بخش 02 - فصل 04

CHAPTER FOUR

ZOSSIMOV WAS A TALL, fat man with a puffy, colorless, clean-shaven face and straight flaxen hair. He wore glasses and a big gold ring on his fat finger. He was twenty-seven. He was wearing a fashionable light gray loose coat and light summer trousers, and everything about him was loose, fashionable and tidy and able, his clothes were faultless and his watch-chain was massive. In behavior he was slow and almost indifferent, and at the same time studiously free and easy; he made efforts to conceal his self-importance, but it was always too obvious. All his acquaintances found him tedious, but said he was clever at his work.

“I’ve been to your apartment twice today, my friend. You see, he’s come to,” cried Razumikhin.

“I see, I see; and how do we feel now, eh?” said Zossimov to Raskolnikov, watching him carefully and, sitting down at the foot of the sofa, he settled himself as comfortably as he could.

“He’s still down,” Razumikhin went on. “We’ve just changed his linen and he almost cried.”

“That’s very natural; you might have put it off if he didn’t want you to . . . His pulse is excellent. Is your head still aching, eh?”

“I’m fine, I’m perfectly fine!” Raskolnikov declared positively and irritably. He raised himself on the sofa and looked at them with glittering eyes, but sank back on to the pillow at once and turned to the wall. Zossimov watched him intently.

“Very good . . . He’s doing all right,” he said lazily. “Has he eaten anything?”

They told him, and asked what he could have.

“He can have anything . . . soup, tea . . . you mustn’t give him mushrooms and cucumbers, of course; he’d better not have meat either, and . . . but no need to tell you that!” Razumikhin and he looked at each other. “No more medicine or anything. I’ll look at him again tomorrow. Maybe even today . . . but never mind . . . ” “Tomorrow evening I shall take him for a walk,” said Razumikhin. “We are going to the Yusupov Garden24 and then to the Crystal Palace.”25

“I wouldn’t disturb him tomorrow at all, but I don’t know . . . a little, maybe . . . but we’ll see.”

“Ah, what a nuisance! I’ve got a house-warming party tonight; it’s just round the corner. Couldn’t he come? He could lie on the sofa. Are you coming?” Razumikhin said to Zossimov. “Don’t forget, you promised.”

“All right, only a lot later. What are you going to do?”

“Oh, nothing—tea, vodka, herrings. There’ll be a pie . . . just our friends.”

“And who?”

“All neighbors here, almost all new friends, except my old uncle, and he is new too—he only arrived in Petersburg yesterday to see to some business of his. We meet once every five years.”

“What does he do?”

“He’s been stagnating all his life as a district postmaster; he gets a little pension. He is sixty-five—not worth talking about . . . But I am fond of him. Porfiry Petrovich, 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 quarreled once, won’t you come then?”

“I don’t care a damn for him.”

“So much the better. Well, there’ll 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 work by principles like you work by springs; you won’t bother turning round on your own account. If a person is nice, that’s the only principle I go on. Zametov is a wonderful person.”

“Though he does take bribes.”

“Well, he does! and what of it? I don’t care if he does take bribes,” Razumikhin 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 you look at men in all ways—are there many good ones left? I’m sure I wouldn’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’s no more than a boy. I can pull his hair and draw him, not repel him. You’ll never improve a man by repelling him, especially a boy. You have to be twice as careful with a boy. Oh, you tedious progressives! You don’t understand. You harm yourselves running another person down . . . But if you want to know, we really have something in common.” “I’d like to know what.”

“It’s all about a house-painter . . . We are getting him out of a mess! Though indeed there’s nothing to fear now. The matter is absolutely self-evident. We only put on steam.”

“A painter?”

“Why, haven’t I told you about it? I only told you the beginning then about the murder of the old pawnbroker-woman. Well, the painter is mixed up in it . . . ”

“Oh, I heard about that murder before and was rather interested in it . . . partly . . . for one reason . . . I read about it in the papers, too . . . ”

“Lizaveta was also murdered,” Nastasia blurted out, suddenly addressing Raskolnikov. She remained in the room all the time, standing by the door listening.

“Lizaveta,” murmured Raskolnikov hardly audibly.

“Lizaveta, the one who sold old clothes. Didn’t you know her? She used to come here. She mended a shirt for you, too.”

Raskolnikov turned to the wall where in the dirty, yellow paper he picked out one clumsy, white flower with brown lines on it and began examining how many petals there were in it, how many scallops in the petals and how many lines on them. He felt his arms and legs as lifeless as though they had been cut off. He did not attempt to move, but stared obstinately at the flower.

“But what about the painter?” Zossimov interrupted Nastasia’s chatter with marked displeasure. She sighed and was silent.

“He was accused of the murder,” Razumikhin went on hotly.

“Was there evidence against him then?”

