Crime and Punishment (21 page)

‘Come on now – there's evidence, after all.'

‘It's not evidence I'm talking about, it's the question that bothers
me, their understanding of what they're about! Well, to hell with it! . . . So they put the squeeze on him until he finally came out with it: “It weren't on the pavement I found 'em – it were in the digs me and Mitrei were painting.” “How so?” “How so that me and Mitrei painted all day long, till eight o'clock, and we're about to leave when Mitrei takes a brush and smears my face with paint, smears it and scarpers, and I give chase. So there am I running after him, shouting and yelling, and between the stairs and the arch I run smack into the caretaker and some gentlemen, and how many gentlemen he had with 'im I don't recall, and the caretaker curses me, and t'other caretaker curses me, and the caretaker's missus comes out and she curses us, and some gentleman comes in under the arch, with a lady, and he curses us too, 'cause me and Mitka are in the way. I've got Mitka by the hair, on the deck, and start clobbering him, and from under me Mitka grabs my hair, too, and starts clobbering me, and we're not doing this nasty-like, but loving-like, playful-like. Then Mitka shakes me off and runs out onto the street and I give chase, but I don't catch him, and go back to the digs alone – to clear up. I start tidying and waiting for Mitrei in case he shows up, and that's when I step on the little box by the front door, behind the wall, in the corner. It were lying there just wrapped in paper. I took off the paper, saw some teeny-tiny hooks, took 'em off – and there were the earrings inside the case . . .”'

‘Behind the door? Lying behind the door? Behind the door?' Raskolnikov suddenly cried, looking at Razumikhin with clouded, frightened eyes and slowly lifting himself up on the couch, leaning on one arm.

‘Yes . . . and? What's wrong with you? What is it?' Razumikhin also half-rose from his seat.

‘Nothing!' Raskolnikov replied barely audibly, sinking onto his pillow again and again turning to face the wall. For a while nobody spoke.

‘He's dozed off – must have been half-asleep,' Razumikhin eventually remarked, looking inquiringly at Zosimov, who gave a faint shake of his head.

‘Well, carry on then,' said Zosimov. ‘What next?'

‘What next, you ask? As soon as he clapped eyes on the earrings, he forgot all about the apartment, all about Mitka, grabbed his cap and ran off to Dushkin, took a rouble off him, as we know, made up a story about finding the things on the pavement, and immediately went off boozing. As for the murder, he repeats what he said before:
“Don't ask me, I only heard about it two days later.” “So why's it taken you all this time to come forward?” “I was scared.” “And why did you want to hang yourself?” “To stop thinking.” “About what?” “Getting done.” And that's the long and short of it. Now tell me, what do you think they made of that?'

‘No need to think: there's a trail, not much of one, but a trail all the same. A fact's a fact. They can hardly let this decorator run free, can they?'

‘But they've got him down as the murderer, for crying out loud! They don't even have any doubts about it any more . . .'

‘Nonsense. You're overexcited. But what about the earrings? Falling out of the old woman's box into Mikolai's hands on that same day, at that same time – they must have got there somehow, don't you think? And that must mean something in an investigation like this.'

‘Must have got there somehow?' cried Razumikhin. ‘Can you not see – you, a doctor, whose duty first and foremost is to study man and who has more opportunities than anyone else to study human nature – can you not see, from all these facts, what kind of nature we have here, in this Mikolai of ours? Isn't it blindingly obvious that all the evidence he gave under interrogation was the sacred truth? The earrings got there just as he said they did. He stepped on a box and he picked it up!'

‘The sacred truth! But you admitted yourself that he lied the first time round.'

‘Listen to me and listen to me carefully: the caretaker, Kokh, Pestryakov, the other caretaker, the wife of the first caretaker, the tradeswoman who was sitting with her in the caretaker's lodge, the court counsellor Kryukov, who'd just got out of a cab and was walking under the arch arm in arm with a lady – all of them, all eight or ten witnesses, unanimously testify that Mikolai had pinned Mitrei to the ground, was lying on him and clobbering him, then Mitrei got hold of Mikolai's hair and started doing the same. They were lying across the path, blocking the way; they were being shouted at from all sides, but they, “like little boys” (the witnesses' precise words), were lying on top of one another, shrieking, fighting, the pair of them roaring with laughter and pulling the most hilarious faces and, just like children, chased each other out into the street. Got it? Now take note: the bodies upstairs were still warm when they found them – still warm, I'm telling you! If they were the ones who did it, or just Mikolai on his own, and they were the ones who forced and plundered the box as well, or took
any part at all in the robbery, then let me ask you this: how does such a state of mind – squeals, belly laughter, play-fighting under the arch – tally with axes, blood, villainous cunning, wariness, robbery? Here they are, fresh from a murder all of five or ten minutes before – can't be otherwise if the bodies are still warm – and suddenly, abandoning both the bodies and the open apartment, and knowing that people had just gone up there, and abandoning the loot, they roll around like little boys on the path, roar with laughter and draw everyone's attention, with ten unanimous witnesses to confirm it!'

