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Fyodor Dostoyevsky (1821 - 1881)
Crime and Punishment
translated by Constance Garnett

Chapter One


ON AN exceptionally hot evening early in July a young man came out

of the garret in which he lodged in S. Place and walked slowly, as

though in hesitation, towards K. bridge.

He had successfully avoided meeting his landlady on the staircase.

His garret was under the roof of a high, five-storied house and was

more like a cupboard than a room. The landlady who provided him with

garret, dinners, and attendance, lived on the floor below, and every

time he went out he was obliged to pass her kitchen, the door of which

invariably stood open. And each time he passed, the young man had a

sick, frightened feeling, which made him scowl and feel ashamed. He

was hopelessly in debt to his landlady, and was afraid of meeting her.

This was not because he was cowardly and abject, quite the contrary;

but for some time past he had been in an overstrained irritable

condition, verging on hypochondria. He had become so completely

absorbed in himself, and isolated from his fellows that he dreaded

meeting, not only his landlady, but any one at all. He was crushed

by poverty, but the anxieties of his position had of late ceased to

weigh upon him. He had given up attending to matters of practical

importance; he had lost all desire to do so. Nothing that any landlady

could do had a real terror for him. But to be stopped on the stairs,

to be forced to listen to her trivial, irrelevant gossip, to pestering

demands for payment, threats and complaints, and to rack his brains

for excuses, to prevaricate, to lie- no, rather than that, he would

creep down the stairs like a cat and slip out unseen.

This evening, however, on coming out into the street, he became

acutely aware of his fears.

"I want to attempt a thing like that and am frightened by these

trifles," he thought, with an odd smile. "Hm... yes, all is in a man's

hands and he lets it all slip from cowardice, that's an axiom. It

would be interesting to know what it is men are most afraid of. Taking

a new step, uttering a new word is what they fear most.... But I am

talking too much. It's because I chatter that I do nothing. Or perhaps

it is that I chatter because I do nothing. I've learned to chatter

this last month, lying for days together in my den thinking... of Jack

the Giant-killer. Why am I going there now? Am I capable of that? Is

that serious? It is not serious at all. It's simply a fantasy to amuse

myself; a plaything! Yes, maybe it is a plaything."

The heat in the street was terrible: and the airlessness, the bustle

and the plaster, scaffolding, bricks, and dust all about him, and that

special Petersburg stench, so familiar to all who are unable to get

out of town in summer- all worked painfully upon the young man's

already overwrought nerves. The insufferable stench from the

pot-houses, which are particularly numerous in that part of the

town, and the drunken men whom he met continually, although it was a

working day, completed the revolting misery of the picture. An

expression of the profoundest disgust gleamed for a moment in the

young man's refined face. He was, by the way, exceptionally

handsome, above the average in height, slim, well-built, with

beautiful dark eyes and dark brown hair. Soon he sank into deep

thought, or more accurately speaking into a complete blankness of

mind; he walked along not observing what was about him and not

caring to observe it. From time to time, he would mutter something,

from the habit of talking to himself, to which he had just

confessed. At these moments he would become conscious that his ideas

were sometimes in a tangle and that he was very weak; for two days

he had scarcely tasted food.

He was so badly dressed that even a man accustomed to shabbiness

would have been ashamed to be seen in the street in such rags. In that

quarter of the town, however, scarcely any shortcoming in dress

would have created surprise. Owing to the proximity of the Hay Market,

the number of establishments of bad character, the preponderance of

the trading and working class population crowded in these streets

and alleys in the heart of Petersburg, types so various were to be

seen in the streets that no figure, however queer, would have caused

surprise. But there was such accumulated bitterness and contempt in

the young man's heart, that, in spite of all the fastidiousness of

youth, he minded his rags least of all in the street. It was a

different matter when he met with acquaintances or with former

fellow students, whom, indeed, he disliked meeting at any time. And

yet when a drunken man who, for some unknown reason, was being taken

somewhere in a huge waggon dragged by a heavy dray horse, suddenly

shouted at him as he drove past: "Hey there, German hatter" bawling at

the top of his voice and pointing at him- the young man stopped

suddenly and clutched tremulously at his hat. It was a tall round

hat from Zimmerman's, but completely worn out, rusty with age, all

torn and bespattered, brimless and bent on one side in a most unseemly

fashion. Not shame, however, but quite another feeling akin to

terror had overtaken him.

