Raskolnikov was already entering the room. He came in looking as though he had the utmost difficulty not to burst out laughing again. Behind him Razumihin strode in gawky and awkward, shamefaced and red as a peony, with an utterly crestfallen and ferocious expression. His face and whole figure really were ridiculous at that moment and amply justified Raskolnikov's laughter. Raskolnikov, not waiting for an introduction, bowed to Porfiry Petrovitch, who stood in the middle of the room looking inquiringly at them. He held out his hand and shook hands, still apparently making desperate efforts to subdue his mirth and utter a few words to introduce himself. But he had no sooner succeeded in assuming a serious air and muttering something when he suddenly glanced again as though accidentally at Razumihin, and could no longer control himself: his stifled laughter broke out the more irresistibly the more he tried to restrain it. The extraordinary ferocity with which Razumihin received this "spontaneous" mirth gave the whole scene the appearance of most genuine fun and naturalness. Razumihin strengthened this impression as though on purpose.
"Fool! You fiend," he roared, waving his arm which at once struck a little round table with an empty tea-glass on it. Everything was sent flying and crashing.
"But why break chairs, gentlemen? You know it's a loss to the Crown," Porfiry Petrovitch quoted gaily.
Raskolnikov was still laughing, with his hand in Porfiry Petrovitch's, but anxious not to overdo it, awaited the right moment to put a natural end to it. Razumihin, completely put to confusion by upsetting the table and smashing the glass, gazed gloomily at the fragments, cursed and turned sharply to the window where he stood looking out with his back to the company with a fiercely scowling countenance, seeing nothing. Porfiry Petrovitch laughed and was ready to go on laughing, but obviously looked for explanations. Zametov had been sitting in the corner, but he rose at the visitors' entrance and was standing in expectation with a smile on his lips, though he looked with surprise and even it seemed incredulity at the whole scene and at Raskolnikov with a certain embarrassment. Zametov's unexpected presence struck Raskolnikov unpleasantly.
"I've got to think of that," he thought. "Excuse me, please," he began, affecting extreme embarrassment. "Raskolnikov."
"Not at all, very pleasant to see you . . . and how pleasantly you've come in. . . . Why, won't he even say good-morning?" Porfiry Petrovitch nodded at Razumihin.
"Upon my honour I don't know why he is in such a rage with me. I only told him as we came along that he was like Romeo . . . and proved it. And that was all, I think!"
"Pig!" ejaculated Razumihin, without turning round.
"There must have been very grave grounds for it, if he is so furious at the word," Porfiry laughed.
"Oh, you sharp lawyer! . . . Damn you all!" snapped Razumihin, and suddenly bursting out laughing himself, he went up to Porfiry with a more cheerful face as though nothing had happened. "That'll do! We are all fools. To come to business. This is my friend Rodion Romanovitch Raskolnikov; in the first place he has heard of you and wants to make your acquaintance, and secondly, he has a little matter of business with you. Bah! Zametov, what brought you here? Have you met before? Have you known each other long?"
"What does this mean?" thought Raskolnikov uneasily.
Zametov seemed taken aback, but not very much so.
"Why, it was at your rooms we met yesterday," he said easily.
"Then I have been spared the trouble. All last week he was begging me to introduce him to you. Porfiry and you have sniffed each other out without me. Where is your tobacco?"
Porfiry Petrovitch was wearing a dressing-gown, very clean linen, and trodden-down slippers. He was a man of about five and thirty, short, stout even to corpulence, and clean shaven. He wore his hair cut short and had a large round head, particularly prominent at the back. His soft, round, rather snub-nosed face was of a sickly yellowish colour, but had a vigorous and rather ironical expression. It would have been good-natured except for a look in the eyes, which shone with a watery, mawkish light under almost white, blinking eyelashes. The expression of those eyes was strangely out of keeping with his somewhat womanish figure, and gave it something far more serious than could be guessed at first sight.
As soon as Porfiry Petrovitch heard that his visitor had a little matter of business with him, he begged him to sit down on the sofa and sat down himself on the other end, waiting for him to explain his business, with that careful and over-serious attention which is at once oppressive and embarrassing, especially to a stranger, and especially if what you are discussing is in your opinion of far too little importance for such exceptional solemnity. But in brief and coherent phrases Raskolnikov explained his business clearly and exactly, and was so well satisfied with himself that he even succeeded in taking a good look at Porfiry. Porfiry Petrovitch did not once take his eyes off him. Razumihin, sitting opposite at the same table, listened warmly and impatiently, looking from one to the other every moment with rather excessive interest.
"Fool," Raskolnikov swore to himself.
"You have to give information to the police," Porfiry replied, with a most businesslike air, "that having learnt of this incident, that is of the murder, you beg to inform the lawyer in charge of the case that such and such things belong to you, and that you desire to redeem them . . . or . . . but they will write to you."
"That's just the point, that at the present moment," Raskolnikov tried his utmost to feign embarrassment, "I am not quite in funds . . . and even this trifling sum is beyond me . . . I only wanted, you see, for the present to declare that the things are mine, and that when I have money. . . ."
"That's no matter," answered Porfiry Petrovitch, receiving his explanation of his pecuniary position coldly, "but you can, if you prefer, write straight to me, to say, that having been informed of the matter, and claiming such and such as your property, you beg . . ."
"On an ordinary sheet of paper?" Raskolnikov interrupted eagerly, again interested in the financial side of the question.
"Oh, the most ordinary," and suddenly Porfiry Petrovitch looked with obvious irony at him, screwing up his eyes and, as it were, winking at him. But perhaps it was Raskolnikov's fancy, for it all lasted but a moment. There was certainly something of the sort, Raskolnikov could have sworn he winked at him, goodness knows why.
"He knows," flashed through his mind like lightning.
"Forgive my troubling you about such trifles," he went on, a little disconcerted, "the things are only worth five roubles, but I prize them particularly for the sake of those from whom they came to me, and I must confess that I was alarmed when I heard . . ."
"That's why you were so much struck when I mentioned to Zossimov that Porfiry was inquiring for everyone who had pledges!" Razumihin put in with obvious intention.
This was really unbearable. Raskolnikov could not help glancing at him with a flash of vindictive anger in his black eyes, but immediately recollected himself.
"You seem to be jeering at me, brother?" he said to him, with a well- feigned irritability. "I dare say I do seem to you absurdly anxious about such trash; but you mustn't think me selfish or grasping for that, and these two things may be anything but trash in my eyes. I told you just now that the silver watch, though it's not worth a cent, is the only thing left us of my father's. You may laugh at me, but my mother is here," he turned suddenly to Porfiry, "and if she knew," he turned again hurriedly to Razumihin, carefully making his voice tremble, "that the watch was lost, she would be in despair! You know what women are!"
