Crime and Punishment

by Fyodor Dostoyevsky

  PART ONE

  I

  In early July, in exceptional heat, towards evening, a young man left the garret he was renting in S----y Lane, stepped outside, and slowly, as if in two minds, set off towards K----n Bridge.1

  He'd successfully avoided meeting his landlady on the stairs. His garret was right beneath the eaves of a tall, five-storey building and resembled a cupboard more than it did a room. His landlady - a tenant herself, who also provided him with dinner and a maid - occupied separate rooms on the floor below, and every time he went down he had no choice but to pass her kitchen, the door of which was nearly always wide open. And every time he passed it, the young man experienced a sickening, craven sensation that made him wince with shame. He owed his landlady a small fortune and he was scared of meeting her.

  Not that he was really so very craven or browbeaten - far from it; but for some time now he'd been in an irritable, tense state of mind not unlike hypochondria.2 He'd become so self-absorbed and so isolated that he feared meeting anyone, not just his landlady. He was being suffocated by poverty; yet lately even this had ceased to bother him. He'd entirely abandoned - and had no wish to resume - his most pressing tasks. And he couldn't really be scared of a mere landlady, whatever she might be plotting. But to stop on the stairs, to listen to her prattle on about everyday trivia that meant nothing to him, and pester him about payments, threaten and whine, while he had to squirm, apologize and lie - no, better to slink past like a cat and slip out unnoticed.

  Still, as he stepped out into the street, even he was astonished by the terror that had overcome him just now at the thought of meeting his creditor.

  'Here I am planning to do a thing like that and I'm scared of the merest trifle!' he thought with a strange smile. 'H'm . . . yes . . . man has the world in his hands, but he's such a coward that he can't even grab what's under his nose . . . an axiom if ever there was . . . Here's a question: what do people fear most? A new step, a new word3 of their own - that's what they fear most. But I'm talking too much. That's why I never do anything. Or maybe it's because I never do anything that I'm always talking. It's only this past month that I've learned to witter away like this, lying in my corner for days on end and thinking . . . about King Pea.4 So why am I going there now? Am I really capable of that? Can that be serious? It's not serious at all. It's just a way of keeping myself amused, a flight of fancy, a toy! That's right, a toy!'

  It was dreadfully hot, not to mention the closeness of the air, the crush of people, the mortar, scaffolding, bricks, dust, and that specific summer stench so familiar to any Petersburger too poor to rent a dacha - all this gave a nasty jolt to the young man's already rattled nerves. The unbearable stink from the drinking dens, of which there are so many in this part of town, and the drunks who kept crossing his path even though it was only a weekday, added the final touches to this sad and revolting scene. A feeling of deepest disgust flickered briefly across the young man's delicate features. He was, by the way, remarkably good-looking, with beautiful dark eyes and dark brown hair, taller than average, with a slim and elegant figure. But soon he seemed to sink deep in thought, or even, to be more precise, into a kind of trance, and he walked on without noticing his surroundings, nor indeed wishing to notice them. He merely muttered something to himself every now and then, a sign of the habit to which he'd just confessed. At such moments even he could see that his thoughts were prone to confusion and that he was extremely weak: he'd barely eaten a thing for the better part of two days.

  He was so badly dressed that many a man, even one used to the life, would have been ashamed to be seen in such rags in the daytime. But then, this wasn't the sort of district where people were easily shocked. The proximity of the Haymarket, the profusion of notorious establishments, and the local residents, mainly craftsmen and workers, all crammed into these streets and lanes in the middle of town, often furnished the scene with such colourful characters that it would have been strange to be shocked, whoever you met. Anyway, the young man's soul had already stored up so much spite and scorn that, for all his sometimes childish touchiness, his rags were the last thing he was ashamed of in public. Running into certain acquaintances or former friends was a different matter - these were people he disliked meeting on principle . . . Yet when a drunk, who was being carried down the street heaven knows why or where, in an enormous empty cart pulled by an enormous dray horse, suddenly shouted as he went by 'Oi, you in the German hat!' and started yelling at the top of his voice and pointing at him, the young man stopped in his tracks and his hand leapt to his head. It was a top hat, a Zimmerman,5 but badly worn and now rusty in colour, riddled with holes and covered in stains, brimless and knocked hideously out of shape. It wasn't shame, though, that overcame him, but a quite different feeling, more like alarm.

