> CHAPTER II
"Ah these cigarettes!" Porfiry Petrovitch ejaculated at last, having
lighted one. "They are pernicious, positively pernicious, and yet I
can't give them up! I cough, I begin to have tickling in my throat and
a difficulty in breathing. You know I am a coward, I went lately to
Dr. B----n; he always gives at least half an hour to each patient. He
positively laughed looking at me; he sounded me: 'Tobacco's bad for
you,' he said, 'your lungs are affected.' But how am I to give it up?
What is there to take its place? I don't drink, that's the mischief,
he-he-he, that I don't. Everything is relative, Rodion Romanovitch,
everything is relative!"
"Why, he's playing his professional tricks again," Raskolnikov thought
with disgust. All the circumstances of their last interview suddenly
came back to him, and he felt a rush of the feeling that had come upon
"I came to see you the day before yesterday, in the evening; you
didn't know?" Porfiry Petrovitch went on, looking round the room. "I
came into this very room. I was passing by, just as I did to-day, and
I thought I'd return your call. I walked in as your door was wide
open, I looked round, waited and went out without leaving my name with
your servant. Don't you lock your door?"
Raskolnikov's face grew more and more gloomy. Porfiry seemed to guess
his state of mind.
"I've come to have it out with you, Rodion Romanovitch, my dear
fellow! I owe you an explanation and must give it to you," he
continued with a slight smile, just patting Raskolnikov's knee.
But almost at the same instant a serious and careworn look came into
his face; to his surprise Raskolnikov saw a touch of sadness in it. He
had never seen and never suspected such an expression in his face.
"A strange scene passed between us last time we met, Rodion
Romanovitch. Our first interview, too, was a strange one; but then
. . . and one thing after another! This is the point: I have perhaps
acted unfairly to you; I feel it. Do you remember how we parted? Your
nerves were unhinged and your knees were shaking and so were mine.
And, you know, our behaviour was unseemly, even ungentlemanly. And yet
we are gentlemen, above all, in any case, gentlemen; that must be
understood. Do you remember what we came to? . . . and it was quite
"What is he up to, what does he take me for?" Raskolnikov asked
himself in amazement, raising his head and looking with open eyes on
"I've decided openness is better between us," Porfiry Petrovitch went
on, turning his head away and dropping his eyes, as though unwilling
to disconcert his former victim and as though disdaining his former
wiles. "Yes, such suspicions and such scenes cannot continue for long.
Nikolay put a stop to it, or I don't know what we might not have come
to. That damned workman was sitting at the time in the next room--can
you realise that? You know that, of course; and I am aware that he
came to you afterwards. But what you supposed then was not true: I had
not sent for anyone, I had made no kind of arrangements. You ask why I
hadn't? What shall I say to you? it had all come upon me so suddenly.
I had scarcely sent for the porters (you noticed them as you went out,
I dare say). An idea flashed upon me; I was firmly convinced at the
time, you see, Rodion Romanovitch. Come, I thought--even if I let one
thing slip for a time, I shall get hold of something else--I shan't
lose what I want, anyway. You are nervously irritable, Rodion
Romanovitch, by temperament; it's out of proportion with other
qualities of your heart and character, which I flatter myself I have
to some extent divined. Of course I did reflect even then that it does
not always happen that a man gets up and blurts out his whole story.
It does happen sometimes, if you make a man lose all patience, though
even then it's rare. I was capable of realising that. If I only had a
fact, I thought, the least little fact to go upon, something I could
lay hold of, something tangible, not merely psychological. For if a
man is guilty, you must be able to get something substantial out of
him; one may reckon upon most surprising results indeed. I was
reckoning on your temperament, Rodion Romanovitch, on your temperament
above all things! I had great hopes of you at that time."
"But what are you driving at now?" Raskolnikov muttered at last,
asking the question without thinking.
"What is he talking about?" he wondered distractedly, "does he really
take me to be innocent?"
"What am I driving at? I've come to explain myself, I consider it my
duty, so to speak. I want to make clear to you how the whole business,
the whole misunderstanding arose. I've caused you a great deal of
suffering, Rodion Romanovitch. I am not a monster. I understand what
it must mean for a man who has been unfortunate, but who is proud,
imperious and above all, impatient, to have to bear such treatment! I
regard you in any case as a man of noble character and not without
elements of magnanimity, though I don't agree with all your
convictions. I wanted to tell you this first, frankly and quite
sincerely, for above all I don't want to deceive you. When I made your
acquaintance, I felt attracted by you. Perhaps you will laugh at my
saying so. You have a right to. I know you disliked me from the first
and indeed you've no reason to like me. You may think what you like,
but I desire now to do all I can to efface that impression and to show
that I am a man of heart and conscience. I speak sincerely."
