Crime and Punishment: Compare Translations

At the beginning of July, during an extremely hot spell, towards evening, a young man left the closet he rented from tenants in S—y Lane, walked out to the street, and slowly, as if indecisively, headed for the K—n Bridge.

He had safely avoided meeting his landlady on the stairs. His closet was located just under the roof of a tall, five-storied house, and was more like a cupboard than a room. As for the landlady, from whom he rented this closet with dinner and maid-service included, she lived one flight below, in separate rooms, and every time he went out he could not fail to pass by the landlady’s kitchen, the door of which almost always stood wide open to the stairs. And each time he passed by, the young man felt some painful and cowardly sensation, which made him wince with shame. He was over his head in debt to the landlady and was afraid of meeting her.

It was not that he was so cowardly and downtrodden, even quite the contrary; but for some time he had been in an irritable and tense state, resembling hypochondria. He was so immersed in himself and had isolated himself so much from everyone that he was afraid not only of meeting his landlady but of meeting anyone at all. He was crushed by poverty; but even his strained circumstances had lately ceased to burden him. He had entirely given up attending to his daily affairs and did not want to attend to them. As a matter of fact, he was not afraid of any landlady, whatever she might be plotting against him. But to stop on the stairs, to listen to all sorts of nonsense about this commonplace rubbish, which he could not care less about, all this badgering for payment, these threats and complaints, and to have to dodge all the while, make excuses, lie—oh, no, better to steal catlike down the stairs somehow and slip away unseen by anyone.

Towards evening on an exceptionally hot day at the beginning of July, a young man emerged from his garret room on S— Lane, where he was lodging, and went out into the street. Slowly, as if undecided what to do, he set off for K—n Bridge.

He managed to avoid meeting his landlady on the stairs. His little room was at the very top of a tall five-storey building, and was more like a cupboard than an apartment. His landlady, from whom he was renting his room together with food and service, lived one staircase below, in her own apartment. This meant that every time he had to go down to the street, he had to walk past her kitchen, with its door almost always wide open onto the staircase. And every time the young man walked past the kitchen, he felt sick with apprehension — something which made him grimace with shame. He was deeply in debt to her, and was afraid of meeting her.

It wasn’t so much that he was a cowardly, downtrodden figure — quite the opposite in fact. It was just that, for some time now, he had been in an irritable and overwrought state, close to hypochondria. He had become so absorbed with himself, so distanced from everyone else, that he was afraid to meet anybody, let alone his landlady. Although crushed by poverty, he had recently found that even his straitened circumstances had no longer become a burden to him. He had totally stopped engaging in essential day-to-day concerns, or wanting to do so. In actual fact, he wasn’t afraid of any landlady, whatever she might be threatening him with. But to have to wait on the staircase and listen to all that drivel about all kinds of banal rubbish that didn’t interest him in the slightest, all that pestering for money, all those threats and complaints, combined with the need to prevaricate, to apologize, to lie — no, he’d rather slink past down the stairs like a cat and slip out into the street without anyone noticing.

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.

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; bur for some time now he’d been in an irritable, tense state of mind not unlike hypochondria. 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.

One sultry evening early in July a young man emerged from the small furnished lodging he occupied in a large five-storied house in the Pereoulok S——, and turned slowly, with an air of indecision, towards the K—— bridge. He was fortunate enough not to meet his landlady on the stairs. She occupied the floor beneath him, and her kitchen, with its usually-open door, was entered from the staircase. Thus, whenever the young man went out, he found himself obliged to pass under the enemy’s fire, which always produced a morbid terror, humiliating him and making him knit his brows. He owed her some money and felt afraid of encountering her.

It was not that he had been terrified or crushed by misfortune, but that for some time past he had fallen into a state of nervous depression akin to hypochondria. He had withdrawn from society and shut himself up, till he was ready to shun, not merely his landlady, but every human face. Poverty had once weighed him down, though, of late, he had lost his sensitiveness on that score. He had given up all his daily occupations. In his heart of hearts he laughed scornfully at his landlady and the extremities to which she might proceed. Still, to be waylaid on the stairs, to have to listen to all her jargon, hear her demands, threats, and complaints, and have to make excuses and subterfuges in return—no, he preferred to. steal down without attracting notice. On this occasion, however, when he had gained the street, he felt surprised himself at this dread of meeting the woman to whom he was in debt.

It was towards evening on a sweltering day early in July that a young man left the cubicle sublet to him in S— Lane, went out into the street and, with slow and somewhat irresolute steps, made for K— Bridge.

