О чем говорят каналы

At the top of the stairs, a small sooty door stood ajar. A tallow candle-end lit up a wretched room, no more than ten paces long, clearly visible from the entrance. The place was strewn with clutter, especially children’s clothes, scattered everywhere. A torn sheet hung across the back corner—probably hiding a bed behind it. Inside the room stood only two chairs and a shabby, threadbare settee, before which was an old, unpainted pine kitchen table, bare and without a cover. On the edge of the table, a nearly burnt-out tallow candle in an iron candlestick flickered feebly. So Marmeladov had a room of his own, not just a corner, but it was a passageway room. The door leading to the inner rooms or cubicles—into which Amalia Lippeveschel’s apartment was divided—was slightly open. Loud noises and shouting came from within. People were laughing, playing cards, drinking tea.

They entered from the courtyard and climbed up to the fourth floor. The staircase grew darker the higher they went. It was almost eleven o'clock, and though in Petersburg there is no real night at this time of year, it was very dark at the top of the stairs.

The locksmith, the German, a wealthy man… come on in!

– I’m not afraid of Katerina Ivanovna anymore – he muttered anxiously – nor that she’ll start pulling my hair. Hair? Nonsense! What does hair matter? In fact, it might even be better if she does. No, that’s not what I fear… I… I fear her eyes… yes… her eyes… I’m afraid of the red spots on her cheeks too… and her breathing – have you noticed how people breathe in this illness, when emotions run high? I’m afraid of the child’s crying too… because if Sonia hasn’t fed the child, then… I don’t know what I’ll do! Don’t know! But I’m not afraid of blows. Know this, sir – such beatings are not painful to me, they’re almost a relief, even a pleasure. Because without them, I cannot bear it myself. It’s better. Let her beat me, let her vent her soul… it’s better… Here’s the house. Kozel’s house.

He sank onto the bench, exhausted and drained, looking at no one, as if oblivious to his surroundings and deeply lost in thought. His words had made some impression; silence fell for a moment, but soon the same laughter and jeers broke out again: — What logic! — Liar! — Bureaucrat! And so on, and so forth. — Let's go, sir, — suddenly said Marmeladov, lifting his head and turning to Raskolnikov, — please escort me… to Kozel's house, in the courtyard. It's time… time to go to Katerina Ivanovna… Raskolnikov had long wanted to leave; besides, he had already thought of helping him. Marmeladov proved far weaker on his feet than in speech, and leaned heavily on the young man. It was only two to three hundred steps. But with every step closer to home, confusion and fear grew stronger in the drunkard.

And He will say: 'You are swine, bearing the image and mark of the beast—but come forth even you!' Then the wise and the understanding will cry out: 'Lord, why do You accept these?' And He will reply: 'I accept them, O wise ones, I accept them, O understanding ones, because not one among them deemed himself worthy of this…' And He will stretch out His hands to us, and we shall fall down before Him… and weep… and understand everything! Then we shall truly understand!… and all shall understand… even Katerina Ivanovna… yes, she too will understand… O Lord, Thy Kingdom come!"

Where is the daughter who, fearing not the beastliness of her father, a worthless drunkard, yet had mercy on him?' And He will say: 'Come to Me! I have forgiven you once… I forgave you once… Your many sins are forgiven now, because you loved much…' And He will forgive my Sonya, yes, I know He will forgive her—I felt it in my heart when I was with her just now! And He will judge all, forgive all—the good and the wicked, the wise and the meek. And when He has finished with all, He will say to us: 'Come forth, yes, you also! Come forth, you who are drunk, come forth, you who are weak, come forth, you who are ashamed!' And we shall all come forth, unashamed, and stand before Him.

"Pity! Why pity me!" suddenly cried Marmeladov, rising with his hand stretched forward, in a moment of resolute inspiration, as if he had been waiting only for these words. "Why should you pity me? Yes, indeed, there is no reason to pity me! I ought to be crucified, crucified on a cross, not pitied! But crucify me, O judge, crucify me and, having crucified, then pity him! And then I myself will come to the cross, for I thirst not for joy, but for sorrow and tears! Do you suppose, shopkeeper, that this half-bottle of yours has given me pleasure? It was sorrow, sorrow I sought at the bottom of it—sorrow and tears—and I found it, I tasted it! But He will pity us—the One who pitied all and understood all, He alone is the Judge. On that day He will come and ask: 'Where is the daughter who gave herself up for an ill and spiteful stepmother, for strange and helpless children?

