Crime and Punishment (6 page)

The List of Characters that follows contains the full and alternative names of all the novel's protagonists, as well as those of the most prominent secondary and episodic characters.

All Russians have three names – a first name, a patronymic and a surname. Thus: Rodion Romanovich Raskolnikov or Marfa Petrovna Svidrigailova. The patronymic is the father's given name with the ending -ovich or -evich for men, and -ovna or -evna for women.

Russian knows three main modes of address, in descending order of formality: by honorific and surname (Mr Raskolnikov), by first name and patronymic (Rodion Romanovich) and by first name alone. First names and patronymics are routinely shortened or softened in spoken Russian to suggest greater familiarity and affection: thus Rodion may become Rodya or Rodka, and Romanovich may become Romanych. Confusingly for the foreign reader, some diminutive forms of given names are quite distant from the original: Raskolnikov's sister, for example, who bears the proud and formal-sounding name Avdotya, is most commonly referred to in the text as Dunya and Dunechka.

Sudden shifts to the use of the affectionate forms of given names are typical of Dostoyevsky's style and are preserved in translation. It is not just the characters who shift freely and meaningfully between these modes, but the narrator himself, who thereby subtly registers his apparent sympathies and antipathies. A few characters, such as Svidrigailov, are most commonly mentioned by surname alone, thereby creating a sense of distance and perhaps mystery. More common in the stiflingly close-knit world of
Crime and Punishment
is the use of first name and patronymic. Indeed one central character, the investigator Porfiry Petrovich, who declares himself opposed to formality on principle, is given no surname at all; nor is the pawnbroker, Alyona Ivanovna.

Like Gogol before him, Dostoyevsky makes great play of ‘speaking names' (such as Marmeladov) for various purposes, notably irony and humour. The possible referents of some surnames are explained in the list that follows. Further comments on names are included in the Notes.

Characters referred to most often by their surnames

(stressed vowels are underlined)

Lebez
ya
tnikov, Andr
ei
Sem
yo
novich
: Neighbour of the Marmeladovs and a ‘young friend' of Luzhin. Works ‘in one of the ministries'. The Russian verb
lebezit'
means ‘to fawn'.

L
u
zhin, P
yo
tr Petr
o
vich
: A middle-aged ‘man of business' recently arrived from the provinces to work as a lawyer in St Petersburg.
Luzha
: puddle or pool.

Marmel
a
dov, Sem
yo
n Zakh
a
rovich
: Married to Katerina Ivanovna. Father of Sonya from his first marriage. A failed civil servant.
Marmelad
: fruit jelly, from the French
marmelade
.

Rask
o
lnikov, Rodi
o
n (R
o
dka, R
o
dya) Rom
a
novich
: The twenty-three-year-old hero, who has recently dropped out of university.
Raskolot'
: to cleave, split, chop, break.
Raskol
: a split or schism, especially in reference to the Schism within Russian Orthodoxy in the seventeenth century, though with broader metaphorical application;
raskolnik
: religious schismatic, dissenter. Raskolnikov's first name and, in particular, its associated diminutive forms (Rodya, Rodka) point to the family theme:
rod
, meaning ‘family, kin, origin'.

Razum
i
khin, Dm
i
try Prok
o
fyevich
: A friend of Raskolnikov's from university.
Razum
: reason, intellect.

Svidrig
a
ilov, Ark
a
dy Iv
a
novich
: A nobleman and country gentleman with a disreputable past.

Zam
e
tov, Alex
a
nder Grig
o
ryevich
: Head clerk at the police bureau. A friend of Razumikhin.
Zametit'
: to notice, observe.

Zos
i
mov (only surname given)
: Doctor. Friend of Razumikhin.

Characters referred to most often (or always) by first name and patronymic

Al
yo
na Iv
a
novna
: Ageing, widowed pawnbroker.

Am
a
lia Iv
a
novna L
i
ppewechsel
: The Marmeladovs' (and Lebezyatnikov's) landlady.

Avd
o
tya (D
u
nechka, D
u
nya) Rom
a
novna Rask
o
lnikova
: Raskolnikov's sister. Worked as a governess in the country for the Svidrigailovs.

Il
ya
Petr
o
vich (‘Powder Keg')
: Assistant to the district superintendent Nikodim Fomich at the police bureau. Lieutenant.

Kater
i
na Iv
a
novna Marmel
a
dova
: Married to Marmeladov. Mother from her first marriage of two girls, Pol
i
na (P
o
lya, P
o
lechka, P
o
lenka) and L
e
nya (first mentioned as L
i
da/L
i
dochka), and a boy, K
o
lya (the common diminutive of N
i
kol
ai
).

