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.
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. "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:
Or
suddenly
waking
up
again:
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.