“Evidence against him! Evidence that was no evidence, and that’s what we have to prove. It was just as they pinned it on those other two, Koch and Pestriakov, at first. Pah! how stupidly it’s all done, it makes me sick, though it’s not my business! Pestriakov may be coming to-night . . . By the way, Rodia, you’ve heard about all of this already; it happened before you were ill, the day before you fainted at the police office while they were talking about it.” Zossimov looked curiously at Raskolnikov. He did not stir.

“But I say, Razumikhin, I wonder at you. What a busybody you are!” Zossimov observed.

“Maybe I am, but we will get him off anyway,” shouted Razumikhin, bringing his fist down on the table. “What’s the most offensive is not their lying—one can always forgive lying—lying is a wonderful thing, it gets you closer to the truth—what is offensive is that they lie and worship their own lying . . . I respect Porfiry, but . . . What threw them out at first? The door was locked, and when they came back with the porter it was open. So it followed that Koch and Pestriakov were the murderers—that was their logic!” “But don’t excite yourself; they just detained them, they couldn’t help it . . . And, by the way, I’ve met that man Koch. Didn’t he buy unredeemed pledges from the old woman?”

“Yes, he is a swindler. He buys up bad debts, too. He makes a profession out of it. But enough of him! Do you know what makes me angry? It’s their sickening, rotten, petrified routine . . . And this case might be a means of introducing a new method. You can show from the psychological data alone how to track down the real man. ‘We have facts,’ they say. But facts aren’t everything—at least half the business lies in how you interpret them!” “Can you interpret them, then?”

“Anyway, you can’t hold your tongue when you have a feeling, a tangible feeling that you might be able to help if only . . . Do you know the details of the case?”

“I am waiting to hear about the painter.”

“Oh, yes! Well, here’s the story. Early on the third day after the murder, when they were still dangling Koch and Pestriakov—though they accounted for every step they took and it was absolutely obvious—an unexpected fact turned up. A peasant called Dushkin, who keeps a liquor store facing the house, brought a jeweler’s case containing some gold earrings to the police office, and told them a long story. ‘The day before yesterday, just after eight o’clock’—remember the day and the time!—’a traveling house-painter, Nikolai, who had been in to see me already that day, brought me this box of gold earrings and stones, and asked me to give him two rubles for them. When I asked him where he got them, he said that he picked them up in the street. I did not ask him anything more.’ I am telling you Dushkin’s story. ‘I gave him a note’—a ruble, he meant—’for I thought if he did not pawn it with me he would with someone else. It would all come to the same thing—he’d spend it on drink, so it had better be with me. The further you hide it the quicker you will find it, and if anything turns up, if I hear any rumors, I’ll take it to the police.’ Of course, that’s all nonsense; I know this Dushkin, he lies like a horse, he’s a pawnbroker and a receiver of stolen goods, and he did not cheat Nikolai out of a thirty-ruble trinket in order to give it to the police. He was just afraid. But anyway, back to Dushkin’s story. ‘I’ve known this peasant, Nikolai Dementiev, since he was a child; he comes from the same province and district of Zaraisk, we are both Ryazan men. And though Nikolai isn’t a drunkard, he drinks, and I knew he had a job in that house, painting work with Dmitri, who comes from the same village too. As soon as he got the ruble he spent it, had a couple of glasses, took his change and went out. But I did not see Dmitri with him then. And the next day I heard that someone had murdered Aliona Ivanovna and her sister, Lizaveta Ivanovna, with an axe. I knew them, and I felt suspicious about the earrings at once, because I knew the murdered woman lent money on pledges. I went to the house, and began to make careful inquiries without saying a word to anyone. First of all I asked, “Is Nikolai here?” Dmitri told me that Nikolai had gone off on a binge; he had come home at dawn drunk, stayed in the house about ten minutes and went out again. Dmitri didn’t see him again and is still finishing the job alone. And their job is on the same staircase as the murder, on the second floor. When I heard all that I didn’t say a word to anyone’—that’s Dushkin’s tale—’but I found out what I could about the murder, and went home feeling as suspicious as ever. And at eight o’clock this morning’—that was the third day, you understand—’I saw Nikolai coming in, not sober, though not that drunk—he could understand what was said to him. He sat down on the bench and didn’t speak. There was only one stranger in the bar and a man I knew asleep on a bench and our two boys. “Have you seen Dmitri?” I said. “No, I haven’t,” he said. “And you’ve not been here either?” “Not since the day before yesterday,” he said. “And where did you sleep last night?” “In Peski, with the Kolomensky men.” “And where did you get those earrings?” I asked. “I found them in the street,” and the way he said it was a little strange; he didn’t look at me. “Did you hear what happened that very evening, that very hour, on that same staircase?” I said. “No,” he said, “I didn’t,” and all the while he was listening, his eyes were staring out of his head and he turned as white as chalk. I told him all about it and he took his hat and began getting up. I wanted to keep him. “Wait a bit, Nikolai,” said I, “won’t you have a drink?” And I signed to the boy to hold the door, and I came out from behind the bar; but he darted out and down the street to the turning at a run. I haven’t seen him since. Then my doubts were over—he did it, as clear as could be . . . ‘ ” “I should think so,” said Zossimov.