‘Of course it's strange! Impossible, no doubt, but . . .'

‘No, brother, no
buts
, and if the earrings which turned up in Mikolai's hands on the same day, at the same time, really do constitute an important factual argument against him – though one directly explained by his testimony, therefore still
open to question
 – then one must also take into account the facts in his favour, the more so since these facts are
incontrovertible
. What do you think, given the way the law works here: will they accept or are they even able to accept a fact based on nothing more than mere psychological impossibility, on a mere state of mind, as incontrovertible, trumping all incriminating and material evidence, whatever that might be? No, they won't accept it, not for anything, because, you know, the box was found and the man wanted to hang himself, “which could never have happened had he not felt guilty!” This is the fundamental point, this is what I'm getting so worked up about! Can't you see that?'

‘Yes, I can see you're getting worked up. Wait, I forgot to ask: what proof is there that the case with the earrings really does come from the old woman's box?'

‘There's proof,' Razumikhin reluctantly replied, frowning. ‘Kokh recognized it and identified the pawner, who confirmed that the item was definitely his.'

‘Too bad. Another thing: didn't anyone see Mikolai while Kokh and Pestryakov were upstairs, and can't this somehow be proven?'

‘That's just it – nobody saw them,' replied Razumikhin with vexation. ‘That's the worst thing about it. Even Kokh and Pestryakov failed to notice them when they were going up, though their evidence wouldn't count for much now. “We saw that the apartment was open,” they say, “and that there were probably works going on inside, but we paid no mind when we walked past and now we can hardly remember whether or not there were any workers in there at the time.”'

‘H'm. So all we have is the defence that they were clobbering each other and roaring with laughter. Granted, that's a strong argument, but still . . . a fact's a fact, and how do you explain the whole thing? How do you explain the discovery of the earrings, if he really did find them as he says he did?'

‘How do I explain it? There's nothing to explain: it's crystal clear! Or at least the path that needs to be followed is clear and proven, and it's precisely the jewellery case that's proved it. The real murderer dropped those earrings. The murderer was upstairs when Kokh and Pestryakov were knocking. He'd locked himself in with the latch. Kokh stupidly went downstairs. At this point the murderer nipped out and also ran off down, because there was no other way out for him. On the stairs he hid from Kokh, Pestryakov and the caretaker in an empty apartment, at the precise moment when Mitrei and Mikolai had just run out of it, stood behind the door while the caretaker and the others were going up, waited for the footsteps to die away, then went down, calm as you like, at the very same moment that Mitrei and Mikolai ran out into the street, and everyone had gone off home, and there was no one left beneath the arch. He may have been seen, but he wasn't noticed; there are always plenty of people about. As for the case, it fell from his pocket while he was standing behind the door and he didn't notice he'd dropped it because he had other things on his mind. The jewellery case clearly proves he was standing there and nowhere else. And that's all there is to it!'

‘Clever! Really, brother, that's very clever. Exceptionally clever!'

‘What on earth do you mean?'

‘Because it's far too tidy the way it all comes together . . . and falls into place . . . like in the theatre.'

‘You really are . . . !' but Razumikhin was cut short by the door being opened, and a new person, known to none of those present, walked in.