Porfiry Petrovitch made a dignified pause. Raskolnikov felt a rush of
renewed alarm. The thought that Porfiry believed him to be innocent
began to make him uneasy.
"It's scarcely necessary to go over everything in detail," Porfiry
Petrovitch went on. "Indeed, I could scarcely attempt it. To begin
with there were rumours. Through whom, how, and when those rumours
came to me . . . and how they affected you, I need not go into. My
suspicions were aroused by a complete accident, which might just as
easily not have happened. What was it? Hm! I believe there is no need
to go into that either. Those rumours and that accident led to one
idea in my mind. I admit it openly--for one may as well make a clean
breast of it--I was the first to pitch on you. The old woman's notes
on the pledges and the rest of it--that all came to nothing. Yours was
one of a hundred. I happened, too, to hear of the scene at the office,
from a man who described it capitally, unconsciously reproducing the
scene with great vividness. It was just one thing after another,
Rodion Romanovitch, my dear fellow! How could I avoid being brought to
certain ideas? From a hundred rabbits you can't make a horse, a
hundred suspicions don't make a proof, as the English proverb says,
but that's only from the rational point of view--you can't help being
partial, for after all a lawyer is only human. I thought, too, of your
article in that journal, do you remember, on your first visit we
talked of it? I jeered at you at the time, but that was only to lead
you on. I repeat, Rodion Romanovitch, you are ill and impatient. That
you were bold, headstrong, in earnest and . . . had felt a great deal
I recognised long before. I, too, have felt the same, so that your
article seemed familiar to me. It was conceived on sleepless nights,
with a throbbing heart, in ecstasy and suppressed enthusiasm. And that
proud suppressed enthusiasm in young people is dangerous! I jeered at
you then, but let me tell you that, as a literary amateur, I am
awfully fond of such first essays, full of the heat of youth. There is
a mistiness and a chord vibrating in the mist. Your article is absurd
and fantastic, but there's a transparent sincerity, a youthful
incorruptible pride and the daring of despair in it. It's a gloomy
article, but that's what's fine in it. I read your article and put it
aside, thinking as I did so 'that man won't go the common way.' Well,
I ask you, after that as a preliminary, how could I help being carried
away by what followed? Oh, dear, I am not saying anything, I am not
making any statement now. I simply noted it at the time. What is there
in it? I reflected. There's nothing in it, that is really nothing and
perhaps absolutely nothing. And it's not at all the thing for the
prosecutor to let himself be carried away by notions: here I have
Nikolay on my hands with actual evidence against him--you may think
what you like of it, but it's evidence. He brings in his psychology,
too; one has to consider him, too, for it's a matter of life and
death. Why am I explaining this to you? That you may understand, and
not blame my malicious behaviour on that occasion. It was not
malicious, I assure you, he-he! Do you suppose I didn't come to search
your room at the time? I did, I did, he-he! I was here when you were
lying ill in bed, not officially, not in my own person, but I was
here. Your room was searched to the last thread at the first
suspicion; but /umsonst/! I thought to myself, now that man will come,
will come of himself and quickly, too; if he's guilty, he's sure to
come. Another man wouldn't, but he will. And you remember how Mr.
Razumihin began discussing the subject with you? We arranged that to
excite you, so we purposely spread rumours, that he might discuss the
case with you, and Razumihin is not a man to restrain his indignation.
Mr. Zametov was tremendously struck by your anger and your open
daring. Think of blurting out in a restaurant 'I killed her.' It was
too daring, too reckless. I thought so myself, if he is guilty he will
be a formidable opponent. That was what I thought at the time. I was
expecting you. But you simply bowled Zametov over and . . . well, you
see, it all lies in this--that this damnable psychology can be taken
two ways! Well, I kept expecting you, and so it was, you came! My
heart was fairly throbbing. Ach!
"Now, why need you have come? Your laughter, too, as you came in, do
you remember? I saw it all plain as daylight, but if I hadn't expected
you so specially, I should not have noticed anything in your laughter.
