Crime and Punishment (29 page)

‘There's no need to suppose: there's a trail, of sorts. A piece of incriminating evidence. They can't very well let your decorator go free now, can they?’

‘But I mean, they've practically identified him as the murderer! They haven't the shadow of a doubt!…’

‘Nonsense; you're just getting yourself worked up. What about the earrings? You must admit that if those earrings from the old woman's trunk fell into Nikolai's hands on the very day of the murder, at the very hour it took place, they must have got there somehow! That means quite a lot in an investigation like this one.’

‘You ask how they got there? How they got there?’ Razumikhin exclaimed. ‘Can it really be that you, a doctor, who has as his principal obligation the study of man and who possesses more opportunity than anyone else of studying human nature – are really unable to see, with all this information before you, what kind of a man this Nikolai is? Can you really not see, at a first glance, that all the evidence he gave during his interrogation is the most sacred truth? Those earrings fell into his hands exactly as he swore they did. He stepped on the box and picked it up.’

‘The most sacred truth? But he himself confessed that he'd been lying right from the word go.’

‘Listen to me. Listen carefully: all of them – the yardkeeper, Koch, Pestryakov, the other yardkeeper, the wife of the first yardkeeper, the artisan's wife who'd been sitting in the yardkeeper's room at the time, the court councillor Kryukov, who at that very moment had alighted from a cab and was walking in through the gateway arm-in-arm with a lady – they all of them, eight or nine witnesses, that is, swear unanimously that
Nikolai had forced Dmitry down to the ground, was lying on top of him pummelling him, while Dmitry had seized hold of Nikolai by the hair and was pummelling him back. They were lying across the road, blocking the way; people were shouting and cursing at them from every side, while they, “like little children” (that was actually the expression used by those who were present), lay on top of each other, yelping, scuffling and laughing, each of them laughing to make the other laugh, with the most ridiculous faces, and then they ran away down the street, chasing each other like kids. Got it? Now take careful note: the bodies in the apartment were still warm, do you hear, warm, when they found them! If those two, or even just Nikolai on his own, had killed anyone and broken open any chests, or had merely taken part in some robbery or other, permit me to ask you one simple question: would a state of mind like that, characterized as it was by yelping, laughter and childish scrapping in the entrance-way, fit in with axes, blood, villainous cunning, deliberation, robbery? Imagine the scene: they've only just committed the murders, some five or ten minutes previously – because it turns out that the bodies were still warm – and suddenly, leaving the bodies in the apartment with the door open, and knowing that people had just passed that way, they go out and sprawl around in the roadway like little children, laughing and drawing everyone's attention to themselves, for there are ten unanimous witnesses who say that they did!’

‘Well, there's no denying it's a bit odd… I suppose it's impossible, but…’

‘No, brother, no buts. If the earrings, which turned up in Nikolai's hands at the very day and hour the murder took place, really constitute such an important piece of evidence against him – though it can be directly explained by his testimony, and is thus
contestable evidence
– then we must also take into consideration the
exonerating
evidence, since it is also irrefutable. Now, being familiar with the character of our jurisprudence, what do you suppose: is it willing to accept, is it even capable of accepting a piece of evidence of this kind – one founded purely on a simple psychological impossibility, on a simple state of mind – as being
irrefutable
and having the effect of demolishing all the
incriminating and circumstantial evidence, whatever it may be? No, it is not. It is not willing to do so on any account, for a box was found, and a man tried to hang himself, “something he would never have done if he had not felt himself to be guilty”! There is the capital question, there is what makes me get so worked up! Perhaps now you will understand!’

‘Yes, I can see that you're worked up. Wait, though, I forgot to ask: what proof is there that the box containing the earrings really did come from the old woman's chest?’

‘It's been proved,’ Razumikhin answered, frowning, and almost reluctantly. ‘Koch recognized the earrings and was able to identify the man who had pawned them, and he positively confirmed that they'd belonged to him.’

‘That's not so good. Now something else: did anyone see Nikolai during the time that Koch and Pestryakov were going upstairs? Can't that be proved somehow?’

