point then of being dirty, greasy, pothouse in his manners and he wouldn't care! He'd be worse!"
He was engaged in such monologues when Zossimov, who had spent the night in Praskovya Pavlovna's parlour, came in.
He was going home and was in a hurry to look at the invalid first. Razumihin informed him that Raskolnikov was sleeping like a dormouse. Zossimov gave orders that they shouldn't wake him and promised to see him again about eleven.
"If he is still at home," he added. "Damn it all! If one can't control one's patients, how is one to cure them? Do you know whether he will go to them, or whether they are coming here?"
"They are coming, I think," said Razumihin, understanding the object of the question, "and they will discuss their family affairs, no doubt. I'll be off. You, as the doctor, have more right to be here than I."
"But I am not a father confessor; I shall come and go away; I've plenty to do besides looking after them."
"One thing worries me," interposed Razumihin, frowning. "On the way home I talked a lot of drunken nonsense to him . . . all sorts of things . . . and amongst them that you were afraid that he . . . might become insane."
"You told the ladies so, too."
"I know it was stupid! You may beat me if you like! Did you think so seriously?"
"That's nonsense, I tell you, how could I think it seriously? You, yourself, described him as a monomaniac when you fetched me to him . . . and we added fuel to the fire yesterday, you did, that is, with your story about the painter; it was a nice conversation, when he was, perhaps, mad on that very point! If only I'd known what happened then at the police station and that some wretch . . . had insulted him with this suspicion! Hm . . . I would not have allowed that conversation yesterday. These monomaniacs will make a mountain out of a mole-hill . . . and see their fancies as solid realities. . . . As far as I remember, it was Zametov's story that cleared up half the mystery, to my mind. Why, I know one case in which a hypochondriac, a man of forty, cut the throat of a little boy of eight, because he couldn't endure the
