О чем говорят каналы

The landlord of the place was in another room, but he frequently came into the main room, descending to it by some stairs—his flashy, greased boots with large red turn-downs appearing first. He wore a waistcoat and a terribly greasy black satin vest, no tie, and his whole face looked as if it had been smeared with oil, like a rusty iron lock. Behind the counter stood a boy of about fourteen, while another, younger boy served drinks whenever anything was ordered. There were pickled cucumbers, dry black bread, and sliced fish, all of which smelled terribly. The air was so stuffy that it was almost unbearable to sit there, and the whole place was so saturated with the fumes of alcohol that one might get drunk within five minutes just from breathing it.

Raskolnikov was not used to crowds and, as already mentioned, avoided any kind of company, especially of late. But now something suddenly drew him towards people. Something new seemed to be stirring within him, along with a strange craving for human contact. He was so worn out from a whole month of this inward gloom and dark excitement that he longed, even if just for a minute, to breathe in a different world, no matter what it might be. And despite the squalid surroundings, he was content to remain now in the tavern.

But no one shared his joy; his silent companion looked at all these outbursts even with hostility and distrust. There was also another man present, who appeared like a retired official. He sat apart, by his own vessel, sipping occasionally and glancing around. He too seemed somewhat agitated.

At that time, there were few people left in the tavern. Apart from the two drunkards they had met on the stairs, a whole group of about five people had just left together, accompanied by a girl and a harmonium. After their departure, it became quiet and spacious. Only a few remained: one mildly tipsy man, a townsman by appearance, sitting with his beer; and his companion, a fat, hefty fellow in a Siberian coat with a grey beard, quite drunk and dozing off on the bench. He occasionally woke up suddenly, as if from sleep, snapping his fingers, spreading his arms wide, and jerking the upper part of his body while still seated, humming some nonsense and trying to recall verses like: For a whole year I caressed my wife, For a whole y-ear I caressed my w-wife… Or suddenly, waking again: Down Pod'yacheskaya I went, Found my former love again…

He wanted a cold beer, especially since he attributed his sudden weakness to hunger. He sat down in a dark, dirty corner at a sticky table, ordered beer, and eagerly drank the first glass. Immediately, a sense of relief came over him, and his thoughts grew clearer. "All this is nonsense," he said with hope, "nothing to feel disturbed about! Simply physical weakness! One glass of beer, a piece of dry bread—and instantly, the mind grows strong, thoughts grow clear, intentions firm! Pah, what utter triviality!" Yet, despite this scornful spit, he already looked cheerful, as though suddenly freed from some dreadful burden, and glanced warmly at the people around him. But even then, deep inside, he vaguely sensed that this sudden responsiveness to what seemed better was itself a symptom of illness.

But he could not put his agitation into words or even in exclamations. A feeling of infinite loathing, which had begun to oppress and cloud his heart even as he walked towards the old woman, had now grown so intense and become so vivid that he did not know where to turn from the weight of his misery. He walked along the pavement like a drunken man, unaware of passers-by and bumping into them, and only came to his senses in the next street. Looking around, he noticed he was standing beside a tavern, its entrance leading down a staircase from the pavement into the basement. Just then, two drunken men were emerging from the door, supporting each other and cursing as they climbed up to the street. Without a second thought, Raskolnikov immediately went down the steps. He had never entered a tavern before, but now his head was spinning, and a burning thirst was tormenting him.

– Goodbye, then... You’re always alone at home, aren’t you? Where’s your sister? – he asked as casually as he could, stepping into the entryway. – What concern is she to you, father? – Oh, nothing in particular. Just asking. Well then, goodbye, Alyona Ivanovna! Raskolnikov walked out in acute confusion. His confusion kept growing deeper. As he descended the stairs, he stopped several times, as if suddenly struck by something. And finally, once on the street, he exclaimed: "Good heavens! How utterly repulsive! Could I really… no, it's nonsense, sheer absurdity!" he added firmly. "Could such horror actually have entered my mind? How vile my heart can be! The worst part is—it’s dirty, loathsome, disgusting, revolting!... And I’ve been dwelling on this for a whole month..."

