"Of course, I've been meaning
lately
to
go
to
Razumihin's
to
ask
for
work,
to
ask
him
to
get
me
lessons
or
something..." Raskolnikov thought, "but
what
help
can
he
be
to
me
now?
Suppose
he
gets
me
lessons,
suppose
he
shares
his
last
farthing
with
me,
if
he
has
any
farthings,
so
that
I
could
get
some
boots
and
make
myself
tidy
enough
to
give
lessons... hm...
Well
and
what
then?
What
shall
I
do
with
the
few
coppers
I earn? That's
not
what
I
want
now. It's really
absurd
for
me
to
go
to
Razumihin...."
The
question
why
he
was
now
going
to
Razumihin agitated
him
even
more
than
he
was
himself
aware;
he
kept uneasily
seeking
for
some
sinister
significance
in
this
apparently
ordinary
action. "Could I
have
expected
to
set
it
all
straight
and
to
find a
way
out
by
means
of
Razumihin alone?"
he
asked
himself
in
perplexity.
He
pondered
and
rubbed
his
forehead, and,
strange
to
say,
after
long
musing, suddenly,
as
if
it
were
spontaneously
and
by
chance, a
fantastic
thought
came
into
his
head. "Hm...
to
Razumihin's,"
he
said
all
at
once, calmly,
as
though
he
had reached a
final
determination. "I
shall
go
to
Razumihin's
of
course, but...
not
now. I
shall
go
to
him...
on
the
next
day
after
It,
when
It
will
be
over
and
everything
will
begin
afresh...."
And
suddenly
he
realised
what
he
was
thinking.
His
nervous
shudder had
passed
into
a
fever
that
made
him
feel shivering;
in
spite
of
the
heat
he
felt cold.
With
a
kind
of
effort
he
began
almost
unconsciously,
from
some
inner
craving,
to
stare
at
all
the
objects
before
him,
as
though
looking
for
something
to
distract
his
attention;
but
he
did
not
succeed,
and
kept
dropping
every
moment
into
brooding.
When
with
a start
he
lifted
his
head
again
and
looked
round,
he
forgot
at
once
what
he
had
just
been
thinking
about
and
even
where
he
was
going.
In
this
way
he
walked
right
across
Vassilyevsky Ostrov, came
out
on
to
the
Lesser Neva,
crossed
the
bridge
and
turned
towards
the
islands.
The
greenness
and
freshness
were
at
first
restful
to
his
weary
eyes
after
the
dust
of
the
town
and
the
huge
houses
that
hemmed
him
in
and
weighed
upon
him.
Here
there
were
no
taverns,
no
stifling
closeness,
no
stench.
But
soon
these
new
pleasant
sensations
passed
into
morbid
irritability. Sometimes
he
stood
still
before
a
brightly
painted
summer
villa
standing
among
green
foliage,
he
gazed
through
the
fence,
he
saw
in
the
distance smartly dressed women
on
the
verandahs
and
balconies,
and
children running
in
the
gardens.
The
flowers especially
caught
his
attention;
he
gazed
at
them
longer
than
at
anything.
He
was
met, too,
by
luxurious
carriages
and
by
men
and
women
on
horseback;
he
watched
them
with
curious
eyes
and
forgot
about
them
before
they
had
vanished
from
his
sight.
Once
he
stood
still
and
counted
his
money;
he
found
he
had
thirty
copecks. "Twenty
to
the
policeman,
three
to
Nastasya
for
the
letter,
so
I
must
have
given
forty-seven
or
fifty
to
the
Marmeladovs yesterday,"
he
thought,
reckoning
it
up
for
some
unknown
reason,
but
he
soon
forgot
with
what
object
he
had taken
the
money
out
of
his
pocket.
He
recalled
it
on
passing
an
eating-house
or
tavern,
and
felt
that
he
was
hungry.... Going
into
the
tavern
he
drank
a glass
of
vodka
and
ate a
pie
of
some
sort.
He
finished
eating
it
as
he
walked away.
It
was
a
long
while
since
he
had taken
vodka
and
it
had
an
effect
upon
him
at
once,
though
he
only
drank
a wineglassful.