Lizaveta
: Alyona Ivanovna's younger half-sister. Mends and sells clothes. Friend of Sonya.

Lu
i
za (Lav
i
za) Iv
a
novna
: A madam well known to the local police.

M
a
rfa Petr
o
vna Svidrig
ai
lova
: The recently deceased wife of Svidrigailov, whom she saved from ruin. Distantly related to Luzhin.

Mikol
ai
(Mik
o
lka) Dem
e
ntyev
: A young man of peasant background, from the province of Ryazan, who decorates apartments in Petersburg. Mikolka is also the name of the peasant in Raskolnikov's dream in Part One, Chapter V. Mikolai is a fairly rare derivative of Nikolai, which is also used in the original but is avoided here in order to spare the English reader further confusion.

Nast
a
sya (N
a
styenka, Nast
a
syushka)
: A country girl who now works as a cook and maid in the house where Raskolnikov lives. A diminutive form of Anastasiya. Like Sofya (see below), Anastasiya also has a strong spiritual meaning derived from Greek: resurrection.

Nikod
i
m Fom
i
ch
: District superintendent at the police bureau. Captain.

Porf
i
ry Petr
o
vich
: Chief investigator. Distant relative of Razumikhin.

Prask
o
vya P
a
vlovna Zarn
i
tsyna (P
a
shenka)
: Raskolnikov's widowed landlady.

Pulkh
e
ria Alex
a
ndrovna Rask
o
lnikova
: Raskolnikov's widowed mother.

S
o
nya (S
o
nechka) Sem
yo
novna
: Marmeladov's daughter and Katerina Ivanovna's stepdaughter. A prostitute. Though usually referred to as Sonya, the full form of her first name Sofya (Sophia: divine wisdom) is clearly significant.

In early July, in exceptional heat, towards evening, a young man left the garret he was renting in S——y Lane, stepped outside, and slowly, as if in two minds, set off towards K——n Bridge.
1

He'd successfully avoided meeting his landlady on the stairs. His garret was right beneath the eaves of a tall, five-storey building and resembled a cupboard more than it did a room. His landlady – a tenant herself, who also provided him with dinner and a maid – occupied separate rooms on the floor below, and every time he went down he had no choice but to pass her kitchen, the door of which was nearly always wide open. And every time he passed it, the young man experienced a sickening, craven sensation that made him wince with shame. He owed his landlady a small fortune and he was scared of meeting her.

Not that he was really so very craven or browbeaten – far from it; but for some time now he'd been in an irritable, tense state of mind not unlike hypochondria.
2
He'd become so self-absorbed and so isolated that he feared meeting anyone, not just his landlady. He was being suffocated by poverty; yet lately even this had ceased to bother him. He'd entirely abandoned – and had no wish to resume – his most pressing tasks. And he couldn't really be scared of a mere landlady, whatever she might be plotting. But to stop on the stairs, to listen to her prattle on about everyday trivia that meant nothing to him, and pester him about payments, threaten and whine, while he had to squirm, apologize and lie – no, better to slink past like a cat and slip out unnoticed.

Still, as he stepped out into the street, even he was astonished by the terror that had overcome him just now at the thought of meeting his creditor.

‘Here I am planning to do a thing like that and I'm scared of the merest trifle!' he thought with a strange smile. ‘H'm . . . yes . . . man has the world in his hands, but he's such a coward that he can't even grab what's under his nose . . . an axiom if ever there was . . . Here's a question: what do people fear most? A new step, a new word
3
of their
own – that's what they fear most. But I'm talking too much. That's why I never do anything. Or maybe it's because I never do anything that I'm always talking. It's only this past month that I've learned to witter away like this, lying in my corner for days on end and thinking . . . about King Pea.
4
So why am I going there now? Am I really capable of
that
? Can
that
be serious? It's not serious at all. It's just a way of keeping myself amused, a flight of fancy, a toy! That's right, a toy!'

