“Raskolnikov, a student, I was here a month ago,” the young man hastened to mutter with a half bow, recalling that he should be more courteous.
“I remember, dearie, I remember very well that you were,” the old woman said distinctly, still without taking her inquiring eyes from his face.
“And so again, ma'am...on the same little business . . .” Raskolnikov continued, a bit disconcerted and surprised by the old crone's mistrust.
“Though maybe she's always like that, and I didn't notice it last time,” he thought, with an unpleasant feeling.
The old crone was silent for a moment, as if hesitating; then she stepped aside and, pointing towards the door to the room, allowed the visitor to go ahead, saying:
“Come in, dearie.”
The small room into which the young man walked, with yellow wallpaper, geraniums and muslin curtains in the windows, was at that moment brightly lit by the setting sun. “So the sun will be shining the same way then! ... ” flashed as if haphazardly through Raskolnikov's mind, and with a quick glance he took in everything in the room, in order to study and remember the layout as well as possible. But there was nothing special in the room. The furniture, all very old and of yellow wood, consisted of a sofa with a huge, curved wooden back, a round table of an oval shape in front of the sofa, a dressing table with a mirror between the windows, chairs against the walls, and two or three halfpenny prints in yellow frames portraying German damsels with birds in their hands—that was all the furniture there was. In the corner, an oil lamp was burning in front of a small icon. Everything was very clean: both furniture and floor were polished to a high lustre; everything shone. “Lizaveta's work,” the young man thought. There was not a Speck of dust to be found in the whole apartment. “It's wicked old widows who keep everything so clean,” Raskolnikov continued to himself, and he cast a curious sidelong glance at the cotton curtain hanging in the doorway to the second tiny room, where the old woman's bed and chest of drawers stood, and where he had not yet peeked even once. The whole apartment consisted of these two rooms.
“What's your business?” the little old woman said sternly, coming into the room and, as before, standing directly in front of him, so as to look him directly in the face.
“I've brought something to pawn; here, ma'am!” And he took an old, flat silver watch from his pocket. A globe was engraved on its back. The chain was of steel.
“But the time is up for your last pledge. It was a month to the day before yesterday.”
“I'll give you interest for another month; be patient.”
“That's as I please, dearie, whether I'll be patient or sell your thing right now.”
“How much will you give for the watch, Alyona Ivanovna?”
“You bring me trifles, dearie, in my opinion it's not worth anything. Last time I gave you two roubles for your ring, and you could buy one new from a jeweler for a rouble and a half.”
“Give me four roubles anyway—I'll redeem it, it's my father's. I'll be getting money soon.”
“A rouble and a half, sir, and interest paid in advance, if you like, sir.”
“A rouble and a half!” the young man exclaimed.
“As you please.” And the old crone held the watch out to him. The young man took it and became so angry that he wanted simply to leave; but he at once thought better of it, remembering that there was nowhere else to go and that he had also come for another reason.
“I'll take it!” he said rudely.
The old crone felt in her pocket for her keys and went into the other room behind the curtain. The young man, left alone in the middle of the room, was listening with curiosity and figuring things out. She could be heard opening the chest of drawers. “Must be the top drawer,” he figured. “So she carries the keys in her right pocket...All in one bunch on a steel ring...And there's one key, the biggest of them, three times bigger, with a toothed bit, certainly not for a drawer...It means there's also some coffer, or a trunk...Now that's curious. Trunks always have keys like that...But how mean this all is . . .”
The old crone came back.
“Here you are, dearie: if it's ten kopecks to the rouble per month, you'll owe me fifteen kopecks on a rouble and a half for the month to come, sir. And you also owe me twenty kopecks by the same reckoning for the previous two roubles. That makes thirty-five altogether. I now owe you altogether one rouble and fifteen kopecks for your watch. Here, take it, sir.”
“What! So now it's one rouble and fifteen kopecks!”
“Right you are, sir.”
The young man did not argue and took the money. He looked at the old woman and made no move to leave, as if he still wanted to say or do something, but he himself did not seem to know precisely what . . .
“One of these days, Alyona Ivanovna, I may bring you yet another thing...silver...nice...a cigarette case...once I get it back from a friend of mine...” He became confused and fell silent.
“So, we'll talk then, dearie.”
“Good-bye, ma'am...And you stay at home alone like this, your sister's not here?” he asked as casually as he could, walking out to the entryway.
“What business do you have with her, dearie?”
“Nothing special. I just asked. And right away you...Good-bye, Alyona Ivanovna!”
Raskolnikov went out decidedly troubled. This trouble kept increasing more and more. On his way down the stairs he even stopped several times, as if suddenly struck by something. And finally, already in the street, he exclaimed:
“Oh, God, how loathsome this all is! And can it be, can it be that I...no, it's nonsense, it's absurd!” he added resolutely. “Could such horror really come into my head? But then, what filth my heart is capable of! ... Above all, filthy, nasty, vile, vile! . .. And for the whole month I . . .”
But neither words nor exclamations could express his agitation. The feeling of boundless loathing that had begun to oppress and sicken his heart while he was still only on his way to the old woman now reached such proportions and became so clearly manifest that he did not know where to flee from his anguish. He went down the sidewalk like a drunk man, not noticing the passers-by and running into them, and was in the next street before he came to his senses. Looking around, he noticed that he was standing by a tavern, the entrance to which was downstairs from the sidewalk, in the basement. At that same moment two drunks came walking out the door and, supporting and cursing each other, climbed up to the street. Without another thought, Raskolnikov immediately went down the stairs. He had never gone into taverns before, but his head was spinning now, and besides he was tormented by a burning thirst. He wanted to drink some cold beer, all the more so in that he attributed his sudden weakness to hunger. He sat down in a dark and dirty corner, at a sticky little table, asked for beer, and greedily drank the first glass. He immediately felt all relieved, and his thoughts became clear. “It's all nonsense,” he said hopefully, “and there was nothing to be troubled about! Just some physical disorder! One glass of beer, a piece of dry bread, and see—in an instant the mind gets stronger, the thoughts clearer, the intentions firmer! Pah, how paltry it all is! ... ” But in spite of this scornful spitting, he already looked cheerful, as if he had freed himself all at once of some terrible burden, and cast an amiable glance around at the people there. Yet even at that moment he had a distant foreboding that all this receptiveness to the good was also morbid.