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Updated: May 15, 2025
"Not to be despised, by any means," repeated Porphyrius Petrovitch, whose mind seemed to be preoccupied with something else "not to be despised!" he continued in a very loud tone of voice, and drawing himself up close to Raskolnikoff, whom he stared out of countenance.
Let us, if you like, attribute the whole of this to disease to a semidelirious condition by all means; but there is 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.
Nature, my friend, is the most transparent of mirrors. To contemplate her is sufficient. But why do you grow pale, Rodion Romanovitch? Perhaps you are too hot; shall I open the window?" "By no means, I beg!" cried Raskolnikoff, bursting out laughing. "Don't heed me, pray!" Porphyrius stopped short, waited a moment, and burst out laughing himself.
It was a tiny place, not more than six feet in length, and its dirty buff paper hung in shreds, giving it a most miserable aspect; besides which, the ceiling was so low that a tall man would have felt in danger of bumping his head. This sofa, which filled nearly half the room, served Raskolnikoff as a bed.
"It is only in the houses of these dreadful old widows that such order is to be seen," continued Raskolnikoff to himself, looking with curiosity at the chintz curtain overhanging the door which led into a second small room, in which he had never set foot; it contained the old woman's bed and chest of drawers. The apartment consisted of these two rooms.
In order to avoid all idea of mystery, the young man purposely moved about rather noisily, and muttered something half aloud; then he rang a third time, but gently and coolly, without allowing the bell to betray the least sign of impatience. Raskolnikoff never forgot this moment of his life.
You are a cultivated man a literary man, are you not?" "I was in the sixth class at college," Zametoff answered, with a certain amount of dignity. "The sixth! Oh, my fine fellow! With rings and a chain a rich man! You are a dear boy," and Raskolnikoff gave a short, nervous laugh, right in the face of Zametoff.
In his exasperation he rang ten times running, and as loud as he possibly could. This man was evidently not a stranger there, and was in the habit of being obeyed. At the same moment some light and rapid footsteps resounded on the staircase. It was another person coming to the fourth floor. Raskolnikoff was not at first aware of the newcomer's arrival.
The servant looked strangely at Raskolnikoff, while he fixed a despairing glance upon the porter. "Here is a notice for you from the office," said the latter. "What office?" "The police office." "What for?" "I don't know. You are summoned there, go." The porter looked anxiously at the lodger, and turned to leave. Raskolnikoff made no observation, and held the paper unopened in his hand.
"Whatever are they all up to?" wondered Raskolnikoff, and closing the door again he waited a while.
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