His
legs
felt suddenly heavy
and
a
great
drowsiness
came
upon
him.
He
turned
homewards,
but
reaching Petrovsky Ostrov
he
stopped completely exhausted,
turned
off
the
road
into
the
bushes, sank
down
upon
the
grass
and
instantly
fell
asleep.
In
a
morbid
condition
of
the
brain,
dreams
often
have
a
singular
actuality, vividness,
and
extraordinary
semblance
of
reality.
At
times
monstrous
images
are
created,
but
the
setting
and
the
whole
picture
are
so
truth-like
and
filled
with
details
so
delicate,
so
unexpectedly,
but
so
artistically consistent,
that
the
dreamer,
were
he
an
artist
like
Pushkin
or
Turgenev even,
could
never
have
invented
them
in
the
waking
state.
Such
sick
dreams
always
remain
long
in
the
memory
and
make
a powerful
impression
on
the
overwrought
and
deranged
nervous
system. Raskolnikov had a fearful dream.
He
dreamt
he
was
back
in
his
childhood
in
the
little
town
of
his
birth.
He
was
a
child
about
seven
years
old, walking
into
the
country
with
his
father
on
the
evening
of
a holiday.
It
was
a grey
and
heavy day,
the
country
was
exactly
as
he
remembered
it;
indeed
he
recalled
it
far
more
vividly
in
his
dream
than
he
had
done
in
memory.
The
little
town
stood
on
a
level
flat
as
bare
as
the
hand,
not
even
a
willow
near
it;
only
in
the
far
distance, a copse lay, a dark blur
on
the
very
edge
of
the
horizon. A
few
paces
beyond
the
last
market
garden
stood a tavern, a
big
tavern,
which
had
always
aroused
in
him
a feeling
of
aversion,
even
of
fear,
when
he
walked
by
it
with
his
father.
There
was
always
a crowd there,
always
shouting,
laughter
and
abuse,
hideous
hoarse
singing
and
often
fighting.
Drunken
and
horrible-looking
figures
were
hanging
about
the
tavern.
He
used
to
cling
close
to
his
father,
trembling
all
over
when
he
met them.
Near
the
tavern
the
road
became a dusty track,
the
dust
of
which
was
always
black.
It
was
a
winding
road,
and
about
a
hundred
paces
further
on,
it
turned
to
the
right
to
the
graveyard.
In
the
middle
of
the
graveyard stood a
stone
church
with
a
green
cupola
where
he
used
to
go
to
mass
two
or
three
times a
year
with
his
father
and
mother,
when
a
service
was
held
in
memory
of
his
grandmother,
who
had
long
been dead,
and
whom
he
had
never
seen.
On
these
occasions
they
used
to
take
on
a
white
dish
tied
up
in
a table
napkin
a
special
sort
of
rice
pudding
with
raisins
stuck
in
it
in
the
shape
of
a cross.
He
loved
that
church,
the
old-fashioned, unadorned ikons
and
the
old
priest
with
the
shaking head.
Near
his
grandmother's grave,
which
was
marked
by
a stone,
was
the
little
grave
of
his
younger
brother
who
had
died
at
six
months
old.
He
did
not
remember
him
at
all,
but
he
had been
told
about
his
little
brother,
and
whenever
he
visited
the
graveyard
he
used religiously
and
reverently
to
cross
himself
and
to
bow
down
and
kiss
the
little
grave.
And
now
he
dreamt
that
he
was
walking
with
his
father past
the
tavern
on
the
way
to
the
graveyard;
he
was
holding
his
father's
hand
and
looking
with
dread
at
the
tavern. A
peculiar
circumstance
attracted
his
attention:
there
seemed
to
be
some
kind
of
festivity
going on,
there
were
crowds
of
gaily
dressed townspeople,
peasant
women,
their
husbands,
and
riff-raff
of
all
sorts,
all
singing
and
all
more
or
less
drunk.
Near
the
entrance
of
the
tavern
stood a cart,
but
a
strange
cart.