"I knew it," he muttered in confusion, "I thought so! That's the

worst of all! Why, a stupid thing like this, the most trivial detail

might spoil the whole plan. Yes, my hat is too noticeable.... It looks

absurd and that makes it noticeable.... With my rags I ought to wear a

cap, any sort of old pancake, but not this grotesque thing. Nobody

wears such a hat, it would be noticed a mile off, it would be

remembered.... What matters is that people would remember it, and that

would give them a clue. For this business one should be as little

conspicuous as possible.... Trifles, trifles are what matter! Why,

it's just such trifles that always ruin everything...."

He had not far to go; he knew indeed how many steps it was from

the gate of his lodging house: exactly seven hundred and thirty. He

had counted them once when he had been lost in dreams. At the time

he had put no faith in those dreams and was only tantalising himself

by their hideous but daring recklessness. Now, a month later, he had

begun to look upon them differently, and, in spite of the monologues

in which he jeered at his own impotence and indecision, he had

involuntarily come to regard this "hideous" dream as an exploit to

be attempted, although he still did not realise this himself. He was

positively going now for a "rehearsal" of his project, and at every

step his excitement grew more and more violent.

With a sinking heart and a nervous tremor, he went up to a huge

house which on one side looked on to the canal, and on the other

into the street. This house was let out in tiny tenements and was

inhabited by working people of all kinds- tailors, locksmiths,

cooks, Germans of sorts, girls picking up a living as best they could,

petty clerks, &c. There was a continual coming and going through the

two gates and in the two courtyards of the house. Three or four

door-keepers were employed on the building. The young man was very

glad to meet none of them, and at once slipped unnoticed through the

door on the right, and up the staircase. It was a back staircase, dark

and narrow, but he was familiar with it already, and knew his way, and

he liked all these surroundings: in such darkness even the most

inquisitive eyes were not to be dreaded.

"If I am so scared now, what would it be if it somehow came to

pass that I were really going to do it?" he could not help asking

himself as he reached the fourth storey. There his progress was barred

by some porters who were engaged in moving furniture out of a flat. He

knew that the flat had been occupied by a German clerk in the civil

service, and his family. This German was moving out then, and so the

fourth floor on this staircase would be untenanted except by the old

woman. "That's a good thing anyway," he thought to himself, as he rang

the bell of the old woman's flat. The bell gave a faint tinkle as

though it were made of tin and not of copper. The little flats in such

houses always have bells that ring like that. He had forgotten the

note of that bell, and now its peculiar tinkle seemed to remind him of

something and to bring it clearly before him.... He started, his

nerves were terribly overstrained by now. In a little while, the

door was opened a tiny crack: the old woman eyed her visitor with

evident distrust through the crack, and nothing could be seen but

her little eyes, glittering in the darkness. But, seeing a number of

people on the landing, she grew bolder, and opened the door wide.

The young man stepped into the dark entry, which was partitioned off

from the tiny kitchen. The old woman stood facing him in silence and

looking inquiringly at him. She was a diminutive, withered up old

woman of sixty, with sharp malignant eyes and a sharp little nose. Her

colourless, somewhat grizzled hair was thickly smeared with oil, and

she wore no kerchief over it. Round her thin long neck, which looked

like a hen's leg, was knotted some sort of flannel rag, and, in

spite of the heat, there hung flapping on her shoulders, a mangy fur

cape, yellow with age. The old woman coughed and groaned at every

instant. The young man must have looked at her with a rather

peculiar expression, for a gleam of mistrust came into her eyes again.