"Not a bit of it! I didn't mean that at all! Quite the contrary!" shouted Razumihin distressed.
"Was it right? Was it natural? Did I overdo it?" Raskolnikov asked himself in a tremor. "Why did I say that about women?"
"Oh, your mother is with you?" Porfiry Petrovitch inquired.
"Yes."
"When did she come?"
"Last night."
Porfiry paused as though reflecting.
"Your things would not in any case be lost," he went on calmly and coldly. "I have been expecting you here for some time."
And as though that was a matter of no importance, he carefully offered the ash-tray to Razumihin, who was ruthlessly scattering cigarette ash over the carpet. Raskolnikov shuddered, but Porfiry did not seem to be looking at him, and was still concerned with Razumihin's cigarette.
"What? Expecting him? Why, did you know that he had pledges /there/?" cried Razumihin.
Porfiry Petrovitch addressed himself to Raskolnikov.
"Your things, the ring and the watch, were wrapped up together, and on the paper your name was legibly written in pencil, together with the date on which you left them with her . . ."
"How observant you are!" Raskolnikov smiled awkwardly, doing his very utmost to look him straight in the face, but he failed, and suddenly added:
"I say that because I suppose there were a great many pledges . . . that it must be difficult to remember them all. . . . But you remember them all so clearly, and . . . and . . ."
"Stupid! Feeble!" he thought. "Why did I add that?"
"But we know all who had pledges, and you are the only one who hasn't come forward," Porfiry answered with hardly perceptible irony.
"I haven't been quite well."
"I heard that too. I heard, indeed, that you were in great distress about something. You look pale still."
"I am not pale at all. . . . No, I am quite well," Raskolnikov snapped out rudely and angrily, completely changing his tone. His anger was mounting, he could not repress it. "And in my anger I shall betray myself," flashed through his mind again. "Why are they torturing me?"
"Not quite well!" Razumihin caught him up. "What next! He was unconscious and delirious all yesterday. Would you believe, Porfiry, as soon as our backs were turned, he dressed, though he could hardly stand, and gave us the slip and went off on a spree somewhere till midnight, delirious all the time! Would you believe it! Extraordinary!"
"Really delirious? You don't say so!" Porfiry shook his head in a womanish way.
"Nonsense! Don't you believe it! But you don't believe it anyway," Raskolnikov let slip in his anger. But Porfiry Petrovitch did not seem to catch those strange words.
"But how could you have gone out if you hadn't been delirious?" Razumihin got hot suddenly. "What did you go out for? What was the object of it? And why on the sly? Were you in your senses when you did it? Now that all danger is over I can speak plainly."
"I was awfully sick of them yesterday." Raskolnikov addressed Porfiry suddenly with a smile of insolent defiance, "I ran away from them to take lodgings where they wouldn't find me, and took a lot of money with me. Mr. Zametov there saw it. I say, Mr. Zametov, was I sensible or delirious yesterday; settle our dispute."
He could have strangled Zametov at that moment, so hateful were his expression and his silence to him.
"In my opinion you talked sensibly and even artfully, but you were extremely irritable," Zametov pronounced dryly.
"And Nikodim Fomitch was telling me to-day," put in Porfiry Petrovitch, "that he met you very late last night in the lodging of a man who had been run over."
"And there," said Razumihin, "weren't you mad then? You gave your last penny to the widow for the funeral. If you wanted to help, give fifteen or twenty even, but keep three roubles for yourself at least, but he flung away all the twenty-five at once!"
"Maybe I found a treasure somewhere and you know nothing of it? So that's why I was liberal yesterday. . . . Mr. Zametov knows I've found a treasure! Excuse us, please, for disturbing you for half an hour with such trivialities," he said, turning to Porfiry Petrovitch, with trembling lips. "We are boring you, aren't we?"
"Oh no, quite the contrary, quite the contrary! If only you knew how you interest me! It's interesting to look on and listen . . . and I am really glad you have come forward at last."
"But you might give us some tea! My throat's dry," cried Razumihin.
"Capital idea! Perhaps we will all keep you company. Wouldn't you like . . . something more essential before tea?"
"Get along with you!"
Porfiry Petrovitch went out to order tea.
Raskolnikov's thoughts were in a whirl. He was in terrible exasperation.
"The worst of it is they don't disguise it; they don't care to stand on ceremony! And how if you didn't know me at all, did you come to talk to Nikodim Fomitch about me? So they don't care to hide that they are tracking me like a pack of dogs. They simply spit in my face." He was shaking with rage. "Come, strike me openly, don't play with me like a cat with a mouse. It's hardly civil, Porfiry Petrovitch, but perhaps I won't allow it! I shall get up and throw the whole truth in your ugly faces, and you'll see how I despise you." He could hardly breathe. "And what if it's only my fancy? What if I am mistaken, and through inexperience I get angry and don't keep up my nasty part? Perhaps it's all unintentional. All their phrases are the usual ones, but there is something about them. . . . It all might be said, but there is something. Why did he say bluntly, 'With her'? Why did Zametov add that I spoke artfully? Why do they speak in that tone? Yes, the tone. . . . Razumihin is sitting here, why does he see nothing? That innocent blockhead never does see anything! Feverish again! Did Porfiry wink at me just now? Of course it's nonsense! What could he wink for? Are they trying to upset my nerves or are they teasing me? Either it's ill fancy or they know! Even Zametov is rude. . . . Is Zametov rude? Zametov has changed his mind. I foresaw he would change his mind! He is at home here, while it's my first visit. Porfiry does not consider him a visitor; sits with his back to him. They're as thick as thieves, no doubt, over me! Not a doubt they were talking about me before we came. Do they know about the flat? If only they'd make haste! When I said that I ran away to take a flat he let it pass. . . . I put that in cleverly about a flat, it may be of use afterwards. . . . Delirious, indeed . . . ha-ha-ha! He knows all about last night! He didn't know of my mother's arrival! The hag had written the date on in pencil! You are wrong, you won't catch me! There are no facts . . . it's all supposition! You produce facts! The flat even isn't a fact but delirium. I know what to say to them. . . . Do they know about the flat? I won't go without finding out. What did I come for? But my being angry now, maybe is a fact! Fool, how irritable I am! Perhaps that's right; to play the invalid. . . . He is feeling me. He will try to catch me. Why did I come?"
All this flashed like lightning through his mind.
Porfiry Petrovitch returned quickly. He became suddenly more jovial.
"Your party yesterday, brother, has left my head rather. . . . And I am out of sorts altogether," he began in quite a different tone, laughing to Razumihin.
"Was it interesting? I left you yesterday at the most interesting point. Who got the best of it?"
"Oh, no one, of course. They got on to everlasting questions, floated off into space."