The young man did not argue and took the money. He kept looking at the old woman and lingered, as though he wanted to say or do something more, yet even he himself seemed unsure what it was… – Maybe, Alena Ivanovna, in a day or two, I’ll bring you another item… silver… a fine one… a cigarette case… once I get it back from a friend… – He grew flustered and fell silent. – Well then, we shall talk, my dear.

The old woman fumbled in her pocket for the keys and went into the next room behind the curtain. Left alone in the middle of the room, the young man listened curiously and thought things over. He could hear her unlocking a chest. "Must be the top drawer," he reasoned. "So she keeps her keys in the right pocket... All on one bunch, on a steel ring... And there's one big key, three times the size, with a notched beard—surely not for the chest... So there must be some box or casket somewhere... That's interesting. Trunks and caskets usually have such keys... But then, how despicable all this is..." The old woman returned. "Here you are, my dear: at one kopek per ruble per month, for one and a half rubles you owe fifteen kopeks, payable in advance. And for the two previous rubles, another twenty kopeks in advance at the same rate. So altogether, thirty-five. Therefore, for your watch, you now receive just one ruble and fifteen kopeks. Here it is." "What! Only one ruble and fifteen kopeks now!" "Just so, my dear."

– Your wish, then. – The old woman handed the watch back to him. The young man took it, grew so angry that he nearly walked out; but instantly checked himself, remembering he had nowhere else to go, and that he had come for something else as well. – Give it here! – he snapped.

– What do you want? – the old woman said sternly, entering the room and standing directly in front of him as before, staring straight into his face. – I’ve brought a pledge, ma’am! – He pulled out a pair of old flat silver watches from his pocket. On the back cover was an engraved globe, and the chain was made of steel. – But the previous pledge has already expired. It’s been over a month since the due date. – I’ll pay you another month’s interest in advance; please wait a little longer. – That’s entirely up to me, my good man – whether to wait or sell your item right away. – How much for the watch, Alyona Ivanovna? – You keep bringing such trifles, my dear fellow – practically worthless. Last time I gave you two tickets for that ring, and even a new one from the jeweller wouldn’t cost more than a rupee and a half. – Just give me four rupees – I’ll redeem it; they were my father’s. I’ll get my money soon. – A rupee and a half, and the interest in advance, if you please. – A rupee and a half! – cried the young man.

Everything was spotlessly clean: the furniture and floors had been scrubbed to a shine; all gleamed. "Lizaveta's doing," thought the young man. Not a speck of dust could be found anywhere in the apartment. "This kind of cleanliness happens only with spiteful old widows," Raskolnikov continued to himself, and curiously glanced at the cotton curtain hanging over the door leading into the second, tiny room, where the old woman's bed and chest of drawers stood—a place he had never looked into before. The entire apartment consisted of these two rooms.

The small room into which the young man stepped, with yellow wallpaper, geraniums, and muslin curtains at the windows, was at that moment brightly lit by the setting sun. "And so the sun will shine just like this..."—the thought flashed almost casually through Raskolnikov's mind. He quickly glanced around the room, trying to study and memorize its layout as much as possible. But there was nothing remarkable about the room. The furniture, all very old and made of yellow wood, consisted of a sofa with a huge, curving wooden back, a round oval table in front of the sofa, a dressing table with a small mirror in the niche between the walls, chairs along the walls, and two or three cheap pictures in yellow frames depicting German girls holding birds in their hands—that was all. In the corner, before a small icon, a lamp was burning.

– Mr. Raskolnikov, the student, was here about a month ago, – the young man quickly murmured with a half-bow, reminding himself to be polite. – Yes, I remember, my dear, I remember very well that you came, – the old woman replied distinctly, her inquisitive eyes still fixed on his face. – Well, I’ve come again, Father, on the same matter… – Raskolnikov continued, feeling slightly embarrassed and surprised by the old woman’s suspiciousness. "Perhaps she’s always like this, and I simply didn’t notice it last time," he thought, with an unpleasant sensation. The old woman remained silent for a moment, as if in thought, then stepped aside and, pointing toward the door of the room, said, letting the guest go first: – Please go in, my dear.