Here was a gentleman whose youth was behind him, with a finicky, imposing air and a wary, querulous face, who began by pausing in the doorway and looking around in brazen astonishment, as if to ask: ‘Where on earth have I ended up?' With a great show of mistrust and even alarm – almost as if he felt affronted – he surveyed Raskolnikov's
poky, low-ceilinged ‘ship's cabin'. With the same astonishment, he shifted his gaze to Raskolnikov himself, who, undressed, unkempt and unwashed, was lying on his wretched, filthy couch and returning his motionless scrutiny. Then, with the same deliberation, he set about scrutinizing the dishevelled, unshaven and uncombed person of Razumikhin, who stared straight back at him with quizzical insolence, not moving an inch. This tense silence lasted a minute or so, until eventually, as was only to be expected, there was a subtle change of mood. Presumably realizing – on the basis of evidence that could hardly be ignored – that here, in this ‘ship's cabin', an attitude of exaggerated severity would get him nowhere, the gentleman softened somewhat and politely, if still severely, turned to Zosimov, clearly enunciating every syllable of his question:

‘Mr Rodion Romanovich Raskolnikov, the student or former student?'

Zosimov slowly stirred and might even have replied, had not Razumikhin, whose opinion nobody was seeking, leapt in first:

‘There he is, lying on the couch!! What do you want?'

The familiar tone of this ‘What do you want?' rocked the finicky gentleman back on his heels. He was even on the verge of turning in Razumikhin's direction, but managed to stop himself just in time and hurriedly turned back towards Zosimov.

‘That's Raskolnikov!' mumbled Zosimov, nodding at the patient and then yawning; as he did so, he opened his mouth extraordinarily wide, keeping it in that position for an extraordinarily long time. Then he slowly reached into the pocket of his waistcoat, took out the most enormous bulging gold watch, lifted the lid, took a glance and just as slowly, just as lazily, put it back again.

All this time Raskolnikov had lain there in silence, on his back, gazing obstinately, if unthinkingly, at the new gentleman. His face, which he had now turned away from the intriguing flower on the wallpaper, was exceptionally pale and expressed extraordinary suffering, as though he'd just undergone an excruciating operation or had just been released from torture. But little by little the new gentleman began to arouse ever greater interest in him, then bewilderment, then mistrust, and even something approaching fear. So when Zosimov pointed at him and said, ‘That's Raskolnikov,' he all but leapt up in his bed, and in a voice that was almost defiant, if halting and weak, he said:

‘Yes! I'm Raskolnikov! What do you want?'

The visitor looked at him attentively and uttered, self-importantly:

‘Pyotr Petrovich Luzhin. I trust that my name is not entirely unknown to you.'

But Raskolnikov, who had been expecting something else entirely, looked at him dully and pensively and said nothing in reply, as if he really were hearing the name Pyotr Petrovich for the first time.

‘I beg your pardon? You mean no one has told you anything?' asked Pyotr Petrovich, buckling slightly.

In reply, Raskolnikov slowly sank back onto his pillow, put his hands beneath his head and began staring at the ceiling. Luzhin could not hide his distress. Zosimov and Razumikhin set about inspecting him with still greater curiosity, until in the end he became visibly embarrassed.

‘I had assumed and expected,' he began in a mumble, ‘that the letter dispatched a good ten days ago now, in fact almost two weeks ago . . .'

‘Listen, there's really no need for you to stand by the door,' Razumikhin suddenly broke in. ‘If you've got something to say, then have a seat – you and Nastasya look squashed over there. Nastasyushka, budge over and let him through! Come over here, there's a chair for you! Go on, wriggle through!'

He moved his chair back from the table, freed up some space between the table and his knees, and waited in a rather strained pose for the visitor to ‘wriggle through' the small gap. He had chosen his moment in such a way that refusal was out of the question, and the visitor hastily stumbled through the narrow space. Reaching the chair, he sat down and glanced suspiciously at Razumikhin.

‘No need to be embarrassed,' blurted the latter. ‘Rodya's been sick for five days now and raving for three, but he's come round and he's even got his appetite back. This chap here is his doctor, he's just examined him, while I'm a friend of Rodya's, also an ex-student, and now here I am nursing him. So feel free to ignore us, don't be shy, and tell us what you're after.'

‘I thank you. But will I not disturb the patient with my presence and conversation?' asked Pyotr Petrovich, turning to Zosimov.

‘No, no,' mumbled Zosimov, ‘you might even take his mind off things' – then gave another yawn.

‘Oh, he came to this morning!' continued Razumikhin, whose familiar tone sounded so artlessly sincere that Pyotr Petrovich took stock and even cheered up a bit, perhaps also because this insolent tramp had at last got round to introducing himself as a student.

‘Your mama . . . ,' began Luzhin.

‘H'm!' grunted Razumikhin loudly. Luzhin looked at him inquiringly.