“Wait! Hear the end. Of course they sought high and low for Nikolai; they detained Dushkin and searched his house; Dmitri, too, was arrested; the Kolomensky men also were turned inside out. And the day before yesterday they arrested Nikolai in a tavern at the end of the town. He had gone there, taken the silver cross off his neck and asked for a drink for it. They gave it to him. A few minutes afterwards the woman went to the cowshed, and through a crack in the wall she saw in the stable adjoining he had made a noose of his sash from the beam, stood on a block of wood, and was trying to put his neck in the noose. The woman screeched her hardest; people ran in. ‘So that’s what you are up to!’ ‘Take me,’ he says, ‘to such-and-such a police officer; I’ll confess everything.’ Well, they took him to that police station—that is here—with a suitable escort. So they asked him this and that, how old he is, ‘twenty-two,’ and so on. To the question, ‘When you were working with Dmitri, didn’t you see anyone on the staircase at such-and-such a time?’—his reply was: ‘Sure, folks may have gone up and down, but I didn’t notice them.’ ‘And didn’t you hear anything, any noise, and so on?’ ‘We heard nothing special.’ ‘And did you hear, Nikolai, that on the same day Widow So-and-so and her sister were murdered and robbed?’ ‘I never knew a thing about it. The first I heard of it was from Afanasy Pavlovich the day before yesterday. ‘ ‘And where did you find the earrings?’ ‘I found them on the pavement.’ ‘Why didn’t you go to work with Dmitri the other day?’ ‘Because I was drinking.’ ‘And where were you drinking?’ ‘Oh, in such-and-such a place.’ ‘Why did you run away from Dushkin’s?’ ‘Because I was very frightened.’ ‘What were you frightened of?’ ‘That I’d be accused.’ ‘How could you be frightened, if you felt free from guilt?’ Now, Zossimov, you may not believe me, that question was put literally in those words. I know it for a fact, it was repeated to me exactly! What do you say to that?” “Well, anyway, there’s the evidence.”

“I’m not talking about the evidence now, I am talking about that question, about their own idea of themselves. Well, so they squeezed and squeezed him and he confessed: ‘I didn’t find it in the street, I found it in the apartment where I was painting with Dmitri.’ ‘And how was that?’ ‘Dmitri and I were painting there all day, and we were just getting ready to go, and Dmitri took a brush and painted my face, and he ran off and I after him. I ran after him, shouting my hardest, and at the bottom of the stairs I ran straight into the porter and some gentlemen—and how many gentlemen were there I don’t remember. And the porter swore at me, and the other porter swore, too, and the porter’s wife came out, and swore at us, too; and a gentleman came into the entry with a lady, and he swore at us, too, because Dmitri and I were lying right in the way. I got hold of Dmitri’s hair and knocked him down and began punching him. And Dmitri, too, caught me by the hair and began punching me. But we didn’t do any of it because we were angry, but in a friendly way, for fun. And then Dmitri escaped and ran into the street, and I ran after him; but I didn’t catch him, so I went back to the apartment alone; I had to clear up my things. I began putting them together, expecting Dmitri to come, and there in the passage, in the corner by the door, I stepped on the box. I saw it lying there wrapped up in paper. I took off the paper, saw some little hooks, undid them, and in the box were the earrings . . . ‘ ” “Behind the door? Lying behind the door? Behind the door?” Raskolnikov cried suddenly, staring with a blank look of terror at Razumikhin, and he slowly sat up on the sofa, leaning on his hand.

“Yes . . . why? What’s the matter? What’s wrong?” Razumikhin, too, got up from his seat.

“Nothing,” Raskolnikov answered faintly, turning to the wall. Everyone was silent for a while.

“He must have woken up from a dream,” Razumikhin said at last, looking inquiringly at Zossimov. The latter shook his head slightly.

“Well, go on,” said Zossimov. “What next?”

“What next? As soon as he saw the earrings, forgetting Dmitri and everything, he took up his cap and ran to Dushkin and, as we know, got a ruble from him. He told a lie saying he found them in the street, and went off drinking. He keeps repeating his old story about the murder: ‘I knew nothing about it, never heard of it until the day before yesterday.’ ‘And why didn’t you come to the police until now?’ ‘I was frightened.’ ‘And why did you try to hang yourself? ‘ ‘Because I was anxious.’ ‘Why were you anxious?’ ‘In case I was accused of it.’ Well, that’s the whole story. And now what do you suppose they deduced from that?” “But there’s no supposing. There’s a clue, such as it is, a fact. You wouldn’t have your painter set free?”

