When he remembered the scene afterwards, this is how Raskolnikov saw it.

The noise behind the door increased, and suddenly the door was opened a little.

"What is it?" cried Porfiry Petrovitch, annoyed. "Why, I gave orders . . ."

For an instant there was no answer, but it was evident that there were several persons at the door, and that they were apparently pushing somebody back.

"What is it?" Porfiry Petrovitch repeated, uneasily.

"The prisoner Nikolay has been brought," someone answered.

"He is not wanted! Take him away! Let him wait! What's he doing here? How irregular!" cried Porfiry, rushing to the door.

"But he . . ." began the same voice, and suddenly ceased.

Two seconds, not more, were spent in actual struggle, then someone gave a violent shove, and then a man, very pale, strode into the room.

This man's appearance was at first sight very strange. He stared straight before him, as though seeing nothing. There was a determined gleam in his eyes; at the same time there was a deathly pallor in his face, as though he were being led to the scaffold. His white lips were faintly twitching.

He was dressed like a workman and was of medium height, very young, slim, his hair cut in round crop, with thin spare features. The man whom he had thrust back followed him into the room and succeeded in seizing him by the shoulder; he was a warder; but Nikolay pulled his arm away.

Several persons crowded inquisitively into the doorway. Some of them tried to get in. All this took place almost instantaneously.

"Go away, it's too soon! Wait till you are sent for! . . . Why have you brought him so soon?" Porfiry Petrovitch muttered, extremely annoyed, and as it were thrown out of his reckoning.

But Nikolay suddenly knelt down.

"What's the matter?" cried Porfiry, surprised.

"I am guilty! Mine is the sin! I am the murderer," Nikolay articulated suddenly, rather breathless, but speaking fairly loudly.

For ten seconds there was silence as though all had been struck dumb; even the warder stepped back, mechanically retreated to the door, and stood immovable.

"What is it?" cried Porfiry Petrovitch, recovering from his momentary stupefaction.

"I . . . am the murderer," repeated Nikolay, after a brief pause.

"What . . . you . . . what . . . whom did you kill?" Porfiry Petrovitch was obviously bewildered.

Nikolay again was silent for a moment.

"Alyona Ivanovna and her sister Lizaveta Ivanovna, I . . . killed . . . with an axe. Darkness came over me," he added suddenly, and was again silent.

He still remained on his knees. Porfiry Petrovitch stood for some moments as though meditating, but suddenly roused himself and waved back the uninvited spectators. They instantly vanished and closed the door. Then he looked towards Raskolnikov, who was standing in the corner, staring wildly at Nikolay and moved towards him, but stopped short, looked from Nikolay to Raskolnikov and then again at Nikolay, and seeming unable to restrain himself darted at the latter.

"You're in too great a hurry," he shouted at him, almost angrily. "I didn't ask you what came over you. . . . Speak, did you kill them?"

"I am the murderer. . . . I want to give evidence," Nikolay pronounced.

"Ach! What did you kill them with?"

"An axe. I had it ready."

"Ach, he is in a hurry! Alone?"

Nikolay did not understand the question.

"Did you do it alone?"

"Yes, alone. And Mitka is not guilty and had no share in it."

"Don't be in a hurry about Mitka! A-ach! How was it you ran downstairs like that at the time? The porters met you both!"

"It was to put them off the scent . . . I ran after Mitka," Nikolay replied hurriedly, as though he had prepared the answer.

"I knew it!" cried Porfiry, with vexation. "It's not his own tale he is telling," he muttered as though to himself, and suddenly his eyes rested on Raskolnikov again.

He was apparently so taken up with Nikolay that for a moment he had forgotten Raskolnikov. He was a little taken aback.

"My dear Rodion Romanovitch, excuse me!" he flew up to him, "this won't do; I'm afraid you must go . . . it's no good your staying . . . I will . . . you see, what a surprise! . . . Good-bye!"

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

"I suppose you didn't expect it?" said Raskolnikov who, though he had not yet fully grasped the situation, had regained his courage.

"You did not expect it either, my friend. See how your hand is trembling! He-he!"

"You're trembling, too, Porfiry Petrovitch!"

"Yes, I am; I didn't expect it."

They were already at the door; Porfiry was impatient for Raskolnikov to be gone.

"And your little surprise, aren't you going to show it to me?" Raskolnikov said, sarcastically.

"Why, his teeth are chattering as he asks, he-he! You are an ironical person! Come, till we meet!"

