“But why so much?”

“I mean, not that...you see, recently, when you were sick, I happened to talk about you a lot and quite often...So, he listened...and when he learned that you were studying law and couldn't finish your studies because of your circumstances, he said, 'What a pity!' So, I concluded...I mean, not just that, but all of it together; yesterday Zamyotov...You see, Rodya, I blabbed something to you yesterday while I was drunk, as we were walking home...so you see, brother, I'm afraid you may exaggerate . . .”

“What is it? That I'm supposed to be mad? But maybe it's true.”

He grinned tensely.

“Yes...yes...I mean, no! Pah! Anyway, everything I was saying (and about other things, too) was all nonsense, on account of drink.”

“But why are you apologizing! I'm so sick of all this!” Raskolnikov cried with exaggerated irritation. He was partly pretending, however.

“I know, I know, I understand. Believe me, I understand. It's shameful even to speak of . . .”

“If it's shameful, don't speak!”

They both fell silent. Razumikhin was more than delighted, and Raskolnikov realized this with loathing. He was also troubled by what Razumikhin had just said about Porfiry.

“I'll have to sing Lazarus for him, too,” he thought,^[74]turning pale, and with his heart pounding, “and sing it naturally. Most natural would be to sing nothing. Eagerly to sing nothing. No, eagerly would be unnatural again...Well, how things turn out there...we shall see...presently...Is it good that I'm going, or not good? A moth flying into the candle-flame. My heart is pounding—that's not good! . . .”

“In this gray house,” said Razumikhin.

(“Most important is whether or not Porfiry knows I was in that witch's apartment yesterday...and asked about the blood. I must find that out at once, from the very first step, the moment I walk in, by the look on his face; o-ther-wise...I'll find out, if it's the end of me!”)

“You know what?” he suddenly turned to Razumikhin with an impish smile. “I've noticed that you've been in a state of some unusual excitement today, brother, ever since this morning. True?”

“Excitement? None whatsoever.” Razumikhin cringed.

“No, really, brother, it's quite noticeable. You sat on the chair today as you never do, somehow on the edge of it, and kept jerking spasmodically. Kept jumping up for no apparent reason. You'd be angry, and then suddenly for some reason your mug would turn as sweet as a lollipop. You even blushed; especially when you were invited to dinner, you blushed terribly.”

“Nothing of the kind! Lies! ... What are you talking about?”

“But why are you dodging like a schoolboy! Pah, the devil, he's blushing again!”

“What a swine you are, though!”

“But why are you embarrassed? Romeo! Wait, I'm going to tell on you today—ha, ha, ha! Mama will have a laugh...and so will someone else . . .”

“Listen, listen, listen, but this is serious, it's...ah, the devil, I don't know what it is!” Razumikhin became utterly muddled and went cold with terror. “What are you going to tell them? I, brother...pah, what a swine you are!”

“Just like a rose in springtime! And you have no idea how it becomes you; a six-and-a-half-foot Romeo! And so well scrubbed today; you even cleaned under your fingernails, eh? When did that ever happen before! And, by God, you've even pomaded yourself! Bend down!”

“Swine!!!”

Raskolnikov laughed so much that it seemed he could no longer control himself, and, thus laughing, they entered Porfiry Petrovich's apartment. This was just what Raskolnikov wanted: from inside one could hear how they came in laughing and went on guffawing in the entryway.

“Not a word here, or I'll...beat you to a pulp!” Razumikhin whispered furiously, seizing Raskolnikov by the shoulder.

V

The latter was already going into the apartment. He entered looking as though he had to use all his strength to keep from somehow breaking into giggles. Behind him, his physiognomy completely overthrown and ferocious, red as a peony, lanky and awkward, entered the abashed Razumikhin. His face and his whole figure were indeed comical at that moment, and justified Raskolnikov's laughter. Raskolnikov, not introduced as yet, bowed to their host, who was standing in the middle of the room looking at them inquiringly, and held out his hand to him, still with an obviously great effort to suppress his hilarity and to utter at least two or three words to introduce himself. But he had barely managed to assume a serious expression and mutter something when suddenly, as if involuntarily, he glanced at Razumikhin again, and here he could no longer restrain himself: the suppressed laughter broke through all the more irresistibly the more forcefully he had been trying to contain it until then. The remarkable ferocity with which Razumikhin was taking this “heartfelt” laughter gave the whole scene a look of the most genuine hilarity and, above all, naturalness. Razumikhin, as if on purpose, was helping things along.

“Pah, the devil!” he bellowed, waving his arm, and happened to hit a small round table on which stood an empty tea glass. Everything went flying and jingling.

“But why go breaking chairs, gentlemen! It's a loss to the exchequer!” Porfiry Petrovich exclaimed merrily.

The scene presented itself as follows: Raskolnikov, his hand forgotten in his host's hand, was finishing laughing but, knowing there were limits, was waiting for the moment to end it as quickly and naturally as possible. Razumikhin, embarrassed to the utmost by the fall of the table and the broken glass, looked gloomily at the fragments, spat, and turned sharply to the window, where he stood with his back to the public, his face scowling terribly, looking out the window but seeing nothing. Porfiry Petrovich was laughing, and willingly so, but it was obvious that explanations were called for. On a chair in the corner sat Zamyotov, who had risen when the guests entered and stood expectantly, widening his mouth into a smile, but looked at the whole scene with perplexity and even something like mistrust, and at Raskolnikov even with a certain bewilderment. The unexpected presence of Zamyotov struck Raskolnikov unpleasantly.

“This still needs some figuring out!” he thought.

“Excuse me, please,” he began, trying to look abashed, “Raskolnikov . . .”

“But, my goodness, sir, how nice, and how nicely you came in...What, doesn't he intend even to say hello?” Porfiry Petrovich nodded towards Razumikhin.

“By God, I don't know why he's so furious with me. I simply told him on the way here that he resembled Romeo, and...and proved it. I can't think of anything else.”

“Swine!” Razumikhin responded, without turning around.

“He must have had very serious reasons, if he got so angry over one little word,” Porfiry laughed.

“Ah, you—investigator! ... Ah, devil take you all!” Razumikhin snapped, and suddenly laughed himself, and with a cheerful face, as though nothing had happened, went up to Porfiry Petrovich.

“Enough! Fools all! To business now: this is my friend, Rodion Romanych Raskolnikov; first of all, he's heard about you and has been wanting to make your acquaintance, and, second, he has a little business with you. Hah! Zamyotov! What brings you here? You mean you know each other? Since when?”

“What's this now!” Raskolnikov thought uneasily.

Zamyotov seemed abashed, but not very.

“We met yesterday, at your place,” he said offhandedly.

“So God spared me the trouble: last week he was begging me terribly to get him introduced to you somehow, Porfiry, but here you've rubbed noses without me...Where do you keep your tobacco?”

Porfiry Petrovich was casually dressed, in a house-jacket, a rather clean shirt, and down-at-the-heel slippers. He was a man of about thirty-five, of less than average height, stout and even pot-bellied, clean-shaven, with no moustache or side-whiskers, and with closely cropped hair on a large, round head that bulged somehow especially roundly at the back. His puffy, round, slightly pug-nosed face was of a sickly, dark yellow color, but rather cheerful and even mocking. It would even have been good-natured were it not for the expression of his eyes, which had a sort of liquid, watery gleam and were covered by nearly white eyelashes that blinked as though winking at someone. The look of these eyes was strangely out of harmony with his whole figure, which had something womanish about it, and lent it something a good deal more serious than might have been expected at first sight.