may very likely give him, so to speak, moral support, he-he! You're

laughing?"

Raskolnikov had no idea of laughing. He was sitting with compressed

lips, his feverish eyes fixed on Porfiry Petrovitch's.

"Yet that is the case, with some types especially, for men are so

different. You say 'evidence'. Well, there may be evidence. But

evidence, you know, can generally be taken two ways. I am an examining

lawyer and a weak man, I confess it. I should like to make a proof, so

to say, mathematically clear. I should like to make a chain of evidence

such as twice two are four, it ought to be a direct, irrefutable proof!

And if I shut him up too soon--even though I might be convinced _he_

was the man, I should very likely be depriving myself of the means of

getting further evidence against him. And how? By giving him, so to

speak, a definite position, I shall put him out of suspense and set his

mind at rest, so that he will retreat into his shell. They say that at

Sevastopol, soon after Alma, the clever people were in a terrible fright

that the enemy would attack openly and take Sevastopol at once. But when

they saw that the enemy preferred a regular siege, they were delighted,

I am told and reassured, for the thing would drag on for two months at

least. You're laughing, you don't believe me again? Of course, you're

right, too. You're right, you're right. These are special cases, I

admit. But you must observe this, my dear Rodion Romanovitch, the

general case, the case for which all legal forms and rules are intended,

for which they are calculated and laid down in books, does not exist at

all, for the reason that every case, every crime, for instance, so soon

as it actually occurs, at once becomes a thoroughly special case and

sometimes a case unlike any that's gone before. Very comic cases of that

sort sometimes occur. If I leave one man quite alone, if I don't touch

him and don't worry him, but let him know or at least suspect every

moment that I know all about it and am watching him day and night, and

if he is in continual suspicion and terror, he'll be bound to lose his

head. He'll come of himself, or maybe do something which will make it as

plain as twice two are four--it's delightful. It may be so with a simple

peasant, but with one of our sort, an intelligent man cultivated on a

certain side, it's a dead certainty. For, my dear fellow, it's a very

important matter to know on what side a man is cultivated. And then

there are nerves, there are nerves, you have overlooked them! Why, they

are all sick, nervous and irritable!... And then how they all suffer

from spleen! That I assure you is a regular gold-mine for us. And it's

no anxiety to me, his running about the town free! Let him, let him walk

about for a bit! I know well enough that I've caught him and that he

won't escape me. Where could he escape to, he-he? Abroad, perhaps? A

Pole will escape abroad, but not here, especially as I am watching

and have taken measures. Will he escape into the depths of the country

perhaps? But you know, peasants live there, real rude Russian peasants.

A modern cultivated man would prefer prison to living with such

strangers as our peasants. He-he! But that's all nonsense, and on

the surface. It's not merely that he has nowhere to run to, he is

_psychologically_ unable to escape me, he-he! What an expression!

Through a law of nature he can't escape me if he had anywhere to go.

Have you seen a butterfly round a candle? That's how he will keep

circling and circling round me. Freedom will lose its attractions. He'll

begin to brood, he'll weave a tangle round himself, he'll worry himself

to death! What's more he will provide me with a mathematical proof--if I

only give him long enough interval.... And he'll keep circling round

me, getting nearer and nearer and then--flop! He'll fly straight into my

mouth and I'll swallow him, and that will be very amusing, he-he-he! You

don't believe me?"

Raskolnikov made no reply; he sat pale and motionless, still gazing with

the same intensity into Porfiry's face.

"It's a lesson," he thought, turning cold. "This is beyond the cat

playing with a mouse, like yesterday. He can't be showing off his power

with no motive... prompting me; he is far too clever for that... he must

have another object. What is it? It's all nonsense, my friend, you are

pretending, to scare me! You've no proofs and the man I saw had no

real existence. You simply want to make me lose my head, to work me up

beforehand and so to crush me. But you are wrong, you won't do it! But

why give me such a hint? Is he reckoning on my shattered nerves? No, my

friend, you are wrong, you won't do it even though you have some trap

for me... let us see what you have in store for me."

And he braced himself to face a terrible and unknown ordeal. At times

he longed to fall on Porfiry and strangle him. This anger was what he

dreaded from the beginning. He felt that his parched lips were flecked

with foam, his heart was throbbing. But he was still determined not to

speak till the right moment. He realised that this was the best

policy in his position, because instead of saying too much he would be

irritating his enemy by his silence and provoking him into speaking too

freely. Anyhow, this was what he hoped for.

"No, I see you don't believe me, you think I am playing a harmless joke

on you," Porfiry began again, getting more and more lively, chuckling

at every instant and again pacing round the room. "And to be sure you're

right: God has given me a figure that can awaken none but comic ideas in

other people; a buffoon; but let me tell you, and I repeat it, excuse

an old man, my dear Rodion Romanovitch, you are a man still young, so to

say, in your first youth and so you put intellect above everything, like

all young people. Playful wit and abstract arguments fascinate you and

that's for all the world like the old Austrian _Hof-kriegsrath_, as

far as I can judge of military matters, that is: on paper they'd beaten

Napoleon and taken him prisoner, and there in their study they worked it

all out in the cleverest fashion, but look you, General Mack surrendered

with all his army, he-he-he! I see, I see, Rodion Romanovitch, you are

laughing at a civilian like me, taking examples out of military history!