"Only fancy, Rodya, what we got on to yesterday. Whether there is such a thing as crime. I told you that we talked our heads off."
"What is there strange? It's an everyday social question," Raskolnikov answered casually.
"The question wasn't put quite like that," observed Porfiry.
"Not quite, that's true," Razumihin agreed at once, getting warm and hurried as usual. "Listen, Rodion, and tell us your opinion, I want to hear it. I was fighting tooth and nail with them and wanted you to help me. I told them you were coming. . . . It began with the socialist doctrine. You know their doctrine; crime is a protest against the abnormality of the social organisation and nothing more, and nothing more; no other causes admitted! . . ."
"You are wrong there," cried Porfiry Petrovitch; he was noticeably animated and kept laughing as he looked at Razumihin, which made him more excited than ever.
"Nothing is admitted," Razumihin interrupted with heat.
"I am not wrong. I'll show you their pamphlets. Everything with them is 'the influence of environment,' and nothing else. Their favourite phrase! From which it follows that, if society is normally organised, all crime will cease at once, since there will be nothing to protest against and all men will become righteous in one instant. Human nature is not taken into account, it is excluded, it's not supposed to exist! They don't recognise that humanity, developing by a historical living process, will become at last a normal society, but they believe that a social system that has come out of some mathematical brain is going to organise all humanity at once and make it just and sinless in an instant, quicker than any living process! That's why they instinctively dislike history, 'nothing but ugliness and stupidity in it,' and they explain it all as stupidity! That's why they so dislike the /living/ process of life; they don't want a /living soul/! The living soul demands life, the soul won't obey the rules of mechanics, the soul is an object of suspicion, the soul is retrograde! But what they want though it smells of death and can be made of India-rubber, at least is not alive, has no will, is servile and won't revolt! And it comes in the end to their reducing everything to the building of walls and the planning of rooms and passages in a phalanstery! The phalanstery is ready, indeed, but your human nature is not ready for the phalanstery--it wants life, it hasn't completed its vital process, it's too soon for the graveyard! You can't skip over nature by logic. Logic presupposes three possibilities, but there are millions! Cut away a million, and reduce it all to the question of comfort! That's the easiest solution of the problem! It's seductively clear and you musn't think about it. That's the great thing, you mustn't think! The whole secret of life in two pages of print!"
"Now he is off, beating the drum! Catch hold of him, do!" laughed Porfiry. "Can you imagine," he turned to Raskolnikov, "six people holding forth like that last night, in one room, with punch as a preliminary! No, brother, you are wrong, environment accounts for a great deal in crime; I can assure you of that."
"Oh, I know it does, but just tell me: a man of forty violates a child of ten; was it environment drove him to it?"
"Well, strictly speaking, it did," Porfiry observed with noteworthy gravity; "a crime of that nature may be very well ascribed to the influence of environment."
Razumihin was almost in a frenzy. "Oh, if you like," he roared. "I'll prove to you that your white eyelashes may very well be ascribed to the Church of Ivan the Great's being two hundred and fifty feet high, and I will prove it clearly, exactly, progressively, and even with a Liberal tendency! I undertake to! Will you bet on it?"
"Done! Let's hear, please, how he will prove it!"
"He is always humbugging, confound him," cried Razumihin, jumping up and gesticulating. "What's the use of talking to you? He does all that on purpose; you don't know him, Rodion! He took their side yesterday, simply to make fools of them. And the things he said yesterday! And they were delighted! He can keep it up for a fortnight together. Last year he persuaded us that he was going into a monastery: he stuck to it for two months. Not long ago he took it into his head to declare he was going to get married, that he had everything ready for the wedding. He ordered new clothes indeed. We all began to congratulate him. There was no bride, nothing, all pure fantasy!"
"Ah, you are wrong! I got the clothes before. It was the new clothes in fact that made me think of taking you in."
"Are you such a good dissembler?" Raskolnikov asked carelessly.
"You wouldn't have supposed it, eh? Wait a bit, I shall take you in, too. Ha-ha-ha! No, I'll tell you the truth. All these questions about crime, environment, children, recall to my mind an article of yours which interested me at the time. 'On Crime' . . . or something of the sort, I forget the title, I read it with pleasure two months ago in the /Periodical Review/."
"My article? In the /Periodical Review/?" Raskolnikov asked in astonishment. "I certainly did write an article upon a book six months ago when I left the university, but I sent it to the /Weekly Review/."
"But it came out in the /Periodical/."
"And the /Weekly Review/ ceased to exist, so that's why it wasn't printed at the time."
"That's true; but when it ceased to exist, the /Weekly Review/ was amalgamated with the /Periodical/, and so your article appeared two months ago in the latter. Didn't you know?"
Raskolnikov had not known.
"Why, you might get some money out of them for the article! What a strange person you are! You lead such a solitary life that you know nothing of matters that concern you directly. It's a fact, I assure you."
"Bravo, Rodya! I knew nothing about it either!" cried Razumihin. "I'll run to-day to the reading-room and ask for the number. Two months ago? What was the date? It doesn't matter though, I will find it. Think of not telling us!"
"How did you find out that the article was mine? It's only signed with an initial."
"I only learnt it by chance, the other day. Through the editor; I know him. . . . I was very much interested."
"I analysed, if I remember, the psychology of a criminal before and after the crime."
"Yes, and you maintained that the perpetration of a crime is always accompanied by illness. Very, very original, but . . . it was not that part of your article that interested me so much, but an idea at the end of the article which I regret to say you merely suggested without working it out clearly. There is, if you recollect, a suggestion that there are certain persons who can . . . that is, not precisely are able to, but have a perfect right to commit breaches of morality and crimes, and that the law is not for them."
Raskolnikov smiled at the exaggerated and intentional distortion of his idea.
"What? What do you mean? A right to crime? But not because of the influence of environment?" Razumihin inquired with some alarm even.
"No, not exactly because of it," answered Porfiry. "In his article all men are divided into 'ordinary' and 'extraordinary.' Ordinary men have to live in submission, have no right to transgress the law, because, don't you see, they are ordinary. But extraordinary men have a right to commit any crime and to transgress the law in any way, just because they are extraordinary. That was your idea, if I am not mistaken?"
"What do you mean? That can't be right?" Razumihin muttered in bewilderment.
Raskolnikov smiled again. He saw the point at once, and knew where they wanted to drive him. He decided to take up the challenge.