He had been lucky enough to escape meeting his landlady on the staircase. Located in the attic of a tall five-storey house, his cubicle was more of a cupboard than a place to live in. The woman who sublet the cubicle, with a daily meal and some service thrown in, lived in a flat on the floor below, and whenever he went out into the street he had to go by her kitchen door, which gave on the staircase and was nearly always open. Every time the young man had to pass the door, he did so with sinking heart and a sense of timidity, which caused him shame and revulsion. He was so much behind with his rent that he shrank from meeting his landlady. It was not that he was fearful or cowed — quite the the reverse, but for some time past he had been in a state of nervous tension bordering on hypochondria. He had become so inward-turned and withdrawn from the world that he shunned all company, let alone a meeting with his landlady. He was ground down by poverty, but even his straitened circumstances had ceased to oppress him of late. He no longer attended to his daily cares, and felt no desire to. In essence, he had no fear of his landlady, whatever she might be up to against him. But to be stopped on the stairs and have to listen to all kinds of nonsense, the empty drivel he could not care less for, the constant

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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-storeyed 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 very 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 over-strained, 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 anyone 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.

At the beginning of July, during a spell of exceptionally hot weather, towards evening, a certain young man came down on to the street from the little room he rented from some tenants in S— Lane and slowly, almost hesitantly, set off towards K—n Bridge.

He had succeeded in avoiding an encounter with his landlady on the stairs. His room was situated right under the roof of a tall, five-storey tenement, and sooner resembled a closet than a place of habitation. His landlady, from whom he rented this room with dinner and a maid, lived on the floor below in a separate apartment, and each time he wanted to go down to the street he had to pass his landlady’s kitchen, the door of which was nearly always wide-open on to the stairs. And each time, as he passed it, the young man had a morbid sensation of fear, of which he was ashamed and which caused him to frown. He was heavily in debt to his landlady, and was afraid of running into her.

Not that he was particularly timid or cowed — quite the opposite, indeed; but for some time now he had been in a tense, irritable state of mind that verged upon hypochondria. So absorbed in himself had he grown, so isolated from everyone else, that he was actually afraid of meeting anyone at all, not simply his landlady. He had been crushed by poverty; but even his reduced circumstances had of late ceased to be a burden to him. His vital interests no longer concerned him; he did not even wish to think about them. As a matter of fact, no landlady on earth had the power to make him afraid, whatever she might be plotting against him. But to have to stop on the stairs and listen to all that mediocre rubbish that had nothing whatsoever to do with him, all those pestering demands for payment, those threats and complaints, and be compelled in response to shift his ground, make excuses, tell lies — no, it was better to slink down the stairs like a cat and steal away unseen by anyone.

ONE evening in early July, during a spell of exceptionally hot weather, a young man came out of the garret he rented from the tenants of a flat in S— Lane, went downstairs to the street and set off, slowly and rather uncertainly, towards K—n Bridge.

He managed to avoid meeting his landlady on the stairs. His garret, more like a cupboard than a room, was just under the roof of the five-storey house. The landlady from whom he rented this garret, with service and one meal a day, lived in a separate flat on the floor below, and every time he went downstairs to the street he had to go past her kitchen, whose door was almost always open onto the stairway. And every time the young man passed this door, he was overcome by an uncomfortable, cowardly feeling which made him grimace with shame. He was hopelessly in debt to his landlady and afraid of meeting her.

Not that he really was so timid and cowardly; quite the reverse. But recently he had been in a tense, irritable frame of mind, almost like hypochondria. He had retreated so deeply into himself, withdrawn so completely from everyone else, that he not only feared meeting his landlady—he feared meeting anybody. He was crushed by his poverty; yet lately even his impoverished condition had ceased to weigh him down. He had completely given up managing, or wishing to manage, his day-to-day affairs. He wasn’t actually afraid of any landlady, whatever she might be plotting against him. But stopping on the stairway to listen to all sorts of rubbish, everyday stuff that was none of his business, all that pestering about the rent, and threats, and complaints, and having to prevaricate and apologize and tell lies—no, better slip away downstairs like a cat, and make his escape unseen.

Towards the end of a sultry afternoon early in July a young man came out of his little room in Stolyarny Lane and turned slowly and somewhat irresolutely in the direction of Kamenny Bridge.

He had been lucky enough to escape an encounter with his landlady on the stairs. His little room, more like a cupboard than a place to live in, was tucked away under the roof of the high five-storied building. The landlady, who let him the room and provided him with dinners and service, occupied a flat on the floor below, and every time he went out he was forced to pass the door of her kitchen, which nearly always stood wide open. He went past each time with an uneasy, almost frightened, feeling that made him frown with shame. He was heavily in debt to his landlady and shrank from meeting her.