He was about to pour, but there was nothing left. The half-bottle was empty. – What's the use of pitying you anyway? – shouted the landlord, suddenly appearing beside them. Laughter broke out, even curses. People laughed and swore—those who had been listening and those who hadn't—just staring at the figure of the retired official.

Do you understand, do you understand, sir, what this dignity means? Well then, I – her own father – stole those very thirty kopecks from her to spend on drink! And here I am drinking! And already drunk it all away! Who then would pity a man like me? Eh? Do you feel sorry for me now, sir? Or not? Tell me, sir, do you pity me or not? He-he-he-he!

– This very half-bottle was bought with her money, sir, – said Marmeladov, addressing himself exclusively to Raskolnikov. – She brought out thirty kopecks, her very last coins, with her own hands, I saw it myself… She said nothing, just looked at me in silence… But people like her don't reproach you here on earth – no, they weep and long for humanity up there! And that's more painful, sir, far more painful when there is no reproach! Thirty kopecks, yes, sir. And now she needs them too, doesn't she? What do you think, my dear sir? She must maintain her dignity now. That dignity costs money, a special kind, you understand? You understand? Well, she needs to buy some cosmetics too – it's simply not possible otherwise; starched skirts, a pair of dainty shoes, stylish enough to show her foot when crossing a puddle.

Marmeladov struck his forehead with his fist, clenched his teeth, shut his eyes tight, and leaned heavily on the table with his elbow. But a moment later, his face suddenly changed, and he turned to Raskolnikov with a forced slyness and affected boldness, laughed and said: "Was at Sonya today—went to ask for money to cure my hangover! Hee-hee-hee!" "Actually gave it to you?" someone from the crowd who had just entered shouted out, and burst into loud, full-throated laughter.

Well then, my good sir (Marmeladov suddenly seemed to shudder, raised his head, and stared straight at his listener), the very next day, after all these dreams (that is, exactly five days ago today), by cunning deceit, like a thief in the night, I secretly took the key to Katerina Ivanovna's trunk and took what remained of the salary I had brought home—I no longer remember how much exactly—and here I am, look at me! For five days I’ve been away from home, they are searching for me there, my job is lost, my uniform lies pawned at the tavern near the Egyptian Bridge, and in its place I have received this ragged attire... and all is over!

– Gracious sir, gracious sir! – exclaimed Marmeladov, recovering himself, – oh, my good sir, perhaps all this seems laughable to you, as it does to others, and I only trouble you with foolish details of my wretched home life; but for me, it is no laughing matter! I truly feel it all... Throughout that heavenly day of my life, and all that evening, I wandered in fleeting dreams: how I would set everything right, clothe the children, bring peace to her, and bring back my only daughter into the family fold, saving her from dishonour... So many things, so many... Forgive me, sir.

Marmeladov stopped, as if wanting to smile, but suddenly his chin began to tremble. Still, he managed to control himself. This tavern, the degraded appearance, five nights on hay bales, and the bottle of liquor—yet along with it all, this painful love for his wife and family—left his listener utterly confused. Raskolnikov listened intently, but with a sense of discomfort. He regretted having come here.

And I don’t blame her; no, I wouldn’t dream of blaming her!… Then, six days ago, when I brought home my first full salary—twenty-three roubles forty kopecks—she called me “little one”: “You’re such a little one,” she said. And in private, mind you, do you understand? Well, what charm could there possibly be in me? What kind of husband am I? But she pinched my cheek: “You’re such a little one,” she said.

They sat chatting for two hours, whispering: “Semyon Zakharovich now holds such a position at work, receives such a salary, personally met the chief, and the chief himself came out, told everyone else to wait, but took Semyon Zakharovich by the hand and led him straight into the office.” Hear it, hear it? “Of course,” she says, “I remember your services, Semyon Zakharovich, and though you did have that frivolous weakness, but since you’ve now promised to reform, and besides, things haven’t gone well without you (hear that, hear it!), I now place my trust in your noble word.” All this, I tell you, she just made up—not from folly or mere boasting, mind you! No, sir, she truly believes it herself, delights in her own daydreams, by God!

