بخش 06 - فصل 02

CHAPTER TWO

“AH THESE CIGARETTES !” PORFIRY Petrovich said at last, having lit one. “They are pernicious, absolutely pernicious, and yet I can’t give them up! I cough, I begin to have a tickle in my throat and difficulty breathing. You know I am a coward, I went recently to Dr. B___n;61 he always gives at least half an hour to each patient. He really laughed looking at me; he gave me an inspection: ‘Tobacco’s bad for you,’ he said, ‘your lungs are affected.’ But how am I going to give it up? What is there to take its place? I don’t drink, that’s the problem, he-he-he, that I don’t. Everything is relative, Rodion Romanovich, everything is relative!” “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 him then.

“I came to see you the day before yesterday, in the evening; you didn’t know?” Porfiry Petrovich went on, looking round the room. “I came into this very room. I was passing by, just as I did today, 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 Romanovich, my dear friend! I owe you an explanation and I 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 on his face.

“A strange scene passed between us last time we met, Rodion Romanovich. 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 behavior was indecent, even ungentlemanly. And yet we are gentlemen, above all, in any case, gentlemen; that must be understood. Do you remember what we came to? . . . It was absolutely indecent.” “What is he up to, what does he take me for?” Raskolnikov asked himself in amazement, raising his head and looking with open eyes at Porfiry.

“I’ve decided openness is better between us,” Porfiry Petrovich went on, turning his head away and dropping his eyes, as though unwilling to disconcert his former victim and as though he were setting aside his former cunning. “Yes, such suspicions and such scenes cannot continue for long. Nikolai 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—do you realize that? You know that, of course; and I am aware that he came to see 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 to 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 Romanovich. Come on, I thought—even if I let one thing slip for a period, I shall get hold of something else—I shan’t lose what I want, anyway. You are nervous and irritable, Rodion Romanovich, by temperament; it’s out of proportion to the other qualities of your heart and character, and I flatter myself to think I have to some extent divined them. 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 his patience, though even then it’s rare. I was capable of realizing 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; you can count upon the most surprising results. I was counting on your temperament, Rodion Romanovich, on your temperament above all! 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 Romanovich. 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 in fact you’ve no reason to like me. You may think what you like, but I now wish to do all I can to erase that impression and to show that I have a heart and a conscience. I am saying this sincerely.” Porfiry Petrovich 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 Petrovich went on. “Indeed I could scarcely attempt it. To begin with there were rumors. Through whom, how, and when those rumors came to me . . . and how they affected you, I need not explain. 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 rumors and that accident led to one idea in my mind. I admit it openly—for one may as well be clear about 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 excellently, unconsciously reproducing the scene with great vividness. It was just one thing after another, Rodion Romanovich, 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, during your first visit we talked about it? I jeered at you at the time, but that was only to lead you on. I repeat, Rodion Romanovich, you are ill and impatient. That you were bold, headstrong, in earnest and . . . had felt a great deal I recognized long before. I, too, have felt the same, so your article seemed familiar to me. It was conceived on sleepless nights, with a throbbing heart, in ecstasy and with 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 good about 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 Nikolai 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; you have to consider him, too, because it’s a matter of life and death. Why am I explaining this to you? So that you will understand, and not blame my malicious behavior 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 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 his own accord and quickly, too; if he’s guilty, he’s sure to come. Another man wouldn’t but he will. And you remember how Mr. Razumikhin began discussing the subject with you? We arranged that to excite you, so we spread rumors on purpose, so that he might discuss the case with you, and Razumikhin 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, this is where it all lies—this damnable psychology can be taken two ways! Well, I kept expecting you, and that was how it was, you came! My heart was really throbbing. Ah!

“Now, why need you have come? Your laughter, too, as you came in, do you remember? I saw it all plain as day, 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. Razumikhin 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 meaning hidden.

“So in this way, Rodion Romanovich, 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 to take it that way, in fact. 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,’ I thought, and I didn’t think it over, I simply wouldn’t. I would have given a thousand rubles 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 Romanovich, 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 Nikolai had not parted us . . . and do you remember Nikolai 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 plausible 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, morgen früh. What has Nikolai got to do with it!” “Razumikhin told me just now that you think Nikolai is guilty and had assured him of it yourself . . . ”

His voice failed him, and he broke off. He had been listening in indescribable agitation, as this man who had seen through him went back upon himself. He was afraid of believing it and did not believe it. In those words, which were still ambiguous, he kept eagerly looking for something more definite and conclusive.

“Mr. Razumikhin!” cried Porfiry Petrovich, seeming glad of a question from Raskolnikov, who had until then been silent. “He-he-he! But I had to put Mr. Razumikhin off; two is company, three is none. Mr. Razumikhin 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 into it! To return to Nikolai, 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 of an artist. Really, don’t laugh at my describing him like that. He is innocent and open to influence. He has a heart, he is a fantastic fellow. He sings and dances, he tells stories, they say, so well that people come from other villages to hear him. He attends school too, and laughs until 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 you pick it up?’ And do you know he is an Old Believer,62 or rather a dissenter? There have been Wanderers63 in his family, and for two years in his village he was under the spiritual guidance of an elder. I learnt all this from Nikolai and his fellow villagers. And what’s more, he wanted to run into the wilderness! He was full of fervor, prayed at night, read the old books, ‘the true’ ones, and read himself crazy.”— “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 along.