But I can't help it, it's my weakness. I am fond of military science.

And I'm ever so fond of reading all military histories. I've certainly

missed my proper career. I ought to have been in the army, upon my

word I ought. I shouldn't have been a Napoleon, but I might have been a

major, he-he! Well, I'll tell you the whole truth, my dear fellow, about

this _special case_, I mean: actual fact and a man's temperament, my

dear sir, are weighty matters and it's astonishing how they sometimes

deceive the sharpest calculation! I--listen to an old man--am speaking

seriously, Rodion Romanovitch" (as he said this Porfiry Petrovitch, who

was scarcely five-and-thirty, actually seemed to have grown old; even

his voice changed and he seemed to shrink together) "Moreover, I'm

a candid man... am I a candid man or not? What do you say? I fancy I

really am: I tell you these things for nothing and don't even expect a

reward for it, he-he! Well, to proceed, wit in my opinion is a splendid

thing, it is, so to say, an adornment of nature and a consolation of

life, and what tricks it can play! So that it sometimes is hard for a

poor examining lawyer to know where he is, especially when he's liable

to be carried away by his own fancy, too, for you know he is a man after

all! But the poor fellow is saved by the criminal's temperament, worse

luck for him! But young people carried away by their own wit don't think

of that 'when they overstep all obstacles,' as you wittily and cleverly

expressed it yesterday. He will lie--that is, the man who is a _special

case_, the incognito, and he will lie well, in the cleverest fashion;

you might think he would triumph and enjoy the fruits of his wit, but at

the most interesting, the most flagrant moment he will faint. Of course

there may be illness and a stuffy room as well, but anyway! Anyway he's

given us the idea! He lied incomparably, but he didn't reckon on his

temperament. That's what betrays him! Another time he will be carried

away by his playful wit into making fun of the man who suspects him, he

will turn pale as it were on purpose to mislead, but his paleness will

be _too natural_, too much like the real thing, again he has given us

an idea! Though his questioner may be deceived at first, he will think

differently next day if he is not a fool, and, of course, it is like

that at every step! He puts himself forward where he is not wanted,

speaks continually when he ought to keep silent, brings in all sorts of

allegorical allusions, he-he! Comes and asks why didn't you take me long

ago? he-he-he! And that can happen, you know, with the cleverest man,

the psychologist, the literary man. The temperament reflects everything

like a mirror! Gaze into it and admire what you see! But why are you so

pale, Rodion Romanovitch? Is the room stuffy? Shall I open the window?"

"Oh, don't trouble, please," cried Raskolnikov and he suddenly broke

into a laugh. "Please don't trouble."

Porfiry stood facing him, paused a moment and suddenly he too laughed.

Raskolnikov got up from the sofa, abruptly checking his hysterical

laughter.

"Porfiry Petrovitch," he began, speaking loudly and distinctly, though

his legs trembled and he could scarcely stand. "I see clearly at last

that you actually suspect me of murdering that old woman and her sister

Lizaveta. Let me tell you for my part that I am sick of this. If you

find that you have a right to prosecute me legally, to arrest me, then

prosecute me, arrest me. But I will not let myself be jeered at to my

face and worried..."

His lips trembled, his eyes glowed with fury and he could not restrain

his voice.

"I won't allow it!" he shouted, bringing his fist down on the table. "Do

you hear that, Porfiry Petrovitch? I won't allow it."

"Good heavens! What does it mean?" cried Porfiry Petrovitch, apparently

quite frightened. "Rodion Romanovitch, my dear fellow, what is the

matter with you?"

"I won't allow it," Raskolnikov shouted again.

"Hush, my dear man! They'll hear and come in. Just think, what could we

say to them?" Porfiry Petrovitch whispered in horror, bringing his face

close to Raskolnikov's.

"I won't allow it, I won't allow it," Raskolnikov repeated mechanically,

but he too spoke in a sudden whisper.

Porfiry turned quickly and ran to open the window.

"Some fresh air! And you must have some water, my dear fellow. You're

ill!" and he was running to the door to call for some when he found a

decanter of water in the corner. "Come, drink a little," he whispered,

rushing up to him with the decanter. "It will be sure to do you good."

Porfiry Petrovitch's alarm and sympathy were so natural that Raskolnikov

was silent and began looking at him with wild curiosity. He did not take

the water, however.

"Rodion Romanovitch, my dear fellow, you'll drive yourself out of your

mind, I assure you, ach, ach! Have some water, do drink a little."

He forced him to take the glass. Raskolnikov raised it mechanically to

his lips, but set it on the table again with disgust.

"Yes, you've had a little attack! You'll bring back your illness again,

my dear fellow," Porfiry Petrovitch cackled with friendly sympathy,

though he still looked rather disconcerted. "Good heavens, you must

take more care of yourself! Dmitri Prokofitch was here, came to see me

yesterday--I know, I know, I've a nasty, ironical temper, but what they

made of it!... Good heavens, he came yesterday after you'd been. We

dined and he talked and talked away, and I could only throw up my hands

in despair! Did he come from you? But do sit down, for mercy's sake, sit

down!"