It was dreadfully hot, not to mention the closeness of the air, the crush of people, the mortar, scaffolding, bricks, dust, and that specific summer stench so familiar to any Petersburger too poor to rent a dacha – all this gave a nasty jolt to the young man's already rattled nerves. The unbearable stink from the drinking dens, of which there are so many in this part of town, and the drunks who kept crossing his path even though it was only a weekday, added the final touches to this sad and revolting scene. A feeling of deepest disgust flickered briefly across the young man's delicate features. He was, by the way, remarkably good-looking, with beautiful dark eyes and dark brown hair, taller than average, with a slim and elegant figure. But soon he seemed to sink deep in thought, or even, to be more precise, into a kind of trance, and he walked on without noticing his surroundings, nor indeed wishing to notice them. He merely muttered something to himself every now and then, a sign of the habit to which he'd just confessed. At such moments even he could see that his thoughts were prone to confusion and that he was extremely weak: he'd barely eaten a thing for the better part of two days.

He was so badly dressed that many a man, even one used to the life, would have been ashamed to be seen in such rags in the daytime. But then, this wasn't the sort of district where people were easily shocked. The proximity of the Haymarket, the profusion of notorious establishments, and the local residents, mainly craftsmen and workers, all crammed into these streets and lanes in the middle of town, often furnished the scene with such colourful characters that it would have been strange to be shocked, whoever you met. Anyway, the young man's soul had already stored up so much spite and scorn that, for all his sometimes childish touchiness, his rags were the last thing he was ashamed of in public. Running into certain acquaintances or former friends was a different matter – these were people he disliked meeting on principle . . . Yet when a drunk, who was being carried down the street heaven knows why or where, in an enormous empty cart pulled by an enormous dray
horse, suddenly shouted as he went by ‘Oi, you in the German hat!' and started yelling at the top of his voice and pointing at him, the young man stopped in his tracks and his hand leapt to his head. It was a top hat, a Zimmerman,
5
but badly worn and now rusty in colour, riddled with holes and covered in stains, brimless and knocked hideously out of shape. It wasn't shame, though, that overcame him, but a quite different feeling, more like alarm.

‘I knew it!' he muttered in his confusion. ‘I just knew it! How disgusting! This is just the sort of idiocy, just the sort of vulgar, petty little detail that can wreck the whole scheme! It's far too conspicuous, this hat . . . Comic, therefore conspicuous . . . These rags need a cap, some old pancake or other, not this monstrosity. Who wears hats like this? It'll be spotted a mile off and, above all, remembered . . . a clue if ever there was. This isn't the time to be conspicuous . . . It's the petty details that matter most! . . . The petty details that always ruin everything . . .'

He hadn't far to go; he even knew how many steps it was from the gates of his building: seven hundred and thirty. He'd counted them out once, letting his dreams run wild. At the time he still didn't believe in these dreams himself, and merely tormented himself with their hideous but alluring audacity. But now, a month later, he was beginning to see things differently, and for all his taunting soliloquies about his own weakness and indecision he had somehow, without even meaning to, grown used to perceiving his ‘hideous' dream as an actual venture, while still not believing his own intentions. Now, he was even on his way to carry out a
test
of his venture, and his excitement grew with each step.

Shaking with nerves, his heart in his mouth, he approached a massive great building which faced the Ditch on one side and ——a Street
6
on the other. It was broken up into small apartments inhabited by working people of every stripe – tailors, locksmiths, cooks, various Germans, girls paying their own way, petty bureaucrats, and so on. There was a constant hurry and scurry through the two arches leading into and out of the front and back courtyards.
7
Three caretakers,
8
at least, were employed there. The young man was delighted not to meet a single one of them and slipped through the arch unnoticed, turning directly right up a staircase. It was dark and narrow – these were the back stairs – but he knew that already, having studied the whole arrangement in advance and having found it to his liking: in a
place as dark as this, even a curious gaze presented no danger. ‘If this is how scared I am now, what on earth would it be like if somehow it ever came to the point of actually
doing
the thing?' he couldn't help thinking as he climbed up to the fourth floor. Here he found his way barred by ex-soldiers-turned-porters carrying furniture out of an apartment. He already knew who lived there – a German in the civil service and his family: ‘So the German must be moving out now; so for a while only the old woman's apartment will be occupied on the fourth floor, on this staircase and this landing. That's good . . . just in case . . .' – and thinking this, he rang the bell of the old woman's apartment. It jangled weakly, as if made of tin, not brass. Small apartments like these always seem to have bells like that. He'd already forgotten the sound of this particular one, and now the ring suddenly seemed to remind him of something, bringing it clearly before him . . . He even shuddered, so weak had his nerves now become. A few moments later the tiniest of chinks appeared in the doorway: through it the occupant examined her visitor with evident mistrust, and all that could be seen of her were little eyes twinkling in the dark. But, noticing a lot of people on the landing, she took heart and opened the door fully. The young man crossed the threshold into a dark entrance hall with a partition, behind which lay a tiny kitchen. The old woman stood before him in silence, fixing him with a questioning look. She was a tiny, dry old thing of about sixty, with sharp, evil little eyes and a small sharp nose. Her head was uncovered and her whitish-blonde hair, touched by grey, was thickly greased. Her long thin neck, which resembled a chicken leg, was wrapped up in an old flannel rag, and despite the heat a fraying, fur-wadded jacket, yellow with age, hung from her shoulders. The little hag kept coughing and groaning. The young man must have glanced at her in some particular way, because the same mistrust suddenly flickered in her eyes once more.