"Raskolnikov, a student, I came here a month ago," the young man

made haste to mutter, with a half bow, remembering that he ought to be

more polite.

"I remember, my good sir, I remember quite well your coming here,"

the old woman said distinctly, still keeping her inquiring eyes on his


"And here... I am again on the same errand," Raskolnikov

continued, a little disconcerted and surprised at the old woman's

mistrust. "Perhaps she is always like that though, only I did not

notice it the other time," he thought with an uneasy feeling.

The old woman paused, as though hesitating; then stepped on one

side, and pointing to the door of the room, she said, letting her

visitor pass in front of her:

"Step in, my good sir."

The little room into which the young man walked, with yellow paper

on the walls, geraniums and muslin curtains in the windows, was

brightly lighted up at that moment by the setting sun.

"So the sun will shine like this then too!" flashed as it were by

chance through Raskolnikov's mind, and with a rapid glance he

scanned everything in the room, trying as far as possible to notice

and remember its arrangement. But there was nothing special in the

room. The furniture, all very old and of yellow wood, consisted of a

sofa with a huge bent wooden back, an oval table in front of the sofa,

a dressing-table with a looking-glass fixed on it between the windows,

chairs along the walls and two or three half-penny prints in yellow

frames, representing German damsels with birds in their hands- that

was all. In the corner a light was burning before a small ikon.

Everything was very clean; the floor and the furniture were brightly

polished; everything shone.

"Lizaveta's work," thought the young man. There was not a speck of

dust to be seen in the whole flat.

"It's in the houses of spiteful old widows that one finds such

cleanliness," Raskolnikov thought again, and he stole a curious glance

at the cotton curtain over the door leading into another tiny room, in

which stood the old woman's bed and chest of drawers and into which he

had never looked before. These two rooms made up the whole flat.

"What do you want?" the old woman said severely, coming into the

room and, as before, standing in front of him so as to look him

straight in the face.

"I've brought something to pawn here," and he drew out of his pocket

an old-fashioned flat silver watch, on the back of which was

engraved a globe; the chain was of steel.

"But the time is up for your last pledge. The month was up the day

before yesterday."

"I will bring you the interest for another month; wait a little."

"But that's for me to do as I please, my good sir, to wait or to

sell your pledge at once."

"How much will you give me for the watch, Alyona Ivanovna?"

"You come with such trifles, my good sir, it's scarcely worth

anything. I gave you two roubles last time for your ring and one could

buy it quite new at a jeweler's for a rouble and a half."

"Give me four roubles for it, I shall redeem it, it was my father's.

I shall be getting some money soon."

"A rouble and a half, and interest in advance, if you like!"

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

"Please yourself"- and the old woman handed him back the watch.

The young man took it, and was so angry that he was on the point of

going away; but checked himself at once, remembering that there was

nowhere else he could go, and that he had had another object also in


"Hand it over," he said roughly.

The old woman fumbled in her pocket for her keys, and disappeared

behind the curtain into the other room. The young man, left standing

alone in the middle of the room, listened inquisitively, thinking.

He could hear her unlocking the chest of drawers.

"It must be the top drawer," he reflected. "So she carries the

keys in a pocket on the right. All in one bunch on a steel ring....

And there's one key there, three times as big as all the others,

with deep notches; that can't be the key of the chest of drawers...

then there must be some other chest or strong-box... that's worth

knowing. Strong-boxes always have keys like that... but how

degrading it all is."

The old woman came back.

"Here, sir: as we say ten copecks the rouble a month, so I must take

fifteen copecks from a rouble and a half for the month in advance. But

for the two roubles I lent you before, you owe me now twenty copecks

on the same reckoning in advance. That makes thirty-five copecks

altogether. So I must give you a rouble and fifteen copecks for the

watch. Here it is."