You see what influence a mood has! Mr. Razumihin then--ah, that stone,
that stone under which the things were hidden! I seem to see it
somewhere in a kitchen garden. It was in a kitchen garden, you told
Zametov and afterwards you repeated that in my office? And when we
began picking your article to pieces, how you explained it! One could
take every word of yours in two senses, as though there were another
"So in this way, Rodion Romanovitch, I reached the furthest limit, and
knocking my head against a post, I pulled myself up, asking myself
what I was about. After all, I said, you can take it all in another
sense if you like, and it's more natural so, indeed. I couldn't help
admitting it was more natural. I was bothered! 'No, I'd better get
hold of some little fact' I said. So when I heard of the bell-ringing,
I held my breath and was all in a tremor. 'Here is my little fact,'
thought I, and I didn't think it over, I simply wouldn't. I would have
given a thousand roubles at that minute to have seen you with my own
eyes, when you walked a hundred paces beside that workman, after he
had called you murderer to your face, and you did not dare to ask him
a question all the way. And then what about your trembling, what about
your bell-ringing in your illness, in semi-delirium?
"And so, Rodion Romanovitch, can you wonder that I played such pranks
on you? And what made you come at that very minute? Someone seemed to
have sent you, by Jove! And if Nikolay had not parted us . . . and do
you remember Nikolay at the time? Do you remember him clearly? It was
a thunderbolt, a regular thunderbolt! And how I met him! I didn't
believe in the thunderbolt, not for a minute. You could see it for
yourself; and how could I? Even afterwards, when you had gone and he
began making very, very plausible answers on certain points, so that I
was surprised at him myself, even then I didn't believe his story! You
see what it is to be as firm as a rock! No, thought I, /Morgenfrüh/.
What has Nikolay got to do with it!"
"Razumihin told me just now that you think Nikolay guilty and had
yourself assured him of it. . . ."
His voice failed him, and he broke off. He had been listening in
indescribable agitation, as this man who had seen through and through
him, went back upon himself. He was afraid of believing it and did not
believe it. In those still ambiguous words he kept eagerly looking for
something more definite and conclusive.
"Mr. Razumihin!" cried Porfiry Petrovitch, seeming glad of a question
from Raskolnikov, who had till then been silent. "He-he-he! But I had
to put Mr. Razumihin off; two is company, three is none. Mr. Razumihin
is not the right man, besides he is an outsider. He came running to me
with a pale face. . . . But never mind him, why bring him in? To
return to Nikolay, would you like to know what sort of a type he is,
how I understand him, that is? To begin with, he is still a child and
not exactly a coward, but something by way of an artist. Really, don't
laugh at my describing him so. He is innocent and responsive to
influence. He has a heart, and is a fantastic fellow. He sings and
dances, he tells stories, they say, so that people come from other
villages to hear him. He attends school too, and laughs till he cries
if you hold up a finger to him; he will drink himself senseless--not
as a regular vice, but at times, when people treat him, like a child.
And he stole, too, then, without knowing it himself, for 'How can it
be stealing, if one picks it up?' And do you know he is an Old
Believer, or rather a dissenter? There have been Wanderers[*] in his
family, and he was for two years in his village under the spiritual
guidance of a certain elder. I learnt all this from Nikolay and from
his fellow villagers. And what's more, he wanted to run into the
wilderness! He was full of fervour, prayed at night, read the old
books, 'the true' ones, and read himself crazy.
[*] A religious sect.--TRANSLATOR'S NOTE.
"Petersburg had a great effect upon him, especially the women and the
wine. He responds to everything and he forgot the elder and all that.
I learnt that an artist here took a fancy to him, and used to go and
see him, and now this business came upon him.
"Well, he was frightened, he tried to hang himself! He ran away! How
can one get over the idea the people have of Russian legal
proceedings? The very word 'trial' frightens some of them. Whose fault
is it? We shall see what the new juries will do. God grant they do
good! Well, in prison, it seems, he remembered the venerable elder;
the Bible, too, made its appearance again. Do you know, Rodion
Romanovitch, the force of the word 'suffering' among some of these
people! It's not a question of suffering for someone's benefit, but
simply, 'one must suffer.' If they suffer at the hands of the
authorities, so much the better. In my time there was a very meek and
mild prisoner who spent a whole year in prison always reading his
Bible on the stove at night and he read himself crazy, and so crazy,
do you know, that one day, apropos of nothing, he seized a brick and
flung it at the governor; though he had done him no harm. And the way
he threw it too: aimed it a yard on one side on purpose, for fear of
hurting him. Well, we know what happens to a prisoner who assaults an
officer with a weapon. So 'he took his suffering.'