  'I knew it!' he muttered in his confusion. 'I just knew it! How disgusting! This is just the sort of idiocy, just the sort of vulgar, petty little detail that can wreck the whole scheme! It's far too conspicuous, this hat . . . Comic, therefore conspicuous . . . These rags need a cap, some old pancake or other, not this monstrosity. Who wears hats like this? It'll be spotted a mile off and, above all, remembered . . . a clue if ever there was. This isn't the time to be conspicuous . . . It's the petty details that matter most! . . . The petty details that always ruin everything . . .'

  He hadn't far to go; he even knew how many steps it was from the gates of his building: seven hundred and thirty. He'd counted them out once, letting his dreams run wild. At the time he still didn't believe in these dreams himself, and merely tormented himself with their hideous but alluring audacity. But now, a month later, he was beginning to see things differently, and for all his taunting soliloquies about his own weakness and indecision he had somehow, without even meaning to, grown used to perceiving his 'hideous' dream as an actual venture, while still not believing his own intentions. Now, he was even on his way to carry out a test of his venture, and his excitement grew with each step.

  Shaking with nerves, his heart in his mouth, he approached a massive great building which faced the Ditch on one side and ----a Street6 on the other. It was broken up into small apartments inhabited by working people of every stripe - tailors, locksmiths, cooks, various Germans, girls paying their own way, petty bureaucrats, and so on. There was a constant hurry and scurry through the two arches leading into and out of the front and back courtyards.7 Three caretakers,8 at least, were employed there. The young man was delighted not to meet a single one of them and slipped through the arch unnoticed, turning directly right up a staircase. It was dark and narrow - these were the back stairs - but he knew that already, having studied the whole arrangement in advance and having found it to his liking: in a place as dark as this, even a curious gaze presented no danger. 'If this is how scared I am now, what on earth would it be like if somehow it ever came to the point of actually doing the thing?' he couldn't help thinking as he climbed up to the fourth floor. Here he found his way barred by ex-soldiers-turned-porters carrying furniture out of an apartment. He already knew who lived there - a German in the civil service and his family: 'So the German must be moving out now; so for a while only the old woman's apartment will be occupied on the fourth floor, on this staircase and this landing. That's good . . . just in case . . .' - and thinking this, he rang the bell of the old woman's apartment. It jangled weakly, as if made of tin, not brass. Small apartments like these always seem to have bells like that. He'd already forgotten the sound of this particular one, and now the ring suddenly seemed to remind him of something, bringing it clearly before him . . . He even shuddered, so weak had his nerves now become. A few moments later the tiniest of chinks appeared in the doorway: through it the occupant examined her visitor with evident mistrust, and all that could be seen of her were little eyes twinkling in the dark. But, noticing a lot of people on the landing, she took heart and opened the door fully. The young man crossed the threshold into a dark entrance hall with a partition, behind which lay a tiny kitchen. The old wom
an stood before him in silence, fixing him with a questioning look. She was a tiny, dry old thing of about sixty, with sharp, evil little eyes and a small sharp nose. Her head was uncovered and her whitish-blonde hair, touched by grey, was thickly greased. Her long thin neck, which resembled a chicken leg, was wrapped up in an old flannel rag, and despite the heat a fraying, fur-wadded jacket, yellow with age, hung from her shoulders. The little hag kept coughing and groaning. The young man must have glanced at her in some particular way, because the same mistrust suddenly flickered in her eyes once more.

  'Raskolnikov, the student. Visited you a month ago,' he muttered with a hasty bow, making an effort to be polite.

  'I remember, father,9 I remember that very well,' said the old woman distinctly, keeping her questioning eyes fixed on his face.

  'Well, ma'am . . . it's the same kind of business . . . ,' Raskolnikov continued, rather disconcerted and surprised by the old woman's mistrust.

  'Maybe she's always like this, I just didn't notice that time,' he thought uneasily.

  The old woman paused, as if hesitating, then stepped aside and, pointing to the main room, let her guest go first:

  'Come through, father.'

