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heart even before, while walking over to the old woman’s apartment, was now so much greater and so much more vivid that there seemed no escape from his anguish. He went along the pavement as if drunk, not noticing passers-by and walking straight into them, and it was only on the next street that he recovered his senses. Looking around, he noticed that he was standing by a drinking den, the entrance to which lay down a flight of steps, below ground. Two drunks were coming out that very moment; supporting and cursing one another, they staggered up onto the street. Without stopping to think, Raskolnikov immediately went down. He’d never once set foot in a drinking den, but his head was spinning and his throat was burning with thirst. A cool beer was what he wanted now, not least because his sudden debility, he thought, was also due to hunger. He sat down at a sticky table in a dark and dirty corner, ordered beer and drained the first glass. His anxiety immediately subsided and his thoughts grew clearer. ‘What rubbish!’ he said hopefully. ‘How stupid to get so flustered! My distress was purely physical! Just one glass of beer, a piece of rusk, and there you are – in the space of a second the mind becomes stronger, thoughts clearer, intentions firmer! How petty this all is . . .’ Despite this contemptuous outburst, he seemed cheerful now, as if he’d suddenly shaken off some terrible burden, and he cast a friendly gaze around the room. But even then he had a distant intuition that this rush of optimism was not entirely healthy either.
    There was hardly anyone left in the den. An entire party – five men,a wench and an accordion – had left soon after the two drunks he met on the stairs. Now it felt quiet and empty. One man, only a little bit tipsy, sat at a table with a beer – a tradesman, 12 by the look of him – while his companion, a fat, hulking, grey-bearded man in a merchant’s coat, dead drunk, drowsed on a bench, though every now and again, as if in his sleep, he’d click his fingers, spread out his arms and start bobbing up and down without getting up from the bench, while singing some nonsense or other to which he could barely remember the words:
    All year long I kissed my wife
    All ye-ear long I kissed my wi-ife . . .
    Or suddenly, waking once more:
    Along Podyachesky I strolled
    And found my lady love of old . . .
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    But nobody shared his happiness; his taciturn companion observed all these effusions with mistrust and even hostility. There was one other man present, a retired civil servant, perhaps, to judge by his appearance. He sat on his own with a pot of vodka, taking the occasional sip and looking about the room. He, too, seemed rather restless.

II
    Raskolnikov was unused to crowds and, as has already been said, he shunned society, recently more than ever. But now, for some reason, he suddenly felt drawn to other people. Something new seemed to be stirring inside him, bringing with it a thirst for human company. A whole month of intense anguish and dismal excitement had left him so exhausted that he yearned for at least a moment’s rest in another world – any world would do – and now he was only too happy to remain in the den, filthy though it was.
    The landlord was upstairs somewhere, but he often came down some steps into the bar, and the first that could be seen of him were his foppish blacked boots with their big red tops. He wore a long coat and a badly soiled black satin waistcoat, with no tie, and his whole face looked as if it had been smeared with grease, like an iron lock. A boy of about fourteen stood behind the counter, and another, youngerkid was on hand if anyone needed serving. There were chopped-up cucumbers, black rusks and fish cut in little pieces; the smell was awful. It was very stuffy – just sitting there soon became unbearable – and everything was so