‘Raskolnikov, the student. Visited you a month ago,' he muttered with a hasty bow, making an effort to be polite.

‘I remember, father,
9
I remember that very well,' said the old woman distinctly, keeping her questioning eyes fixed on his face.

‘Well, ma'am . . . it's the same kind of business . . . ,' Raskolnikov continued, rather disconcerted and surprised by the old woman's mistrust.

‘Maybe she's always like this, I just didn't notice that time,' he thought uneasily.

The old woman paused, as if hesitating, then stepped aside and, pointing to the main room, let her guest go first:

‘Come through, father.'

The small room into which the young man stepped, with its yellow wallpaper, geraniums and muslin curtains over the windows, was brightly lit at that moment by the setting sun. ‘So
then
, too, the sun will shine just like this!' The thought flashed unbidden across Raskolnikov's mind and he cast a quick glance over the entire room, so as to study and remember its layout as best he could. But there was nothing special about it. The furniture, all very old and made of yellow wood, consisted of a couch with a massive curved back, an oval table in front of the couch, a dressing-table with a little mirror between the windows, chairs along the walls, a few two-copeck prints in yellow frames depicting young German ladies with birds in their hands – and nothing else. In the corner, before a small icon, a lamp was burning. Everything was immaculate: furniture and floor had been rubbed to a shine. Everything sparkled. ‘Lizaveta's work,' thought the young man. There wasn't a speck of dust to be seen in the entire apartment. ‘Only nasty old widows keep everything so clean,' Raskolnikov carried on to himself, throwing a curious glance at the chintz curtain hanging in front of the door into the second, tiny room, in which the old woman had her bed and chest of drawers and into which he had never even peeked. These two rooms made up the entire apartment.

‘What do you want?' the little hag asked sternly, entering the room and standing right in front of him, as before, so as to look straight into his face.

‘Something to pawn: there!' – and he took out an old flat silver watch from his pocket. A globe was depicted on its reverse. The chain was of steel.

‘But the last thing you brought is overdue. The month was up two days ago.'

‘I'll bring you the interest for another month; be patient.'

‘That's up to me, father, to be patient or to sell your thing right away.'

‘How much for the watch, Alyona Ivanovna?'

‘You're bringing me trifles; it's hardly worth a thing, I tell you. I gave you two nice little notes
10
for that ring of yours last time, when there are jewellers selling new ones for a rouble fifty.'

‘Four roubles, then. I'll buy it back – it's my father's. I'm being paid soon.'

‘One rouble fifty and the interest in advance, if you're so very keen.'

‘One rouble fifty!' the young man shrieked.

‘As you wish.' The old woman passed the watch back to him. The young man took it, so angry that he was on the verge of leaving; but he immediately thought better of it, remembering that there was nowhere else for him to go and that he had another reason for being there anyway.

‘All right!' he said roughly.

The old woman rummaged in her pocket for her keys and went off behind the curtain into the other room. The young man was left standing in the middle of the room, straining his ears and concentrating hard. He could hear a drawer being opened. ‘Must be the top one,' he thought. ‘So she carries the keys in her right pocket . . . All in one bunch, on a steel ring . . . And one key's bigger than the rest, three times bigger, with a jagged end – can't be for the chest of drawers . . . So there must be some casket or other as well, or perhaps a box . . . Now that's interesting. Strongboxes always have keys like that . . . But how vile this all is . . .'

The old woman came back.

‘Here you are, father: ten copecks a rouble each month,
11
so that's fifteen copecks from you for a rouble and a half, for a month in advance. And for the two roubles from before that's twenty copecks advance payment by the same calculation. Thirty-five copecks altogether. Leaving you with just one rouble fifteen for your watch. There you are.'

‘What? So now it's a rouble fifteen copecks?'

‘Exactly, sir.'

The young man took the money without arguing. He looked at the old woman and was in no hurry to leave, as though there were something else he wanted to say or do, though what that was he didn't seem to know himself . . .