  The small room into which the young man stepped, with its yellow wallpaper, geraniums and muslin curtains over the windows, was brightly lit at that moment by the setting sun. 'So then, too, the sun will shine just like this!' The thought flashed unbidden across Raskolnikov's mind and he cast a quick glance over the entire room, so as to study and remember its layout as best he could. But there was nothing special about it. The furniture, all very old and made of yellow wood, consisted of a couch with a massive curved back, an oval table in front of the couch, a dressing-table with a little mirror between the windows, chairs along the walls, a few two-copeck prints in yellow frames depicting young German ladies with birds in their hands - and nothing else. In the corner, before a small icon, a lamp was burning. Everything was immaculate: furniture and floor had been rubbed to a shine. Everything sparkled. 'Lizaveta's work,' thought the young man. There wasn't a speck of dust to be seen in the entire apartment. 'Only nasty old widows keep everything so clean,' Raskolnikov carried on to himself, throwing a curious glance at the chintz curtain hanging in front of the door into the second, tiny room, in which the old woman had her bed and chest of drawers and into which he had never even peeked. These two rooms made up the entire apartment.

  'What do you want?' the little hag asked sternly, entering the room and standing right in front of him, as before, so as to look straight into his face.

  'Something to pawn: there!' - and he took out an old flat silver watch from his pocket. A globe was depicted on its reverse. The chain was of steel.

  'But the last thing you brought is overdue. The month was up two days ago.'

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

  'That's up to me, father, to be patient or to sell your thing right away.'

  'How much for the watch, Alyona Ivanovna?'

  'You're bringing me trifles; it's hardly worth a thing, I tell you. I gave you two nice little notes10 for that ring of yours last time, when there are jewellers selling new ones for a rouble fifty.'

  'Four roubles, then. I'll buy it back - it's my father's. I'm being paid soon.'

  'One rouble fifty and the interest in advance, if you're so very keen.'

  'One rouble fifty!' the young man shrieked.

  'As you wish.' The old woman passed the watch back to him. The young man took it, so angry that he was on the verge of leaving; but he immediately thought better of it, remembering that there was nowhere else for him to go and that he had another reason for being there anyway.

  'All right!' he said roughly.

  The old woman rummaged in her pocket for her keys and went off behind the curtain into the other room. The young man was left standing in the middle of the room, straining his ears and concentrating hard. He could hear a drawer being opened. 'Must be the top one,' he thought. 'So she carries the keys in her right pocket . . . All in one bunch, on a steel ring . . . And one key's bigger than the rest, three times bigger, with a jagged end - can't be for the chest of drawers . . . So there must be some casket or other as well, or perhaps a box . . . Now that's interesting. Strongboxes always have keys like that . . . But how vile this all is . . .'

  The old woman came back.

  'Here you are, father: ten copecks a rouble each month,11 so that's fifteen copecks from you for a rouble and a half, for a month in advance. And for the two roubles from before that's twenty copecks advance payment by the same calculation. Thirty-five copecks altogether. Leaving you with just one rouble fifteen for your watch. There you are.'

  'What? So now it's a rouble fifteen copecks?'

  'Exactly, sir.'

  The young man took the money without arguing. He looked at the old woman and was in no hurry to leave, as though there were something else he wanted to say or do, though what that was he didn't seem to know himself . . .

  'I might bring you something else in a day or two, Alyona Ivanovna . . . silver . . . good quality . . . a cigarette case . . . just as soon as I get it back from a friend.'

  He lost his thread and fell silent.

  'So we'll talk about it then, father.'

  'Well, I'll be off . . . Seems you're always at home on your own - what about your sister?' he asked in as casual a tone as he could manage, stepping out into the hall.

  'And what business might you have with her, father?'

  'Oh, nothing much. I just asked. Really, Alyona Ivanovna, you . . . Well, goodbye!'

  Raskolnikov left in a state of complete confusion. This confusion merely grew and grew. Walking down the stairs, he even stopped several times, as though suddenly struck by something. Finally, already outside, he exclaimed:

  'God! How revolting it all is! And am I really? Am I really? . . . No, it's absurd. It's ridiculous!' he added with conviction. 'How could I ever think of something so awful? What filth my heart can sink to! That's the main thing: it's all so filthy, so nasty, so foul! And there was I, for a whole month . . .'

