his whole body swaying with excitement while he continued to look straight into Raskolnikov’s eyes. The latter also began to laugh, not without effort, but when Porfiry, seeing that he, too, was laughing, became so overcome with mirth that he very nearly turned purple, Raskolnikov’s disgust suddenly got the better of his caution; he stopped laughing, frowned and looked for a long while and with loathing at Porfiry, keeping his eyes fixed on him for the entire duration of his lengthy and, it seemed, intentionally unceasing laughter. A lack of caution, though, was in evidence on both sides: Porfiry Petrovich seemed to be laughing at his guest quite openly, to the latter’s utter disgust, and to be quite unembarrassed by this circumstance. For Raskolnikov, this last point was highly significant: he realized that earlier, too, Porfiry Petrovich had probably not been in the least embarrassed, and he, Raskolnikov, must have fallen into a trap; there was something afoot here of which he was ignorant, some purpose or other; everything, perhaps, was already in place, and any minute now would be unveiled and unleashed . . .
He got straight to the point, rising from his seat and grabbing his cap.
‘Porfiry Petrovich,’ he began decisively, if rather too irritably, ‘yesterday you expressed the wish that I present myself here for some sort of interrogation.’ (He laid particular stress on the word interrogation.) ‘Well, here I am, so if there’s anything you need to ask, ask; otherwise please permit me to leave. I’ve no time, there’s something I have to do . . . I need to attend the funeral of the civil servant who was trampled by horses, the very one you . . . also know about . . . ,’ he added, and was immediately angry with himself for having done so, which immediately irritated him even more, ‘and I’m fed up with all this – do you hear? – and have been for some time . . . and that’s partly why I fell ill . . . and, in short,’ he all but shrieked, sensing that the phrase about his illness was even more misjudged, ‘in short, be so kind either to question me or let me go this minute . . . and if you are going to question me, you had better do so formally, sir. I won’t have it any other way. Goodbye for now, then, seeing as we are merely wasting each other’s time.’
‘Heavens above! What are you saying? Question you about what?’ Porfiry Petrovich suddenly cackled, immediately changing both his tone and his appearance and instantly ceasing to laugh. ‘Worry not, please,’ he fussed, now tearing off again to the four ends of the room, now trying to sit Raskolnikov down. ‘That can wait, sir, that can wait, and these are all mere trifles! You know, I’m simply delighted to see you here at last . . . and welcome you as a guest. And as for this wretched laughter of mine, please forgive me, Rodion Romanovich, father. It is Roman, is it not? Your father’s name, I mean . . . I’m highly strung, sir, and you had me in fits there with the wittiness of your remark; believe me, there are times when I start quivering like India rubber and I won’t stop for half an hour . . . I’m the laughing sort. I even fear a stroke, sir, considering my constitution. Now do take a seat, eh? . . . Please, father, or else I shall think you’re cross . . .’
Raskolnikov kept silent, listened and watched, still frowning angrily. Nevertheless, he sat down, but without letting go of his cap.
‘I should tell you something about myself, Rodion Romanovich, father, by way of an explanation, as it were, of my character,’ Porfiry Petrovich continued, bustling about the room and appearing to avoid, as before, the gaze of his guest. ‘I’m a bachelor, you see, no airs or graces, no fame or name, and, as if that’s not enough, I’m finished, sir, I’ve frozen over, I’ve gone to seed and . . . and . . . Have you noticed, Rodion Romanovich, that here, here in Russia, I mean, and most especially in our Petersburg circles, whenever two intelligent people, who don’t yet know each other all that well but, as it were, respect one another, just like you and me, come together, they are