‘That's just it. Nobody saw him,’ Razumikhin replied with vexation. ‘That's the very devil of it. Not even Koch and Pestryakov noticed him when they were going upstairs, though their testimony wouldn't carry much weight now in any case. “We saw that the door to the apartment was open,” they said, “and that work must be going on there, but we continued on our way up and didn't pay attention, and we don't remember whether there were actually workmen inside at that moment or not.”’

‘Hm. So the only exonerating evidence is that the two men had been pummelling each other and laughing. I suppose that's firm enough proof, but… let me ask you now: how do you account for the whole sequence of events? How do you explain his finding the earrings, if he really did find them in the way he says he did?’

‘How do I explain it? There's nothing to explain: the matter is quite clear! At any rate, the path of inquiry that ought to be followed is clear and proven, and it's the box that has done the proving for us. It was the real murderer who dropped those earrings. The murderer was inside the apartment when Koch and Pestryakov knocked at the door, and had fastened the bolt. Koch was stupid, and went downstairs; at that point the murderer left
the apartment and went downstairs, too, because he had no other means of exit. On his way down he hid from Koch, Pestryakov and the yardkeeper by ducking into the empty apartment, the instant after Dmitry and Nikolai had gone running out of it. He waited behind the door while the yardkeeper and the others were going upstairs, waited until their footsteps had died away, and then took himself off downstairs as calm as you please, at the very moment Dmitry and Nikolai were running out into the street; everyone had gone their separate ways, and there was no one left in the gateway. He may have been seen, but no one paid him any attention, as there are always so many people going in and out. As for the box, it fell out of his pocket as he was standing behind the door, and he didn't notice, as he had other things on his mind. But the box offers clear proof that it was precisely there that he stood. There you have it!’

‘Clever! Yes, brother, but it won't do. It's just a little too clever!’

‘Why do you say that?’

‘Because it all fits together too well… it's too neat… like something out of a play.’

‘You really are the most…’ Razumikhin began to exclaim, but at that moment the door opened, and there entered a new
dramatis persona
who was not familiar to a single one of those present.

This was a gentleman who could no longer be described as young. There was an imposing, stand-offish air about him, and he had a face that expressed peevishness and caution. The first thing he did was to stand still in the doorway and look around him with unconcealed and sour astonishment, as though he were wondering: ‘Where's this I've ended up?’ Suspiciously, and with the affectation of a certain alarm, of offence, even, he viewed Raskolnikov's cramped and low-ceilinged ‘ship's cabin’. With the same look of astonishment he transferred his gaze and fixed it upon Raskolnikov himself, undressed, unkempt and
unwashed, lying on his dirty little sofa, and considering him with a similarly motionless stare. Then, with the same slow look he began to examine the dishevelled, uncombed and unshaven person of Razumikhin, who in his turn looked him cheekily and questioningly straight in the eye, without moving from the spot. The strained silence lasted for about a minute, and then finally, as one might have expected, a slight alteration took place in this dramatic tableau. Having come to the conclusion – assisted, doubtless, by certain decidedly uncompromising features of the situation – that in this ‘ship's cabin’ nothing whatever was to be attained by a mien of such exaggerated severity, the newly arrived gentlemen softened his manner somewhat and politely, though not without sternness, turned to Zosimov, and, rapping out each syllable of his question, enunciated:

‘Rodion Romanovich Raskolnikov, student or ex-student?’

Zosimov slowly stirred, and might even have ventured a reply, had not Razumikhin, who was not part of the proceedings at all, at once got in before him:

‘That's him lying there on the sofa. And what might you be after?’

This familiar ‘And what might you be after?’ fairly brought the stand-offish gentleman up short; he even turned slightly in Razumikhin's direction, but managed to restrain himself in time and moved back quickly to face Zosimov.

‘This is Raskolnikov,’ Zosimov drawled, casting a nod in the patient's direction; then he yawned, opening his mouth inordinately wide as he did so, and keeping it that way for an inordinately long time. After that, he slowly felt around in the pocket of his waistcoat, took out a most enormous, bulging, solid-gold watch, opened its cover, glanced at its dial and slowly and lazily put the thing back in his pocket again.

