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PART I > CHAPTER I

On an exceptionally hot evening early in July a young man came out of
the garret in which he lodged in S. Place and walked slowly, as though
in hesitation, towards K. bridge.

He had successfully avoided meeting his landlady on the staircase. His
garret was under the roof of a high, five-storied house and was more
like a cupboard than a room. The landlady who provided him with
garret, dinners, and attendance, lived on the floor below, and every
time he went out he was obliged to pass her kitchen, the door of which
invariably stood open. And each time he passed, the young man had a
sick, frightened feeling, which made him scowl and feel ashamed. He
was hopelessly in debt to his landlady, and was afraid of meeting her.

This was not because he was cowardly and abject, quite the contrary;
but for some time past he had been in an overstrained irritable
condition, verging on hypochondria. He had become so completely
absorbed in himself, and isolated from his fellows that he dreaded
meeting, not only his landlady, but anyone at all. He was crushed by
poverty, but the anxieties of his position had of late ceased to weigh
upon him. He had given up attending to matters of practical
importance; he had lost all desire to do so. Nothing that any landlady
could do had a real terror for him. But to be stopped on the stairs,
to be forced to listen to her trivial, irrelevant gossip, to pestering
demands for payment, threats and complaints, and to rack his brains
for excuses, to prevaricate, to lie--no, rather than that, he would
creep down the stairs like a cat and slip out unseen.

This evening, however, on coming out into the street, he became
acutely aware of his fears.

"I want to attempt a thing /like that/ and am frightened by these
trifles," he thought, with an odd smile. "Hm . . . yes, all is in a
man's hands and he lets it all slip from cowardice, that's an axiom.
It would be interesting to know what it is men are most afraid of.
Taking a new step, uttering a new word is what they fear most. . . .
But I am talking too much. It's because I chatter that I do nothing.
Or perhaps it is that I chatter because I do nothing. I've learned to
chatter this last month, lying for days together in my den thinking
. . . of Jack the Giant-killer. Why am I going there now? Am I capable
of /that/? Is /that/ serious? It is not serious at all. It's simply a
fantasy to amuse myself; a plaything! Yes, maybe it is a plaything."

The heat in the street was terrible: and the airlessness, the bustle
and the plaster, scaffolding, bricks, and dust all about him, and that
special Petersburg stench, so familiar to all who are unable to get
out of town in summer--all worked painfully upon the young man's
already overwrought nerves. The insufferable stench from the pot-
houses, which are particularly numerous in that part of the town, and
the drunken men whom he met continually, although it was a working
day, completed the revolting misery of the picture. An expression of
the profoundest disgust gleamed for a moment in the young man's
refined face. He was, by the way, exceptionally handsome, above the
average in height, slim, well-built, with beautiful dark eyes and dark
brown hair. Soon he sank into deep thought, or more accurately
speaking into a complete blankness of mind; he walked along not
observing what was about him and not caring to observe it. From time
to time, he would mutter something, from the habit of talking to
himself, to which he had just confessed. At these moments he would
become conscious that his ideas were sometimes in a tangle and that he
was very weak; for two days he had scarcely tasted food.

He was so badly dressed that even a man accustomed to shabbiness would
have been ashamed to be seen in the street in such rags. In that
quarter of the town, however, scarcely any shortcoming in dress would
have created surprise. Owing to the proximity of the Hay Market, the
number of establishments of bad character, the preponderance of the
trading and working class population crowded in these streets and
alleys in the heart of Petersburg, types so various were to be seen in
the streets that no figure, however queer, would have caused surprise.
But there was such accumulated bitterness and contempt in the young
man's heart, that, in spite of all the fastidiousness of youth, he
minded his rags least of all in the street. It was a different matter
when he met with acquaintances or with former fellow students, whom,
indeed, he disliked meeting at any time. And yet when a drunken man
who, for some unknown reason, was being taken somewhere in a huge
waggon dragged by a heavy dray horse, suddenly shouted at him as he
drove past: "Hey there, German hatter" bawling at the top of his voice
and pointing at him--the young man stopped suddenly and clutched
tremulously at his hat. It was a tall round hat from Zimmerman's, but
completely worn out, rusty with age, all torn and bespattered,
brimless and bent on one side in a most unseemly fashion. Not shame,
however, but quite another feeling akin to terror had overtaken him.