The young man must have looked at her in some peculiar way, for suspicion flickered once more in her eyes.

His nerves were far too weak this time. A moment later, the door opened just a crack; the tenant peered through suspiciously, her eyes glinting from the darkness. Only her sharp, glittering eyes were visible. But seeing several people on the landing, she grew bolder and opened the door fully. The young man stepped across the threshold into a dark entryway, partitioned off from a tiny kitchen. The old woman stood before him silently, staring at him questioningly. She was a tiny, withered crone of about sixty, with sharp, malicious eyes, a small pointed nose, and no cap on her head. Her flaxen hair, only slightly grey, was greasily oiled. Around her thin, long neck, resembling a chicken's leg, was wrapped some flannel rag, and despite the heat, a ragged, yellowed fur jacket hung loosely on her shoulders. The old woman kept coughing and wheezing.

"If I'm this frightened now," he thought involuntarily while climbing to the fourth floor, "what would happen if I ever actually carried it through to the very end?" Porters, retired soldiers, blocked his way as they carried furniture out of an apartment. He had known earlier that a German clerk with a family lived there. "So this German is moving out. Which means, for a while at least, the only occupied apartment on this floor, on this staircase and landing, will be the old woman's. That's good… just in case…" He thought again and rang the old woman’s bell. The bell gave a feeble jingle, sounding tinny rather than copper. In such small apartments of such buildings, almost all bells are like this. He had forgotten the sound of this particular bell, but now that distinctive ring suddenly brought something back to him, vividly recalled a memory… He shuddered.

With his heart pounding and a nervous tremor in his limbs, he approached a vast building, one side facing the canal and the other opening onto — Street. This house was divided into numerous small tenements, occupied by all sorts of working folk—tailors, locksmiths, cooks, various Germans, independent young women, petty clerks, and others of the sort. People constantly bustled through both entrances and courtyards. Three or four doormen were on duty, but the young man was greatly relieved not to meet any of them, and slipped unnoticed through the gate, immediately turning right towards the staircase. The stairway was dark and narrow, a "back staircase," but he already knew it well, had studied it thoroughly, and found the whole setting agreeable: in such darkness, even a curious glance posed no danger.

He had not far to go; he even knew exactly how many steps it was from the gate of his house—exactly seven hundred and thirty. He had counted them once when he was lost in deep reverie. At that time, he had hardly believed in his own dreams, treating them as something outrageous yet temptingly audacious, merely irritating himself with their boldness. But now, a month later, he was beginning to see things differently. Despite all his mocking inner dialogues about his own weakness and indecisiveness, he had somehow, almost unwillingly, grown accustomed to regarding that 'outrageous' dream as a real undertaking—though still not truly believing in himself. Now, he was actually on his way to carry out his plan, and with every step, his agitation grew stronger and stronger.

I knew it! – he muttered in confusion. – I thought so! This is the worst thing possible! Some stupid nonsense, some petty foolishness, could ruin the whole plan! Yes, this hat is far too noticeable… It looks ridiculous, that's why it's so conspicuous… With my rags, I should have worn a cap, even an old pancake of one, but not this monstrous thing. Nobody wears such hats; people will spot me from a mile away and remember me… Most importantly, they'll remember later – and there's evidence right there. One must look as ordinary as possible… Small things, small details matter most! It's these petty details that always ruin everything!