As for Raskolnikov, during all this time he lay on his back, not saying a word, staring intently, though without any reason that was particularly apparent, at the man who had come in. His face, which he had now turned away from the interesting flower on the wallpaper, was extremely pale and displayed an expression of uncommon suffering, as though he had just undergone a painful operation or had, only a moment ago, been
released from torture. Gradually, however, the newly arrived gentleman began to occupy more and more of his attention; this state of attention changed to bewilderment, then suspicion and finally something that resembled fear. Indeed, when Zosimov, pointing at him, said: ‘This is Raskolnikov,’ he suddenly roused himself in a hurry, leapt upright, sat on the edge of the sofa and in a voice which was almost challenging, but none the less faint and broken, articulated:

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

The visitor gave him a careful look and announced imposingly:

‘Pyotr Petrovich Luzhin. I hope and presume that my name is not wholly unknown to you.’

But Raskolnikov, who had been expecting something quite different, looked at him dully and reflectively and made no reply, as though this were the first time he had ever heard the name Pyotr Petrovich.

‘What? Have you really not been told the news yet?’ Pyotr Petrovich inquired, making a slightly wry grimace.

In response to this, Raskolnikov slowly sank back on his pillow, threw his arms behind his head and began to look at the ceiling. Consternation was now discernible in Luzhin's features. Zosimov and Razumikhin began to survey him with even greater curiosity, and he was finally unable to disguise his complete embarrassment.

‘I had assumed and was counting on the probability,’ he mumbled, ‘that a letter which was entrusted to the mail more than ten days, practically two weeks ago…’

‘Listen, what are you hanging about in the doorway for?’ Razumikhin suddenly said, interrupting. ‘If you have something to tell us, please sit down, it's getting a bit crowded over there, what with you and Nastasya as well. Nastasyushka, do stand aside and let the gentleman through! Come along, sir, here's a chair for you, this way! That's right, squeeze your way through!’

He drew his chair back from the table, made some space between the table and his knees, and waited in a slightly tense position for the visitor to ‘squeeze his way’ through the small
gap. The moment was chosen in such a way as to make refusal out of the question, and the visitor hurriedly squeezed his way through the narrow space, stumbling as he went. Upon reaching the chair, he sat down and gave Razumikhin a mistrustful look.

‘Please don't feel embarrassed,’ Razumikhin said carelessly. ‘Rodya's been ill for the past five days and was delirious for three, but now he's recovered, and he's even been eating with some appetite. That's his doctor sitting there, he's just been examining him, and I'm one of old Rodka's friends, an ex-student like him, and I'm here making a fuss over him. So don't bother about us and don't feel awkward – go right ahead and say what it is you want.’

‘I thank you. But do you not suppose that I may disturb the patient by my presence and discourse?’ Pyotr Petrovich said, turning to Zosimov.

‘Oh no,’ Zosimov drawled. ‘You may even provide him with some diversion.’ And again he yawned.

‘Oh, he came round a long time ago – this morning, actually!’ Razumikhin went on, his excessive familiarity taking the form of such artless good nature that, on thinking about it, Pyotr Petrovich found his spirits reviving, possibly to a certain extent because this insolent ragamuffin had, after all, introduced himself as having had something to do with the university.’

‘Your mother…’ Luzhin began.

‘Ahem!’ Razumikhin said loudly. Luzhin gave him a questioning look.

‘It's all right, I was just clearing my throat; do go on…’

Luzhin shrugged his shoulders.

‘…Your mother, during my sojourn in her vicinity, began a letter to you. Upon my arrival in St Petersburg I purposely deferred my visit to you for a few days, in order to make quite sure that you would have been informed about the whole matter; but now, to my astonishment…’

‘I know, I know!’ Raskolnikov said with an expression of the most impatient vexation. ‘You're the fellow, aren't you? The fiancé. Oh, I know all about you… you've said enough.’

This time Pyotr Petrovich decidedly took offence, but he said
nothing. He had lost no time in energetically seeking an answer to what the significance of all this could possibly be. A silence ensued, lasting all of a minute.