This was a gentleman no longer young, of a stiff and portly appearance, and a cautious and sour countenance. He began by stopping short in the doorway, staring about him with offensive and undisguised astonishment, as though asking himself what sort of place he had come to. Mistrustfully and with an affectation of being alarmed and almost affronted, he scanned Raskolnikovs low and narrow cabin. With the same amazement he stared at Raskolnikov, who lay undressed, dishevelled, unwashed, on his miserable dirty sofa, looking fixedly at him. Then with the same deliberation he scrutinised the uncouth, unkempt figure and unshaven face of Razumihin, who looked him boldly and inquiringly in the face without rising from his seat. A constrained silence lasted for a couple of minutes, and then, as might be expected, some scene-shifting took place. Reflecting, probably from certain fairly unmistakable signs, that he would get nothing in this cabin by attempting to overawe them, the gentleman softened somewhat, and civilly, though with some severity, emphasising every syllable of his question, addressed Zossimov:
Rodion Romanovitch Raskolnikov, a student, or formerly a student?
Zossimov made a slight movement, and would have answered, had not Razumihin anticipated him.
Here he is lying on the sofa! What do you want?
This familiar what do you want seemed to cut the ground from the feet of the pompous gentleman. He was turning to Razumihin, but checked himself in time and turned to Zossimov again.
This is Raskolnikov, mumbled Zossimov, nodding towards him. Then he gave a prolonged yawn, opening his mouth as wide as possible. Then he lazily put his hand into his waistcoat-pocket, pulled out a huge gold watch in a round hunters case, opened it, looked at it and as slowly and lazily proceeded to put it back.
Raskolnikov himself lay without speaking, on his back, gazing persistently, though without understanding, at the stranger. Now that his face was turned away from the strange flower on the paper, it was extremely pale and wore a look of anguish, as though he had just undergone an agonising operation or just been taken from the rack. But the new-comer gradually began to arouse his attention, then his wonder, then suspicion and even alarm. When Zossimov said This is Raskolnikov he jumped up quickly, sat on the sofa and with an almost defiant, but weak and breaking, voice articulated:
Yes, I am Raskolnikov! What do you want?
The visitor scrutinised him and pronounced impressively:
Pyotr Petrovitch Luzhin. I believe I have reason to hope that my name is not wholly unknown to you?
But Raskolnikov, who had expected something quite different, gazed blankly and dreamily at him, making no reply, as though he heard the name of Pyotr Petrovitch for the first time.
Is it possible that you can up to the present have received no information? asked Pyotr Petrovitch, somewhat disconcerted.
In reply Raskolnikov sank languidly back on the pillow, put his hands behind his head and gazed at the ceiling. A look of dismay came into Luzhins face. Zossimov and Razumihin stared at him more inquisitively than ever, and at last he showed unmistakable signs of embarrassment.
I had presumed and calculated, he faltered, that a letter posted more than ten days, if not a fortnight ago
I say, why are you standing in the doorway? Razumihin interrupted suddenly. If youve something to say, sit down. Nastasya and you are so crowded. Nastasya, make room. Heres a chair, thread your way in!
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