"I knew it," he muttered in confusion, "I thought so! That's the worst
of all! Why, a stupid thing like this, the most trivial detail might
spoil the whole plan. Yes, my hat is too noticeable. . . . It looks
absurd and that makes it noticeable. . . . With my rags I ought to
wear a cap, any sort of old pancake, but not this grotesque thing.
Nobody wears such a hat, it would be noticed a mile off, it would be
remembered. . . . What matters is that people would remember it, and
that would give them a clue. For this business one should be as little
conspicuous as possible. . . . Trifles, trifles are what matter! Why,
it's just such trifles that always ruin everything. . . ."

He had not far to go; he knew indeed how many steps it was from the
gate of his lodging house: exactly seven hundred and thirty. He had
counted them once when he had been lost in dreams. At the time he had
put no faith in those dreams and was only tantalising himself by their
hideous but daring recklessness. Now, a month later, he had begun to
look upon them differently, and, in spite of the monologues in which
he jeered at his own impotence and indecision, he had involuntarily
come to regard this "hideous" dream as an exploit to be attempted,
although he still did not realise this himself. He was positively
going now for a "rehearsal" of his project, and at every step his
excitement grew more and more violent.

With a sinking heart and a nervous tremor, he went up to a huge house
which on one side looked on to the canal, and on the other into the
street. This house was let out in tiny tenements and was inhabited by
working people of all kinds--tailors, locksmiths, cooks, Germans of
sorts, girls picking up a living as best they could, petty clerks,
etc. There was a continual coming and going through the two gates and
in the two courtyards of the house. Three or four door-keepers were
employed on the building. The young man was very glad to meet none of
them, and at once slipped unnoticed through the door on the right, and
up the staircase. It was a back staircase, dark and narrow, but he was
familiar with it already, and knew his way, and he liked all these
surroundings: in such darkness even the most inquisitive eyes were not
to be dreaded.

"If I am so scared now, what would it be if it somehow came to pass
that I were really going to do it?" he could not help asking himself
as he reached the fourth storey. There his progress was barred by some
porters who were engaged in moving furniture out of a flat. He knew
that the flat had been occupied by a German clerk in the civil
service, and his family. This German was moving out then, and so the
fourth floor on this staircase would be untenanted except by the old
woman. "That's a good thing anyway," he thought to himself, as he rang
the bell of the old woman's flat. The bell gave a faint tinkle as
though it were made of tin and not of copper. The little flats in such
houses always have bells that ring like that. He had forgotten the
note of that bell, and now its peculiar tinkle seemed to remind him of
something and to bring it clearly before him. . . . He started, his
nerves were terribly overstrained by now. In a little while, the door
was opened a tiny crack: the old woman eyed her visitor with evident
distrust through the crack, and nothing could be seen but her little
eyes, glittering in the darkness. But, seeing a number of people on
the landing, she grew bolder, and opened the door wide. The young man
stepped into the dark entry, which was partitioned off from the tiny
kitchen. The old woman stood facing him in silence and looking
inquiringly at him. She was a diminutive, withered up old woman of
sixty, with sharp malignant eyes and a sharp little nose. Her
colourless, somewhat grizzled hair was thickly smeared with oil, and
she wore no kerchief over it. Round her thin long neck, which looked
like a hen's leg, was knotted some sort of flannel rag, and, in spite
of the heat, there hung flapping on her shoulders, a mangy fur cape,
yellow with age. The old woman coughed and groaned at every instant.
The young man must have looked at her with a rather peculiar
expression, for a gleam of mistrust came into her eyes again.