"I believe we can say /good-bye/!"

"That's in God's hands," muttered Porfiry, with an unnatural smile.

As he walked through the office, Raskolnikov noticed that many people were looking at him. Among them he saw the two porters from /the/ house, whom he had invited that night to the police station. They stood there waiting. But he was no sooner on the stairs than he heard the voice of Porfiry Petrovitch behind him. Turning round, he saw the latter running after him, out of breath.

"One word, Rodion Romanovitch; as to all the rest, it's in God's hands, but as a matter of form there are some questions I shall have to ask you . . . so we shall meet again, shan't we?"

And Porfiry stood still, facing him with a smile.

"Shan't we?" he added again.

He seemed to want to say something more, but could not speak out.

"You must forgive me, Porfiry Petrovitch, for what has just passed . . . I lost my temper," began Raskolnikov, who had so far regained his courage that he felt irresistibly inclined to display his coolness.

"Don't mention it, don't mention it," Porfiry replied, almost gleefully. "I myself, too . . . I have a wicked temper, I admit it! But we shall meet again. If it's God's will, we may see a great deal of one another."

"And will get to know each other through and through?" added Raskolnikov.

"Yes; know each other through and through," assented Porfiry Petrovitch, and he screwed up his eyes, looking earnestly at Raskolnikov. "Now you're going to a birthday party?"

"To a funeral."

"Of course, the funeral! Take care of yourself, and get well."

"I don't know what to wish you," said Raskolnikov, who had begun to descend the stairs, but looked back again. "I should like to wish you success, but your office is such a comical one."

"Why comical?" Porfiry Petrovitch had turned to go, but he seemed to prick up his ears at this.

"Why, how you must have been torturing and harassing that poor Nikolay psychologically, after your fashion, till he confessed! You must have been at him day and night, proving to him that he was the murderer, and now that he has confessed, you'll begin vivisecting him again. 'You are lying,' you'll say. 'You are not the murderer! You can't be! It's not your own tale you are telling!' You must admit it's a comical business!"

"He-he-he! You noticed then that I said to Nikolay just now that it was not his own tale he was telling?"

"How could I help noticing it!"

"He-he! You are quick-witted. You notice everything! You've really a playful mind! And you always fasten on the comic side . . . he-he! They say that was the marked characteristic of Gogol, among the writers."

"Yes, of Gogol."

"Yes, of Gogol. . . . I shall look forward to meeting you."

"So shall I."

Raskolnikov walked straight home. He was so muddled and bewildered that on getting home he sat for a quarter of an hour on the sofa, trying to collect his thoughts. He did not attempt to think about Nikolay; he was stupefied; he felt that his confession was something inexplicable, amazing--something beyond his understanding. But Nikolay's confession was an actual fact. The consequences of this fact were clear to him at once, its falsehood could not fail to be discovered, and then they would be after him again. Till then, at least, he was free and must do something for himself, for the danger was imminent.

But how imminent? His position gradually became clear to him. Remembering, sketchily, the main outlines of his recent scene with Porfiry, he could not help shuddering again with horror. Of course, he did not yet know all Porfiry's aims, he could not see into all his calculations. But he had already partly shown his hand, and no one knew better than Raskolnikov how terrible Porfiry's "lead" had been for him. A little more and he /might/ have given himself away completely, circumstantially. Knowing his nervous temperament and from the first glance seeing through him, Porfiry, though playing a bold game, was bound to win. There's no denying that Raskolnikov had compromised himself seriously, but no /facts/ had come to light as yet; there was nothing positive. But was he taking a true view of the position? Wasn't he mistaken? What had Porfiry been trying to get at? Had he really some surprise prepared for him? And what was it? Had he really been expecting something or not? How would they have parted if it had not been for the unexpected appearance of Nikolay?

Porfiry had shown almost all his cards--of course, he had risked something in showing them--and if he had really had anything up his sleeve (Raskolnikov reflected), he would have shown that, too. What was that "surprise"? Was it a joke? Had it meant anything? Could it have concealed anything like a fact, a piece of positive evidence? His yesterday's visitor? What had become of him? Where was he to-day? If Porfiry really had any evidence, it must be connected with him. . . .

He sat on the sofa with his elbows on his knees and his face hidden in his hands. He was still shivering nervously. At last he got up, took his cap, thought a minute, and went to the door.