"That wasn't quite my contention," he began simply and modestly. "Yet I admit that you have stated it almost correctly; perhaps, if you like, perfectly so." (It almost gave him pleasure to admit this.) "The only difference is that I don't contend that extraordinary people are always bound to commit breaches of morals, as you call it. In fact, I doubt whether such an argument could be published. I simply hinted that an 'extraordinary' man has the right . . . that is not an official right, but an inner right to decide in his own conscience to overstep . . . certain obstacles, and only in case it is essential for the practical fulfilment of his idea (sometimes, perhaps, of benefit to the whole of humanity). You say that my article isn't definite; I am ready to make it as clear as I can. Perhaps I am right in thinking you want me to; very well. I maintain that if the discoveries of Kepler and Newton could not have been made known except by sacrificing the lives of one, a dozen, a hundred, or more men, Newton would have had the right, would indeed have been in duty bound . . . to /eliminate/ the dozen or the hundred men for the sake of making his discoveries known to the whole of humanity. But it does not follow from that that Newton had a right to murder people right and left and to steal every day in the market. Then, I remember, I maintain in my article that all . . . well, legislators and leaders of men, such as Lycurgus, Solon, Mahomet, Napoleon, and so on, were all without exception criminals, from the very fact that, making a new law, they transgressed the ancient one, handed down from their ancestors and held sacred by the people, and they did not stop short at bloodshed either, if that bloodshed--often of innocent persons fighting bravely in defence of ancient law--were of use to their cause. It's remarkable, in fact, that the majority, indeed, of these benefactors and leaders of humanity were guilty of terrible carnage. In short, I maintain that all great men or even men a little out of the common, that is to say capable of giving some new word, must from their very nature be criminals--more or less, of course. Otherwise it's hard for them to get out of the common rut; and to remain in the common rut is what they can't submit to, from their very nature again, and to my mind they ought not, indeed, to submit to it. You see that there is nothing particularly new in all that. The same thing has been printed and read a thousand times before. As for my division of people into ordinary and extraordinary, I acknowledge that it's somewhat arbitrary, but I don't insist upon exact numbers. I only believe in my leading idea that men are /in general/ divided by a law of nature into two categories, inferior (ordinary), that is, so to say, material that serves only to reproduce its kind, and men who have the gift or the talent to utter /a new word/. There are, of course, innumerable sub- divisions, but the distinguishing features of both categories are fairly well marked. The first category, generally speaking, are men conservative in temperament and law-abiding; they live under control and love to be controlled. To my thinking it is their duty to be controlled, because that's their vocation, and there is nothing humiliating in it for them. The second category all transgress the law; they are destroyers or disposed to destruction according to their capacities. The crimes of these men are of course relative and varied; for the most part they seek in very varied ways the destruction of the present for the sake of the better. But if such a one is forced for the sake of his idea to step over a corpse or wade through blood, he can, I maintain, find within himself, in his conscience, a sanction for wading through blood--that depends on the idea and its dimensions, note that. It's only in that sense I speak of their right to crime in my article (you remember it began with the legal question). There's no need for such anxiety, however; the masses will scarcely ever admit this right, they punish them or hang them (more or less), and in doing so fulfil quite justly their conservative vocation. But the same masses set these criminals on a pedestal in the next generation and worship them (more or less). The first category is always the man of the present, the second the man of the future. The first preserve the world and people it, the second move the world and lead it to its goal. Each class has an equal right to exist. In fact, all have equal rights with me--and /vive la guerre eternelle/--till the New Jerusalem, of course!"
"Then you believe in the New Jerusalem, do you?"
"I do," Raskolnikov answered firmly; as he said these words and during the whole preceding tirade he kept his eyes on one spot on the carpet.
"And . . . and do you believe in God? Excuse my curiosity."
"I do," repeated Raskolnikov, raising his eyes to Porfiry.
"And . . . do you believe in Lazarus' rising from the dead?"
"I . . . I do. Why do you ask all this?"
"You believe it literally?"
"Literally."
"You don't say so. . . . I asked from curiosity. Excuse me. But let us go back to the question; they are not always executed. Some, on the contrary . . ."
"Triumph in their lifetime? Oh, yes, some attain their ends in this life, and then . . ."
"They begin executing other people?"
"If it's necessary; indeed, for the most part they do. Your remark is very witty."
"Thank you. But tell me this: how do you distinguish those extraordinary people from the ordinary ones? Are there signs at their birth? I feel there ought to be more exactitude, more external definition. Excuse the natural anxiety of a practical law-abiding citizen, but couldn't they adopt a special uniform, for instance, couldn't they wear something, be branded in some way? For you know if confusion arises and a member of one category imagines that he belongs to the other, begins to 'eliminate obstacles' as you so happily expressed it, then . . ."
"Oh, that very often happens! That remark is wittier than the other."
"Thank you."
"No reason to; but take note that the mistake can only arise in the first category, that is among the ordinary people (as I perhaps unfortunately called them). In spite of their predisposition to obedience very many of them, through a playfulness of nature, sometimes vouchsafed even to the cow, like to imagine themselves advanced people, 'destroyers,' and to push themselves into the 'new movement,' and this quite sincerely. Meanwhile the really /new/ people are very often unobserved by them, or even despised as reactionaries of grovelling tendencies. But I don't think there is any considerable danger here, and you really need not be uneasy for they never go very far. Of course, they might have a thrashing sometimes for letting their fancy run away with them and to teach them their place, but no more; in fact, even this isn't necessary as they castigate themselves, for they are very conscientious: some perform this service for one another and others chastise themselves with their own hands. . . . They will impose various public acts of penitence upon themselves with a beautiful and edifying effect; in fact you've nothing to be uneasy about. . . . It's a law of nature."
"Well, you have certainly set my mind more at rest on that score; but there's another thing worries me. Tell me, please, are there many people who have the right to kill others, these extraordinary people? I am ready to bow down to them, of course, but you must admit it's alarming if there are a great many of them, eh?"
"Oh, you needn't worry about that either," Raskolnikov went on in the same tone. "People with new ideas, people with the faintest capacity for saying something /new/, are extremely few in number, extraordinarily so in fact. One thing only is clear, that the appearance of all these grades and sub-divisions of men must follow with unfailing regularity some law of nature. That law, of course, is unknown at present, but I am convinced that it exists, and one day may become known. The vast mass of mankind is mere material, and only exists in order by some great effort, by some mysterious process, by means of some crossing of races and stocks, to bring into the world at last perhaps one man out of a thousand with a spark of independence. One in ten thousand perhaps--I speak roughly, approximately--is born with some independence, and with still greater independence one in a hundred thousand. The man of genius is one of millions, and the great geniuses, the crown of humanity, appear on earth perhaps one in many thousand millions. In fact I have not peeped into the retort in which all this takes place. But there certainly is and must be a definite law, it cannot be a matter of chance."
"Why, are you both joking?" Razumihin cried at last. "There you sit, making fun of one another. Are you serious, Rodya?"
Raskolnikov raised his pale and almost mournful face and made no reply. And the unconcealed, persistent, nervous, and /discourteous/ sarcasm of Porfiry seemed strange to Razumihin beside that quiet and mournful face.