  But neither words nor cries could fully express his agitation. The feeling of infinite disgust that had begun to oppress and stir up his heart even before, while walking over to the old woman's apartment, was now so much greater and so much more vivid that there seemed no escape from his anguish. He went along the pavement as if drunk, not noticing passers-by and walking straight into them, and it was only on the next street that he recovered his senses. Looking around, he noticed that he was standing by a drinking den, the entrance to which lay down a flight of steps, below ground. Two drunks were coming out that very moment; supporting and cursing one another, they staggered up onto the street. Without stopping to think, Raskolnikov immediately went down. He'd never once set foot in a drinking den, but his head was spinning and his throat was burning with thirst. A cool beer was what he wanted now, not least because his sudden debility, he thought, was also due to hunger. He sat down at a sticky table in a dark and dirty corner, ordered beer and drained the first glass. His anxiety immediately subsided and his thoughts grew clearer. 'What rubbish!' he said hopefully. 'How stupid to get so flustered! My distress was purely physical! Just one glass of beer, a piece of rusk, and there you are - in the space of a second the mind becomes stronger, thoughts clearer, intentions firmer! How petty this all is . . .' Despite this contemptuous outburst, he seemed cheerful now, as if he'd suddenly shaken off some terrible burden, and he cast a friendly gaze around the room. But even then he had a distant intuition that this rush of optimism was not entirely healthy either.

  There was hardly anyone left in the den. An entire party - five men, a wench and an accordion - had left soon after the two drunks he met on the stairs. Now it felt quiet and empty. One man, only a little bit tipsy, sat at a table with a beer - a tradesman,12 by the look of him - while his companion, a fat, hulking, grey-bearded man in a merchant's coat, dead drunk, drowsed on a bench, though ev
ery now and again, as if in his sleep, he'd click his fingers, spread out his arms and start bobbing up and down without getting up from the bench, while singing some nonsense or other to which he could barely remember the words:

  All year long I kissed my wife

  All ye-ear long I kissed my wi-ife . . .

  Or suddenly, waking once more:

  Along Podyachesky I strolled

  And found my lady love of old . . .13

  But nobody shared his happiness; his taciturn companion observed all these effusions with mistrust and even hostility. There was one other man present, a retired civil servant, perhaps, to judge by his appearance. He sat on his own with a pot of vodka, taking the occasional sip and looking about the room. He, too, seemed rather restless.

  II

  Raskolnikov was unused to crowds and, as has already been said, he shunned society, recently more than ever. But now, for some reason, he suddenly felt drawn to other people. Something new seemed to be stirring inside him, bringing with it a thirst for human company. A whole month of intense anguish and dismal excitement had left him so exhausted that he yearned for at least a moment's rest in another world - any world would do - and now he was only too happy to remain in the den, filthy though it was.

  The landlord was upstairs somewhere, but he often came down some steps into the bar, and the first that could be seen of him were his foppish blacked boots with their big red tops. He wore a long coat and a badly soiled black satin waistcoat, with no tie, and his whole face looked as if it had been smeared with grease, like an iron lock. A boy of about fourteen stood behind the counter, and another, younger kid was on hand if anyone needed serving. There were chopped-up cucumbers, black rusks and fish cut in little pieces; the smell was awful. It was very stuffy - just sitting there soon became unbearable - and everything was so steeped in alcohol fumes that the air alone, it seemed, could make you drunk in five minutes.

  It happens sometimes that we meet people - even perfect strangers - who interest us at first glance, quite suddenly and unexpectedly, before a word has been spoken. Just such an impression was made on Raskolnikov by the customer who sat off to the side and resembled a retired civil servant. Later, the young man would recall this first impression several times and even explain it to himself as a premonition. He couldn't stop looking over at him - partly, of course, because the latter kept staring at him and was clearly desperate to strike up a conversation. As for the others in the den, including the landlord, the civil servant looked at them in a familiar and even bored sort of way, though not without a hint of lofty disdain, as if they were people of lesser status and education to whom he could have nothing to say. He was already in his fifties, of average height and stocky build, greying and balding, with a yellow, almost greenish face swollen by constant drinking, and with puffy eyelids hiding a pair of reddish eyes that were as tiny as slits yet beamed with life. Even so, there was something very odd about him; a kind of rapture shone from his eyes - and perhaps even intelligence - yet madness, too, seemed to flicker there. He was dressed in an old, utterly ragged black tailcoat which had shed its buttons. Only one was still clinging on, and, clearly eager to keep up appearances, he made sure to use it. A shirt-front, all crumpled, stained and splattered, stuck out from beneath a nankeen waistcoat. His face had been shaved, civil-servant style, but not for some time, and a thick bluish-grey stubble was poking through. There was something of the respectable state official about his mannerisms, too. But he was uneasy, kept ruffling his hair, and occasionally, in anguish, propped his head in his hands, resting his tattered elbows on the bespattered, sticky table. Eventually he looked straight at Raskolnikov and said loudly and firmly: