Part 1 · Chapter 1

On a seriously hot evening in early July, a young guy came out of his tiny apartment - basically a glorified closet - on S. Place and walked slowly, like he was debating something, towards K. bridge.

He’d managed to dodge his landlady on the stairs. His apartment was way up under the roof of a tall, five-story building and felt more like a cupboard than a room.

The landlady, who provided him with a place to live, dinners, and help around the place, lived on the floor below, and every time he left, he had to pass her kitchen, which was always open. Every time, this young man felt a sick, scared feeling that made him frown and feel embarrassed.

He owed his landlady a ton of money and was terrified of running into her.

It wasn’t that he was a coward - actually, quite the opposite. But he’d been super stressed and anxious lately, almost bordering on hypochondria. He’d become so wrapped up in himself and isolated from everyone else that he dreaded meeting, not just his landlady, but anyone at all.

He was broke, but the worries of his situation had kind of stopped weighing on him. He’d given up caring about practical stuff; he’s lost any desire to deal with it. Nothing his landlady could do really scared him.

But being stopped on the stairs, forced to listen to her pointless gossip, annoying demands for payment, threats, and complaints, and having to come up with excuses, to lie - no way, he'd rather sneak down the stairs like a ninja and slip out without being seen.

Tonight, though, stepping outside, he suddenly felt really aware of his fears.

"I want to do something like that, and I’m freaked out by these little things," he thought with a weird smile.

"Seriously... it’s all in a person’s hands, and they let it all slip away because they’re scared - that's a fact. It would be interesting to know what people are most afraid of. Taking a new step, saying a new word - that’s what they fear most... But I’m talking too much."

I chat because I do nothing. Or maybe I chat because I do nothing. I’ve learned to talk a lot this last month, lying in my room for days thinking... about Jack the Giant-killer. Why am I even going there now? Am I capable of it? Is this even a big deal? Nah, it’s nothing.

"Just a fantasy to mess around with; a distraction! Yeah, maybe it’s just a game."

The heat in the street was insane: and the stuffy air, the construction, the bricks and dust everywhere, and that special Petersburg smell - you know, that familiar stench if you’re stuck in town during the summer - really messed with the young man’s already frazzled nerves.

The awful smell coming from the bars, which were super common in that part of town, and the drunk guys he kept running into, even though it was a workday, just added to the revolting scene. A look of pure disgust flashed across the young man’s handsome face.

He was, by the way, really good-looking - taller than average, slim, well-built, with beautiful dark eyes and dark brown hair. Soon he got lost in deep thought, or more accurately, his mind went completely blank; he walked along without noticing what was around him and didn’t really care.

From time to time, he’s mutter something to himself, a habit he's just admitted. At those moments he realized his thoughts were sometimes jumbled up and that he was really weak; he’s barely eaten anything for two days.

He looked seriously rough - even someone used to seeing people dressed down would’ve cringed at his rags. But around here, nobody really noticed what people wore.

The Hay Market was nearby, plus there were tons of shady businesses and a whole bunch of working-class folks crammed into these streets and alleys in the heart of Petersburg. You saw every type imaginable, so a weird look wouldn’t raise an eyebrow.

But this young guy’s heart was filled with so much bitterness and disgust that, despite being young and caring about appearances, he barely even registered his own worn-out clothes. It was a different story when he ran into people he knew or old classmates - he generally avoided them anyway.

But then a drunk guy, being hauled around in a huge wagon pulled by a massive draft horse, suddenly yelled at him as they passed: "Hey, German hatter!" screaming at the top of his lungs and pointing. The young guy stopped dead in his tracks, clutching his hat nervously.

It was a tall, round hat from Zimmerman’s, but totally beat-up, rusty, torn, and covered in stains, with a brim that was bent and missing on one side. It wasn't shame he felt, but something closer to pure terror.

"I knew it," he muttered, sounding confused.

"I thought so! That’s the worst! A stupid thing like this, a tiny detail could ruin the whole plan. Yeah, my hat is too obvious... It looks ridiculous, and that makes it obvious... With my rags, I should wear a cap, any old thing, but not this crazy thing."

Nobody wears hats like that, it’s gonna be noticed a mile away, people will remember it... What matters is that people will remember it, and that’s gonna give them a clue. For this, you gotta be as low-key as possible... Trifles, trifles are what matter!

"It’s always the little things that screw everything up..."

He didn't have far to go; he knew exactly how many steps it was from the gate of his place: exactly seven hundred and thirty. He’d counted them once when he was daydreaming. Back then, he’d dismissed those dreams as pointless and just teasing himself with their wild, reckless vibe.