"Well, brother, if you are really serious . . . You are right, of course, in saying that it's not new, that it's like what we've read and heard a thousand times already; but what is really original in all this, and is exclusively your own, to my horror, is that you sanction bloodshed /in the name of conscience/, and, excuse my saying so, with such fanaticism. . . . That, I take it, is the point of your article. But that sanction of bloodshed /by conscience/ is to my mind . . . more terrible than the official, legal sanction of bloodshed. . . ."
"You are quite right, it is more terrible," Porfiry agreed.
"Yes, you must have exaggerated! There is some mistake, I shall read it. You can't think that! I shall read it."
"All that is not in the article, there's only a hint of it," said Raskolnikov.
"Yes, yes." Porfiry couldn't sit still. "Your attitude to crime is pretty clear to me now, but . . . excuse me for my impertinence (I am really ashamed to be worrying you like this), you see, you've removed my anxiety as to the two grades getting mixed, but . . . there are various practical possibilities that make me uneasy! What if some man or youth imagines that he is a Lycurgus or Mahomet--a future one of course--and suppose he begins to remove all obstacles. . . . He has some great enterprise before him and needs money for it . . . and tries to get it . . . do you see?"
Zametov gave a sudden guffaw in his corner. Raskolnikov did not even raise his eyes to him.
"I must admit," he went on calmly, "that such cases certainly must arise. The vain and foolish are particularly apt to fall into that snare; young people especially."
"Yes, you see. Well then?"
"What then?" Raskolnikov smiled in reply; "that's not my fault. So it is and so it always will be. He said just now (he nodded at Razumihin) that I sanction bloodshed. Society is too well protected by *s, banishment, criminal investigators, penal servitude. There's no need to be uneasy. You have but to catch the thief."
"And what if we do catch him?"
"Then he gets what he deserves."
"You are certainly logical. But what of his conscience?"
"Why do you care about that?"
"Simply from humanity."
"If he has a conscience he will suffer for his mistake. That will be his punishment--as well as the *."
"But the real geniuses," asked Razumihin frowning, "those who have the right to murder? Oughtn't they to suffer at all even for the blood they've shed?"
"Why the word /ought/? It's not a matter of permission or prohibition. He will suffer if he is sorry for his victim. Pain and suffering are always inevitable for a large intelligence and a deep heart. The really great men must, I think, have great sadness on earth," he added dreamily, not in the tone of the conversation.
He raised his eyes, looked earnestly at them all, smiled, and took his cap. He was too quiet by comparison with his manner at his entrance, and he felt this. Everyone got up.
"Well, you may abuse me, be angry with me if you like," Porfiry Petrovitch began again, "but I can't resist. Allow me one little question (I know I am troubling you). There is just one little notion I want to express, simply that I may not forget it."
"Very good, tell me your little notion," Raskolnikov stood waiting, pale and grave before him.
"Well, you see . . . I really don't know how to express it properly. . . . It's a playful, psychological idea. . . . When you were writing your article, surely you couldn't have helped, he-he! fancying yourself . . . just a little, an 'extraordinary' man, uttering a /new word/ in your sense. . . . That's so, isn't it?"
"Quite possibly," Raskolnikov answered contemptuously.
Razumihin made a movement.
"And, if so, could you bring yourself in case of worldly difficulties and hardship or for some service to humanity--to overstep obstacles? . . . For instance, to rob and murder?"
And again he winked with his left eye, and laughed noiselessly just as before.
"If I did I certainly should not tell you," Raskolnikov answered with defiant and haughty contempt.
"No, I was only interested on account of your article, from a literary point of view . . ."
"Foo! how obvious and insolent that is!" Raskolnikov thought with repulsion.
"Allow me to observe," he answered dryly, "that I don't consider myself a Mahomet or a Napoleon, nor any personage of that kind, and not being one of them I cannot tell you how I should act."
"Oh, come, don't we all think ourselves Napoleons now in Russia?" Porfiry Petrovitch said with alarming familiarity.
Something peculiar betrayed itself in the very intonation of his voice.
"Perhaps it was one of these future Napoleons who did for Alyona Ivanovna last week?" Zametov blurted out from the corner.
Raskolnikov did not speak, but looked firmly and intently at Porfiry. Razumihin was scowling gloomily. He seemed before this to be noticing something. He looked angrily around. There was a minute of gloomy silence. Raskolnikov turned to go.
"Are you going already?" Porfiry said amiably, holding out his hand with excessive politeness. "Very, very glad of your acquaintance. As for your request, have no uneasiness, write just as I told you, or, better still, come to me there yourself in a day or two . . . to-morrow, indeed. I shall be there at eleven o'clock for certain. We'll arrange it all; we'll have a talk. As one of the last to be /there/, you might perhaps be able to tell us something," he added with a most good-natured expression.
"You want to cross-examine me officially in due form?" Raskolnikov asked sharply.
"Oh, why? That's not necessary for the present. You misunderstand me. I lose no opportunity, you see, and . . . I've talked with all who had pledges. . . . I obtained evidence from some of them, and you are the last. . . . Yes, by the way," he cried, seemingly suddenly delighted, "I just remember, what was I thinking of?" he turned to Razumihin, "you were talking my ears off about that Nikolay . . . of course, I know, I know very well," he turned to Raskolnikov, "that the fellow is innocent, but what is one to do? We had to trouble Dmitri too. . . . This is the point, this is all: when you went up the stairs it was past seven, wasn't it?"
"Yes," answered Raskolnikov, with an unpleasant sensation at the very moment he spoke that he need not have said it.
"Then when you went upstairs between seven and eight, didn't you see in a flat that stood open on a second storey, do you remember? two workmen or at least one of them? They were painting there, didn't you notice them? It's very, very important for them."
"Painters? No, I didn't see them," Raskolnikov answered slowly, as though ransacking his memory, while at the same instant he was racking every nerve, almost swooning with anxiety to conjecture as quickly as possible where the trap lay and not to overlook anything. "No, I didn't see them, and I don't think I noticed a flat like that open. . . . But on the fourth storey" (he had mastered the trap now and was triumphant) "I remember now that someone was moving out of the flat opposite Alyona Ivanovna's. . . . I remember . . . I remember it clearly. Some porters were carrying out a sofa and they squeezed me against the wall. But painters . . . no, I don't remember that there were any painters, and I don't think that there was a flat open anywhere, no, there wasn't."
"What do you mean?" Razumihin shouted suddenly, as though he had reflected and realised. "Why, it was on the day of the murder the painters were at work, and he was there three days before? What are you asking?"
