“Away! It's too soon! Wait till you're called! ...  Why did you bring him ahead of time?” Porfiry Petrovich muttered, extremely annoyed and as if thrown off. But all at once Nikolai went down on his knees.

“What's this now?” Porfiry cried in amazement.

“I'm guilty. The sin is mine! I am the murderer!” Nikolai suddenly pronounced, somewhat breathlessly, but in a rather loud voice.

The silence lasted for about ten seconds, as though everyone were simply stunned; even the guard recoiled and no longer tried to approach Nikolai, but retreated mechanically towards the door and stood there without moving.

“What is this?” cried Porfiry Petrovich, coming out of his momentary stupor.

“I am...the murderer . . .” Nikolai repeated, after a short silence.

“What...you...what...who did you kill?” Porfiry Petrovich was obviously at a loss.

Again Nikolai was silent for a moment.

“Alyona Ivanovna and her sister, Lizaveta Ivanovna—I...killed them...with an axe. My mind was darkened . . .” he added suddenly, and again fell silent, he was still on his knees.

For a few moments Porfiry Petrovich stood as if pondering, then he roused himself up again and waved away the uninvited witnesses. They vanished instantly, and the door was closed. Then he looked at Raskolnikov, who was standing in the corner gazing wildly at Nikolai, made a move towards him, but suddenly stopped, looked at him, immediately shifted his eyes to Nikolai, then back to Raskolnikov, then back to Nikolai, and suddenly, as if carried away, he fell upon Nikolai again.

“Why are you rushing ahead with your darkening?” he shouted at him almost spitefully. “I haven't asked you yet whether your mind was darkened or not...Tell me, you killed them?”

“I am the murderer...I'm giving testimony . . .” Nikolai said.

“Ehh! What did you kill them with?”

“An axe. I had it ready.”

“Eh, he's rushing! Alone?”

Nikolai did not understand the question.

“Did you do it alone?”

“Alone. And Mitka's not guilty, and he's not privy to any of it.”

“Don't rush with Mitka! Ehh! ... And how was it, how was it that you went running down the stairs then? The caretakers met both of you, didn't they?”

“That was to throw you off... that's why I ran then... with Mitka,” Nikolai replied hurriedly, as if he had prepared the answer beforehand.

“So, there it is!” Porfiry cried out spitefully. “He's not using his own words!” he muttered, as if to himself, and suddenly he noticed Raskolnikov again.

He had evidently been so carried away with Nikolai that for a moment he even forgot all about Raskolnikov. Now he suddenly recollected himself, was even embarrassed . . .

“Rodion Romanovich, my dear! Excuse me, sir,” he dashed to him, “this simply won't do; if you please, sir...there's nothing for you to...I myself...see what surprises! ... if you please, sir! . . .”

And taking him by the arm, he showed him to the door.

“It seems you didn't expect this?” said Raskolnikov, who of course understood nothing clearly yet but had already managed to cheer up considerably.

“You didn't expect it either, my dear. Look how your hand is shaking! Heh, heh!”

“You're shaking, too, Porfiry Petrovich.”

“Indeed I am, sir; I didn't expect this! . . .”

They were standing in the doorway. Porfiry was waiting impatiently for Raskolnikov to go out.

“So you're not going to show me your little surprise?” Raskolnikov said suddenly.

“He says it, and his teeth are still chattering in his mouth, heh, heh! What an ironical man you are! Well, sir, come again.”

“It's good-bye, I should think.”

“As God wills, sir, as God wills!” Porfiry muttered, his smile becoming somehow twisted.

As he passed through the office, Raskolnikov noticed that many people were looking at him intently. Among the crowd in the waiting room he managed to make out the two caretakers from that house, the ones he had incited to go to the police that night. They were standing and waiting for something. But as soon as he walked out to the stairs, he suddenly heard the voice of Porfiry Petrovich behind him. Turning around, he saw that he was hurrying after him, all out of breath.

“One little word, Rodion Romanovich, sir; concerning everything else, it's as God wills, but all the same we'll have to ask you a thing or two formally, sir...so we'll be seeing each other right enough, sir.”

And Porfiry stood in front of him, smiling.

“Right enough, sir,” he added once more.

It might be supposed that he wanted to say something more, but it somehow would not get itself said.

“And you must forgive me, Porfiry Petrovich, about these things just now...I lost my temper,” Raskolnikov began, now thoroughly cheered up, so much so that he could not resist the desire to show off.

“Never mind, sir, never mind...” Porfiry picked up almost joyfully. “And I myself, sir...I have a venomous character, I confess, I confess! So we'll be seeing each other, sir. God willing, we shall indeed, sir!”

“And finally get to know each other?” Raskolnikov picked up.

“And finally get to know each other,” Porfiry Petrovich agreed, narrowing his eyes and looking at him rather seriously. “So, now you're off to the name-day party, sir?”

“To the funeral, sir!”

“Ah, yes, the funeral, that is! Your health, do look after your health, sir . . .”

“And I really don't know what to wish you in return!” replied Raskolnikov, who was already starting down the stairs but suddenly turned back to Porfiry. “I would wish you greater success, but, you see, your job is so comical!”

“How is it comical, sir?” Porfiry, who had also turned to go, instantly pricked up his ears.

“Well, just take this poor Mikolka, whom you must have tortured and tormented psychologically, the way you do, until he confessed; you must have been proving it to him day and night: 'You are the murderer, you are the murderer . . .'—well, and now that he's confessed, you're going to pick him apart bone by bone: 'You're lying, you're not the murderer! You couldn't have been! You're not using your own words!' How can it not be a comical job after that?”

“Heh, heh, heh! So you noticed I just told Nikolai that he wasn't 'using his own words'?”

“How could I not?”

“Heh, heh! Sharp-witted, you're sharp-witted, sir. You notice everything! Truly a playful mind, sir! And you do touch the most comical string...heh, heh! They say it's Gogol, among writers, who had this trait in the highest degree?”^[105]

“Yes, Gogol.”

“Yes, Gogol, sir...Till we have the pleasure again, sir.”

“Till we have the pleasure again . . .”

Raskolnikov went straight home. He was so puzzled and confused that, having come home and thrown himself on the sofa, he sat there for a quarter of an hour simply resting and trying at least somehow to collect his thoughts. He did not even venture to reason about Nikolai: he felt that he was defeated, that in Nikolai's confession there was something inexplicable, astonishing, which at the moment he was totally unable to understand. But Nikolai's confession was an actual fact. The consequences of this fact became clear to him at once: the lie could not but be revealed, and then they would set to work on him again. But at least he was free until then, and he absolutely had to do something for himself, because the danger was unavoidable.

To what extent, however? The situation was beginning to clarify itself. Recalling his whole recent scene with Porfiry, roughly, in its general outlines, he could not help shuddering with horror again. Of course, he did not know all of Porfiry's purposes yet, he could not grasp all his calculations. But part of the game had been revealed, and certainly no one knew better than he how terrible this “move” in Porfiry's game was for him. A little more and he might have given himself away completely, and factually now. Knowing the morbidity of his character, having correctly grasped and penetrated it at first sight, Porfiry had acted almost unerringly, albeit too resolutely. There was no question that Raskolnikov had managed to compromise himself far too much today, but still it had not gone as far as facts; it was all still relative. But was it right, was it right, the way he understood it now? Was he not mistaken? What precisely had Porfiry been driving at today? Did he really have anything prepared today? And what precisely? Was he really expecting something, or not? How precisely would they have parted today, had it not been for the arrival of an unexpected catastrophe through Nikolai?