4. CHAPTER IV
Zossimov was a tall, fat man with a puffy, colourless, clean-shaven
face and straight flaxen hair. He wore spectacles, and a big gold ring
on his fat finger. He was twenty-seven. He had on a light grey
fashionable loose coat, light summer trousers, and everything about
him loose, fashionable and spick and span; his linen was
irreproachable, his watch-chain was massive. In manner he was slow
and, as it were, nonchalant, and at the same time studiously free and
easy; he made efforts to conceal his self-importance, but it was
apparent at every instant. All his acquaintances found him tedious,
but said he was clever at his work.
"I've been to you twice to-day, brother. You see, he's come to
himself," cried Razumihin.
"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 is still depressed," Razumihin went on. "We've just changed his
linen and he almost cried."
"That's very natural; you might have put it off if he did not wish it.
. . . His pulse is first-rate. Is your head still aching, eh?"
"I am well, I am perfectly well!" 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. . . . Going on all right," he said lazily. "Has he eaten
They told him, and asked what he might have.
"He may have anything . . . soup, tea . . . mushrooms and cucumbers,
of course, you must not give him; he'd better not have meat either,
and . . . but no need to tell you that!" Razumihin and he looked at
each other. "No more medicine or anything. I'll look at him again
to-morrow. Perhaps, to-day even . . . but never mind . . ."