last words, after all that had gone before, so similar to a recantation, caught him completely by surprise. Raskolnikov started shaking all over, as if he’d been stabbed.
‘So . . . who did it?’ he asked, unable to resist, gasping for air. Porfiry Petrovich all but threw himself back in his chair, as if utterly astounded by the question.
‘What do you mean – who did it?’ he repeated, as if he couldn’t believe his ears. ‘Why, you did, Rodion Romanych! With respect, sir, the murderer is you . . . ,’ he almost whispered, in a voice of total conviction.
Raskolnikov leapt from the couch, stayed on his feet for a few seconds, then sat back down, not saying a word. Faint convulsions suddenly rippled across his face.
‘Your lip’s trembling again, just like then,’ muttered Porfiry Petrovich, almost with sympathy. ‘You seem to have misunderstood me, Rodion Romanych,’ he added, after a pause, ‘hence your amazement. This is the whole reason I’ve come here: to leave nothing unsaid and bring everything out into the open.’
‘It wasn’t me,’ Raskolnikov began in a whisper, just like a frightened little child who’s been caught red-handed.
‘Yes it was, Rodion Romanych. Yes it was, sir – can’t be anyone else,’ Porfiry whispered, with stern conviction.
They both fell silent and the silence lasted a strangely long time, ten minutes or so. Raskolnikov leant his elbows on the table and silently ruffled his hair with his fingers. Porfiry Petrovich meekly sat and waited. Then, with a sudden, contemptuous glance, Raskolnikov said:
‘Up to your old tricks again, Porfiry Petrovich? The same old ruses? Aren’t you tired of it all, I wonder?’
‘Oh please – what good are tricks to me now? If there were any witnesses here, that would be another matter; but it’s just the two of us. You can see for yourself that I haven’t come here to chase you around like a hare and trap you. Whether or not you confess means nothing to me at this moment in time. I don’t need you to convince me.’
‘So why have you come?’ asked Raskolnikov irritably. ‘I’ll ask you again: if you consider me guilty, why not put me inside?’
‘Now there’s a question! I’ll take each point in turn: firstly, arresting you just like that is no use to me.’
‘What do you mean, no use? If you’re convinced, you should . . .’
‘And what if I am convinced? For now, these are mere dreams of mine, sir. What would be the point of my putting you away to rest in peace? You must know that yourself if you’re encouraging me. Say I bring that tradesman in to prove your guilt. You’ll just tell him, “Are you drunk or what? Who saw me with you? I just took you for a drunk, and quite right, too” – well, what will I say to you then? Especially as your story’s more likely than his, seeing as his testimony is mere psychology, which hardly suits a mug like his, while you get straight to the point, because he’s an old soak, that man, as everyone knows. And haven’t I admitted to you openly, more than once, that all this psychology is double-edged and that the second edge cuts deeper than the first and is a whole lot more likely? And I still haven’t got anything else on you anyway. And even though I will still arrest you and even though I’ve come here myself (not the done thing) to tell you about everything in advance, all the same I’m telling you straight (which is not the done thing, either) that this will be no use to me. And secondly, I’ve come here because . . .’
‘Oh yes – and secondly?’ (Raskolnikov was still gasping.)
‘Because, as I told you before, I think I owe you an explanation. I don’t want you to think me a monster, especially when I’m sincerely fond of you, believe it or not. As a result of which, thirdly, I’ve come here with an open and frank suggestion: that you turn yourself in. You’ll be infinitely better off, and so will I – one less thing to worry about. Very frank of me, don’t you think?’
Raskolnikov thought for a minute.