"Foo! I have muddled it!" Porfiry slapped himself on the forehead. "Deuce take it! This business is turning my brain!" he addressed Raskolnikov somewhat apologetically. "It would be such a great thing for us to find out whether anyone had seen them between seven and eight at the flat, so I fancied you could perhaps have told us something. . . . I quite muddled it."
"Then you should be more careful," Razumihin observed grimly.
The last words were uttered in the passage. Porfiry Petrovitch saw them to the door with excessive politeness.
They went out into the street gloomy and sullen, and for some steps they did not say a word. Raskolnikov drew a deep breath.
拉斯科利尼科夫已经进到屋里了。他进来时，脸上的神情好像是在竭力忍着，免得噗嗤一下笑出声来。怪不好意思的拉祖米欣跟在他后面走了进来，显得很窘，怒气冲冲，脸红得像芍药一样，笨手笨脚，神情十分尴尬。这时他全身的姿势当真都很好笑，说明拉斯科利尼科夫的笑并不是没有道理。拉斯科利尼科夫还没被介绍给主人，就向站在房屋当中疑问地望着他们的主人点了点头，伸出手去，和他握手，看得出还在竭力抑制着自己的快乐情绪，好至少能用三言两语来作自我介绍。但是他刚竭力做出一本正经的样子，含糊不清地不知说了些什么，——突然，好像不由自主地又朝拉祖米欣看了一眼，立刻又忍不住了：强忍住的笑声突然爆发，在这以前越是忍得厉害，这时就越发抑制不住了。听到这“发自内心”的笑声，拉祖米欣气得发狂，他的愤怒为目前的情景增添了最真诚的愉快气氛，主要的是，使它显得更自然了。
拉祖米欣还好像故意帮忙，使这幕喜剧演得更加真实。
“呸，见鬼！”他高声怒吼，一挥手，刚好打在一张小圆桌上，桌上放着一只茶已经喝完了的玻璃杯。所有东西都飞了起来，发出叮叮噹噹的响声。
“为什么要摔坏椅子呢①，先生们，公家可要受损失了！”
波尔菲里·彼特罗维奇愉快地叫嚷。
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①这是果戈理的《钦差大臣》里第一幕第一场中市长的一句话。
于是出现了这样一个场面：拉斯科利尼科夫还在笑着，忘了自己的手握在主人的手里，但也知道分寸，所以在等着这一瞬间快点儿而且较为自然地结束。小桌子倒了，玻璃杯打破了，这使得拉祖米欣更加不好意思，完全不知所措，他神情一陰一郁地看了看玻璃碎片，啐了一口，急遽地转过身去，走到窗前，背对着大家，可怕地皱起眉头，一陰一沉着脸望着窗外，可是什么也没看见。波尔菲里·彼特罗维奇在笑，也愿意笑，然而他显然需要对这作出解释。墙角落里一把椅子上坐着扎苗托夫，客人一进来，他就欠起身来，咧开嘴微笑着，站在那儿等着，然而困惑不解地、甚至是怀疑地看着这个场面，而看拉斯科利尼科夫的时候，甚至是感到局促不安。扎苗托夫也在场，这是拉斯科利尼科夫没有预料到的，这使他吃了一惊，感到不快。
“这还得考虑考虑！”他想。
“请原谅，”他很不好意思地说，“拉斯科利尼科夫……”
“哪儿的话，非常高兴，您这样进来，我也很高兴……怎么，他连打个招呼也不愿意吗？”波尔菲里·彼特罗维奇朝拉祖米欣那边点了点头。
“真的，我不知道他为什么对我大发脾气。我只不过在路上对他说，他像罗密欧，而且……而且证明的确如此，好像再没有别的原因了。”
“猪猡！”拉祖米欣头也不回地回答。
“为了一句话大发脾气，这么说，是有很重要的原因了，”
波尔菲里大笑起来。
“哼，你呀！侦查员！……哼，你们都见鬼去！”拉祖米欣很不客气地说，突然，他自己也大笑起来，脸上带着愉快的神情，好像什么事也没发生似地走到波尔菲里·彼特罗维奇跟前。
“够了！大家都是傻瓜；谈正经的：这是我的朋友，罗季昂·罗曼内奇·拉斯科利尼科夫，第一，久闻大名，想和你认识一下，第二，有件小事要找你谈谈。啊！扎苗托夫！你怎么会在这里？难道你们认识？早就是朋友了？”
“这又是怎么回事！”拉斯科利尼科夫不安地想。
扎苗托夫好像不好意思，不过不是很窘。
“昨天在你家里认识的，”他很随便地说。
“这么说，老天帮忙，省得我来一操一心：波尔菲里，上星期你一个劲儿地求我给你介绍，可是不用介绍，你们就搞到一起了……你的烟呢？”
波尔菲里·彼特罗维奇一副家常打扮，穿着长袍，十分干净的内一衣，脚上是一双已经穿坏的便鞋。这是个约摸三十五岁左右的人，中等以下一身材，胖胖的，甚至腆着个大肚子，脸刮得光光滑滑，既没蓄唇髭，也没有络腮一胡一子，一头浓密的头发剪得短短的，滚一圆的大脑袋，不知怎么后脑勺却特别突出。肥胖的圆脸上长着个稍有点儿向上一翘着的鼻子，脸色暗黄，好像有病，但很有一精一神，甚至流露出嘲讽的神情。他的脸甚至是和善的，要不是眼神起了破坏一性一作用的话，那双眼睛闪射着暗淡无色的微弱的闪光，遮着眼睛的睫一毛一几乎是白的，不停地眨动着，仿佛是在向什么人使眼色。不知怎地，他的目光和他那甚至有点儿像女人的整个体形很不协调，因此使他这个人显得比乍看上去所能预料的要严肃得多。