‘Oh nothing, nothing, ignore me . . .'

Luzhin shrugged.

‘... Your mama, during the period while I was still present with her, began writing you a letter. On arriving here, I deliberately allowed several days to pass before coming to see you, in order to be entirely sure that you had received all the requisite information; but now, to my astonishment . . .'

‘I know, I know!' Raskolnikov suddenly said, anger bursting from his face. ‘And that's you? The fiancé? Well, I know! Enough said!'

Pyotr Petrovich was thoroughly offended, but bit his tongue. He was desperately trying to grasp the meaning of it all. The silence lasted for about a minute.

Meanwhile Raskolnikov, having half-turned in his direction to reply, suddenly set about studying him again with a particular curiosity, as if he hadn't finished doing so before or had been struck by something new in him: he even lifted himself up off his pillow for the purpose. Yes, there really did seem to be something striking about Pyotr Petrovich's general appearance, or more precisely, something that seemed to justify the title of ‘fiancé', which he had just been so unceremoniously awarded. To begin with, it was evident, and even all too noticeable, that Pyotr Petrovich had hastened to exploit every opportunity offered by several days in the capital to array and groom himself in readiness for his betrothed, though, of course, one could hardly blame him. Even his own, perhaps excessively smug awareness of his gratifying change for the better might have been forgiven in the circumstances, for Pyotr Petrovich was on the path to the altar. Everything he wore was fresh from the tailor's, and it was all quite splendid, but for one thing – it was all too new and betrayed all too clearly its unmistakable purpose. Even his foppish, brand-new top hat attested to this purpose: there was something far too reverent and cautious in the way Pyotr Petrovich fingered it. Even his charming pair of genuine lilac Jouvin gloves
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attested to the same, if only because such gloves were not for wearing, but for carrying in one's hands for show. Pyotr Petrovich's clothes, meanwhile, were dominated by light and youthful shades. He wore a smart summer jacket in beige, light-coloured summery trousers with matching waistcoat, newly
purchased fine linen, a tie of the very lightest cambric with pink stripes, and best of all, this actually suited Pyotr Petrovich – not to mention the fact that his very fresh, even handsome face looked younger than his forty-five years. His dark whiskers cast pleasant shadows on both sides, like two mutton chops, and thickened ever so nicely around his shiny, clean-shaven chin. Even his hair, only barely touched with grey, all combed and curled at the barber's, did not thereby look in any way ridiculous or foolish, as always seems to happen with curled hair, which gives the face an inescapable resemblance to a German making his way up the aisle. If there really was anything genuinely unpleasant and repellent about this fairly handsome and respectable physiognomy, the cause lay elsewhere. After subjecting Mr Luzhin to unceremonious scrutiny, Raskolnikov flashed a venomous smile, sank back once more onto his pillow and resumed his inspection of the ceiling.

Mr Luzhin gritted his teeth, having apparently decided to turn a blind eye, for the time being, to these various eccentricities.

‘I am most terribly, terribly sorry to find you in such a plight,' he began once more, breaking the silence with some difficulty. ‘Had I but known of your infirmity, I would have called earlier. Alas, you know, I'm rushed off my feet! I have, furthermore, a terribly important case in the Senate in my legal capacity. And that's without even mentioning those concerns about which you, too, can guess. I am expecting your dear family – your mama and sister – at any moment . . .'

Raskolnikov stirred and was on the verge of saying something; his face expressed a certain agitation. Pyotr Petrovich paused and waited, but when nothing followed he continued:

‘... at any moment. I have found them an apartment in the first instance . . .'

‘Where?' asked Raskolnikov, weakly.

‘Exceedingly close by, Bakaleyev's house . . .'

‘That's on Voznesensky,' Razumikhin broke in. ‘Two floors of rented rooms. Yushin, the merchant, lets them out. I've been there.'

‘That's right, sir . . .'

‘An unbelievably sordid place: filthy, stinking and generally disreputable; all sorts of things have happened there and you never know who you might meet! I went there too, once, on some disgraceful business or other. It's cheap, mind.'

