“You are a madman,” Zamyotov spoke for some reason also almost in a whisper, and for some reason suddenly drew back from Raskolnikov. Raskolnikov's eyes were flashing; he became terribly pale; his upper lip twitched and began to tremble. He leaned as close to Zamyotov as he could and began moving his lips without uttering anything; this went on for half a minute or so; he was aware of what he was doing, but could not stop himself. A terrible word was trembling on his lips, like the hook on that door: another moment and it would jump out; another moment and it would let go; another moment and it would be spoken!

“And what if it was I who killed the old woman and Lizaveta?” he said suddenly—and came to his senses.

Zamyotov looked wildly at him and went white as a sheet. His face twisted into a smile.

“But can it be?” he said, barely audibly.

Raskolnikov looked at him spitefully.

“Admit that you believed it! Right? Am I right?”

“Not at all! Now more than ever I don't!” Zamyotov said hastily.

“Got you at last! The little sparrow's caught! So you did believe it at first, if 'now more than ever you don't'?”

“No, not at all, really!” Zamyotov exclaimed, visibly confused. “Is that why you've been frightening me, so as to lead up to that?”

“You don't believe it, then? And what did you start talking about in my absence, when I left the office that time? And why did Lieutenant Gunpowder interrogate me after I fainted? Hey, you,” he called to the waiter, getting up and taking his cap, “how much?”

“Thirty kopecks in all, sir,” the waiter answered, running over.

“And here's twenty more for a tip. Look at all this money!” He held the notes out to Zamyotov with a trembling hand. “Red ones, blue ones, twenty-five roubles. Where from? And where did the new clothes come from? You know I didn't have a kopeck! I bet you've already questioned the landlady, eh?...Well, enough! Assez causé!^[63] See you later...with the greatest pleasure! . . .”

He went out all atremble with some wild, hysterical feeling, in which there was at the same time a portion of unbearable delight— yet he was gloomy and terribly tired. His face was distorted, as if after some fit. His fatigue was increasing rapidly. His energy would now be aroused and surge up suddenly, with the first push, the first irritating sensation, and then rapidly grow weaker as the sensation weakened.

Zamyotov, left alone, went on sitting where he was for a long time, pondering. Raskolnikov had unwittingly overturned all his ideas on a certain point, and had finally settled his opinion.

“Ilya Petrovich is a blockhead!” he decided finally.

Raskolnikov had just opened the door to go out when he suddenly bumped into Razumikhin, right on the porch, coming in. Neither one saw the other even a step before, so that they almost bumped heads. They stood for some time looking each other up and down. Razumikhin was greatly amazed, but suddenly wrath, real wrath, flashed menacingly in his eyes.

“So here's where you are!” he shouted at the top of his lungs. “Ran away from your sick-bed! And I even looked for you under the sofa! We went to the attic! I almost gave Nastasya a beating because of you...And here's where he is! Rodka! What is the meaning of this! Tell the whole truth! Confess! Do you hear?”

“It means that I'm sick to death of all of you, and I want to be alone,” Raskolnikov replied calmly.

“Alone? When you still can't walk, when your mug is white as a sheet, and you can barely breathe! Fool! ... What were you doing in the 'Crystal Palace'? Confess immediately!”

“Let me be!” said Raskolnikov, and he tried to pass by. This now drove Razumikhin into a rage: he seized him firmly by the shoulder.

“Let you be? You dare tell me to let you be? And do you know what I'm going to do with you now? I'm going to pick you up, tie you in a knot, carry you home under my arm, and lock you in!”

“Listen, Razumikhin,” Raskolnikov began softly and apparently quite calmly, “can't you see that I don't want your good deeds? And who wants to do good deeds for someone who...spits on them? For someone, finally, who only feels seriously burdened by them? Why did you seek me out at the start of my illness? Maybe I would have been quite happy to die! Didn't I make it sufficiently plain to you today that you are tormenting me, that I am . .. sick of you! Really, why do you want to torment people! I assure you that it all seriously interferes with my recovery, because it keeps me constantly irritated. Didn't Zossimov leave today so as not to irritate me? You leave me, too, for God's sake! And what right do you have, finally, to restrain me by force? Can't you see as I'm speaking now that I'm entirely in my right mind? How, teach me how to implore you, finally, not to pester me with your good deeds! Say I'm ungrateful, say I'm mean, only leave me alone, all of you, for God's sake, leave me alone! Leave me! Leave me!”

He had begun calmly, savoring beforehand all the venom he was going to pour out, but he finished frenzied and breathless, as earlier with Luzhin.

Razumikhin stood, thought, and let his hand fall.

“Go to the devil, then!” he said softly and almost pensively. “Wait!” he suddenly bellowed, as Raskolnikov tried to set off. “Listen to me. I announce to you that you're all, to a man, babblers and braggarts! Some little suffering comes along, and you brood over it like a hen over an egg! Even there you steal from other authors! There isn't a sign of independent life in you! You're made of spermaceti ointment, with whey instead of blood in your veins! I don't believe a one of you! The first thing you do in any circumstances is try not to resemble a human being! Wa-a-ait!” he cried with redoubled fury, seeing that Raskolnikov was making another attempt to leave. “Hear me out! You know I have people coming today for a housewarming party, maybe they've come already, but I left my uncle there—I ran over just now—to receive my guests. So, if you weren't a fool, a banal fool, an utter fool, a foreign translation...you see, Rodya, I admit you're a smart fellow, but you're a fool!—so, if you weren't a fool, you'd be better off spending the evening at my place than going around wearing out your boots for nothing. Since you've already gone out, what's the difference! I'll roll in a soft armchair for you, my landlord has one...A bit of tea, good company...Or else I can put you on the couch—anyway, you'll be lying there with us...Zossimov will be there, too. Will you come?”

“No.”

“R-r-rot!” Razumikhin cried out impatiently. “How can you tell? You can't answer for yourself! Besides, you have no understanding of these things...I've fallen out with people like this a thousand times and gone running back...One gets ashamed—and goes back to the man! So remember, Pochinkov's house, third floor . . .”

“And in the same way, Mr. Razumikhin, you would probably let someone beat you for the pleasure of doing them good.”

“Who, me? I'll twist your nose off just for thinking it! Pochinkov's house, number forty-seven, the official Babushkin's apartment . . .”

“I won't come, Razumikhin!” Raskolnikov turned and started to walk away.

“I bet you will!” Razumikhin called after him. “Otherwise you...otherwise I don't want to know you! Hey, wait! Is Zamyotov in there?”

“He is.”

“You saw him?”

“I did.”

“You spoke?”

“We spoke.”

“What about? Ah, devil take you, don't tell me, then! Pochinkov's, forty-seven, Babushkin's, remember!”

Raskolnikov reached Sadovaya and turned the corner. Razumikhin followed him with his eyes, pondering. Finally he threw up his hands, went into the tavern, but stopped halfway up the stairs.

“Devil take it!” he continued, almost aloud. “He talks sense, but it's as if...still, I'm a fool, too! Don't madmen talk sense? I think that's what Zossimov is afraid of!” He tapped himself on the forehead with his finger. “And what if...no, he shouldn't be allowed to go by himself now! He might drown himself...Ech, I messed that one up! Impossible!” And he ran back outside after Raskolnikov, but the trail was already cold. He spat and with quick steps went back to the “Crystal Palace,” hastening to question Zamyotov.