“He’s been stagnating all his life as a district postmaster; gets a little pension. He is sixty-five—not worth talking about. … But I am fond of him. Porfiry Petrovitch, the head of the Investigation Department here … But you know him.”
“Is he a relation of yours, too?”
“A very distant one. But why are you scowling? Because you quarrelled once, won’t you come then?”
“I don’t care a damn for him.”
“So much the better. Well, there will be some students, a teacher, a government clerk, a musician, an officer and Zametov.”
“Do tell me, please, what you or he”—Zossimov nodded at Raskolnikov—“can have in common with this Zametov?”
“Oh, you particular gentleman! Principles! You are worked by principles, as it were by springs; you won’t venture to turn round on your own account. If a man is a nice fellow, that’s the only principle I go upon. Zametov is a delightful person.”
“Though he does take bribes.”
“Well, he does! and what of it? I don’t care if he does take bribes,” Razumihin cried with unnatural irritability. “I don’t praise him for taking bribes. I only say he is a nice man in his own way! But if one looks at men in all ways—are there many good ones left? Why, I am sure I shouldn’t be worth a baked onion myself … perhaps with you thrown in.”
“That’s too little; I’d give two for you.”
“And I wouldn’t give more than one for you. No more of your jokes! Zametov is no more than a boy. I can pull his hair and one must draw