Now, a month later, he was starting to see them differently, and, despite all the times he’d mocked his own lack of confidence and indecisiveness, he’d subconsciously started to view this "hideous" dream as something he should try, even though he hadn’t fully realized it himself.

He was heading out for a "practice run" of his plan now, and with every step, his excitement grew more intense.

With a sinking feeling and a nervous tremble, he approached a huge house that faced both a canal and a street.

The place was divided into tiny apartments and was packed with all kinds of working people - tailors, locksmiths, cooks, German immigrants, girls trying to make a living, low-level clerks, and so on. There was constant activity through the two gates and in the two courtyards of the building.

Three or four doorkeepers were employed there. He was relieved to avoid them and quietly slipped through the door on the right, heading up the staircase.

It was a back staircase, dark and narrow, but he knew it well and knew his way around, and he liked the atmosphere - in that kind of darkness, even the most curious eyes were nothing to worry about.

"If I’m this freaked out now, what would it be if I actually went through with it?" he kept asking himself as he reached the fourth floor.

There, his way was blocked by some movers who were hauling furniture out of an apartment. He knew that a German government worker and his family had lived there, and they were moving out now, so the fourth floor on this staircase would be empty except for the old woman.

"That’s good, I guess," he thought, as he rang the bell of the old woman’s apartment.

The bell gave a faint, tinny ring - not the solid copper sound you’d expect. Those little apartments in buildings like this always had bells that sounded like that.

He’s forgotten what that bell sounded like, and now its weird tinkle felt like a reminder of something, bringing it sharply into focus... He jumped, his nerves were totally shot by now.

After a bit, the door opened a tiny crack: the old woman peered at her visitor with obvious suspicion through the crack, and all you could see were her little eyes, gleaming in the dim light. But, seeing a bunch of people on the landing, she got bolder and opened the door wide.

The young man stepped into the dark entryway, which was separated from the tiny kitchen. The old woman stood facing him in silence, looking at him with a questioning look. She was a small, shriveled-up old woman of sixty, with sharp, mean eyes and a sharp little nose.

Her colorless, streaked hair was thickly coated with oil, and she wore no scarf over it. Around her thin, long neck, which looked like a chicken leg, was knotted some kind of flannel rag, and, even though it was hot, there was a matted, yellowed fur cape flapping on her shoulders.

The old woman coughed and groaned constantly. The young man must have looked at her with a pretty strange expression, because a flash of mistrust came into her eyes again.

"Raskolnikov, a student, I came here a month ago," the young man quickly muttered, with a half bow, remembering that he should be more polite.

"I remember, my good sir, I remember quite well your coming here," the old woman said clearly, still keeping her questioning eyes on his face.

"And here... I’m here again for the same reason," Raskolnikov continued, a little thrown off and surprised by the old woman’s mistrust.

"Maybe she’s always like that, I just didn’t notice it last time," he thought with an uneasy feeling.

The old woman paused, as if hesitating; then stepped aside, and pointing to the door of the room, she said, letting her visitor pass in front of her:

"Come in, my good sir."

The small room the young man walked into, with yellow wallpaper on the walls, geraniums and muslin curtains in the windows, was brightly lit up at that moment by the setting sun.

"So the sun will shine like this too!" flashed through Raskolnikov’s mind like a random thought, and with a quick scan he looked around the room, trying to notice and remember everything.

But there was nothing special about the room.

The furniture, all very old and made 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 mirror fixed between the windows, chairs along the walls, and two or three cheap prints in yellow frames, showing German girls holding birds - that was it.

In the corner a light was burning before a small religious icon. Everything was very clean; the floor and the furniture were brightly polished; everything gleamed.

"Lizaveta’s work," thought the young man.

There wasn’t a speck of dust to be seen in the whole apartment.

"You find the cleanest places in the houses of grumpy old widows," Raskolnikov thought again, and he took a quick look at the cotton curtain over the door leading into another tiny room, where the old woman’s bed and dresser were - a room he’s never even peeked into before.

Those two rooms were the whole apartment.

"What do you want?" the old woman snapped, coming into the room and, like before, standing right in front of him so she could stare him down.

"I’ve got something to pawn," and he pulled an old-school silver watch out of his pocket.

It had a globe engraved on the back, and the chain was steel.

"But you’re already overdue on your last pledge. The month was up the day before yesterday."

"I’ll bring you the interest for another month; just wait a bit."

"That’s my choice to make, pal, to wait or sell your pledge right away."