“Now they’ve just taken him for the murderer. They haven’t a shadow of a doubt.”

“That’s nonsense. You’re overexcited. But what about the earrings ? You must admit that, if on the very same day and hour earrings from the old woman’s box have come into Nikolai’s hands, they must have got there somehow. It means a lot in a case like that.” “How did they get there? How did they get there?” cried Razumikhin. “How can you, a doctor, whose duty it is to study man and who has more opportunity than anyone else for studying human nature—how can you fail to see the character of the man in the whole story? Don’t you see at once that the answers he gave in the cross-examination are the holy truth? They came into his hand precisely as he has told us—he stepped on the box and picked it up.” “The holy truth! But didn’t he own up to telling a lie at first?”

“Listen to me, pay attention. The porter and Koch and Pestriakov and the other porter and the wife of the first porter and the woman who was sitting in the porter’s lodge and the man Kryukov, who had just got out of a cab and went in the entryway with a lady on his arm, that is eight or ten witnesses, agree that Nikolai had Dmitri on the ground, was lying on him beating him, while Dmitri hung on to his hair, beating him, too. They lay right in the way, blocking the road. They were sworn at on all sides while they ‘like children’ (in the witnesses’ own words) were falling over one another, squealing, fighting and laughing with the funniest faces, and, chasing one another like children, they ran into the street. Now take careful note. The bodies upstairs were warm, you understand, warm when they found them! If they, or Nikolai alone, had murdered them and broken open the boxes, or simply taken part in the robbery, let me ask you one question: do their state of mind, their squeals and giggles and childish scuffling at the gate fit in with axes, bloodshed, fiendish cunning and robbery? They’d just killed them, not five or ten minutes before, the bodies were still warm, and at once, leaving the apartment open, knowing that people would go there at once, flinging away their booty, they rolled about like children, laughing and attracting general attention. And there are a dozen witnesses to swear to it!” “Of course it is strange! It’s even impossible, but . . . ”

“No, my friend, no buts. And if the fact that the earrings were found in Nikolai’s hands on the same day and at the same hour as the murder constitutes an important piece of circumstantial evidence against him—although the explanation given by him deals with it and doesn’t count seriously against him—you must take into consideration the facts which prove him innocent, especially as they are facts that cannot be denied. And do you suppose, from the character of our legal system, that they will accept, or that they are in a position to accept, this fact—resting simply on a psychological impossibility—as irrefutable and conclusively breaking down the circumstantial evidence for the prosecution? No, they won’t accept it, they definitely won’t, because they found the jewel-case and the man tried to hang himself, ‘which he couldn’t have done if he hadn’t felt guilty.’ That’s the point, that’s what excites me, you must understand!” “Oh, I see you are excited! Wait a bit. I forgot to ask you; what proof is there that the box came from the old woman?”

“That’s been proved,” said Razumikhin with apparent reluctance, frowning. “Koch recognized the jewel-case and gave the name of the owner, who proved conclusively that it was his.”

“That’s bad. Now another point. Did anyone see Nikolai at the time that Koch and Pestriakov were going upstairs at first, and is there no evidence about that?”

“Nobody did see him,” Razumikhin answered with vexation. “That’s the worst thing about it. Even Koch and Pestriakov didn’t notice them on their way upstairs, though in fact their evidence could not have been worth much. They said they saw the apartment was open, and that there must be work going on in it, but they took no special notice and could not remember whether there actually were men at work in it.” “Hm! . . . So the only evidence for the defense is that they were beating one another and laughing. That’s a bold assumption, but . . . How do you explain the facts yourself?”

“How do I explain them? What is there to explain? It’s clear. At any rate, the direction in which explanation is to be sought is clear, and the jewel-case points to it. The real murderer dropped those earrings. The murderer was upstairs, locked in, when Koch and Pestriakov knocked at the door. Koch, like an ass, didn’t stay at the door; so the murderer popped out and ran down, too, because he had no other way of escape. He hid from Koch, Pestriakov and the porter in the apartment when Nikolai and Dmitri had just run out of it. He stopped there while the porter and others were going upstairs, waited until they were out of hearing and then went calmly downstairs at the very minute when Dmitri and Nikolai ran out into the street and there was no-one in the entryway; maybe he was seen, but not noticed. There are lots of people going in and out. He must have dropped the earrings out of his pocket when he stood behind the door, and didn’t notice he’d dropped them, because he had other things to think of. The jewel-case is conclusive proof that he did stand there . . . That’s how I explain it.” “Too clever! No, my friend, you’re too clever. That beats everything.”

“But, why, why?”

“Why, because everything fits too well . . . it’s too melodramatic.”

“A-ah!” Razumikhin was exclaiming, but at that moment the door opened and a stranger walked in.