‘Naturally I was unable to gather so much intelligence, being new
here myself,' came Pyotr Petrovich's prickly riposte, ‘but they are two perfectly, perfectly clean little rooms, and since this is only for a terribly brief period of time . . . I have already found our real – I mean, future – lodgings,' he continued, addressing Raskolnikov, ‘which are being done up as we speak. For the time being I myself have to make do in cramped lodgings a stone's throw from here, at Mrs Lippewechsel's, in the apartment of a young friend of mine, Andrei Semyonovich Lebezyatnikov. It was he who suggested Bakaleyev's house to me . . .'

‘Lebezyatnikov?' drawled Raskolnikov, as if reminded of something.

‘Yes, Andrei Semyonych Lebezyatnikov, works in one of the ministries. Are you acquainted?'

‘Er . . . no . . . ,' replied Raskolnikov.

‘I beg your pardon. Your question gave me the impression you were. I was once his guardian . . . A very nice young man . . . and well-informed . . . I like meeting the young: there's no better way of keeping up to date,' said Pyotr Petrovich, casting a hopeful glance around the assembled company.

‘In what sense exactly?' asked Razumikhin.

‘The most serious. The very heart of the matter, as it were,' replied Pyotr Petrovich, as if glad to be asked. ‘You see, I haven't visited Petersburg for a full ten years. All these novelties of ours, reforms, ideas – we haven't remained untouched by them in the provinces either; but in order to have a clearer and more complete view of things, one has to be in Petersburg. So, sir, my opinion is this: that it is by observing our young generations that one notices and learns the most. And I'll admit: I was pleased . . .'

‘By what exactly?'

‘Your question is a very broad one. I may be mistaken, but I seem to find greater clarity of vision, more criticism, as it were; more doers . . .'

‘True enough,' muttered Zosimov.

‘You're lying. There are no doers,' Razumikhin leapt in. ‘Doers don't just fall from the sky – it takes effort. And we've got used to not doing anything for nigh on two hundred years . . . There may be ideas in the air, I'll grant you that,' he said, turning to Pyotr Petrovich, ‘and a desire to do good, however childish; and there's even some honesty about, despite the fact that nowadays we're up to our necks in swindlers, but there's still no sign of any doers! You'd spot them a mile off.'

‘I simply cannot agree with you,' objected Pyotr Petrovich, with
evident delight. ‘Naturally there are excesses, irregularities, but one must also be charitable: the excesses are testimony to a fervour for getting things done and to the irregularities by which that task is surrounded. Little has been done, you might say – but there has been little time to do it in. I say nothing about the means. My own personal view, if you please, is that something has, in fact, been done: the spread of new, useful thoughts, the spread of certain new, useful literary works instead of the previous dreaminess and romanticism; literature is acquiring a riper hue; many pernicious prejudices are being stamped out and ridiculed . . . In short, we have cut ourselves off irrevocably from the past, and this, to my mind, shows that something really is being done . . .'

‘He knows his lines!' said Raskolnikov suddenly.

‘I'm sorry?' asked Pyotr Petrovich, unsure of what had been said. He received no reply.

‘All perfectly reasonable,' Zosimov hastened to put in.

‘Isn't it, though?' Pyotr Petrovich went on, glancing with satisfaction at Zosimov. ‘Wouldn't you agree,' he continued, addressing Razumikhin, but with a new, triumphant note of superiority, to the point that he very nearly added ‘young man', ‘that prosperity, or progress, as it is now called, does exist, at least in the name of science and economic truth . . . ?'

‘A cliché!'

‘No, not a cliché, sir! If hitherto, for example, I have been told to “love my neighbour” and I have done so, then what was the result?' Pyotr Petrovich continued, perhaps a little too hastily. ‘The result was that I ripped my sheepskin in two, shared it with my neighbour and we both ended up half-naked, according to the Russian proverb, “Go after several hares at once and you won't reach a single one.”
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But science says: love yourself before loving anyone else, for everything in this world is founded on self-interest. Love yourself and your affairs will take care of themselves, and your coat will remain in one piece. Economic truth adds to this that the more people there are in society whose private affairs are well arranged, and the more sheepskins, as it were, that remain in one piece, the firmer are society's foundations and the better it will arrange its common task. Consequently, it is precisely by profiting myself and no one else that I thereby profit everyone, as it were, and enable my neighbour to receive something more than a ripped coat, and not by way of private, isolated acts of
charity, as in the past, but as a result of universal prosperity. A simple thought, but one which has taken a regrettably long time to occur, obscured by enthusiasm and dreaminess, though it would hardly seem beyond the wit of man to guess . . .'