It was not that he was a cowed or naturally timorous person, far from it; but he had been for some time in an almost morbid state of irritability and tension. He had cut himself off from everybody and withdrawn so completely into himself that he now shrank from every kind of contact. He was crushingly poor, but he no longer felt the oppression of his poverty. For some time he had ceased to concern himself with everyday affairs. He was not really afraid of any landlady, whatever plots he might think she was hatching against him, but to have to stop on the stairs and listen to all her chatter about trivialities in which he refused to take any interest, all her complaints, threats, and insistent demands for payment, and then to have to extricate himself, lying and making excuses—no, better to creep downstairs as softly as a cat and slip out unnoticed.

On a very hot evening at the beginning of July a young man left his little room at the top of a house in Carpenter Lane, went out into the street, and, as though unable to make up his mind, walked slowly in the direction of Kokushkin Bridge.

He was lucky to avoid a meeting with his landlady on the stairs His little room under the very roof of a tall five-storey building was more like a cupboard than a living-room. His landlady, who also provided him with meals and looked after him, lived in a flat on the floor below. Every time he went out, he had to walk past her kitchen, the door of which was practically always open; and every time he walked past that door, the young man experienced a sickening sensation of terror which made him feel ashamed and pull a wry face. He was up to the neck in debt to his landlady and was afraid of meeting her.

It was not as though he were a coward by nature or easily intimidated, Quite the contrary. But for some time past he had been in an irritable and overstrung state which was like hypochondria. He had been so absorbed in himself and had led so cloistered a life that he was afraid of meeting anybody, let alone his landlady. He was crushed by poverty, but even his straitened circumstances had ceased to worry him lately. He had lost all interest in matters that required his most immediate attention and he did not want to bother about them. Asa matter of fact, he was not in the least afraid of his landlady, whatever plots she might be hatching against him. But rather than be forced to stop on the stairs and listen to all the dreary nonsense which did not concern him at all, to all those insistent demands for payment, to all those threats and complaints, and have to think up some plausible excuse and tell lies — no! A thousand times better to slip downstairs as quietly as a mouse and escape without being seen by anybody.

Early one evening, during an exceptional heat wave in the beginning of July, a young man walked out into the street from the closetlike room he rented on Stoliarny Place. Slowly, as though he could not make up his mind, he began to move in the direction of the Kokushkin Bridge.

He had managed to avoid meeting his landlady on the stairs. He lived practically under the roof of a five-floor house, in what was more a cupboard than a room. In an apartment one flight below lived his landlady, from whom he rented this garret, dinner and service thrown in. Every time he went out he had to pass her kitchen door, which almost always stood open facing the stairs. When he walked past, he felt a nauseous, cowardly sensation; it made him wince, and he was ashamed of it. He was deeply in debt to his landlady, and he feared meeting her.

Not that he was cowardly or abject; quite the contrary. For some time, though, he had been tense and irritable, in a state resembling acute depression. He had plunged so far within himself, into so complete an isolation, that he feared meeting not only his landlady but anyone at all. He had lately ceased even to feel the weight of the poverty that crushed him. He had completely lost interest in his day-today affairs, and he had no wish to recover such interest. It was not landladies he feared, no matter what this one happened to be plotting against him.

To find himself stuck on the stairs, though, and forced to listen to the whole range of her nonsense and offensive rubbish for which he had absolutely no concern; forced to listen to her pesterings for payment, her threats, her appeals; and he himself all the while prevaricating, making excuses, lying . . . No. Better somehow to slink down the stairs like a cat and slip away unseen.

In the beginning of July, during an extremely hot spell, toward evening, a young man left his tiny room, which he sublet from some tenants who lived in Stolyarnyi Lane, stepped out onto the street, and slowly, as if indecisively, set off towards the Kokushkin Bridge.

He had successfully managed to avoid meeting his landlady on the staircase. His small room, more like a closet than an apartment, was tucked under the roof of a tall five-story building. The landlady of the apartment, who rented him this room and provided both dinner and a servant, lived below in a separate apartment on the same staircase; every time he left to go out, he had to pass the landlady’s kitchen door, which was almost always left open onto the landing. Every time the young man passed, he felt a painful and fearful sensation, one that he was ashamed of and that made him wince. He was deeply in debt to the landlady and was afraid to face her.

It wasn’t that he was so fearful and cowed; in fact, it was just the opposite; but for some time he had been in an irritable and anxious state, similar to hypochondria. He had become so absorbed in himself and so isolated from others that he was afraid of meeting anyone, not only his landlady. He was crushed by poverty, but even his constrained circumstances had ceased to burden him of late. He had completely stopped handling his own everyday affairs and didn’t wish to deal with them. He was not actually afraid of his landlady, no matter what she intended to do to him. But to stop on the staircase, put up with all sorts of nonsense about ordinary rubbish that didn’t concern him at all, her constant pestering about payment, her threats and complaints, and, in the face of it all, to have to dodge her, make excuses, tell lies—no thank you; it was better to slip past somehow, like a cat on a staircase, and steal away unnoticed.