She’s got no clothes at all—none whatsoever, sir—and yet now she dresses up as if going to a party, looks completely different. They manage to create something out of nothing: fix their hair, wear a clean little collar, fresh cuffs, and suddenly she’s a totally different person—young again, prettier too. My little dove Sonya helped only with money, says it wouldn’t be proper for her to visit us too often for now, only now and then at dusk, so nobody sees. Hear that, hear it? After dinner I went to take a nap, and what do you think—Katerina Ivanovna couldn’t resist: a week earlier she’d quarrelled bitterly with the landlady, Amalia Fyodorovna, and now she actually invited her over for coffee.

– It happened, sir, about five weeks ago. Yes… The moment both of them, Katerina Ivanovna and Sonya, found out, dear Lord, it was as if I’d been carried straight into the Kingdom of Heaven! Before, I’d lie like a beast, nothing but abuse all day. But now they tiptoe around, hush the children: “Semyon Zakharovich is tired from work, he’s resting—shhh!” They brew me coffee before office, boil cream for me! Started buying real cream, sir, can you believe it? And where did they get eleven roubles fifty kopecks for a decent uniform—I can’t fathom! Boots, linen shirts, fine cotton collars—all top quality, a frock coat too, everything stitched up splendidly for just eleven and a half! One morning I come back from duty, and look—Katerina Ivanovna has cooked two dishes: soup and salted pork with horseradish, something I never even dreamed of before.

Marmeladov stopped again, deeply agitated. Just then, a group of drunkards, already intoxicated, entered from the street. A hired barrel organ began playing near the entrance, accompanied by a cracked, childlike voice—hardly seven years old—singing "The Little Farmstead." The place grew noisy. The landlord and staff turned their attention to the newcomers. Marmeladov, paying no heed to the arrivals, continued his story. He seemed visibly weakened, yet the more he drank, the more talkative he became. Recollections of his recent success at work seemed to revive him, even lighting up his face with a kind of glow. Raskolnikov listened attentively.

'Well,' said he, 'Marmeladov, you've already deceived my expectations once… But I'll take you back again, on my personal responsibility,' – those were his very words – 'remember that, go now!' I kissed the dust beneath his feet in spirit, for in truth they wouldn't have allowed it, him being a high official and a man of modern, educated views. When I returned home and announced that I'd been reinstated in service and would receive my salary again… oh Lord, what a scene it was!..

Now Sonia visits us only in the evenings, helps Katerina Ivanovna, and provides what little support she can. She lives in a room rented from the tailor Karpunamov; the whole Karpunamov family is lame and stutters – even the wife stutters too. They all live in one room, while Sonia has a separate little space partitioned off… er, yes… A very poor, stuttering lot… yes… That morning, I rose early, put on my rags, raised my hands to heaven, and went straight to His Excellency Ivan Afanasyevich. You know His Excellency Ivan Afanasyevich, sir? No? Then you don't know a man of God! He is wax… wax before the Lord; like wax, he melts! He was moved to tears after graciously hearing me out.

– Ever since then, sir – he continued after a brief silence – owing to an unfortunate circumstance and reports by ill-intentioned people, particularly instigated by Darya Frantsevna, who was offended because she hadn't been shown proper respect – ever since then, my daughter, Sofya Semyonovna, has been forced to obtain the yellow ticket, and could no longer stay with us on that account. For our landlady, Amalia Fedorovna, refused to allow it (though earlier she had actually supported Darya Frantsevna), and Mr. Lebezyatnikov too… er… well, it was because of Sonia that his whole quarrel with Katerina Ivanovna arose. At first, he himself was pursuing Sonia, but then suddenly took offence: 'How,' says he, 'can I, an enlightened man, live in the same house with such a person?' But Katerina Ivanovna wouldn't tolerate it and stood up for her… and so the whole incident happened.

Marmeladov fell silent, as if his voice had suddenly failed him. Then, abruptly, he quickly poured himself a drink, downed it, and grunted.

And I, as before, lay there drunk… And then, young man, I saw—I saw how Katya Ivanovna, likewise without speaking, approached Sonia’s bed and stood on her knees all evening at her feet, kissing her feet, refusing to rise, until finally they both fell asleep together, embracing… both… both… yes, sir… and I… lay there drunk.

She wasn't in her right mind, she spoke in distress, while ill and with children crying from hunger, and said it more in bitterness than in earnest… For Katya Ivanovna has such a nature—whenever the children cry, even from hunger, she immediately starts beating them. And so I saw, around six o'clock, Sonia get up, put on her kerchief, wrap herself in her little shawl, and leave the apartment. At nine, she returned. Came straight to Katya Ivanovna and silently laid thirty whole roubles on the table. Not a word did she utter, not even a glance; she simply took our large green drab silk shawl—the one we all share—and covered her head and face completely, then lay down on the bed, facing the wall, her shoulders and body trembling silently.