波尔菲里·彼特罗维奇一听到客人有件“小事”要找他谈谈，立刻请客人坐到长沙发上，他自己则坐到沙发的另一头，凝神注视着客人，迫切地等待着叙述事情的原委，而且那么聚一精一会神，严肃得似乎太过分了，第一次来找他的人，特别是素不相识的人，特别是如果您认为您所说的事情值不得如此特别重视，值不得给予如此认真对待的话，那么他这种认真的态度甚至会让您感到难堪，让您不知所措。但是拉斯科利尼科夫用几句简短而条理分明的话，清楚和准确地说明了自己的事情，因此他对自己十分满意，甚至相当仔细地把波尔菲里打量了一番。在谈话的全部时间里，波尔菲里也一直目不转睛地看着他。拉祖米欣坐在桌子对面，热心而又急不可耐地留心听着他说明事情的原委，不时把目光从这一个的身上转移到那一个的身上，又从那一个身上转移到这一个身上，做得已经有点儿失去分寸了。
“傻瓜！”拉斯科利尼科夫暗自骂了一声。
“您应该向警察局声明，”波尔菲里完全是一副公事公办的样子，认真地回答说，“就说，得悉发生了这么一件事情，也就是这件凶杀案，——您也要请求通知经办此案的侦查员，有这么几件东西是属于您的，您希望把它们赎回来……
或者那里……不过会书面通知您的。”
“问题就在这里了，目前我，”拉斯科利尼科夫尽可能装作很尴尬的样子，“手头不怎么宽裕……就连这么几件小东西也没法赎回来……我，您要知道，我想现在只声明一下，说这些东西是我的，一旦有了钱……”
“这反正一样，”波尔菲里·彼特罗维奇回答，冷冷地听着他对经济状况所作的解释，“不过，如果您愿意，直接给我写个报告也行，也是那个意思：就说，得知那件案子，声明有这么几件东西是我的，请……”
“就写在普通的纸上？”拉斯科利尼科夫连忙打断了他的话，又想谈经济方面的问题。
“噢，就写在最普通的纸上！”波尔菲里·彼特罗维奇不知为什么突然眯缝起眼睛，带着明显的嘲讽神情看了看他，好像是对他眨了眨眼。不过，也许只是拉斯科利尼科夫的感觉，因为这只持续了一瞬间。至少是有过这么一种神情。拉斯科利尼科夫发誓，他对他眨过眼，天知道是为什么。
“他知道！”这想法像闪电般在他脑子里忽地一闪。
“请原谅我为这样一些小事来麻烦您，”他接着说下去，有点儿心慌意乱，“我那些东西总共只值五个卢布，不过对我却特别珍贵，因为对于我从他们那儿得到这些东西的人来说，这是纪念品，说实在的，一听说的时候，我甚至大吃一惊……”
“怪不得昨天我和佐西莫夫谈起，波尔菲里在询问那些抵押东西的人，你显得那么激动了！”拉祖米欣怀着明显的意图插嘴说。
这可已经让人太难堪了。拉斯科利尼科夫忍不住了，用那双燃起怒火的黑眼睛恶狠狠地瞪了他一眼。但立刻又冷静下来。
“老兄，你好像是在嘲笑我吧？”他狡猾地装出生气的样子对拉祖米欣说。“我同意，在你看来，对这些毫无用处的东西，也许我是太关心了；但是既不能为此把我看作自私自利的人，也不能把我看作吝啬鬼，在我看来，这两件微不足道的东西也许绝非毫无用处。刚才我已经跟你说过，这块不值钱的银表是先父留下的唯一一件东西。你嘲笑我吧，可是我母亲来看我了，”他突然转过脸去，对波尔菲里说，“如果她知道，”他又赶快回过头来对拉祖米欣说，特别竭力让声音发一抖，“这块表丢一了，那么，我发誓，她一定会悲痛欲绝的！女人嘛！”
“根本不是这么回事！我完全不是这个意思！我的意思恰好完全相反！”感到不快的拉祖米欣大声叫嚷。
“这样好不好呢？自然吗？没太夸张吗？”拉斯科利尼科夫心怦怦地跳着，暗自想。“我干吗要说‘女人嘛’？”
“令堂到您这儿来了？”波尔菲里·彼特罗维奇不知为了什么问。
“是的。”
“这是什么时候的事？”
“昨天晚上。”
波尔菲里不说话了，仿佛在思考。
“您的东西无论如何也丢不了，”他安详而冷静地接下去说。“要知道，我早就在这里等着您了。”
他若无其事地、很关心地把烟灰缸放到毫不一爱一惜地把香烟灰弹到地毯上的拉祖米欣面前。拉斯科利尼科夫颤一抖了一下，但是波尔菲里似乎没看着他，一直还在为拉祖米欣的香烟灰感到担心。
“什—么？你在等着？难道你知道他也在那儿抵押过东西吗？”拉祖米欣叫嚷。
波尔菲里·彼特罗维奇直接对拉斯科利尼科夫说：
“您那两件东西，戒指和表，都在她那儿，包在一张纸里，纸上用铅笔清清楚楚写着您的名字，还写着她从您那里收到这些东西的月份和日期……”
“您怎么这样细心？……”拉斯科利尼科夫不恰当地笑了笑，竭力想毫不回避地看着他的眼睛，但是忍不住了，突然补充说：“刚才我所以这么说，是因为，抵押东西的人一大概很多……您难以记住所有人的名字……可您，恰恰相反，这么清楚地记得所有的人，而且……而且……”
“愚蠢，不高明！我干吗要加上这些话呢！”
“几乎所有抵押过东西的人，现在我们都已经清楚了，只有您一个人还没来过，”波尔菲里用稍有点儿勉强可以察觉的嘲讽口吻回答。
“前几天我身一体不大好。”
“这我也听说了。甚至还听说，不知为了什么，您的心情很不好。就是现在，您的脸色好像也很苍白？”
“一点儿也不苍白……恰恰相反，现在我完全健康！”拉斯科利尼科夫突然改变了语气，粗一鲁而又气愤地、毫不客气地说。他满腔怒火，再也无法压制。“可是在气头上我准会说漏了嘴！”这想法又在他脑子里一闪而过。“他们为什么要折磨我呢？……”
“他并不完全健康！”拉祖米欣赶紧接着说，“尽说傻话！到昨天他还几乎昏迷不醒，在说一胡一话……你相信吗，波尔菲里，他连站都站不稳，可是我们，我和佐西莫夫，昨天刚一转身，他就穿上衣服，悄悄地溜出去，不知在哪儿闲逛，几乎直到半夜，而且是在完全，我告诉您，是在完全神智不清的情况下，这您能想象得出吗！太不可思议了！”
“难道是在完全神智不清的情况下吗？您倒说说看！”波尔菲里像女人似地摇摇头。
“唉，一胡一说八道！请别相信他！其实您本来就不相信！”拉斯科利尼科夫太恼怒了，不觉脱口而出。可是波尔菲里·彼特罗维奇似乎没听清这些奇怪的话。
“如果不是神智不清，你怎么会出去呢？”拉祖米欣突然发火了。“你干吗出去？去干什么？……而且为什么偏偏是悄悄地溜走呢？当时你思想清楚吗？现在，所有危险都已经过去了，我可以直截了当地对你说了！”