It
was
one
of
those
big
carts
usually
drawn
by
heavy cart-horses
and
laden
with
casks
of
wine
or
other
heavy goods.
He
always
liked
looking
at
those
great
cart-horses,
with
their
long
manes,
thick
legs,
and
slow
even
pace, drawing
along
a perfect
mountain
with
no
appearance
of
effort,
as
though
it
were
easier going
with
a load
than
without
it.
But
now,
strange
to
say,
in
the
shafts
of
such
a
cart
he
saw
a
thin
little
sorrel
beast,
one
of
those
peasants'
nags
which
he
had
often
seen
straining
their
utmost
under
a heavy load
of
wood
or
hay, especially
when
the
wheels
were
stuck
in
the
mud
or
in
a rut.
And
the
peasants
would
beat
them
so
cruelly, sometimes
even
about
the
nose
and
eyes,
and
he
felt
so
sorry,
so
sorry
for
them
that
he
almost
cried,
and
his
mother
always
used
to
take
him
away
from
the
window.
All
of
a
sudden
there
was
a
great
uproar
of
shouting,
singing
and
the
balalaďka,
and
from
the
tavern
a
number
of
big
and
very
drunken
peasants
came out, wearing
red
and
blue
shirts
and
coats thrown
over
their
shoulders. "Get in,
get
in!" shouted
one
of
them, a
young
thick-necked
peasant
with
a fleshy face
red
as
a carrot. "I'll
take
you
all,
get
in!"
But
at
once
there
was
an
outbreak
of
laughter
and
exclamations
in
the
crowd. "Take
us
all
with
a
beast
like
that!" "Why, Mikolka,
are
you
crazy
to
put
a
nag
like
that
in
such
a cart?" "And
this
mare
is
twenty
if
she
is
a day, mates!" "Get in, I'll
take
you
all," Mikolka shouted again,
leaping
first
into
the
cart,
seizing
the
reins
and
standing straight
up
in
front. "The
bay
has gone
with
Matvey,"
he
shouted
from
the
cart—"and
this
brute, mates,
is
just
breaking
my heart, I feel
as
if
I
could
kill her. She's
just
eating
her
head
off.
Get
in, I
tell
you! I'll
make
her
gallop! She'll gallop!"
and
he
picked
up
the
whip,
preparing
himself
with
relish
to
flog
the
little
mare. "Get in!
Come
along!"
The
crowd laughed. "D'you hear, she'll gallop!" "Gallop indeed!
She
has
not
had a gallop
in
her
for
the
last
ten
years!" "She'll
jog
along!" "Don't
you
mind
her, mates,
bring
a
whip
each
of
you,
get
ready!" "All right!
Give
it
to
her!"
They
all
clambered
into
Mikolka's cart, laughing
and
making
jokes.
Six
men got
in
and
there
was
still
room
for
more.
They
hauled
in
a fat, rosy-cheeked woman.
She
was
dressed
in
red
cotton,
in
a pointed, beaded headdress
and
thick
leather
shoes;
she
was
cracking nuts
and
laughing.
The
crowd round
them
was
laughing
too
and
indeed,
how
could
they
help
laughing?
That
wretched
nag
was
to
drag
all
the
cartload
of
them
at
a gallop!
Two
young
fellows
in
the
cart
were
just
getting
whips
ready
to
help
Mikolka.
With
the
cry
of
"now,"
the
mare
tugged
with
all
her
might,
but
far
from
galloping,
could
scarcely
move
forward;
she
struggled
with
her
legs,
gasping
and
shrinking
from
the
blows
of
the
three
whips
which
were
showered
upon
her
like
hail.
The
laughter
in
the
cart
and
in
the
crowd
was
redoubled,
but
Mikolka flew
into
a
rage
and
furiously thrashed
the
mare,
as
though
he
supposed
she
really
could
gallop. "Let
me
get
in, too, mates," shouted a
young
man
in
the
crowd
whose
appetite
was
aroused. "Get in,
all
get
in," cried Mikolka, "she
will
draw
you
all. I'll beat
her
to
death!"