He had a sort of presentiment that for to-day, at least, he might consider himself out of danger. He had a sudden sense almost of joy; he wanted to make haste to Katerina Ivanovna's. He would be too late for the funeral, of course, but he would be in time for the memorial dinner, and there at once he would see Sonia.

He stood still, thought a moment, and a suffering smile came for a moment on to his lips.

"To-day! To-day," he repeated to himself. "Yes, to-day! So it must be. . . ."

But as he was about to open the door, it began opening of itself. He started and moved back. The door opened gently and slowly, and there suddenly appeared a figure--yesterday's visitor /from underground/.

The man stood in the doorway, looked at Raskolnikov without speaking, and took a step forward into the room. He was exactly the same as yesterday; the same figure, the same dress, but there was a great change in his face; he looked dejected and sighed deeply. If he had only put his hand up to his cheek and leaned his head on one side he would have looked exactly like a peasant woman.

"What do you want?" asked Raskolnikov, numb with terror. The man was still silent, but suddenly he bowed down almost to the ground, touching it with his finger.

"What is it?" cried Raskolnikov.

"I have sinned," the man articulated softly.

"How?"

"By evil thoughts."

They looked at one another.

"I was vexed. When you came, perhaps in drink, and bade the porters go to the police station and asked about the blood, I was vexed that they let you go and took you for drunken. I was so vexed that I lost my sleep. And remembering the address we came here yesterday and asked for you. . . ."

"Who came?" Raskolnikov interrupted, instantly beginning to recollect.

"I did, I've wronged you."

"Then you come from that house?"

"I was standing at the gate with them . . . don't you remember? We have carried on our trade in that house for years past. We cure and prepare hides, we take work home . . . most of all I was vexed. . . ."

And the whole scene of the day before yesterday in the gateway came clearly before Raskolnikov's mind; he recollected that there had been several people there besides the porters, women among them. He remembered one voice had suggested taking him straight to the police- station. He could not recall the face of the speaker, and even now he did not recognise it, but he remembered that he had turned round and made him some answer. . . .

So this was the solution of yesterday's horror. The most awful thought was that he had been actually almost lost, had almost done for himself on account of such a /trivial/ circumstance. So this man could tell nothing except his asking about the flat and the blood stains. So Porfiry, too, had nothing but that /delirium/, no facts but this /psychology/ which /cuts both ways/, nothing positive. So if no more facts come to light (and they must not, they must not!) then . . . then what can they do to him? How can they convict him, even if they arrest him? And Porfiry then had only just heard about the flat and had not known about it before.

"Was it you who told Porfiry . . . that I'd been there?" he cried, struck by a sudden idea.

"What Porfiry?"

"The head of the detective department?"

"Yes. The porters did not go there, but I went."

"To-day?"

"I got there two minutes before you. And I heard, I heard it all, how he worried you."

"Where? What? When?"

"Why, in the next room. I was sitting there all the time."

"What? Why, then you were the surprise? But how could it happen? Upon my word!"

"I saw that the porters did not want to do what I said," began the man; "for it's too late, said they, and maybe he'll be angry that we did not come at the time. I was vexed and I lost my sleep, and I began making inquiries. And finding out yesterday where to go, I went to-day. The first time I went he wasn't there, when I came an hour later he couldn't see me. I went the third time, and they showed me in. I informed him of everything, just as it happened, and he began skipping about the room and punching himself on the chest. 'What do you scoundrels mean by it? If I'd known about it I should have arrested him!' Then he ran out, called somebody and began talking to him in the corner, then he turned to me, scolding and questioning me. He scolded me a great deal; and I told him everything, and I told him that you didn't dare to say a word in answer to me yesterday and that you didn't recognise me. And he fell to running about again and kept hitting himself on the chest, and getting angry and running about, and when you were announced he told me to go into the next room. 'Sit there a bit,' he said. 'Don't move, whatever you may hear.' And he set a chair there for me and locked me in. 'Perhaps,' he said, 'I may call you.' And when Nikolay'd been brought he let me out as soon as you were gone. 'I shall send for you again and question you,' he said."

"And did he question Nikolay while you were there?"

"He got rid of me as he did of you, before he spoke to Nikolay."

The man stood still, and again suddenly bowed down, touching the ground with his finger.

"Forgive me for my evil thoughts, and my slander."

"May God forgive you," answered Raskolnikov.

And as he said this, the man bowed down again, but not to the ground, turned slowly and went out of the room.