"Raskolnikov, a student, I came here a month ago," the young man made
haste to mutter, with a half bow, remembering that he ought to be more
polite.

"I remember, my good sir, I remember quite well your coming here," the
old woman said distinctly, still keeping her inquiring eyes on his
face.

"And here . . . I am again on the same errand," Raskolnikov continued,
a little disconcerted and surprised at the old woman's mistrust.
"Perhaps she is always like that though, only I did not notice it the
other time," he thought with an uneasy feeling.

The old woman paused, as though hesitating; then stepped on one side,
and pointing to the door of the room, she said, letting her visitor
pass in front of her:

"Step in, my good sir."

The little room into which the young man walked, with yellow paper on
the walls, geraniums and muslin curtains in the windows, was brightly
lighted up at that moment by the setting sun.

"So the sun will shine like this /then/ too!" flashed as it were by
chance through Raskolnikov's mind, and with a rapid glance he scanned
everything in the room, trying as far as possible to notice and
remember its arrangement. But there was nothing special in the room.
The furniture, all very old and of yellow wood, consisted of a sofa
with a huge bent wooden back, an oval table in front of the sofa, a
dressing-table with a looking-glass fixed on it between the windows,
chairs along the walls and two or three half-penny prints in yellow
frames, representing German damsels with birds in their hands--that
was all. In the corner a light was burning before a small ikon.
Everything was very clean; the floor and the furniture were brightly
polished; everything shone.

"Lizaveta's work," thought the young man. There was not a speck of
dust to be seen in the whole flat.

"It's in the houses of spiteful old widows that one finds such
cleanliness," Raskolnikov thought again, and he stole a curious glance
at the cotton curtain over the door leading into another tiny room, in
which stood the old woman's bed and chest of drawers and into which he
had never looked before. These two rooms made up the whole flat.

"What do you want?" the old woman said severely, coming into the room
and, as before, standing in front of him so as to look him straight in
the face.

"I've brought something to pawn here," and he drew out of his pocket
an old-fashioned flat silver watch, on the back of which was engraved
a globe; the chain was of steel.

"But the time is up for your last pledge. The month was up the day
before yesterday."

"I will bring you the interest for another month; wait a little."

"But that's for me to do as I please, my good sir, to wait or to sell
your pledge at once."

"How much will you give me for the watch, Alyona Ivanovna?"

"You come with such trifles, my good sir, it's scarcely worth
anything. I gave you two roubles last time for your ring and one could
buy it quite new at a jeweler's for a rouble and a half."

"Give me four roubles for it, I shall redeem it, it was my father's. I
shall be getting some money soon."

"A rouble and a half, and interest in advance, if you like!"

"A rouble and a half!" cried the young man.

"Please yourself"--and the old woman handed him back the watch. The
young man took it, and was so angry that he was on the point of going
away; but checked himself at once, remembering that there was nowhere
else he could go, and that he had had another object also in coming.

"Hand it over," he said roughly.

The old woman fumbled in her pocket for her keys, and disappeared
behind the curtain into the other room. The young man, left standing
alone in the middle of the room, listened inquisitively, thinking. He
could hear her unlocking the chest of drawers.

"It must be the top drawer," he reflected. "So she carries the keys in
a pocket on the right. All in one bunch on a steel ring. . . . And
there's one key there, three times as big as all the others, with deep
notches; that can't be the key of the chest of drawers . . . then
there must be some other chest or strong-box . . . that's worth
knowing. Strong-boxes always have keys like that . . . but how
degrading it all is."

The old woman came back.

"Here, sir: as we say ten copecks the rouble a month, so I must take
fifteen copecks from a rouble and a half for the month in advance. But
for the two roubles I lent you before, you owe me now twenty copecks
on the same reckoning in advance. That makes thirty-five copecks
altogether. So I must give you a rouble and fifteen copecks for the
watch. Here it is."