Meanwhile, the children go hungry… And Katya Ivanovna paces the room, wringing her hands, red spots appearing on her cheeks—as always happens in her illness—saying, 'So you live here, you good-for-nothing, eating and drinking, enjoying warmth,' when even the children haven't seen a crust of bread for three days! I lay there then… well, never mind… I lay drunk, and I hear my Sonia saying (she's so gentle, such a soft little voice… fair-haired, pale little face, so thin), 'Well then, Katya Ivanovna, must I really resort to such a thing?' Darya Frantsevna, a malicious woman known to the police, had already come three times through the landlady. 'What of it?' Katya Ivanovna replied mockingly, 'What is there to preserve? What a treasure!' But do not blame her, do not blame her, sir, do not blame her!

well, they're gone now anyway—so our lessons came to nothing. We stopped at Cyrus the Great. Later, upon reaching maturity, she read several novels of a romantic nature. More recently, through Mr. Lebezyatnikov, she read a book called Lewis's "Physiology," do you know it, sir? She read it with great interest and even shared parts aloud to us—that's the sum of her education. Now, sir, allow me to ask you personally a private question: how much, in your opinion, can a poor but honest girl earn through honest work? Fifteen kopecks a day, sir, and not even that, unless she has special talent and works without rest! And even then, the civil councillor Klopstock, Ivan Ivanovich—have you heard of him?—not only has not paid her yet for sewing half a dozen Dutch shirts, but actually chased her away, stamping his feet and using foul language, claiming the shirt collars were crooked.

Here I found a position… found it, and then lost it again. Do you understand, sir? This time I lost it through my own fault, for my weakness overcame me… We now live in a corner room with the landlady, Amalia Fyodorovna Lippevexel, though I do not know how we survive or pay our rent. Many others live there too… It's a den, the most disgraceful… hm… yes… Meanwhile, my daughter from my first marriage, Sonia, grew up, and what she endured from her stepmother I shall not describe. Though Katya Ivanovna is full of noble sentiments, she is a hot-tempered and irritable woman, quick to scold… Yes, sir! Well, there's no use dwelling on it! Sonia received no real education, as you can well imagine. Four years ago, I tried teaching her geography and world history, but my own knowledge was weak, and we had no proper textbooks—our few books… hm!...

You can judge how desperate her plight must have been, that she, a woman of education and refinement, of a well-known family, agreed to marry me! But she did agree! Crying and weeping, wringing her hands—she went through with it! Because she had nowhere else to go. Do you understand, do you understand, sir, what it means when there is nowhere left to turn? No! You cannot yet understand that… For a whole year I fulfilled my duties faithfully and honourably, and did not touch this (he pointed a finger at the half-bottle), for I have feelings. Yet even so I could not please her. Then I lost my position—not through fault of mine, but due to administrative changes—and that was when I turned to drink!... It will be a year and a half ago since, after much wandering and misfortune, we finally arrived in this magnificent capital adorned with many monuments.

He used to beat her toward the end; though she never submitted, as I know for certain from documents, she still recalls him to this day with tears, and reproaches me for not being like him—and I am glad, I am glad, for at least in her imagination she sees herself once having been happy… And after his death, left in a remote and savage district where I was stationed then, she remained with three young children in utter, hopeless poverty—so terrible that, though I have seen many hardships in my life, I cannot even describe it. All her relatives had turned her away. She was too proud, far too proud… And then, sir, then I, also a widower with a fourteen-year-old daughter from my first marriage, offered her my hand, for I could not bear to see such suffering.

I do not blame her, I do not blame her, for this is all she has left in memory, while everything else has turned to dust! Yes, yes; she is a passionate, proud, and unyielding woman. She scrubs the floors herself and lives on black bread, yet will not tolerate disrespect. That is why she refused to forgive Mr. Lebezyatnikov for his rudeness, and when he struck her for it, she took to her bed—not so much from the beating as from wounded pride. I married her when she was already a widow with three little children, the youngest still in swaddling clothes. She married her first husband, an infantry officer, for love, and ran away from her parents' home with him. She loved him deeply, but he took to gambling, was brought before the court, and died thus.