"It all cuts both ways, now it all cuts both ways," repeated Raskolnikov, and he went out more confident than ever.

"Now we'll make a fight for it," he said, with a malicious smile, as he went down the stairs. His malice was aimed at himself; with shame and contempt he recollected his "cowardice."

后来,回忆起当时情况的时候,拉斯科利尼科夫脑海中出现的情景是这样的:

从门外传来的喧闹声突然迅速增大了,房门稍稍开了一条缝.

"怎么回事?"波尔菲里·彼特罗维奇恼怒地喊了一声.

"我不是事先就说过......"

有一瞬间听不到回答,不过看得出来,门外有好几个人,而且好像正在把什么人从这里推开.

"那里到底是怎么回事?"波尔菲里·彼特罗维奇不安地又问了一遍.

"把犯人尼古拉带来了,"听到了不知是什么人的声音.

"用不着!带走!等一等!......他干吗要来这儿!不守秩序!"波尔菲里冲到门边,大声叫喊.

"可他......"又是那个声音说,可是突然住了声.

一场真正的斗争最多不过持续了两秒种;随后突然好像有什么人用力把什么人推开了,接着有一个面色十分苍白的人迈开大步径直走进了波尔菲里·彼特罗维奇的办公室.

第一眼看上去,这个人的样子很奇怪.他两眼直盯着前面,可是好像什么人也没看见.他眼里露出坚决果断的神情,同时脸上却蒙着一层像死人般苍白的白色,仿佛正在把他押赴刑场似的.他那双完全苍白的嘴唇微微发一抖.

他还很年轻,穿得像个平民,中等身材,很瘦,周围的头发剪去一圈,前面的头发聋拉下来,面庞清秀,好像瘦得厉害.那个被他突然推开的人首先跟着他往屋里跑来,而且已经抓住了他的肩膀:这是一个押送他的卫兵;但是尼古拉猛一挣,又一次从他手里挣脱出来.

门口拥挤看好几个好奇的人.其中有几个拚命想往屋里挤.上述一切几乎是在一瞬间发生的.

"带走,还早着呢!先等着,等着叫你们进来!......为什么不到时候就把他带来了?"波尔菲里·彼特罗维奇仿佛给弄得不知所措了,极其恼怒地,含糊不清地低声说.但是尼古拉突然跪下了.

"你这是干什么?"波尔菲里惊讶地喊了一声.

"我有罪!是我的罪过!我是杀人凶手!"尼古拉突然说,好像有点儿上气不接下气,不过说话的声音相当响亮.

沉默持续了约摸十来秒种,大家似乎都惊呆了;就连那个押送他的卫兵也急忙躲开,不再到尼古拉跟前去,不由自主地退到门边,站住不动了.

"怎么回事?"波尔菲里·彼特罗维奇呆了一会儿,清醒过来,高声问.

"我是......杀人凶手......"尼古拉稍沉默了一下,又说了一遍.

"怎么......你......怎么...你杀了谁?"

波尔菲里·彼特罗维奇显然惊惶失措了.

尼古拉又稍沉默了一会儿.

"阿廖娜·伊万诺芙娜和她妹妹莉扎薇塔,是我......用斧头......杀死的.我一时糊涂......"他突然加上一句,又不作声了.他一直跪着.

波尔菲里·彼特罗维奇站了一会儿,好像在沉思,但是突然又很快行动起来,挥手赶开那些不请自来的证人.那些人转瞬间就不见了,门也掩上了.随后他朝站在角落里惊奇地望着尼古拉的拉斯科利尼科夫看了一眼,向他走去,但是突然又站住了,看了看他,立刻又把自己的目光转移到尼古拉身上,然后又去看拉斯科利尼科夫,然后又去看尼古拉,突然仿佛激动起来,又去责骂尼古拉.

"你干吗要先跟我说什么一时糊涂?"他几乎是恶狠狠地冲着他高声大喊."我还没有问你:你是不是糊涂了......你说:

是你杀的吗?"

"我是杀人凶手......我招认......"尼古拉说.

"哎-呀!你用什么杀的?"

"斧头.我准备好的."

"唉,急什么!你一个人?"

尼古拉没听懂这个问题.

"你一个人杀的?"

"我一个人.米季卡没有罪,他跟这事毫不相干."

"先别急着谈米季卡!唉......"