And
he
thrashed
and
thrashed
at
the
mare,
beside
himself
with
fury. "Father, father,"
he
cried, "father,
what
are
they
doing? Father,
they
are
beating
the
poor
horse!" "Come along,
come
along!" said
his
father. "They
are
drunken
and
foolish,
they
are
in
fun;
come
away, don't look!"
and
he
tried
to
draw
him
away,
but
he
tore
himself
away
from
his
hand, and,
beside
himself
with
horror,
ran
to
the
horse.
The
poor
beast
was
in
a
bad
way.
She
was
gasping, standing still,
then
tugging
again
and
almost
falling. "Beat
her
to
death," cried Mikolka, "it's
come
to
that. I'll
do
for
her!" "What
are
you
about,
are
you
a Christian,
you
devil?" shouted
an
old
man
in
the
crowd. "Did
anyone
ever
see
the
like? A wretched
nag
like
that
pulling
such
a cartload," said another. "You'll kill her," shouted
the
third. "Don't meddle! It's my property, I'll
do
what
I choose.
Get
in,
more
of
you!
Get
in,
all
of
you! I
will
have
her
go
at
a gallop!..."
All
at
once
laughter
broke
into
a
roar
and
covered everything:
the
mare,
roused
by
the
shower
of
blows, began feebly kicking.
Even
the
old
man
could
not
help
smiling.
To
think
of
a wretched
little
beast
like
that
trying
to
kick!
Two
lads
in
the
crowd snatched
up
whips
and
ran
to
the
mare
to
beat
her
about
the
ribs.
One
ran
each
side. "Hit
her
in
the
face,
in
the
eyes,
in
the
eyes," cried Mikolka. "Give
us
a song, mates," shouted someone
in
the
cart
and
everyone
in
the
cart
joined
in
a
riotous
song, jingling a
tambourine
and
whistling.
The
woman
went
on
cracking nuts
and
laughing. ...
He
ran
beside
the
mare,
ran
in
front
of
her,
saw
her
being
whipped
across
the
eyes,
right
in
the
eyes!
He
was
crying,
he
felt choking,
his
tears
were
streaming.
One
of
the
men gave
him
a
cut
with
the
whip
across
the
face,
he
did
not
feel it.
Wringing
his
hands
and
screaming,
he
rushed
up
to
the
grey-headed
old
man
with
the
grey beard,
who
was
shaking
his
head
in
disapproval.
One
woman
seized
him
by
the
hand
and
would
have
taken
him
away,
but
he
tore
himself
from
her
and
ran
back
to
the
mare.
She
was
almost
at
the
last
gasp,
but
began
kicking
once
more. "I'll
teach
you
to
kick," Mikolka shouted ferociously.
He
threw
down
the
whip, bent forward
and
picked
up
from
the
bottom
of
the
cart
a long,
thick
shaft,
he
took
hold
of
one
end
with
both
hands
and
with
an
effort
brandished
it
over
the
mare. "He'll crush her,"
was
shouted round him. "He'll kill her!" "It's my property," shouted Mikolka
and
brought
the
shaft
down
with
a swinging blow.
There
was
a
sound
of
a heavy thud. "Thrash her, thrash her!
Why
have
you
stopped?" shouted voices
in
the
crowd.
And
Mikolka swung
the
shaft
a
second
time
and
it
fell
a
second
time
on
the
spine
of
the
luckless mare.
She
sank
back
on
her
haunches,
but
lurched forward
and
tugged
forward
with
all
her
force,
tugged
first
on
one
side
and
then
on
the
other, trying
to
move
the
cart.
But
the
six
whips
were
attacking
her
in
all
directions,
and
the
shaft
was
raised
again
and
fell
upon
her
a
third
time,
then
a fourth,
with
heavy measured blows. Mikolka
was
in
a
fury
that
he
could
not
kill
her
at
one
blow. "She's a
tough
one,"
was
shouted
in
the
crowd. "She'll
fall
in
a minute, mates,
there
will
soon
be
an
end
of
her," said
an
admiring
spectator
in
the
crowd. "Fetch
an
axe
to
her! Finish
her
off," shouted a third. "I'll
show
you!