— Young man, — he continued, straightening up again, — in your face I seem to read a certain sorrow. The moment you came in, I noticed it, and that is why I turned to you at once. For I do not wish to parade my life before these idle onlookers who already know everything, but rather to confide in someone sensitive and educated. Know then that my wife was educated at a noble provincial institute for gentlewomen, and at her graduation she danced with a shawl before the governor and other distinguished guests, for which she received a gold medal and a certificate of merit. The medal… well, we sold that long ago… long ago… hm… but the certificate still lies in her trunk, and she showed it only recently to the landlady. Though she quarrels constantly with the landlady, she still wanted, just once, to feel some pride and speak of her happier days.

– Of course! – remarked the landlord, yawning. Marmeladov struck the table firmly with his fist. – Such is my nature! Do you know, do you know, sir, that I even drank away her stockings? Not the shoes – the shoes would have been somewhat understandable, but her stockings, yes, her very stockings I drank away! And her cashmere shawl too, the one given to her, her old one, her own, not mine! And we live in a cold corner, and this winter she caught a chill and started coughing, already with blood. We have three little children, and Katerina Ivanovna works from morning till night – scrubbing, washing, bathing the children, for she was brought up with a love for cleanliness. But she has a weak chest and is prone to consumption – I feel this, I do! Do I not feel it? The more I drink, the more I feel it! That's why I drink – to find pity, to awaken feeling in myself! Not mirth, but sorrow alone I seek… I drink because I want to suffer doubly! – And, as if in despair, he dropped his head onto the table.

Yet Catherine Ivanovna, though generous by nature, is unjust… And though I myself understand that when she pulls my hair—it is out of heartfelt sympathy (for I repeat, without embarrassment, she does pull my hair, young man – he confirmed with grave dignity, hearing the giggles again)—but, God, what if she would only once… But no! No! All this is in vain, and there's no point in talking, no point at all!… For indeed, what I desired has happened more than once, and I have been pitied before, but… such is my fate, and I am by nature a brute!

– Hy-c, – continued the speaker, with dignified composure, even more solemn than before, waiting patiently as laughter rippled through the room once again. – Very well, I may be a pig, but she is a lady! I may bear the image of a beast, but Catherine Ivanovna, my wife, is a woman of education and born to the daughter of a staff officer. Let me be a scoundrel, still she possesses noble feelings and refined sentiments, shaped by proper upbringing. Yet still… oh, if only she would show me some pity! Your honour, kind sir, surely every man must have at least one person somewhere who would feel compassion for him!

The young man did not utter a word.

But no, let me express it more powerfully, more vividly: not ‘can you’, but ‘dare you’, looking at me this very moment, affirm with certainty that I am not a pig?

– And if there's no one to go to, if there's simply nowhere else to turn! Surely every man must have somewhere he can go. For there comes a time when one absolutely must go somewhere! When my only daughter first took the yellow ticket, I went then too... (for my daughter lives by the yellow ticket, sir...) – he added in parentheses, glancing somewhat anxiously at the young man. – No matter, sir, no matter! – he quickly added, apparently calm, as the two boys behind the counter sniggered and even the landlord himself smiled. – No matter, sir! I am not disturbed by these nods and smirks, for everyone already knows the truth, and all that was hidden is now revealed; I accept it not with shame, but with humility. Let them laugh! Let them! 'Behold the man!' Permit me, young man: can you...

– It's utterly hopeless, going with the full knowledge that nothing will come of it. For example, you know beforehand, perfectly well, that this man, this most respectable and useful citizen, will never lend you any money, because why on earth would he? He knows very well that I won't pay it back. Out of compassion? But Mr. Lebezyatnikov, who keeps up with modern ideas, recently explained to us that compassion is now even prohibited by science, and that this is already the practice in England, where political economy prevails. So why, I ask, would he lend? And yet, knowing in advance that he won't, you still set off on your way... – Then why go at all? – added Raskolnikov.

– Why am I not working, kind sir? – Marmeladov chimed in, addressing himself entirely to Raskolnikov as though he had posed the question, – why am I not working? Doesn't my heart ache knowing I'm grovelling in vain? When, a month ago, Mr. Lebezyatnikov himself beat my wife, while I lay there drunk, wasn't I suffering too? Tell me, young man, have you ever… hmm… well, even tried to borrow money when there was no hope of getting it? – I have… I mean, what do you mean—no hope?