"你是怎么,嗯,当时你是怎么从楼上跑下来的?管院子的不是遇到了你们两个人吗?"

"当时......我和米季卡跑下去......这是我为了转移别人的注意力,"尼古拉好像事先准备好了似的,急急忙忙地回答.

"嗯,这就是了!"波尔菲里恶狠狠地喊了一声,"他说的不是实话!"他自言自语似地喃喃地说,突然又看到了拉斯科利尼科夫.

看来,他全神贯注地在问尼古拉,有一会儿工夫甚至忘记了拉斯科利尼科夫.现在他突然醒悟,甚至发窘了......

"罗季昂·罗曼诺维奇,老兄!请原谅,"他匆匆朝他走去,"不能这样;请吧......您在这儿没什么事了......我自己......您看,多么出乎意外的事!请吧!"

说着挽住他的手,向他指了指房门.

"这您大概没料到吧?"拉斯科利尼科夫说,他当然还没弄清这是怎么回事,不过已经大大振作起来.

"老兄,您也没料到吧.瞧,您的手抖得多厉害啊!嘿--

嘿!"

"您也在发一抖嘛,波尔菲里·彼特罗维奇."

"我也在发一抖;没料到啊!......"

他们已经站在门口了.波尔菲里急不可耐地等着拉斯科利尼科夫走开.

"意外的礼物不让我看了吗?"拉斯科利尼科夫突然说.

"还说俏皮话呢,可是牙齿还在嘴里捉对儿厮打,嘿--

嘿!您真是个一爱一讽刺人的人!好啦,再见."

"照我看,还是说别了吧!"

"那就看情况了,那就看情况了!"波尔菲里喃喃地说,撇着嘴,好像在微笑.

经过办公室的时候,拉斯科利尼科夫注意到,很多人都凝神注视着他.在前室里,他在那儿的一群人中认出了那幢房子里两个管院子的,那天夜里他曾叫他们一起去见警察分局的局长.他们站在那里,不知在等着什么.但是他刚刚走到楼梯上,突然又听到身后有波尔菲里·彼特罗维奇说话的声音.他一回头,看到波尔菲里跑得气喘吁吁地追上了他.

"还有一句话,罗季昂·罗曼诺维奇;其余的事情嘛,看情况而定,不过按手续说嘛,有些问题还得问问您......那么我们还会见面的,就这样吧."

波尔菲里面带微笑,站到了他的面前.

"就这样吧,"他又说了一遍.

可以看出,他还想再说点儿什么,可是不知为什么没有说出来.

"波尔菲里·彼特罗维奇,请您原谅我刚才说的那些话......我太急躁了,"拉斯科利尼科夫说,已经完全振作起来,忍不住想炫耀一下,说两句漂亮话.

"没关系,没关系......"波尔菲里几乎是高兴地附和说.

"我自己也......脾气太坏,我很抱歉,我很抱歉!那么我们还会见面的.如果情况需要,那么还会见好多次面!......"

"最后我们也能互相了解吗?"拉斯科利尼科夫接住话茬说.

"最后我们一定能互相了解,"波尔菲里·彼特罗维奇随声附和说,说着眯缝起眼睛,神情严肃地看了看他."现在去参加命名日吗?"

"去参加葬礼."

"啊,对了,是去参加葬礼!您可要多加保重呀,保重自己的身一体......"

"我可不知道该祝您什么!"拉斯科利尼科夫接住话茬说,他已经开始下楼了,可是又回过头来,对波尔菲里说,"祝您获得很大的成功吧,您要知道,您的职务多么富有喜剧一性一啊!"

"为什么富有喜剧一性一呢?"本来已经转身要走的波尔菲里立刻竖一起耳朵来听着.

"那还用说吗,您想必是用您那套办法,在心理上折磨这个可怜的米科尔卡,让他一精一神上痛苦不堪,直到他招认为止;您想必是不分昼夜都在向他证明:'你是杀人凶手,你是杀人凶手......'可是,现在他招认了,您又要详详细细,一点一点地给他分析说:'你说谎,凶手不是你!你不可能是凶手!你说的不是实话!'嗯,这样一来,您的职务怎么会不富有喜剧一性一呢?"

"嘿--嘿--嘿!您真的听见我刚才对尼古拉说,他'说的不是实话'了?"

"怎么会听不见呢?"

"嘿--嘿!您真敏锐,敏锐.什么您都会注意到!真是个会开玩笑的人!正好碰到最富有喜剧一性一的那根弦上......嘿--嘿!据说,作家当中只有果戈理最具有这个特点."

