Raskolnikov shuddered all over, so that Porfiry Petrovich noticed it only too clearly.

“You're lying still!” he cried. “I don't know what your purposes are, but you keep lying...You talked in a different sense a moment ago, and I'm surely not mistaken...You're lying!”

“Lying, am I?” Porfiry picked up, obviously excited, but preserving a most merry and mocking look, and seeming not in the least concerned with Mr. Raskolnikov's opinion of him. “Lying, am I?... Well, and how did I act with you just now (I, an investigator), prompting you and letting you in on all the means of defense, and coming out with all this psychology for you myself: 'Illness, delirium, you felt all offended; melancholy, policemen,' and all the rest of it? Eh? Heh, heh, heh! Though, by the way—incidentally speaking—all these psychological means of defense, these excuses and dodges, are quite untenable, and double-ended besides: 'Illness, delirium, dreams,' they say, 'I imagined it, I don't remember'—maybe so, but why is it, my dear, that in one's illness and delirium one imagines precisely these dreams, and not others? One might have had others, sir? Right? Heh, heh, heh, heh!”

Raskolnikov looked at him proudly and disdainfully.

“In short,” he said, loudly and insistently, getting up and pushing Porfiry a little aside, “in short, I want to know: do you acknowledge me to be finally free of suspicion, or not? Speak, Porfiry Petrovich, speak positively and finally, and right now, quickly!”

“What an assignment! Ah, you're a real assignment!” Porfiry exclaimed, with a perfectly merry, sly, and not in the least worried look. “But why do you want to know, why do you want to know so much, when we haven't even begun to bother you in the least! You're like a child: just let me touch the fire! And why do you worry so much? Why do you thrust yourself upon us, for what reason? Eh? Heh, heh, heh!”

“I repeat,” Raskolnikov cried furiously, “that I can no longer endure...”

“What, sir? The uncertainty?” Porfiry interrupted.

“Don't taunt me! I won't have it! ... I tell you, I won't have it! ... I cannot and I will not have it! . .. Do you hear! Do you hear!” he cried, banging his fist on the table again.

“Quiet, quiet! They'll hear you! I warn you seriously: look out for yourself. I'm not joking, sir!” Porfiry said in a whisper, but in his face this time there was nothing of that earlier womanish, good-natured, and alarmed expression; on the contrary, now he was ordering outright, sternly, frowning, and as if suddenly breaking through all secrets and ambiguities. But only for a moment. Puzzled at first, Raskolnikov suddenly flew into a real frenzy; but, strangely, he again obeyed the order to speak more softly, though he was in the most violent paroxysm of rage.

“I will not allow you to torture me!” he began whispering, as before, realizing immediately, with pain and hatred, that he was unable to disobey the order, and getting into even more of a rage at the thought of it. “Arrest me, search me, but be so good as to act according to form and not to toy with me, sir! Do not dare . . .”

“Now, don't go worrying about form,” Porfiry interrupted, with his usual sly smile, and as if even delightedly admiring Raskolnikov. “I invited you here unofficially, my dear, only as a friend!”

“I don't want your friendship, and I spit on it! Do you hear? Now look: I'm taking my cap and leaving. What are you going to say to that, if you were intending to arrest me?”

He seized his cap and walked to the door.

“But don't you want to see my little surprise?” Porfiry tittered, seizing his arm again just above the elbow, and stopping him at the door. He was obviously becoming more and more merry and playful, which was finally driving Raskolnikov into a fury.

“What little surprise? What is it?” he asked, suddenly stopping and looking at Porfiry in fear.

“A little surprise, sir, sitting there behind my door, heh, heh, heh!” (He pointed his finger at the closed door in the partition, which led to his government apartment.) “I even locked it in so that it wouldn't run away.”

“What is it? Where? What?...” Raskolnikov went over to the door and tried to open it, but it was locked.

“It's locked, sir, and here is the key!”

And indeed he showed him the key, having taken it from his pocket.

“You're still lying!” Raskolnikov screamed, no longer restraining himself. “You're lying, you damned punchinello!” And he rushed at Porfiry, who retreated towards the door, but was not at all afraid.

“I understand everything, everything!” he leaped close to him. “You're lying and taunting me so that I'll give myself away . . .”

“But one could hardly give oneself away any more, my dear Rodion Romanovich. You're beside yourself. Don't shout, I really will call people, sir!”

“Lies! You've got nothing! Call your people! You knew I was sick and wanted to annoy me to the point of rage, to get me to give myself away, that was your purpose! No, show me your facts! I understand everything! You have no facts, all you have are just miserable, worthless guesses, Zamyotovian guesses! ... You knew my character, you wanted to drive me into a frenzy and then suddenly stun me with priests and deputies...Is it them you're waiting for? Eh? What are you waiting for? Where? Let's have it!”

“But what deputies could there be, my dear! You have quite an imagination! This way one can't even go by form, as you say; you don't know the procedure, my friend...But form won't run away, sir, as you'll see for yourself! . . .” Porfiry muttered, with an ear towards the door.

Indeed, at that moment there seemed to be some noise just behind the door to the other room.

“Ah, they're coming!” cried Raskolnikov. “You sent for them! ... You've been waiting for them! You calculated...Well, let's have them all here—deputies, witnesses, whatever you like...go on! I'm ready! Ready! . . .”

But here a strange incident occurred, something so unexpected, in the ordinary course of things, that certainly neither Raskolnikov nor Porfiry Petrovich could have reckoned on such a denouement.

VI

Afterwards, remembering this moment, Raskolnikov pictured it all in the following way.

The noise from behind the door quickly increased all at once, and the door opened a little.

“What is it?” Porfiry Petrovich exclaimed in annoyance. “Didn't I warn you . . .”

No answer came for a moment, but one could see that several people were outside the door, and that someone was apparently being pushed aside.

“What is it in there?” Porfiry Petrovich repeated worriedly.

“We've brought the prisoner Nikolai,” someone's voice was heard.

“No! Away! Not now! ... How did he get here? What is this disorder?” Porfiry cried, rushing to the door.

“But he . . .” the same voice tried to begin again and suddenly stopped short.

For two seconds, not more, a real struggle took place; then it was as if someone suddenly pushed someone violently aside, after which a certain very pale man stepped straight into Porfiry Petrovich's office.

The man's appearance, at first sight, was very strange. He was staring straight ahead of him, but as if seeing no one. Determination flashed in his eyes, but at the same time there was a deathly pallor on his face, as though he were being led out to execution. His completely white lips quivered slightly.

He was still very young, dressed as a commoner, of average height, lean, with his hair cut like a bowl, and with gaunt, dry-looking features. The man he had unexpectedly pushed aside was the first to dash into the room after him, and managed to seize him by the shoulder: it was one of the guards; but Nikolai jerked his arm and tore himself free again.

A crowd of several curious onlookers formed in the doorway. Some of them made attempts to enter. Everything described here took place in no more than a moment.