He was dressed so poorly that even an ordinary, accustomed person would have hesitated to step out on the street in such rags during daylight. However, the neighbourhood was of such a kind that one could hardly surprise anyone here with mere clothing. Close to Sennaya Square, with its many well-known establishments and—above all—populated densely by artisans and working folk in the central streets and alleys of Petersburg, the general scene often included such figures that meeting any other sort would have seemed strange. Yet such bitter contempt had built up in the young man's soul that, despite his frequent and very youthful sensitiveness, he felt least embarrassed about his tattered clothes on the street. What troubled him more was meeting certain acquaintances or former classmates, whom he generally avoided. Still, when a drunkard—being hauled at that moment somewhere in a huge cart pulled by a heavy draught horse—suddenly shouted at him as he passed by, "Hey you, German hatmaker!" and bellowed at the top of his voice, pointing straight at him, the young man abruptly stopped and nervously clutched his hat. It was a tall, round, Zimmermann-style hat, but completely worn out, thoroughly reddish, full of holes and stains, brimless, and tilted grotesquely to one side. But it wasn't shame—it was another sensation, almost like fear—that gripped him.

But soon he sank into deep thought, or rather, into a kind of daze, and walked on without noticing his surroundings, not even wishing to. Only occasionally did he mutter something to himself, following his habit of talking aloud in soliloquies, to which he had just admitted even in his own mind. At that moment, he was fully aware that his thoughts were becoming muddled and that he was extremely weak—he hadn’t eaten almost anything for two days now.

The heat in the streets was unbearable, made worse by the stifling air, the crowds, the lime, the scaffolding, bricks, dust, and that special summer stench all too familiar to every Petersburg resident who cannot afford to rent a summer cottage—the whole scene together unpleasantly jolted the young man’s already overwrought nerves. The sickening smell from the numerous drinking dens, especially abundant in this part of town, and the drunken people constantly encountered, despite it being a weekday, added the final touch to the grim and depressing picture. A deep sense of disgust flickered for a moment in the young man’s delicate features. Incidentally, he was strikingly handsome, with beautiful dark eyes, dark-blond hair, slightly above average height, slim and well-built.

What a task I'm about to undertake, and yet I'm afraid of the smallest things! – he thought, with a strange smile. Hm... yes... everything lies in a man's hands, and yet he passes everything by, simply out of cowardice... that's an axiom now. Strange, what do people fear most? They fear nothing more than a new step, a word of their own. But then again, I'm talking too much. That's precisely why I do nothing—because I talk. Or perhaps it's the other way round: I talk because I do nothing. This past month I've learned to chatter, lying in a corner for entire days, thinking... about King Pigeonpea. But why am I going now? Am I even capable of it? Is it serious? Not serious at all. Just amusing myself with fantasy; playing with toys! Yes, probably just toys!

Yet, this time, the fear of meeting his creditor actually startled him as he stepped out onto the street.

It wasn't that he was particularly timid or cowed; quite the contrary. But of late, he had been in a state of irritability and tension bordering on melancholy. He had grown so withdrawn and isolated that he feared any kind of encounter, not just with the landlady. Poverty weighed heavily on him, yet even his dire circumstances had lately ceased to trouble him much. He had stopped attending to his daily affairs altogether and didn’t want to bother with them at all. In truth, he wasn't afraid of the landlady, no matter what she might be plotting against him. But stopping on the staircase, listening to pointless chatter about all that mundane nonsense which meant nothing to him—endless nagging about payments, threats, complaints, and having to dodge, apologise, and lie in return—no, it was far better to slip up the stairs like a cat and slip away unseen.

He safely avoided meeting his landlady on the stairs. His tiny room, located just under the roof of a tall five-storey building, resembled a cupboard more than a proper apartment. The landlady, from whom he rented this room along with meals and service, lived one flight below in a separate flat. Every time he went out, he had to pass right by her kitchen, which was almost always wide open onto the staircase. Each time, as he walked past, the young man felt a painful, cowardly sensation—one he was ashamed of and which made him cringe. He owed the landlady money and dreaded running into her.

Fyodor Mikhailovich Dostoevsky Collected Works in Fifteen Volumes Volume 5. Crime and Punishment Crime and Punishment (A Novel in Six Parts with an Epilogue) Part One I In early July, during an extremely hot spell, in the evening, a young man stepped out onto the street from his tiny room, which he rented from tenants in S—y Lane, and slowly, as if hesitating, made his way towards K— Bridge.