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

"You come with such junk, it’s barely worth anything. I gave you two rubles for your ring last time, and you could buy it brand new at a jeweler’s for a ruble and a half."

"Give me four rubles for it; I’ll get it back, it was my dad’s. I’ll have some money soon."

"A ruble and a half, plus interest upfront, if you want!"

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

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

The young man took it, and he was so mad he almost walked out; but he stopped himself, remembering he had nowhere else to go and he had another reason for coming.

"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 intently, thinking. He could hear her unlocking the dresser.

"It’s gotta be the top drawer," he thought.

"So she keeps the keys in a pocket on the right. All on a steel ring... And there’s one key there, three times bigger than all the others, with deep notches; that can’t be the dresser key... then there must be another chest or safe... that’s worth knowing."

"Safes always have keys like that... but how degrading it all is."

The old woman came back.

"Here, sir: we charge ten copecks a ruble a month, so I have to take fifteen copecks from a ruble and a half for the month upfront. But for the two rubles I lent you before, you owe me twenty copecks on the same basis upfront. That makes thirty-five copecks altogether."

"So I’m giving you a ruble and fifteen copecks for the watch. Here it is."

"What! only a ruble and fifteen copecks now?"

"That’s right." The young man didn’t argue and took the money.

He looked at the old woman, and he wasn’t in a hurry to leave, like he had something else to say or do, but he wasn’t sure what it was.

"I might be bringing you something else in a day or two, Alyona Ivanovna - something valuable - silver - a cigarette box, as soon as I get it back from a friend..." he trailed off, flustered.

"We’ll talk about it then, sir."

"Bye... oh yes... are you always home alone? Is your sister not here with you?" He asked her as casually as possible as he headed into the hallway.

"What’s she to you, pal?"

"Oh, nothing much, I just asked. You’re too quick... Have a good day, Alyona Ivanovna."

"Raskolnikov stumbled out, totally lost. The confusion just kept building. As he headed down the stairs, he even stopped a couple of times, like a thought had suddenly hit him hard. Once he was on the street, he blurted out, "Ugh, God, this is awful! And could I, could I actually...?

"Nah, it's ridiculous, total garbage!" he added, trying to sound tough.

"And how did something like that even pop into my head? What kind of messed-up stuff my heart is capable of. Yeah, seriously messed up, disgusting, gross, totally gross! - and for a whole month I’ve been..."

But no words, no shouts, could show how stressed he was. The feeling of intense disgust that had started to crush and torture his heart on his way to the old woman had gotten so intense and felt so real that he didn’t know what to do to escape his misery.

He walked along the sidewalk like he was wasted, not caring about the people passing by, bumping into them. He only snapped back to reality when he reached the next street. Looking around, he realized he was standing near a bar with steps leading down to the basement from the sidewalk.

Just then, two drunk guys came out the door, slurring and supporting each other as they climbed the steps. Without thinking, Raskolnikov headed down the steps. He’d never been in a bar before, but now he felt dizzy and was burning with thirst.

He craved a cold beer, blaming his sudden weakness on being hungry. He sat down at a sticky little table in a dark, dirty corner, ordered a beer, and eagerly chugged the first glass. Suddenly, he felt better; and his thoughts became clearer.

"That’s all nonsense," he said, sounding hopeful, "and there’s nothing to worry about! It’s just a physical thing. Just a beer, a piece of dry bread - and boom, your brain’s stronger, your mind’s clearer, and your will is solid! Whew, how totally minor it all is!"

But even though he was making fun of it, he was now looking cheerful, like he’d suddenly been freed from a huge weight. He glanced around the room in a friendly way at the people there. But even then, he had a weird feeling that this happier mood wasn’t normal.

There weren’t many people in the bar at the time. Besides the two drunk guys he’d met on the steps, a group of about five guys and a girl with a concertina had left together. Their leaving made the room quiet and kind of empty.

The other people still in the bar were a guy who looked like a craftsman, drunk but not totally wasted, sitting in front of a pot of beer, and his buddy, a huge, stout man with a grey beard, wearing a short, full-skirted coat. He was seriously drunk and had fallen asleep on the bench.

Every now and then, he’d start, as if in his sleep, cracking his fingers, stretching his arms wide, and bouncing his upper body on the bench, humming some random tune, trying to remember something like this:

"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 was enjoying it with him; his silent companion looked with suspicion and distrust at all these movements. There was another man in the room who looked like a retired government worker. He was sitting apart, now and then taking a sip from his pot and looking around at the people there.

He, too, seemed agitated.