Stand
off," Mikolka
screamed
frantically;
he
threw
down
the
shaft,
stooped
down
in
the
cart
and
picked
up
an
iron crowbar. "Look out,"
he
shouted,
and
with
all
his
might
he
dealt a stunning blow
at
the
poor
mare.
The
blow fell;
the
mare
staggered, sank back, tried
to
pull,
but
the
bar
fell
again
with
a swinging blow
on
her
back
and
she
fell
on
the
ground
like
a log. "Finish
her
off," shouted Mikolka
and
he
leapt
beside
himself,
out
of
the
cart.
Several
young
men,
also
flushed
with
drink,
seized
anything
they
could
come
across—whips, sticks, poles,
and
ran
to
the
dying mare. Mikolka stood
on
one
side
and
began
dealing
random
blows
with
the
crowbar.
The
mare
stretched
out
her
head,
drew
a
long
breath
and
died. "You
butchered
her," someone shouted
in
the
crowd. "Why wouldn't
she
gallop then?" "My property!" shouted Mikolka,
with
bloodshot eyes,
brandishing
the
bar
in
his
hands.
He
stood
as
though
regretting
that
he
had
nothing
more
to
beat. "No mistake
about
it,
you
are
not
a Christian,"
many
voices
were
shouting
in
the
crowd.
But
the
poor
boy,
beside
himself,
made
his
way, screaming,
through
the
crowd
to
the
sorrel
nag,
put
his
arms
round
her
bleeding
dead
head
and
kissed
it,
kissed
the
eyes
and
kissed
the
lips....
Then
he
jumped
up
and
flew
in
a frenzy
with
his
little
fists
out
at
Mikolka.
At
that
instant
his
father,
who
had been running
after
him, snatched
him
up
and
carried
him
out
of
the
crowd. "Come along, come!
Let
us
go
home,"
he
said
to
him. "Father!
Why
did
they... kill...
the
poor
horse!"
he
sobbed,
but
his
voice
broke
and
the
words
came
in
shrieks
from
his
panting
chest. "They
are
drunk....
They
are
brutal... it's
not
our
business!" said
his
father.
He
put
his
arms
round
his
father
but
he
felt choked, choked.
He
tried
to
draw
a breath,
to
cry
out—and woke up.
He
waked
up,
gasping
for
breath,
his
hair
soaked
with
perspiration,
and
stood
up
in
terror. "Thank God,
that
was
only
a dream,"
he
said, sitting
down
under
a tree
and
drawing
deep
breaths. "But
what
is
it?
Is
it
some
fever
coming on?
Such
a
hideous
dream!"
He
felt
utterly
broken:
darkness
and
confusion
were
in
his
soul.
He
rested
his
elbows
on
his
knees
and
leaned
his
head
on
his
hands. "Good God!"
he
cried, "can
it
be,
can
it
be,
that
I
shall
really
take
an
axe,
that
I
shall
strike
her
on
the
head, split
her
skull
open...
that
I
shall
tread
in
the
sticky
warm
blood,
break
the
lock,
steal
and
tremble; hide,
all
spattered
in
the
blood...
with
the
axe....
Good
God,
can
it
be?"
He
was
shaking
like
a leaf
as
he
said this. "No, I couldn't
do
it, I couldn't
do
it! Granted,
granted
that
there
is
no
flaw
in
all
that
reasoning,
that
all
that
I
have
concluded
this
last
month
is
clear
as
day, true
as
arithmetic.... My God!
Anyway
I couldn't
bring
myself
to
it! I couldn't
do
it, I couldn't
do
it! Why,
why
then
am
I still...?"
He
rose
to
his
feet,
looked
round
in
wonder
as
though
surprised
at
finding
himself
in
this
place,
and
went
towards
the
bridge.
He
was
pale,
his
eyes
glowed,
he
was
exhausted
in
every
limb,
but
he
seemed
suddenly
to
breathe
more
easily.
