CHAPTER V

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?”