“Well, he was frightened, he tried to hang himself! He ran away! How can you 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 Romanovich, the force of the word ‘suffering’ among some of these people! It’s not a question of suffering for someone’s benefit, but simply, ‘you 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 Nikolai wants to take his suffering or something of the sort. I even know it for certain from the facts. 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 everything himself. You think he’ll hold out? Wait a bit, he’ll take his words back. I am waiting hour by hour for him to come and swear in his evidence. I have come to like that Nikolai 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 know!

“No, Rodion Romanovich, Nikolai doesn’t come into it! This is a fantastic, gloomy business, a modern case, an incident of our time, 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 an injured innocent. No, that’s not the work of a Nikolai, my dear Rodion Romanovich!” 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 Petrovich sank back in his chair, as though he were amazed at the question.

“Who is the murderer?” he repeated, as though unable to believe his ears. “You, Rodion Romanovich! 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 Petrovich observed almost sympathetically. “You’ve been misunderstanding me, I think, Rodion Romanovich,” 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 me who murdered her,” Raskolnikov whispered like a frightened child caught in the act.

“No, it was you, you, Rodion Romanovich, 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 Petrovich sat quietly waiting. Suddenly Raskolnikov looked scornfully at Porfiry.

“You are at your old tricks again, Porfiry Petrovich! Your old method again. I’m amazed 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; as far as I am concerned, 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. Firstly, to arrest you so directly is not in my interest.”

“How so? If you are convinced you ought . . . ”

“Ah, what if I am convinced? That’s only my dream for the time being. 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 thought you were 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, because that rascal is an inveterate drunkard, and notoriously so. And I myself have frankly admitted 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 Petrovich. 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 Romanovich, I am not mistaken. I have a little fact even then; Providence sent it to me.”

“What little fact?”

“I won’t tell you what, Rodion Romanovich. And in any case, I haven’t got 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 Romanovich.”

Raskolnikov smiled malignantly.

“That’s not just ridiculous, it’s absolutely shameless. Why, even if I were guilty, which I don’t admit, what reason would I have to confess, when you tell me yourself that I shall be in greater safety in prison?”

“Ah, Rodion Romanovich, don’t put too much faith in words, perhaps prison will not be an entirely restful place. That’s only theory and my theory, and what authority am I for you? Perhaps even now I am hiding something from you? I can’t lay everything bare, 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 has therefore muddled the whole case. Consider that! I swear before God that I will so arrange for your confession to come as a complete surprise. We will make a clean sweep of all these psychological points, of any 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 Romanovich, and I 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 your sentence.”

Raskolnikov looked sadly and expressively at him.

“Ah, don’t disdain life!” Porfiry went on. “You have a great deal of it in front of you. How can you say you don’t want a mitigation of your sentence? You are an impatient person!”

“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 forever, 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 confessing.”

“Oh, damn 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 evident despair.

“Damn 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 you were ashamed that it broke down and turned out to be not at all original! It turned out to be 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 in one leap. How do I see you? I see 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 Nikolai 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 bring you to the bank and set you safe on your feet again. What bank? How can I tell? I only believe that you have a long life before you. I know that you think all my words now are a set speech prepared beforehand, but maybe you will remember them afterwards. 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 your good heart and have less fear! Are you afraid of the great atonement 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 fulfill the demands of justice. I know that you don’t believe it, but life, in fact, will bring you through. You will live it down in time. What you need now is fresh air, fresh air, fresh air!” Raskolnikov shuddered.

“But who are you? What prophet are you? From the height of what majestic serenity 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 awaiting you. Though who knows, maybe your life, too, will pass off in smoke and come to nothing. Come on, what does it matter, that you will leave this class of men for another? 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, it’s you that will decide that. Be the sun and everyone will see you. The sun, above all, has to be the sun. Why are you smiling again? Because I’m such a Schiller? I bet you’re thinking I’m trying to get round you by flattery. Well, perhaps I am, he-he-he! Perhaps you’d better not take my word for it, perhaps you’d better never believe it altogether; I’m made that way, I confess. But let me add, you can judge for yourself, I think, to what extent I am base and to what extent I am honest.” “When do you intend 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 along 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 your own accord and perhaps to your own surprise. You won’t know an hour beforehand that you are coming to confess. I am convinced that you will decide ‘to take your suffering.’ You don’t believe my words now, but you’ll come to the same realization by yourself. For suffering, Rodion Romanovich, is a great thing. Never mind the fact that I’ve got fat, I know it anyway. Don’t laugh at it, there’s a fine idea in suffering; Nikolai is right. No, you won’t run away, Rodion Romanovich.” Raskolnikov got up and took his cap. Porfiry Petrovich also rose.

“Are you going for a walk? The evening will be beautiful as long as we don’t have a storm. Though it would be a good thing to freshen the air.”

He too took his cap.

“Porfiry Petrovich, please don’t think I’ve confessed to you today,” Raskolnikov pronounced with sullen insistence. “You’re a strange man and I have listened to you just from curiosity. But I’ve 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 it’s important. If anything were to happen (though I don’t believe it would and I consider you utterly incapable of it), in case you became fascinated during these forty or fifty hours with the notion of putting an end to the business in some other way, in some fantastic way—laying hands on yourself—(it’s an absurd proposition, but you must forgive me for it), do leave a brief but precise note—two lines only—and mention the stone. It will be more generous. Come, until we meet! I wish you good thoughts and sound decisions!” Porfiry went out, stooping and avoiding Raskolnikov’s gaze. The latter went to the window and waited with irritable impatience until he calculated that Porfiry had reached the street and moved away. Then he too went hurriedly out of the room.