He
felt
he
had cast
off
that
fearful
burden
that
had
so
long
been
weighing
upon
him,
and
all
at
once
there
was
a sense
of
relief
and
peace
in
his
soul. "Lord,"
he
prayed, "show
me
my path—I
renounce
that
accursed...
dream
of
mine." Crossing
the
bridge,
he
gazed
quietly
and
calmly
at
the
Neva,
at
the
glowing
red
sun
setting
in
the
glowing
sky.
In
spite
of
his
weakness
he
was
not
conscious
of
fatigue.
It
was
as
though
an
abscess
that
had been
forming
for
a
month
past
in
his
heart
had suddenly broken. Freedom, freedom!
He
was
free
from
that
spell,
that
sorcery,
that
obsession! Later on,
when
he
recalled
that
time
and
all
that
happened
to
him
during
those
days,
minute
by
minute,
point
by
point,
he
was
superstitiously
impressed
by
one
circumstance, which,
though
in
itself
not
very
exceptional,
always
seemed
to
him
afterwards
the
predestined
turning-point
of
his
fate.
He
could
never
understand
and
explain
to
himself
why,
when
he
was
tired
and
worn
out,
when
it
would
have
been
more
convenient
for
him
to
go
home
by
the
shortest
and
most
direct
way,
he
had
returned
by
the
Hay
Market
where
he
had
no
need
to
go.
It
was
obviously
and
quite
unnecessarily
out
of
his
way,
though
not
much
so.
It
is
true
that
it
happened
to
him
dozens
of
times
to
return
home
without
noticing
what
streets
he
passed
through.
But
why,
he
was
always
asking
himself,
why
had
such
an
important,
such
a
decisive
and
at
the
same
time
such
an
absolutely
chance
meeting
happened
in
the
Hay
Market
(where
he
had moreover
no
reason
to
go)
at
the
very
hour,
the
very
minute
of
his
life
when
he
was
just
in
the
very
mood
and
in
the
very
circumstances
in
which
that
meeting
was
able
to
exert
the
gravest
and
most
decisive
influence
on
his
whole
destiny?
As
though
it
had been lying
in
wait
for
him
on
purpose! "You
could
make
up
your
mind
for
yourself, Lizaveta Ivanovna,"
the
huckster
was
saying
aloud. "Come round to-morrow
about
seven.
They
will
be
here
too." "To-morrow?" said Lizaveta
slowly
and
thoughtfully,
as
though
unable
to
make
up
her
mind. "Upon my word,
what
a
fright
you
are
in
of
Alyona Ivanovna," gabbled
the
huckster's wife, a
lively
little
woman. "I
look
at
you,
you
are
like
some
little
babe.
And
she
is
not
your
own
sister
either—nothing
but
a step-sister
and
what
a
hand
she
keeps
over
you!" "But
this
time don't
say
a
word
to
Alyona Ivanovna,"
her
husband interrupted; "that's my advice,
but
come
round
to
us
without
asking.
It
will
be
worth
your
while. Later
on
your
sister
herself
may
have
a notion." "Am I
to
come?" "About
seven
o'clock
to-morrow.
And
they
will
be
here.
You
will
be
able
to
decide
for
yourself." "And we'll
have
a
cup
of
tea," added
his
wife. "All right, I'll come," said Lizaveta,
still
pondering,
and
she
began
slowly
moving
away.
He
was
only
a
few
steps
from
his
lodging.
He
went
in
like
a
man
condemned
to
death.
He
thought
of
nothing
and
was
incapable
of
thinking;
but
he
felt suddenly
in
his
whole
being
that
he
had
no
more
freedom
of
thought,
no
will,
and
that
everything
was
suddenly
and
irrevocably decided. Certainly,
if
he
had
to
wait
whole
years
for
a suitable opportunity,
he
could
not
reckon
on
a
more
certain
step
towards
the
success
of
the
plan
than
that
which
had
just
presented
itself.
In
any
case,
it
would
have
been
difficult
to
find
out
beforehand
and
with
certainty,
with
greater
exactness
and
less
risk,
and
without
dangerous
inquiries
and
investigations,
that
next
day
at
a
certain
time
an
old
woman,
on
whose
life
an
attempt
was
contemplated,
would
be
at
home
and
entirely alone.