ife of different surroundings. The real
culprit is a theorist, a bookworm, who, in a tentative kind of way,
has done a more than bold thing; but this boldness of his is of quite
a peculiar and one-sided stamp; it is, after a fashion, like that of a
man who hurls himself from the top of a mountain or church steeple.
The man in question has forgotten to cut off evidence, and, in order
to work out a theory, has killed two persons. He has committed a
murder, and yet has not known how to take possession of the pelf; what
he has taken he has hidden under a stone. The anguish he experienced
while hearing knocking at the door and the continued ringing of the
bell, was not enough for him; no, yielding to an irresistible desire
of experiencing the same horror, he has positively revisited the empty
place and once more pulled the bell. Let us, if you like, attribute
the whole of this to disease--to a semidelirious condition--by all
means; but there is yet another point to be considered: he has
committed a murder, and yet continues to look upon himself as a
righteous man!"

Raskolnikoff trembled in every limb. "Then, who--who is it--that has
committed the murder?" he stammered forth, in jerky accents.

The examining magistrate sank back in his chair as though astonished
at such a question. "Who committed the murder?" he retorted, as if he
could not believe his own ears. "Why, you--you did, Rodion
Romanovitch! You!--" he added, almost in a whisper, and in a tone of
profound conviction.

Raskolnikoff suddenly rose, waited for a few moments, and sat down
again, without uttering a single word. All the muscles of his face
were slightly convulsed.

"Why, I see your lips tremble just as they did the other day,"
observed Porphyrius Petrovitch, with an air of interest. "You have
not, I think, thoroughly realized the object of my visit, Rodion
Romanovitch," he pursued, after a moment's silence, "hence your great
astonishment. I have called with the express intention of plain
speaking, and to reveal the truth."

"It was not I who committed the murder," stammered the young man,
defending himself very much like a child caught in the act of doing
wrong.

"Yes, yes, it was you, Rodion Romanovitch, it was you, and you alone,"
replied the magistrate with severity. "Confess or not, as you think
best; for the time being, that is nothing to me. In either case, my
conviction is arrived at."

"If that is so, why have you called?" asked Raskolni