They were silent again.
“Hm! … that’s all right,” muttered Raskolnikov. “Do you know, I fancied … I keep thinking that it may have been an hallucination.”
“What do you mean? I don’t understand you.”
“Well, you all say,” Raskolnikov went on, twisting his mouth into a smile, “that I am mad. I thought just now that perhaps I really am mad, and have only seen a phantom.”
“What do you mean?”
“Why, who can tell? Perhaps I am really mad, and perhaps everything that happened all these days may be only imagination.”
“Ach, Rodya, you have been upset again! … But what did he say, what did he come for?”
Raskolnikov did not answer. Razumihin thought a minute.
“Now let me tell you my story,” he began, “I came to you, you were asleep. Then we had dinner and then I went to Porfiry’s, Zametov was still with him. I tried to begin, but it was no use. I couldn’t speak in the right way. They don’t seem to understand and can’t understand, but are not a bit ashamed. I drew Porfiry to the window, and began talking to him, but it was still no use. He looked away and I looked away. At last I shook my fist in his ugly face, and told him as a cousin I’d brain him. He merely looked at me, I cursed and came away. That was all. It was very stupid. To Zametov I didn’t say a word. But, you see, I thought I’d made a mess of it, but as I went downstairs a brilliant idea struck me: why should we trouble? Of course if you were in any danger or anything, but why need you care? You needn’t care a hang for them. We shall have a laugh at them afterwards, and if I were in your place I’d mystify them more than ever. How ashamed they’ll be afterwards! Hang them! We can thrash them afterwards, but let’s laugh at them now!”