His talk seemed to arouse a general, though sluggish, interest. The boys behind the counter snickered. The landlord, evidently on purpose, had come down from the upper room to listen to the "entertainer," and sat a little apart, yawning lazily yet importantly. Clearly, Marmeladov was well-known here. His fondness for elaborate speech was likely developed from frequent tavern conversations with various strangers. For some drinkers, such a habit turns into a need—especially among those who are treated strictly at home and bossed around. That's why, in drinking company, they always try to somehow earn justification for themselves, and if possible, even respect. "An entertainer, eh!" said the landlord loudly. "Then why don't you work, why don't you serve, if you're an official?"

He poured himself a glass, drank it, and fell into thought. Indeed, his clothes and even his hair had patches of dried hay clinging to them. It was very likely that he hadn't changed or washed in five days. His hands especially were dirty—greasy, red, with blackened nails.

– Kind sir, – he began, almost with solemnity, – poverty is not a vice; this is a truth. I know drunkenness is not a virtue, and even more so. But destitution, kind sir, destitution is a vice. In poverty, you may still retain the nobility of your inborn feelings, but in destitution, never—no one ever does. For poverty, they don't even drive you out with a stick, but sweep you away like rubbish with a broom, just to make it more humiliating; and rightly so, because in destitution, I myself am the first to degrade myself. And hence the drinking! Kind sir, a month ago, Mr. Lebezyatnikov beat up my wife, and my wife is nothing like me—you understand? Allow me to ask you one more thing, merely out of curiosity: have you ever spent the night on the hay barges on the Neva? – No, I haven't had the occasion, – answered Raskolnikov. – What's that about? – Well, I've just come from there, and it's already my fifth night...

— So, a student, then—or perhaps a former student! — exclaimed the official. — Just as I suspected! Experience, my dear sir, repeated experience! — and, as a mark of pride, he tapped his forehead with a finger. — Either you were a student, or at least came from an academic background. If I may ask... — He stood up, swayed slightly, picked up his drink container and glass, and moved closer to the young man, settling down somewhat diagonally across from him. He was tipsy, yet spoke fluently and confidently, only occasionally stumbling over his words or dragging them out. He pounced on Raskolnikov almost eagerly, as though he hadn't spoken to anyone in a whole month.

– No, I'm a student... – answered the young man, partly surprised by the other's unusually elaborate tone and the directness with which he had been addressed. Despite his recent fleeting desire for some kind of human contact, at the first actual word spoken directly to him, he suddenly felt his usual unpleasant and irritable aversion toward any stranger who touched, or even tried to approach, his personal space.

– May I, sir, take the liberty of having a proper conversation with you? For though you may not appear very prominent, my experience tells me you are an educated man and not accustomed to drink. I have always respected education combined with heartfelt sentiments, and moreover, I hold the rank of a Deputy Registrar. Marmeladov—that's my name—a Deputy Registrar. May I venture to ask if you have served in government service?

But he seemed restless, running his fingers through his hair, occasionally propping his head in both hands in despair, resting his torn elbows on the sticky, stained table. Finally, he fixed his gaze directly on Raskolnikov and spoke loudly and firmly:

There are certain encounters, even with complete strangers, where we feel an instant interest the moment we set eyes upon them—suddenly, unexpectedly, even before a single word is spoken. Such was precisely the impression made on Raskolnikov by the guest sitting apart, who resembled a retired government clerk. Later, the young man would often recall this first impression, even attributing it to a premonition. He kept glancing repeatedly at the official, partly because the man himself stared persistently at him, clearly eager to start a conversation. As for the others present in the tavern, including the landlord, the clerk looked at them with a kind of habitual boredom, mixed with a hint of haughty disdain—like someone regarding people of lower station and intellect, unworthy of his words. He was about fifty, of medium height and stout build, with greying hair and a large bald patch, his face yellowish, even slightly greenish, swollen from habitual drinking, with puffy eyelids under which tiny, slit-like but lively reddish eyes sparkled. Yet there was something very strange about him: his gaze seemed almost ecstatic—perhaps even thoughtful and intelligent—but at the same time, madness flickered within it. He was dressed in an old, thoroughly ragged black coat, most of its buttons missing; only one remained, barely hanging on, which he had fastened deliberately, evidently striving to maintain a semblance of decency. From beneath a nankeen waistcoat jutted a crumpled, stained, and liquor-soaked shirt frill. His face was shaved in the clerical style, though not for quite some time, so that a thick, bluish stubble had begun to show. Indeed, there was something dignified and official in his manner.

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.