"What! only a rouble and fifteen copecks now!"

"Just so."

The young man did not dispute it and took the money. He looked at

the old woman, and was in no hurry to get away, as though there was

still something he wanted to say or to do, but he did not himself

quite know what.

"I may be bringing you something else in a day or two, Alyona

Ivanovna- a valuable thing- silver- a cigarette box, as soon as I

get it back from a friend..." he broke off in confusion.

"Well, we will talk about it then, sir."

"Good-bye- are you always at home alone, your sister is not here

with you?" He asked her as casually as possible as he went out into

the passage.

"What business is she of yours, my good sir?"

"Oh, nothing particular, I simply asked. You are too quick....

Good-day, Alyona Ivanovna."

Raskolnikov went out in complete confusion. This confusion became

more and more intense. As he went down the stairs, he even stopped

short, two or three times, as though suddenly struck by some

thought. When he was in the street he cried out, "Oh, God, how

loathsome it all is! and can I, can I possibly.... No, it's

nonsense, it's rubbish!" he added resolutely. "And how could such an

atrocious thing come into my head? What filthy things my heart is

capable of. Yes, filthy above all, disgusting, loathsome,

loathsome!- and for a whole month I've been...." But no words, no

exclamations, could express his agitation. The feeling of intense

repulsion, which had begun to oppress and torture his heart while he

was on his way to the old woman, had by now reached such a pitch and

had taken such a definite form that he did not know what to do with

himself to escape from his wretchedness. He walked along the

pavement like a drunken man, regardless of the passers-by, and

jostling against them, and only came to his senses when he was in

the next street. Looking round, he noticed that he was standing

close to a tavern which was entered by steps leading from the pavement

to the basement. At that instant two drunken men came out at the door,

and abusing and supporting one another, they mounted the steps.

Without stopping to think, Raskolnikov went down the steps at once.

Till that moment he had never been into a tavern, but now he felt

giddy and was tormented by a burning thirst. He longed for a drink

of cold beer, and attributed his sudden weakness to the want of

food. He sat down at a sticky little table in a dark and dirty corner;

ordered some beer, and eagerly drank off the first glassful. At once

he felt easier; and his thoughts became clear.

"All that's nonsense," he said hopefully, "and there is nothing in

it all to worry about! It's simply physical derangement. Just a

glass of beer, a piece of dry bread- and in one moment the brain is

stronger, the mind is clearer and the will is firm! Phew, how

utterly petty it all is!"

But in spite of this scornful reflection, he was by now looking

cheerful as though he were suddenly set free from a terrible burden:

and he gazed round in a friendly way at the people in the room. But

even at that moment he had a dim foreboding that this happier frame of

mind was also not normal.

There were few people at the time in the tavern. Besides the two

drunken men he had met on the steps, a group consisting of about

five men and a girl with a concertina had gone out at the same time.

Their departure left the room quiet and rather empty. The persons

still in the tavern were a man who appeared to be an artisan, drunk,

but not extremely so, sitting before a pot of beer, and his companion,

a huge, stout man with a grey beard, in a short full-skirted coat.

He was very drunk: and had dropped asleep on the bench; every now

and then, he began as though in his sleep, cracking his fingers,

with his arms wide apart and the upper part of his body bounding about

on the bench, while he hummed some meaningless refrain, trying to

recall some such lines as these:


"His wife a year he fondly loved

His wife a- a year he- fondly loved."


Or suddenly waking up again:


"Walking along the crowded row

He met the one he used to know."


But no one shared his enjoyment: his silent companion looked with

positive hostility and mistrust at all these manifestations. There was

another man in the room who looked somewhat like a retired

government clerk. He was sitting apart, now and then sipping from

his pot and looking round at the company. He, too, appeared to be in

some agitation.

Ce qu'on fait n'est jamais compris mais seulement loué ou blâmé. Nietzsche, Gay Science

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