Alsop, amid general conversation, led up to the subject skillfully, and finally said:
“What’s this—ah—new book you were telling me about the othah day? I mean,” he said smoothly, “you were telling me—about a book you’ve been reading—by—some Russian writer, wasn’t it?” said Alsop blandly, hesitating—“Dusty—Dusty—Dusty—whosky?” said Alsop with a show of innocence, and then, before there was a chance for reply, his great belly shook, the fat scream of laughter sounded in his throat. The disciples joined hilariously in. “Lord God!” cried Alsop, chuckling again, “I didn’t mean to do that—it just popped out, I couldn’t help it…. But how do you pronounce his name, anyhow?” said Alsop gravely. His manner was now serious, but behind his winking spectacles his eyes were narrowed into slits of mockery—“How do you spell it?”
“I—I don’t know how you pronounce it—but it’s spelled Dos-to-evski.”
“I guess that would be Dos—Dos—” Alsop began….
“Oh hell, Jerry, why don’t you just sneeze it and let it go at that?” said one of the disciples. And again the room sounded with their laughter, Alsop’s great belly heaving and his half-phlegmy choke of laughter rising above the rest.
“Don’t mind us,” he now said tolerantly, seeing the other’s reddened face. “We weren’t laughing at the book—we want to hear about it—it’s only that it seems funny to talk about a book when you can’t even pronounce the name of the author.” Suddenly he heaved with laughter again—“Lord God,” he said, “it may be a great book—but that’s the damnedest name I ever heard of.” And the laughter of agreement filled the room. “But go on now,” he said encouragingly, with an air of serious interest, “I’d like to hear about it. What’s it about?”
“It’s—it’s—it’s—” Monk began confusedly, suddenly realizing how difficult it would be to put into a scheme of words just what the book was about, particularly since he was by no means sure himself.
“I mean,” said Alsop smoothly, “could you tell us something about the plot? Give us some idea about the story?”
“Well,” the other began slowly, thinking hard, “the leading character is a man named Raskalnikoff—”
“Who?” said Alsop innocently. And again there was an appreciative titter around the room. “Raskalni-who?” The titter grew to open laughter.
“Well, that’s the way it’s spelled anyhow,” said the other doggedly.
“Ras-kal-ni-koff—I guess you call it Raskalnikoff!”
And again Alsop heaved with laughter, the phlegmy chuckle wheezed high in his throat. “Damned if you don’t pick out funny names!” he said, and then encouragingly: “Well, all right, then, go on. What does Raskal What’s-His-Name do?”
“Well—he—he—kills an old woman,” Monk said, now conscious of the currents of derision and amusement in the ring around him. “With an axe!” he blurted out, and instantly was crimson with anger and embarrassment at the roar of laughter that greeted his description, feeling he had told the story clumsily, and had begun his explanation in the worst possible way.
“Damned if he don’t live up to his name!” wheezed Alsop. “Old Dusty—old Dusty knew what he was about when he called him Raskal What’s-His-Name, didn’t he?”
The other was angry now: he said hotly, “It’s nothing to laugh about, Jerry, It’s—”
“No,” said Alsop gravely. “Killing old women with axes is not a laughing matter—no matter who does it—even if you do have to sneeze it when you say it!”
At the burst of approving laughter that greeted this sally, the younger man lost his temper completely, and turned furiously upon the group:
“You fellows make me tired! Here you’re shooting off your mouths and making jokes about something you know nothing about. What’s funny about it, I’d like to know?”
“It suttinly doesn’t strike me as funny,” Alsop quietly observed. “It sounds pretty mawbid to me.”
This quiet observation was greeted by a murmur of agreement.
For the first time, however, the use of the word, which was one of Alsop’s favorite definitions, stung Monk into quick and hot resentment.
“What’s morbid about it?” he said furiously. “Good Lord, Jerry, you’re always saying that something is morbid, just because you don’t like it. A writer’s got a right to tell about anything he pleases. He’s not morbid just because he doesn’t write about peaches and cream all the time.”
“Yes,” said Alsop with his infuriating air of instructive tolerance. “But a great writer will see all sides of the situation—”