"So I suspect now that Nikolay wants to take his suffering or
something of the sort. I know it for certain from facts, indeed. Only
he doesn't know that I know. What, you don't admit that there are such
fantastic people among the peasants? Lots of them. The elder now has
begun influencing him, especially since he tried to hang himself. But
he'll come and tell me all himself. You think he'll hold out? Wait a
bit, he'll take his words back. I am waiting from hour to hour for him
to come and abjure his evidence. I have come to like that Nikolay and
am studying him in detail. And what do you think? He-he! He answered
me very plausibly on some points, he obviously had collected some
evidence and prepared himself cleverly. But on other points he is
simply at sea, knows nothing and doesn't even suspect that he doesn't
"No, Rodion Romanovitch, Nikolay doesn't come in! This is a fantastic,
gloomy business, a modern case, an incident of to-day when the heart
of man is troubled, when the phrase is quoted that blood 'renews,'
when comfort is preached as the aim of life. Here we have bookish
dreams, a heart unhinged by theories. Here we see resolution in the
first stage, but resolution of a special kind: he resolved to do it
like jumping over a precipice or from a bell tower and his legs shook
as he went to the crime. He forgot to shut the door after him, and
murdered two people for a theory. He committed the murder and couldn't
take the money, and what he did manage to snatch up he hid under a
stone. It wasn't enough for him to suffer agony behind the door while
they battered at the door and rung the bell, no, he had to go to the
empty lodging, half delirious, to recall the bell-ringing, he wanted
to feel the cold shiver over again. . . . Well, that we grant, was
through illness, but consider this: he is a murderer, but looks upon
himself as an honest man, despises others, poses as injured innocence.
No, that's not the work of a Nikolay, my dear Rodion Romanovitch!"
All that had been said before had sounded so like a recantation that
these words were too great a shock. Raskolnikov shuddered as though he
had been stabbed.
"Then . . . who then . . . is the murderer?" he asked in a breathless
voice, unable to restrain himself.
Porfiry Petrovitch sank back in his chair, as though he were amazed at
"Who is the murderer?" he repeated, as though unable to believe his
ears. "Why, /you/, Rodion Romanovitch! You are the murderer," he
added, almost in a whisper, in a voice of genuine conviction.
Raskolnikov leapt from the sofa, stood up for a few seconds and sat
down again without uttering a word. His face twitched convulsively.
"Your lip is twitching just as it did before," Porfiry Petrovitch
observed almost sympathetically. "You've been misunderstanding me, I
think, Rodion Romanovitch," he added after a brief pause, "that's why
you are so surprised. I came on purpose to tell you everything and
deal openly with you."
"It was not I murdered her," Raskolnikov whispered like a frightened
child caught in the act.
"No, it was you, you Rodion Romanovitch, and no one else," Porfiry
whispered sternly, with conviction.
They were both silent and the silence lasted strangely long, about ten
minutes. Raskolnikov put his elbow on the table and passed his fingers
through his hair. Porfiry Petrovitch sat quietly waiting. Suddenly
Raskolnikov looked scornfully at Porfiry.
"You are at your old tricks again, Porfiry Petrovitch! Your old method
again. I wonder you don't get sick of it!"
"Oh, stop that, what does that matter now? It would be a different
matter if there were witnesses present, but we are whispering alone.
You see yourself that I have not come to chase and capture you like a
hare. Whether you confess it or not is nothing to me now; for myself,
I am convinced without it."
"If so, what did you come for?" Raskolnikov asked irritably. "I ask
you the same question again: if you consider me guilty, why don't you
take me to prison?"
"Oh, that's your question! I will answer you, point for point. In the
first place, to arrest you so directly is not to my interest."
"How so? If you are convinced you ought. . . ."
"Ach, what if I am convinced? That's only my dream for the time. Why
should I put you in safety? You know that's it, since you ask me to do
it. If I confront you with that workman for instance and you say to
him 'were you drunk or not? Who saw me with you? I simply took you to
be drunk, and you were drunk, too.' Well, what could I answer,
especially as your story is a more likely one than his? for there's
nothing but psychology to support his evidence--that's almost unseemly
with his ugly mug, while you hit the mark exactly, for the rascal is
an inveterate drunkard and notoriously so. And I have myself admitted
candidly several times already that that psychology can be taken in
two ways and that the second way is stronger and looks far more
probable, and that apart from that I have as yet nothing against you.
