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I

In early July, during an extremely hot spell, toward evening, a young man left his garret, which he rented from tenants in S—y Lane, and walked slowly, as if in indecision, toward K—n Bridge.

He had successfully avoided meeting his landlady on the stairs. His garret was under the very roof of a tall five-story house and resembled a cupboard more than a room. As for his landlady, from whom he rented this garret with dinner and service, she lived one flight below, in a separate apartment, and every time he went out into the street, he inevitably had to pass by his landlady's kitchen, which was almost always wide open onto the staircase. And every time the young man passed by, he felt a sort of sickly and cowardly sensation, which made him ashamed and from which he winced. He was deeply in debt to his landlady and was afraid of meeting her.

Not that he was so cowardly and downtrodden, quite the contrary; but for some time he had been in an irritable and tense state, resembling hypochondria. He had become so absorbed in himself and isolated from everyone that he feared even any encounter, not only an encounter with his landlady. He was crushed by poverty; but even his straitened circumstances had lately ceased to burden him. He had completely stopped attending to his immediate affairs and did not want to attend to them. He was not really afraid of any landlady, whatever she might be plotting against him. But to stop on the stairs, to listen to all sorts of nonsense about all this everyday rubbish, which was none of his business, all these pestering about payment, threats, complaints, and at the same time to dodge, apologize, lie himself—no, it was better to slip down the stairs somehow like a cat and sneak away so that no one would see.

However, this time the fear of meeting his creditor struck even him as he came out into the street.

"What sort of business am I attempting, and yet what trifles I'm afraid of!" he thought with a strange smile. "Hm... yes... everything is in man's hands, and he lets it all slip past his nose, simply from cowardice alone... that's already an axiom... I wonder what people are most afraid of? A new step, a new word of their own—that's what they're most afraid of... But I talk too much. That's why I do nothing, because I talk. Though perhaps it's also this way: I talk because I do nothing. I've learned to chatter this last month, lying whole days in the corner and thinking... about King Pea. Well, why am I going now? Am I really capable of that? Is this serious? Not serious at all. Just indulging myself for the sake of fantasy; playthings! Yes, perhaps just playthings!"

The heat in the street was terrible, and besides that, the stuffiness, the jostling, everywhere plaster, scaffolding, bricks, dust, and that special summer stench so familiar to every Petersburger who has no means of renting a dacha—all this unpleasantly jarred the already disordered nerves of the youth. The unbearable stench from the taverns, of which there were an especially large number in this part of the city, and the drunkards he kept encountering at every turn, despite it being a weekday, completed the repulsive and melancholy coloring of the picture. A feeling of the deepest disgust flickered for a moment in the delicate features of the young man. Incidentally, he was remarkably good-looking, with beautiful dark eyes, dark brown hair, taller than average, slender and well-built. But soon he fell into a sort of deep pensiveness, or rather, into a kind of oblivion, and walked on, no longer noticing his surroundings, nor wishing to notice them. From time to time he only muttered something to himself, from his habit of monologues, which he had just confessed to himself. At this very moment he was aware that his thoughts were sometimes getting confused and that he was very weak: for two days now he had eaten almost nothing at all.

He was so poorly dressed that another person, even one accustomed to such things, would have been ashamed to go out on the street in such rags during the day. However, the neighborhood was such that it was difficult to surprise anyone with one's costume here. The proximity of the Haymarket, the abundance of certain establishments, and, predominantly, the artisan and trade population crowded into these central Petersburg streets and lanes sometimes varied the general panorama with such characters that it would be strange to be surprised at meeting any figure. But so much malicious contempt had already accumulated in the young man's soul that, despite all his sometimes very youthful squeamishness, he was least ashamed of his rags in the street. It was another matter when meeting certain acquaintances or former comrades, whom in general he did not like to meet... And meanwhile, when a drunkard, who for some unknown reason was being transported at that time through the street in an enormous cart harnessed to an enormous draft horse, suddenly shouted at him as he passed, "Hey you, German hatter!"—and bellowed at the top of his lungs, pointing at him—the young man suddenly stopped and convulsively clutched at his hat. This hat was tall, round, Zimmermann-style, but completely worn out, entirely rusty, all in holes and stains, without a brim, and cocked at the most hideous angle to one side. But it was not shame, but quite another feeling, even resembling fright, that seized him.

"I knew it!" he muttered in confusion. "I thought so! That's the worst thing of all! Some stupid thing like this, some vulgar trifle, can ruin the whole plan! Yes, the hat is too conspicuous... Ridiculous, and therefore conspicuous... For my rags I absolutely need a cap, even some old pancake, but not this monstrosity. Nobody wears these, they'll notice it a mile away, they'll remember it... the main thing is, they'll remember it later, and there's the evidence. Here one needs to be as inconspicuous as possible... Trifles, trifles are the main thing!.. It's these very trifles that always ruin everything..."