"是的,只有果戈理."

"是的,只有果戈理......最愉快地再见."

"最愉快地再见......"

拉斯科利尼科夫一直回家去了.他是那么心烦意乱,那么困惑不解,回到家里,倒在沙发上,就这样坐了一刻钟的样子,只不过是在休息,竭力想让思想多少集中起来.他不想去考虑尼古拉的问题:他觉得,他吃了一惊;尼古拉的供词中有某一点是无法解释的,令人感到惊讶,现在他无论如何也无法理解.不过尼古拉的供认是千真万确的事实.这一事实的后果他却立刻就明白了:谎言不可能不被发觉,到那时就又会来找他的麻烦.但是至少在那以前他是自一由的,他必须为了自己采取某种行动,因为危险并未过去.

不过危险达到了什么程度呢?情况开始清楚了.他草草地大体上回想了一下刚才会见波尔菲里的情景,不能不又一次吓得浑身发一抖.当然,他还不知道波尔菲里的所有目的,不能了解他刚才的所有打算.但是这场游戏中的一部分花招已经暴露出来了,当然,谁也不能像他那样清楚,波尔菲里走的这"步"棋对他来说是多么可怕.再稍一进一逼一,他就可能完全暴露自己,那可已经是真的暴露无遗了.波尔菲里了解他一性一格上这种近乎病态的特点,一眼就看透了他,采取的行动虽然过于坚决,却几乎是很有把握的.无疑,拉斯科利尼科夫刚才已经过于暴露了自己,不过毕竟还没接触到事实;这一切还只是相对的.不过现在他对这一切理解得对不对,对不对呢?他是不是理解错了?今天波尔菲里到底想得到什么结果?今天他是不是当真作好了什么准备?究竟是什么准备?他是不是真的在等待什么?如果不是尼古拉使事情发生了出乎意外的转折,今天他们到底会怎样分手呢?"

波尔菲里几乎把他手里的全部牌统统都亮出来了;当然是冒险,不过他都亮出来了,而且(拉斯科利尼科夫一直好像觉得)如果波尔菲里手里当真还有更多的东西,他也会把它全都亮出来的.这"意外的礼物"是什么呢?开玩笑,还是什么别的?这有没有什么意义呢?这后面是不是隐藏着什么类似事实的东西,真正可以证明他有罪的东西?是昨天的那个人吗?他钻到哪里去了?今天他在哪里?要知道,即使波尔菲里掌握了什么真正的罪证,那当然也是因为昨天那个人的关系......

他坐在沙发上,低下了头,胳膊肘支在膝盖上,用双手捂住了脸.全身仍然在神经质地颤一抖.最后,他拿起帽子,想了想,向房门走去.

他多少有点儿预感,至少今天,他几乎肯定可以认为自己没有危险了.突然,他心中几乎感到一阵喜悦:他想赶快到卡捷琳娜·伊万诺芙娜那里去.要去参加葬礼,当然已经迟了,不过去参加酬客宴还来得及,而在那里,他立刻就能见到索尼娅了.

他站下来,又想了想,嘴角上勉强露出了痛苦的微笑.

"今天!今天!"他暗自反复说,"是的,今天!应当这样......"

他刚想开门,房门却突然自己开开了.他颤栗起来,赶紧往后一跳.房门慢慢地,轻轻地打开了,突然出现了一个人--昨天那个人从地底下钻出来了.

那人在门口站住了,默默地朝拉斯科利尼科夫看了看,往屋里走进一步.他完全和昨天一模一样,还是那副样子,还是穿着那身衣裳,然而他的脸上和目光中却发生了很厉害的变化:现在他看上去好像有点儿闷闷不乐,稍站了一会儿,深深叹了口气.就只差他没有同时用手掌捂住脸,把头歪到一边,不然就完全像一个乡下女人了.

"您有什么事?"吓得面无人色的拉斯科利尼科夫问.

那人沉默了一会儿,突然向他深深地鞠了一躬,几乎是一躬到地.至少右手的一个手指碰到了地上.

"您这是做什么?"拉斯科利尼科夫惊呼.

"我错了,"那人轻轻地说.

"什么错了?"

"我怀有恶意."

他们两人互相对望着.