"No, not from me, but I knew he went to you and why he went,"

Raskolnikov answered sharply.

"You knew?"

"I knew. What of it?"

"Why this, Rodion Romanovitch, that I know more than that about you;

I know about everything. I know how you went _to take a flat_ at night

when it was dark and how you rang the bell and asked about the blood, so

that the workmen and the porter did not know what to make of it. Yes, I

understand your state of mind at that time... but you'll drive yourself

mad like that, upon my word! You'll lose your head! You're full of

generous indignation at the wrongs you've received, first from destiny,

and then from the police officers, and so you rush from one thing to

another to force them to speak out and make an end of it all, because

you are sick of all this suspicion and foolishness. That's so, isn't

it? I have guessed how you feel, haven't I? Only in that way you'll

lose your head and Razumihin's, too; he's too _good_ a man for such

a position, you must know that. You are ill and he is good and your

illness is infectious for him... I'll tell you about it when you are

more yourself.... But do sit down, for goodness' sake. Please rest, you

look shocking, do sit down."

Raskolnikov sat down; he no longer shivered, he was hot all over. In

amazement he listened with strained attention to Porfiry Petrovitch who

still seemed frightened as he looked after him with friendly solicitude.

But he did not believe a word he said, though he felt a strange

inclination to believe. Porfiry's unexpected words about the flat had

utterly overwhelmed him. "How can it be, he knows about the flat then,"

he thought suddenly, "and he tells it me himself!"

"Yes, in our legal practice there was a case almost exactly similar, a

case of morbid psychology," Porfiry went on quickly. "A man confessed to

murder and how he kept it up! It was a regular hallucination; he brought

forward facts, he imposed upon everyone and why? He had been partly, but

only partly, unintentionally the cause of a murder and when he knew that

he had given the murderers the opportunity, he sank into dejection, it

got on his mind and turned his brain, he began imagining things and he

persuaded himself that he was the murderer. But at last the High Court

of Appeal went into it and the poor fellow was acquitted and put under

proper care. Thanks to the Court of Appeal! Tut-tut-tut! Why, my dear

fellow, you may drive yourself into delirium if you have the impulse

to work upon your nerves, to go ringing bells at night and asking about

blood! I've studied all this morbid psychology in my practice. A man

is sometimes tempted to jump out of a window or from a belfry. Just the

same with bell-ringing.... It's all illness, Rodion Romanovitch! You

have begun to neglect your illness. You should consult an experienced

doctor, what's the good of that fat fellow? You are lightheaded! You

were delirious when you did all this!"

For a moment Raskolnikov felt everything going round.

"Is it possible, is it possible," flashed through his mind, "that he is

still lying? He can't be, he can't be." He rejected that idea, feeling

to what a degree of fury it might drive him, feeling that that fury

might drive him mad.

"I was not delirious. I knew what I was doing," he cried, straining

every faculty to penetrate Porfiry's game, "I was quite myself, do you

hear?"

"Yes, I hear and understand. You said yesterday you were not delirious,

you were particularly emphatic about it! I understand all you can tell

me! A-ach!... Listen, Rodion Romanovitch, my dear fellow. If you were

actually a criminal, or were somehow mixed up in this damnable business,

would you insist that you were not delirious but in full possession

of your faculties? And so emphatically and persistently? Would it be

possible? Quite impossible, to my thinking. If you had anything on

your conscience, you certainly ought to insist that you were delirious.

That's so, isn't it?"

There was a note of slyness in this inquiry. Raskolnikov drew back on

the sofa as Porfiry bent over him and stared in silent perplexity at

him.

"Another thing about Razumihin--you certainly ought to have said that he

came of his own accord, to have concealed your part in it! But you don't

conceal it! You lay stress on his coming at your instigation."

Raskolnikov had not done so. A chill went down his back.

"You keep telling lies," he said slowly and weakly, twisting his lips

into a sickly smile, "you are trying again to show that you know all

my game, that you know all I shall say beforehand," he said, conscious

himself that he was not weighing his words as he ought. "You want to

frighten me... or you are simply laughing at me..."

He still stared at him as he said this and again there was a light of

intense hatred in his eyes.

"You keep lying," he said. "You know perfectly well that the best

policy for the criminal is to tell the truth as nearly as possible... to

conceal as little as possible. I don't believe you!"

"What a wily person you are!" Porfiry tittered, "there's no catching

you; you've a perfect monomania. So you don't believe me? But still you

do believe me, you believe a quarter; I'll soon make you believe the

whole, because I have a sincere liking for you and genuinely wish you

good."

Raskolnikov's lips trembled.

"Yes, I do," went on Porfiry, touching Raskolnikov's arm genially, "you

must take care of your illness. Besides, your mother and sister are here

now; you must think of them. You must soothe and comfort them and you do

nothing but frighten them..."

"What has that to do with you? How do you know it? What concern is it of

yours? You are keeping watch on me and want to let me know it?"

Date: 2014-12-29; view: 618