One sultry evening in July a young man emerged from the small furnished lodging he occupied in a large five-storied house in the Pereoulok S-—-, and turned slowly, with an air of indecision, ‘towards the K–— bridge. He was fortunate enough not to meet his landlady on the stairs. She occupied the floor beneath him, an her kitchen, with its usually-open door, was entered from the staircase. Thus, whenever the young man went out, he found himself obliged to pass under the enemy’s fire, which always produced a morbid terror, humiliating him and making him knit his brows. He owed her some money and felt afraid of encountering her.

It was not that he had been terrified or crushed by a misfortune, but that for some time past he had fallen into a state of nervous depression akin to hypochondria. He had withdrawn from society and shut himself up, till he was ready to shun, not merely his landlady, but every human face Poverty had once weighed him down, though of late, he had lost his sensitiveness on that score, He had given up all his daily occupations. In his heart of hearts he laughed scornfully at his landlady and the extremities to which she might proceed. Still, to be waylaid on the stairs, to have to listen to all her jargon, hear her demands, threats and complaints, and to have to make excuses and subterfuges in return -no, he preferred to steal down without attracting notice. On this occasion, however, when he had gained the street, he felt surprised himself at this dread of meeting the woman to whom he was in debt.

Early one evening at the beginning of July, during a spell of extremely hot weather, a young man emerged onto the street from the garret he rented from some people living on Stolyarny Street and slowly, as if unable to make up his mind, headed toward the Kokushkin Bridge.

He had successfully avoided meeting his landlady on the stairs. His garret was located under the very roof of a tall, five-story house and was more like a closet than an apartment. His landlady, who rented out the garret and also cleaned and cooked dinner for him, lived just one flight below, in a Separate apartment, and every time he went out onto the street he invariably had to pass his landlady’s kitchen, whose door was almost always wide open facing the stairs. And every time he went by, the young man experienced a sickening cowardly sensation which, because he was ashamed of it, made him scowl. He was hopelessly in debt to his landlady and was afraid of meeting her.

It was not that he was that cowardly and oppressed, quite. the contrary even, but for some time past he had been in an irritable, tense condition resembling hypochondria. He had become so immersed in himself and estranged from others that he was afraid of meeting anyone, not merely his landlady. He was crushed by poverty, but even his. straitened circumstances had ceased to weigh on him lately. He had completely abandoned his day-to-day affairs and wanted no part of them. Actually, he was afraid of no landlady, no matter what she might have been plotting against him. But to stop on the stairs and listen to a lot of drivel about all those trivial details that he had no time for, all those badgerings for rent, those threats and complaints, and himself at the same time writhing and making excuses and lying—no, it was better to slip past somehow down the stairs, like a cat, and steal away, so that no one saw him. This time, however, his terror of meeting his creditress astonished even himself as he emerged onto the street.

В начале июля, в чрезвычайно жаркое время, под вечер, один молодой человек вышел из своей каморки, которую нанимал от жильцов в С — м переулке, на улицу и медленно, как бы в нерешимости, отправился к К — ну мосту.

Он благополучно избегнул встречи с своею хозяйкой на лестнице. Каморка его приходилась под самою кровлей высокого пятиэтажного дома и походила более на шкаф, чем на квартиру. Квартирная же хозяйка его, у которой он нанимал эту каморку с обедом и прислугой, помещалась одною лестницей ниже, в отдельной квартире, и каждый раз, при выходе на улицу, ему непременно надо было проходить мимо хозяйкиной кухни, почти всегда настежь отворенной на лестницу. И каждый раз молодой человек, проходя мимо, чувствовал какое-то болезненное и трусливое ощущение, которого стыдился и от которого морщился. Он был должен кругом хозяйке и боялся с нею встретиться.

Не то чтоб он был так труслив и забит, совсем даже напротив; но с некоторого времени он был в раздражительном и напряженном состоянии похожем на ипохондрию. Он до того углубился в себя и уединился от всех, что боялся даже всякой встречи, не только встречи с хозяйкой. Он был задавлен бедностью; но даже стесненное положение перестало в последнее время тяготить его. Насущными делами своими он совсем перестал и не хотел заниматься. Никакой хозяйки, в сущности, он не боялся, что бы та ни замышляла против него. Но останавливаться на лестнице, слушать всякий вздор про всю эту обыденную дребедень, до которой ему нет никакого дела, все эти приставания о платеже, угрозы, жалобы, и при этом самому изворачиваться, извиняться, лгать, — нет уж, лучше проскользнуть как-нибудь кошкой по лестнице и улизнуть, чтобы никто не видал.