"我很恼怒.那时候您去那里,也许是喝醉了,您叫管院子的去警察局,还问起那摊血,可是没有引起他们的注意,都把您当成了酒鬼,我觉得很气愤.气得觉都睡不着了.我们记住了您的地址,昨天到这儿来过,问起过......"

"谁来过?"拉斯科利尼科夫打断了他,霎时间记起来了.

"也就是说,我得罪您了."

"那么您是住在那幢房子里?"

"是啊,我就住在那里,当时和他们一道站在大门口,您忘了吗?我是个手艺人,就在那里干活儿,好多年了.我是个制一毛一皮的工匠,小市民,接了活儿,拿回家里去做......我最恼怒......"

拉斯科利尼科夫突然清清楚楚回想起前天在大门口的那幕情景;他想起,除了两个管院子的,那儿还站着好几个人,有几个是女人.他想起,有一个人的声音提议把他送到警察局去.说话的人的脸像什么样子,他记不起来了,就连现在,他也没能认出来,不过他记得,当时他甚至回答了一句什么,还转过脸去,面对着那个人......

那么,可见昨天的那场恐惧就是这么来的.最可怕的是想到,为了这样一件微不足道的小事,他当真几乎毁了,几乎毁了自己.可见,除了租房子和问起那摊血,这个人不可能说出任何别的东西.可见,除了这些呓语,波尔菲里也没有掌握任何事实,除了可以作不同解释的心理状态,波尔菲里那里并没有任何真正的证据.可见,如果不再出现更多的事实(不应该再出现更多的事实了,不应该了,不应该了!)那么......那么他们能拿他怎么办呢?即使逮捕他,又能用什么来彻底揭穿他呢?而且,可见波尔菲里只不过是现在,只不过是刚刚得知租房子的事,而在这以前,他并不知道这回事.

"这是您今天去对波尔菲里说......说我去过那儿吗?"他高声问,这个突然产生的想法使他吃了一惊.

"哪个波尔菲里?"

"侦查科科长."

"我对他说了.两个管院子的当时没有去,我去了."

"今天?"

"就在您去以前不多一会儿.我全都听见了,什么都听见了,听见他是在怎样折磨您."

"在哪里?听见了什么?什么时候?"

"就在那里,在他的隔板后面,我一直坐在那里."

"怎么?那么您就是那个意外的礼物吗?这是怎么回事?

请您说说吧!"

"我看到,"那个小市民说,"那两个管院子的不听我的话,不肯去,因为,他们说,时间已经太晚了,大概,局长会生气的,因为去得不是时候,我心里很气,气得睡不着觉,于是就去打听.昨天打听清楚以后,今天就去了.头一次去的时候,他不在.过了一个钟头再去,不接见,第三次去,才让我进去.我把事情的经过原原本本地向他报告了,他在屋里跳了起来,还拿拳头捶自己的胸膛,说:'你们这些强盗,你们都干了些什么?我要是知道这样的事,我就会派人去把他押了来!' 随后,他跑出去,叫了一个人来,跟他躲在旮旯儿里说话,随后又回到我这儿,盘问我,骂我.他狠狠地责备我,说了很多很多;我把什么都向他报告了,还说,听了我昨天的话,您什么也不敢回答我,还说,您没认出我来.这时他又跑来跑去,一直捶打自己的胸膛,大发脾气,又跑来跑去,等到向他报告,说您来了,他说,喂,你到隔板后面去,暂时坐在那儿,不管你听到什么,都不要动,还亲自给我端来一把椅子,把我锁在里面;他说,也许我还要找你.等到带来了尼古拉,您走了以后,他把我也放了,他说:我还需要你,还要问你......"

"他当着你的面审问尼古拉了?"

"放您走了以后,立刻也放我走了,在那以后才开始审问尼古拉."

那个小市民住了口,突然又一躬到地,手指碰到了地板.

"请宽恕我的诬告和怀恨."

"上帝会宽恕的,"拉斯科利尼科夫回答,刚说完这句话,那个小市民又向他鞠了一躬,不过已经不是一躬到地,而只是深深地弯下了腰,然后慢慢转身,从屋里走了出去."一切还都祸福难测,现在一切还都祸福难测啊,"拉斯科利尼科夫反复说,比任何时候都更加大胆地从屋里走了出去.

"现在咱们还要较量一下呢,"他恶狠狠地冷笑着说,说着下楼去了.他恨的是他自己;他怀着鄙夷和惭愧的心情回想起自己的"胆怯".