And though I shall put you in prison and indeed have come--quite
contrary to etiquette--to inform you of it beforehand, yet I tell you
frankly, also contrary to etiquette, that it won't be to my advantage.
Well, secondly, I've come to you because . . ."
"Yes, yes, secondly?" Raskolnikov was listening breathless.
"Because, as I told you just now, I consider I owe you an explanation.
I don't want you to look upon me as a monster, as I have a genuine
liking for you, you may believe me or not. And in the third place I've
come to you with a direct and open proposition--that you should
surrender and confess. It will be infinitely more to your advantage
and to my advantage too, for my task will be done. Well, is this open
on my part or not?"
Raskolnikov thought a minute.
"Listen, Porfiry Petrovitch. You said just now you have nothing but
psychology to go on, yet now you've gone on mathematics. Well, what if
you are mistaken yourself, now?"
"No, Rodion Romanovitch, I am not mistaken. I have a little fact even
then, Providence sent it me."
"What little fact?"
"I won't tell you what, Rodion Romanovitch. And in any case, I haven't
the right to put it off any longer, I must arrest you. So think it
over: it makes no difference to me /now/ and so I speak only for your
sake. Believe me, it will be better, Rodion Romanovitch."
Raskolnikov smiled malignantly.
"That's not simply ridiculous, it's positively shameless. Why, even if
I were guilty, which I don't admit, what reason should I have to
confess, when you tell me yourself that I shall be in greater safety
"Ah, Rodion Romanovitch, don't put too much faith in words, perhaps
prison will not be altogether a restful place. That's only theory and
my theory, and what authority am I for you? Perhaps, too, even now I
am hiding something from you? I can't lay bare everything, he-he! And
how can you ask what advantage? Don't you know how it would lessen
your sentence? You would be confessing at a moment when another man
has taken the crime on himself and so has muddled the whole case.
Consider that! I swear before God that I will so arrange that your
confession shall come as a complete surprise. We will make a clean
sweep of all these psychological points, of a suspicion against you,
so that your crime will appear to have been something like an
aberration, for in truth it was an aberration. I am an honest man,
Rodion Romanovitch, and will keep my word."
Raskolnikov maintained a mournful silence and let his head sink
dejectedly. He pondered a long while and at last smiled again, but his
smile was sad and gentle.
"No!" he said, apparently abandoning all attempt to keep up
appearances with Porfiry, "it's not worth it, I don't care about
lessening the sentence!"
"That's just what I was afraid of!" Porfiry cried warmly and, as it
seemed, involuntarily. "That's just what I feared, that you wouldn't
care about the mitigation of sentence."
Raskolnikov looked sadly and expressively at him.
"Ah, don't disdain life!" Porfiry went on. "You have a great deal of
it still before you. How can you say you don't want a mitigation of
sentence? You are an impatient fellow!"
"A great deal of what lies before me?"
"Of life. What sort of prophet are you, do you know much about it?
Seek and ye shall find. This may be God's means for bringing you to
Him. And it's not for ever, the bondage. . . ."
"The time will be shortened," laughed Raskolnikov.
"Why, is it the bourgeois disgrace you are afraid of? It may be that
you are afraid of it without knowing it, because you are young! But
anyway /you/ shouldn't be afraid of giving yourself up and
"Ach, hang it!" Raskolnikov whispered with loathing and contempt, as
though he did not want to speak aloud.
He got up again as though he meant to go away, but sat down again in
"Hang it, if you like! You've lost faith and you think that I am
grossly flattering you; but how long has your life been? How much do
you understand? You made up a theory and then were ashamed that it
broke down and turned out to be not at all original! It turned out
something base, that's true, but you are not hopelessly base. By no
means so base! At least you didn't deceive yourself for long, you went
straight to the furthest point at one bound. How do I regard you? I
regard you as one of those men who would stand and smile at their
torturer while he cuts their entrails out, if only they have found
faith or God. Find it and you will live. You have long needed a change
of air. Suffering, too, is a good thing. Suffer! Maybe Nikolay is
right in wanting to suffer. I know you don't believe in it--but don't
be over-wise; fling yourself straight into life, without deliberation;
don't be afraid--the flood will bear you to the bank and set you safe
on your feet again. What bank? How can I tell? I only believe that you
have long life before you. I know that you take all my words now for a
set speech prepared beforehand, but maybe you will remember them
after. They may be of use some time. That's why I speak. It's as well
that you only killed the old woman. If you'd invented another theory
you might perhaps have done something a thousand times more hideous.