“昨天他们让我腻烦透了，”拉斯科利尼科夫突然对波尔菲里说，脸上露出放肆无礼和挑衅的微笑，“我从他们那儿逃走，想去租间房子，叫他们再也找不到我，而且随身带了许多钱。喏，扎苗托夫先生看到过这些钱。扎苗托夫先生，昨天我神智清醒，还是不清醒呢？请您来评判一下吧。”
这时他似乎真想把扎苗托夫掐死。扎苗托夫的目光和沉默，他都很不喜欢。
“照我看，昨天您说话很有理智，甚至相当巧妙，只不过太一爱一生气了，”扎苗托夫冷冷地说。
“今天尼科季姆·福米奇对我说，”波尔菲里·彼特罗维奇插嘴说，“昨天很晚遇到了您，在一个被马踩死的官员家里……”
“好，就拿这个官员的事情来说吧！”拉祖米欣接过话茬说，“你说，你在那个官员家的行为像不像个疯子？把剩下的最后一点儿钱都送给那个寡一妇做丧葬费了！好吧，你要帮助她也行——给她十五个卢布，二十个卢布，也就是了，哪怕给自己留下三个卢布也好，可是，不，把二十五卢布全都这么慷慨地送给她了！”
“也许我在什么地方找到了宝藏，你却不知道呢？于是我昨天就慷慨起来了……喏，扎苗托夫先生知道，我找到了宝藏！……请您原谅，”他嘴唇颤一抖着对波尔菲里说，“我们用这种无关紧要的闲话打搅了您半个小时。您厌烦了，是吗？”
“没有的事，恰恰相反，恰——恰——相反！要是您能知道，您使我多么感兴趣就好了！看着和听着都很有意思……
而且，说实在的，您终于来了，我是那么高兴……”
“喂，至少给拿杯茶来嘛！嗓子都干了！”拉祖米欣突然高声叫嚷。
“好主意！也许大家会陪你一道喝。要不要……喝茶之前，先来点儿更重要的①？”
--------
①指酒。
“去你的！”
波尔菲里·彼特罗维奇去吩咐送茶来。
各种想法在拉斯科利尼科夫的脑子里像旋风样飞速旋转。他气得要命。
“主要的，是他们毫不掩饰，也不想客气！如果你根本不知道我，为什么要和尼科季姆·福米奇谈起我呢？可见他们不想隐瞒，像群狗一样在跟踪我！这样毫无顾忌，这样瞧不起我！”他气得发一抖。“好吧，要打，就对准了打，可别玩猫逗老鼠的游戏。这可是不礼貌的。波尔菲里·彼特罗维奇，要知道，也许我还不允许这样！……我会站起来，对着你们把实情全都说出来；您会看到，我是多么瞧不起你们！……”他困难地喘了口气。“如果只不过是我觉得好像是这样呢？如果这是幻象，如果我全弄错了，如果是由于我没有经验而发火，如果是我演不了这个卑鄙的角色呢？也许这一切都没有什么意图吧？他们的话都很普通，不过其中有某种含意……这些话随时都可以说，不过有某种含意。为什么他直截了当地说‘在她那儿’？为什么扎苗托夫补充说，我说得巧妙？为什么他们用这样的语气说话？对了……语气……拉祖米欣也坐在这儿，为什么他什么也没察觉呢？这个天真的傻瓜永远什么也不会察觉！又发一热病了！……刚才波尔菲里对我眨眼了，还是没有呢？大概，没有这回事；他为什么要眨眼呢？是想刺激我的神经，还是在戏一弄我？要么一切都是幻象，要么是他们知道！……就连扎苗托夫也很无礼……扎苗托夫是不是无礼呢？扎苗托夫一一夜之间改变了看法。我就预感到他会改变看法！他在这儿像在家里一样，可还是第一次来这里。波尔菲里不把他当作客人，背对着他坐着。他们勾搭上了！一定是为了我勾搭上的！我们来以前，他们一定是在谈论我！……他们知道租房子的事吗？但愿快点儿！……当我说昨天我跑出去租房子的时候，他忽略过去了，没有就此发挥什么……而我插一进这句关于租房子的话，巧妙得很：以后会有用处！……就说，是在神智不清的时候！……哈，哈，哈！那天晚上的事他全都知道！我母亲来了，他不知道！…… 那巫婆连日子都用铅笔记上了！……您一胡一说，我决不屈服！因为这还不是事实，这只不过是幻象！不，请你们拿出真凭实据来！租房子也不是证据，而是我的呓语；我知道该对他们说什么……他们知道租房子的事吗？不摸清楚，我就不走！我干吗要来？可是现在我在发火，这大概是个证据吧！唉，我多么容易光火啊！不过也许这是好事；我在扮演一个病人的角色嘛……
他在试探我。他会把我搞糊涂的。我来干什么？”
这一切犹如闪电一般掠过他的脑海。
波尔菲里·彼特罗维奇一转眼的工夫就回来了。不知为什么他突然变得快活起来。
“老兄，昨天从你那儿回来以后，我的头……就连我整个儿这个人都好像管不住自己了，”他用完全不同的另一种语气笑着对拉祖米欣说。
“怎么，有意思吗？昨天我可是在谈到最有趣的问题的时候离开你们的，不是吗？谁赢了？”
“当然，谁也没赢。我们渐渐谈到了一些永恒的问题，谈论起学术一性一的问题来了。”
“罗佳，你想想看，我们昨天谈到了什么：到底有没有犯罪？我说过，我们都争论得快发疯了！”
“这有什么好奇怪的？一个普通的社会问题嘛，”拉斯科利尼科夫心不在焉地回答。
“问题不是这样简单地提出来的，”波尔菲里说。
“不完全是这样提出来的，的确如此，”和往常不一样，拉祖米欣匆忙而一性一急地立刻就同意了。“喂，罗佳，你听听，然后谈谈你的意见。我想听听你的看法。昨天我拼命跟他们争，并且在等着你；我还跟他们谈起你，说你今天会来……我们是从*者的观点谈起的。这观点大家都知道：犯罪是对社会制度不正常的一种*——仅仅是*，再也不是什么旁的，再也不允许去找任何别的原因，——仅此而已！
……”
“这你可是一胡一说了！”波尔菲里·彼特罗维奇高声叫喊。看来，他活跃起来了，一直瞅着拉祖米欣笑，这就使后者变得更激动了。
“再不允许去找任何别的原因！”拉祖米欣情绪激昂地打断了他的话，“我没一胡一说！……我可以把他们的书拿给你看：照他们的看法，一切都是‘环境所迫’——再没有别的原因！这是他们一爱一说的一句话！由此直接得出结论：如果社会组织得正常，那么所有犯罪就一下子都会消失，因为再没有什么可以*的了，转瞬间所有的人就都会变成正直的人。不考虑天一性一，天一性一给排除了，天一性一是不应该存在的！按照他们的理论，不是人类沿着历史发展的实际道路向前发展，到最后自然而然形成一个正常的社会，而是相反，社会制度从任何一个数学头脑里产生出来以后，立刻会把全人类组织起来，比任何实际发展过程都快，毋需经过历史发展的实际道路，转眼之间就会使全人类都变得正直和纯洁无瑕！正是因此