He did not have far to go; he even knew how many steps it was from the gate of his house: exactly seven hundred and thirty. He had counted them once when he was really lost in dreams. At that time he himself did not yet believe in these dreams of his and only irritated himself with their hideous but seductive audacity. Now, a month later, he had begun to look at it differently, and, despite all the taunting monologues about his own impotence and indecision, he had somehow even involuntarily grown accustomed to considering the "hideous" dream as an enterprise, although he still did not believe himself. He was even now going to make a trial of his enterprise, and with each step his agitation grew stronger and stronger.

With a sinking heart and nervous trembling he approached an enormous house, which faced with one wall onto the canal, and with another onto —y Street. This house stood entirely in small apartments and was populated with all sorts of tradespeople—tailors, locksmiths, cooks, various Germans, girls living on their own, petty officialdom, and so forth. People entering and leaving darted in and out under both gates and in both courtyards of the house. Three or four janitors were employed there. The young man was very pleased not to meet any of them, and immediately slipped inconspicuously from the gate to the right onto the stairs. The staircase was dark and narrow, a "back stairs," but he already knew and had studied all this, and he liked the whole setting: in such darkness even a curious glance was not dangerous. "If I'm so afraid at this time, what would it be like if it somehow actually came to the deed itself?..." he thought involuntarily, passing onto the fourth floor. Here his way was blocked by retired soldier-porters carrying furniture out of one apartment. He already knew beforehand that a German family man, an official, lived in this apartment: "So this German is now moving out, and therefore, on the fourth floor, on this staircase and on this landing, there remains, for some time, only the old woman's apartment occupied. That's good... just in case..." he thought again and rang at the old woman's apartment. The bell tinkled feebly, as if it were made of tin and not copper. In such small apartments in such houses, almost all the bells are like that. He had already forgotten the ring of this little bell, and now this particular ring seemed suddenly to remind him of something and present it clearly... He even shuddered, his nerves were too weakened this time. A little later the door opened a tiny crack: the tenant was surveying the visitor from the crack with obvious distrust, and only her eyes, glittering from the darkness, were visible. But seeing many people on the landing, she took courage and opened the door completely. The young man stepped over the threshold into the dark entrance hall, partitioned off by a partition, behind which was a tiny kitchen. The old woman stood before him silently and looked at him questioningly. She was a tiny, wizened little old woman, about sixty, with sharp and malicious little eyes, with a small sharp nose, and bareheaded. Her whitish, scarcely graying hair was thickly greased with oil. Around her thin and long neck, resembling a chicken leg, was wrapped some sort of flannel rag, and on her shoulders, despite the heat, hung a completely tattered and yellowed fur jacket. The little old woman kept coughing and groaning. The young man must have looked at her with some special look, because the former distrust suddenly flashed in her eyes again.

"Raskolnikov, a student, I was here a month ago," the young man hastened to mutter with a half-bow, remembering that he needed to be more polite.

"I remember, my dear, I remember very well that you were here," the little old woman pronounced distinctly, still not taking her questioning eyes from his face.

"So here, sir... again, on the same sort of business..." Raskolnikov continued, somewhat confused and surprised by the old woman's distrust.

"Perhaps, however, she's always like this, and I just didn't notice that time," he thought with an unpleasant feeling.

The old woman was silent, as if pondering, then stepped aside and, pointing to the door to the room, pronounced, letting the guest go ahead:

"Come in, my dear."

The small room into which the young man entered, with yellow wallpaper, geraniums and muslin curtains on the windows, was at this moment brightly illuminated by the setting sun. "And then, therefore, the sun will be shining just the same!..." flashed as if by chance in Raskolnikov's mind, and with a quick glance he surveyed everything in the room, in order to study and remember the arrangement as much as possible. But there was nothing special in the room. The furniture, all very old and of yellow wood, consisted of a sofa with a huge curved wooden back, a round table of oval shape in front of the sofa, a dressing table with a small mirror between the windows, chairs along the walls, and two or three cheap pictures in yellow frames, depicting German young ladies with birds in their hands—that was all the furniture. In the corner before a small icon burned an icon-lamp. Everything was very clean: both the furniture and the floors were polished to a shine; everything gleamed. "Lizaveta's work," thought the young man. Not a speck of dust could be found in the entire apartment. "This is the kind of cleanliness that spiteful old widows have," Raskolnikov continued to himself and cast a curious sidelong glance at the chintz curtain before the door to the second, tiny room, where stood the old woman's bed and chest of drawers and where he had never yet looked. The entire apartment consisted of these two rooms.

"What do you want?" the little old woman pronounced sternly, entering the room and as before standing directly in front of him, so as to look him straight in the face.

"I've brought a pledge, here, sir!" And he pulled from his pocket an old flat silver watch. On its back plate was depicted a globe. The chain was steel.

"But the time is up on the previous pledge. The month expired the day before yesterday."

"I'll bring you interest for another month; be patient."

"But that's my good will, my dear, to be patient or to sell your thing right now."