You ought to thank God, perhaps. How do you know? Perhaps God is
saving you for something. But keep a good heart and have less fear!
Are you afraid of the great expiation before you? No, it would be
shameful to be afraid of it. Since you have taken such a step, you
must harden your heart. There is justice in it. You must fulfil the
demands of justice. I know that you don't believe it, but indeed, life
will bring you through. You will live it down in time. What you need
now is fresh air, fresh air, fresh air!"
Raskolnikov positively started.
"But who are you? what prophet are you? From the height of what
majestic calm do you proclaim these words of wisdom?"
"Who am I? I am a man with nothing to hope for, that's all. A man
perhaps of feeling and sympathy, maybe of some knowledge too, but my
day is over. But you are a different matter, there is life waiting for
you. Though, who knows? maybe your life, too, will pass off in smoke
and come to nothing. Come, what does it matter, that you will pass
into another class of men? It's not comfort you regret, with your
heart! What of it that perhaps no one will see you for so long? It's
not time, but yourself that will decide that. Be the sun and all will
see you. The sun has before all to be the sun. Why are you smiling
again? At my being such a Schiller? I bet you're imagining that I am
trying to get round you by flattery. Well, perhaps I am, he-he-he!
Perhaps you'd better not believe my word, perhaps you'd better never
believe it altogether--I'm made that way, I confess it. But let me
add, you can judge for yourself, I think, how far I am a base sort of
man and how far I am honest."
"When do you mean to arrest me?"
"Well, I can let you walk about another day or two. Think it over, my
dear fellow, and pray to God. It's more in your interest, believe me."
"And what if I run away?" asked Raskolnikov with a strange smile.
"No, you won't run away. A peasant would run away, a fashionable
dissenter would run away, the flunkey of another man's thought, for
you've only to show him the end of your little finger and he'll be
ready to believe in anything for the rest of his life. But you've
ceased to believe in your theory already, what will you run away with?
And what would you do in hiding? It would be hateful and difficult for
you, and what you need more than anything in life is a definite
position, an atmosphere to suit you. And what sort of atmosphere would
you have? If you ran away, you'd come back to yourself. /You can't get
on without us./ And if I put you in prison--say you've been there a
month, or two, or three--remember my word, you'll confess of yourself
and perhaps to your own surprise. You won't know an hour beforehand
that you are coming with a confession. I am convinced that you will
decide, 'to take your suffering.' You don't believe my words now, but
you'll come to it of yourself. For suffering, Rodion Romanovitch, is a
great thing. Never mind my having grown fat, I know all the same.
Don't laugh at it, there's an idea in suffering, Nokolay is right. No,
you won't run away, Rodion Romanovitch."
Raskolnikov got up and took his cap. Porfiry Petrovitch also rose.
"Are you going for a walk? The evening will be fine, if only we don't
have a storm. Though it would be a good thing to freshen the air."
He, too, took his cap.
"Porfiry Petrovitch, please don't take up the notion that I have
confessed to you to-day," Raskolnikov pronounced with sullen
insistence. "You're a strange man and I have listened to you from
simple curiosity. But I have admitted nothing, remember that!"
"Oh, I know that, I'll remember. Look at him, he's trembling! Don't be
uneasy, my dear fellow, have it your own way. Walk about a bit, you
won't be able to walk too far. If anything happens, I have one request
to make of you," he added, dropping his voice. "It's an awkward one,
but important. If anything were to happen (though indeed I don't
believe in it and think you quite incapable of it), yet in case you
were taken during these forty or fifty hours with the notion of
putting an end to the business in some other way, in some fantastic
fashion--laying hands on yourself--(it's an absurd proposition, but
you must forgive me for it) do leave a brief but precise note, only
two lines, and mention the stone. It will be more generous. Come, till
we meet! Good thoughts and sound decisions to you!"
Porfiry went out, stooping and avoiding looking at Raskolnikov. The
latter went to the window and waited with irritable impatience till he
calculated that Porfiry had reached the street and moved away. Then he
too went hurriedly out of the room.