"What! only a rouble and fifteen copecks now!"

"Just so."

The young man did not dispute it and took the money. He looked at the
old woman, and was in no hurry to get away, as though there was still
something he wanted to say or to do, but he did not himself quite know
what.

"I may be bringing you something else in a day or two, Alyona Ivanovna
--a valuable thing--silver--a cigarette-box, as soon as I get it back
from a friend . . ." he broke off in confusion.

"Well, we will talk about it then, sir."

"Good-bye--are you always at home alone, your sister is not here with
you?" He asked her as casually as possible as he went out into the
passage.

"What business is she of yours, my good sir?"

"Oh, nothing particular, I simply asked. You are too quick. . . .
Good-day, Alyona Ivanovna."

Raskolnikov went out in complete confusion. This confusion became more
and more intense. As he went down the stairs, he even stopped short,
two or three times, as though suddenly struck by some thought. When he
was in the street he cried out, "Oh, God, how loathsome it all is! and
can I, can I possibly. . . . No, it's nonsense, it's rubbish!" he
added resolutely. "And how could such an atrocious thing come into my
head? What filthy things my heart is capable of. Yes, filthy above
all, disgusting, loathsome, loathsome!--and for a whole month I've
been. . . ." But no words, no exclamations, could express his
agitation. The feeling of intense repulsion, which had begun to
oppress and torture his heart while he was on his way to the old
woman, had by now reached such a pitch and had taken such a definite
form that he did not know what to do with himself to escape from his
wretchedness. He walked along the pavement like a drunken man,
regardless of the passers-by, and jostling against them, and only came
to his senses when he was in the next street. Looking round, he
noticed that he was standing close to a tavern which was entered by
steps leading from the pavement to the basement. At that instant two
drunken men came out at the door, and abusing and supporting one
another, they mounted the steps. Without stopping to think,
Raskolnikov went down the steps at once. Till that moment he had never
been into a tavern, but now he felt giddy and was tormented by a
burning thirst. He longed for a drink of cold beer, and attributed his
sudden weakness to the want of food. He sat down at a sticky little
table in a dark and dirty corner; ordered some beer, and eagerly drank
off the first glassful. At once he felt easier; and his thoughts
became clear.

"All that's nonsense," he said hopefully, "and there is nothing in it
all to worry about! It's simply physical derangement. Just a glass of
beer, a piece of dry bread--and in one moment the brain is stronger,
the mind is clearer and the will is firm! Phew, how utterly petty it
all is!"

But in spite of this scornful reflection, he was by now looking
cheerful as though he were suddenly set free from a terrible burden:
and he gazed round in a friendly way at the people in the room. But
even at that moment he had a dim foreboding that this happier frame of
mind was also not normal.

There were few people at the time in the tavern. Besides the two
drunken men he had met on the steps, a group consisting of about five
men and a girl with a concertina had gone out at the same time. Their
departure left the room quiet and rather empty. The persons still in
the tavern were a man who appeared to be an artisan, drunk, but not
extremely so, sitting before a pot of beer, and his companion, a huge,
stout man with a grey beard, in a short full-skirted coat. He was very
drunk: and had dropped asleep on the bench; every now and then, he
began as though in his sleep, cracking his fingers, with his arms wide
apart and the upper part of his body bounding about on the bench,
while he hummed some meaningless refrain, trying to recall some such
lines as these:

"His wife a year he fondly loved
His wife a--a year he--fondly loved."

Or suddenly waking up again:

"Walking along the crowded row
He met the one he used to know."

But no one shared his enjoyment: his silent companion looked with
positive hostility and mistrust at all these manifestations. There was
another man in the room who looked somewhat like a retired government
clerk. He was sitting apart, now and then sipping from his pot and
looking round at the company. He, too, appeared to be in some
agitation.



Crime and Punishment by Fyodor Dostoyevsky
Category:
General Fiction
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