"How much for the watch, then, Alena Ivanovna?"

"You come with trifles, my dear, it's worth almost nothing. Last time I gave you two little bills for the ring, and you could buy it new at a jeweler's for a ruble and a half."

"Give me four rubles, I'll redeem it, it's my father's. I'll be getting money soon."

"A ruble and a half, sir, and interest in advance, if you please, sir."

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

"As you wish." And the old woman held the watch back out to him. The young man took it and got so angry that he was about to leave; but he immediately thought better of it, remembering that there was nowhere else to go and that he had come for another reason as well.

"Give it!" he said rudely.

The old woman reached into her pocket for the keys and went into the other room behind the curtain. The young man, left alone in the middle of the room, listened curiously and pondered. He could hear her unlocking the chest of drawers. "Must be the top drawer," he reasoned. "So she carries the keys in her right pocket... All on one bunch, in a steel ring... And there's one key bigger than all the rest, three times bigger, with a notched bit, of course not for the chest of drawers... So there must be some other box or chest... That's curious. Chests always have such keys... But how base all this is..."

The old woman came back.

"Here, sir, my dear: if it's ten kopecks a month per ruble, then for a ruble and a half you owe fifteen kopecks, for a month in advance, sir. And for the previous two rubles you still owe by the same calculation twenty kopecks in advance. So altogether, that makes thirty-five. So now you get altogether for your watch one ruble fifteen kopecks. Here you are, sir."

"What! So now it's one ruble fifteen kopecks!"

"Exactly so, sir."

The young man did not argue and took the money. He looked at the old woman and was in no hurry to leave, as if he still wanted to say or do something, but as if he himself did not know exactly what...

"I might, Alena Ivanovna, perhaps in a few days, bring you another thing... silver... a good one... a cigarette case... as soon as I get it back from a friend..." He became confused and fell silent.

"Well, then we'll talk, my dear."

"Goodbye, sir... And you always sit at home alone, your sister isn't here?" he asked as casually as possible, going out into the hallway.

"What business is she of yours, my dear?"

"Oh, nothing special. I just asked. You're already... Goodbye, Alena Ivanovna!"

Raskolnikov went out in complete confusion. This confusion kept increasing more and more. Going down the stairs, he even stopped several times, as if suddenly struck by something. And finally, already on the street, he exclaimed:

"Oh God! How disgusting it all is! And can it be, can it be that I... no, that's nonsense, that's absurd!" he added decisively. "And can such horror have entered my head? What filth my heart is capable of, though! The main thing is: it's dirty, vile, foul, foul!.. And I, for a whole month..."

But he could not express his agitation either in words or in exclamations. The feeling of infinite disgust, which had begun to oppress and cloud his heart even when he was only going to the old woman's, had now reached such proportions and had become so vividly clear that he did not know where to escape from his anguish. He walked along the sidewalk like a drunk man, not noticing passersby and colliding with them, and came to his senses only on the next street. Looking around, he noticed that he was standing beside a tavern, the entrance to which was from the sidewalk down a staircase into the basement. At that very moment two drunkards came out the door and, supporting and cursing each other, climbed up onto the street. Without thinking long, Raskolnikov immediately went down. He had never before entered taverns, but now his head was spinning, and besides, a burning thirst tormented him. He felt like drinking cold beer, especially since he attributed his sudden weakness to the fact that he was hungry. He sat down in a dark and dirty corner, at a sticky little table, ordered beer, and avidly drank the first glass. Immediately everything lifted, and his thoughts cleared. "All this is nonsense," he said hopefully, "and there was nothing to be upset about! Simply physical disorder! One glass of beer, a piece of dry bread—and look, in one moment, the mind grows strong, thought becomes clear, intentions grow firm! Bah, how insignificant all this is!..." But despite this contemptuous spit, he already looked cheerful, as if suddenly freed from some terrible burden, and cast a friendly glance around at those present. But even at this moment he dimly sensed that all this receptiveness to better things was also morbid.

At that time there were few people left in the tavern. Besides those two drunkards he had met on the stairs, a whole crowd of about five people had gone out right after them, along with a girl and an accordion. After they left it became quiet and spacious. There remained: one tipsy man, but not very, sitting over beer, looking like a tradesman; his companion, fat, enormous, in a Siberian coat and with a gray beard, very drunk, dozing on a bench and from time to time, suddenly, as if half-asleep, beginning to snap his fingers, spreading his arms apart, and bounce the upper part of his body without getting up from the bench, all the while humming some nonsense, straining to remember verses, something like:

A whole year I caressed my wife,

A who-ole year I ca-ressed my wife...

Or suddenly, waking up again:

Along Officials' Street I went,

And found my former love...

But no one shared his happiness; his silent companion looked at all these outbursts even hostilely and with distrust. There was also another man there, who looked as if he were a retired official. He sat apart, before his little vessel, occasionally sipping and looking around. He too seemed to be in some agitation.