“I tell you what,” cried Raskolnikov, raising himself on his pillow and fixing his piercing, glittering eyes upon him, “I tell you what.”
“What?” Luzhin stood still, waiting with a defiant and offended face. Silence lasted for some seconds.
“Why, if ever again … you dare to mention a single word … about my mother … I shall send you flying downstairs!”
“What’s the matter with you?” cried Razumihin.
“So that’s how it is?” Luzhin turned pale and bit his lip. “Let me tell you, sir,” he began deliberately, doing his utmost to restrain himself but breathing hard, “at the first moment I saw you you were ill-disposed to me, but I remained here on purpose to find out more. I could forgive a great deal in a sick man and a connection, but you … never after this …”
“I am not ill,” cried Raskolnikov.
“So much the worse …”
“Go to hell!”
But Luzhin was already leaving without finishing his speech, squeezing between the table and the chair; Razumihin got up this time to let him pass. Without glancing at anyone, and not even nodding to Zossimov, who had for some time been making signs to him to let the sick man alone, he went out, lifting his hat to the level of his shoulders to avoid crushing it as he stooped to go out of the door. And even the curve of his spine was expressive of the horrible insult he had received.
“How could you—how could you!” Razumihin said, shaking his head in perplexity.
“Let me alone—let me alone all of you!” Raskolnikov cried in a frenzy. “Will you ever leave off tormenting me? I am not afraid of you! I am not afraid of anyone, anyone now! Get away from me! I want to be alone, alone, alone!”
“Come along,” said Zossimov, nodding to Razumihin.
“But we can’t leave him like this!”
“Come along,” Zossimov repeated insistently, and he went out. Razumihin thought a minute and ran to overtake him.
“It might be worse not to obey him,” said Zossimov on the stairs. “He mustn’t be irritated.”
“What’s the matter with him?”
“If only he could get some favourable shock, that’s what would do it! At first he was better. … You know he has got something on his mind! Some fixed idea weighing on him. … I am very much afraid so; he must have!”
“Perhaps it’s that gentleman, Pyotr Petrovitch. From his conversation I gather he is going to marry his sister, and that he had received a letter about it just before his illness. …”
“Yes, confound the man! he may have upset the case altogether. But have you noticed, he takes no interest in anything, he does not respond to anything except one point on which he seems excited—that’s the murder?”
“Yes, yes,” Razumihin agreed, “I noticed that, too. He is interested, frightened. It gave him a shock on the day he was ill in the police office; he fainted.”
“Tell me more about that this evening and I’ll tell you something afterwards. He interests me very much! In half an hour I’ll go and see him again. … There’ll be no inflammation though.”
“Thanks! And I’ll wait with Pashenka meantime and will keep watch on him through Nastasya. …”
Raskolnikov, left alone, looked with impatience and misery at Nastasya, but she still lingered.
“Won’t you have some tea now?” she asked.
“Later! I am sleepy! Leave me.”
He turned abruptly to the wall; Nastasya went out.
1 The emancipation of the serfs in 1861 is meant.—Translator’s note.
