Part One · V

“It’s true, just recently I was going to ask Razumikhin for work, to get me lessons or something…” Raskolnikov was thinking it through, “but what can he do for me now? Suppose he gets me lessons, suppose he even shares his last kopeck with me, if he has a kopeck, so that I could even buy boots and patch up my clothes enough to go to lessons… hm… Well, and then? What am I going to do with five-kopeck pieces? Is that what I need now? Really, it’s ridiculous that I went to Razumikhin…”

The question of why he had gone to Razumikhin now troubled him more than even he himself realized; uneasily he kept searching for some sinister meaning for himself in what was, one would think, the most ordinary of actions.

“What, did I really mean to set the whole thing right with Razumikhin alone, did I really find the way out of everything in Razumikhin?” he asked himself in surprise.

He thought and rubbed his forehead, and, strange to say, somehow by chance, suddenly and almost of itself, after very long reflection, a very strange thought came into his head.

“Hm… to Razumikhin,” he said suddenly, perfectly calmly, as if by way of a final decision, “I’ll go to Razumikhin, of course… but not now… I’ll go to him… the day after, after that, when that is already finished and when everything starts out new…”

And suddenly he came to himself.

“After that,” he cried, jumping up from the bench, “but is that really going to happen? Is it actually going to happen?”

He left the bench and walked off, almost ran; he wanted to turn back, toward home, but going home suddenly became horribly repugnant to him: there, in that corner, in that horrible cupboard, all this had been ripening for more than a month now, and he walked off wherever his feet took him.

His nervous trembling had turned into a sort of feverish trembling; he even felt a chill; in such heat he was growing cold. As if with an effort he began, almost unconsciously, from some inner necessity, to stare at every object he met, as though straining to find distraction, but this went poorly, and every minute he lapsed into brooding. And when, starting, he raised his head again and looked around, he at once forgot what he had just been thinking about and even where he was walking. In this way he crossed all of Vasilyevsky Island, came out on the Little Neva, crossed the bridge, and turned toward the Islands. The greenery and the freshness pleased his tired eyes at first, used as they were to the dust of the city, to lime, and to the huge, crowding, crushing buildings. Here there was no stuffiness, no stench, no taverns. But soon even these new, pleasant sensations turned painful and irritating. Sometimes he stopped before some summer villa decked out in greenery, looked through the fence, and saw in the distance, on balconies and terraces, women in fine dresses and children running in the garden. The flowers especially caught his attention; he looked at them longest of all. He also met splendid carriages, horsemen and horsewomen; he followed them with curious eyes and forgot about them before they were out of sight. Once he stopped and counted his money: it came to about thirty kopecks. “Twenty to the policeman, three to Nastasya for the letter, so I gave the Marmeladovs forty-seven or fifty kopecks yesterday,” he thought, reckoning it up for some reason, but he soon forgot even why he had taken the money out of his pocket. He remembered it as he passed a cookshop of sorts, a kind of eating house, and felt that he was hungry. Going into the eating house, he drank a glass of vodka and ate a pie with some kind of filling. He finished it on the road, walking on again. He had not drunk vodka for a very long time, and it took effect instantly, though he had drunk only one glass. His legs suddenly grew heavy, and he began to feel a strong urge to sleep. He started for home; but having got as far as Petrovsky Island, he stopped in utter exhaustion, left the road, went into the bushes, dropped onto the grass, and fell asleep that same minute.

In a morbid state, dreams are often remarkable for their extraordinary vividness and brightness and their uncommon resemblance to reality. Sometimes a monstrous picture takes shape, but the setting and the whole course of the presentation are so plausible, and with details so subtle, so unexpected, yet so artistically in keeping with the fullness of the picture, that the dreamer himself could not invent them waking, were he an artist like Pushkin or Turgenev. Such dreams, morbid dreams, are always remembered for a long time and make a powerful impression on a person’s disordered and already excited organism.

Raskolnikov had a terrible dream. He dreamed of his childhood, back in their little town. He is about seven and is out walking on a holiday, toward evening, with his father outside the town. The day is grayish, stifling, and the place is exactly as it had survived in his memory: in his memory, even, it had faded far more than it appeared to him now in the dream. The little town stands in the open, as plain as the palm of your hand, not a willow anywhere around; somewhere very far off, at the very edge of the sky, a little wood shows black. A few steps beyond the last town kitchen garden stands a tavern, a big tavern, which had always made a most unpleasant impression on him, and even frightened him, when he walked past it with his father. There was always such a crowd there, they yelled so, guffawed, swore, sang so hideously and hoarsely, and fought so often; around the tavern there always loitered such drunken and terrible faces… When he met them, he pressed close to his father and trembled all over. By the tavern runs a road, a country road, always dusty, and the dust on it is always so black. It winds on, farther, and some three hundred paces on it curves to the right around the town cemetery. In the middle of the cemetery stands a stone church with a green cupola, where once or twice a year he went to the liturgy with his father and mother, when memorial services were held for his grandmother, who had died long ago and whom he had never seen. On these occasions they always took along kutya on a white dish, wrapped in a napkin, and the kutya was sugared, of rice and raisins, the raisins pressed into the rice in the shape of a cross. He loved that church and the old icons in it, most of them without metal covers, and the old priest with the trembling head. Beside his grandmother’s grave, which had a stone slab on it, was the little grave of his younger brother, who had died at six months and whom he also had never known and could not remember; but he had been told that he had had a little brother, and every time he visited the cemetery he crossed himself religiously and reverently over the little grave, bowed to it, and kissed it. And now he dreams: they are walking with his father along the road to the cemetery and passing the tavern; he is holding his father’s hand and looking back fearfully at the tavern. A peculiar circumstance catches his attention: this time there seems to be some festivity going on, a crowd of townswomen in their finery, peasant women, their husbands, and all sorts of riffraff. Everyone is drunk, everyone is singing songs, and by the tavern steps stands a cart, but a strange cart. It is one of those big carts that are harnessed to big draft horses and used for hauling goods and barrels of wine. He always loved to watch those huge draft horses, long-maned, thick-legged, walking calmly, at a measured pace, and pulling some whole mountain behind them without the least strain, as though it were even easier for them with loads than without. But now, strange to say, harnessed to such a big cart was a small, skinny, dun-colored peasant nag, one of those that—he had often seen it—sometimes strain themselves to the breaking point with some tall load of firewood or hay, especially if the load gets stuck in the mud or in a rut, and then the peasants always beat them so painfully, so painfully with their whips, sometimes even right across the muzzle and the eyes, and he feels so sorry, so sorry to watch it that he almost cries, and Mama always used to lead him away from the window. But now suddenly it becomes very noisy: out of the tavern, with shouts, with songs, with balalaikas, come some big, dead-drunk peasants in red and blue shirts, with their coats thrown over their shoulders. “Get in, everybody get in!” shouts one, still young, with a thick neck and a fleshy face as red as a carrot, “I’ll drive you all, get in!” But at once laughter and exclamations ring out:

“A nag like that’s going to pull it!”

“Mikolka, are you out of your mind, hitching a mare like that to a cart like this!”

“Why, that dun must be twenty years old if she’s a day, brothers!”

“Get in, I’ll drive you all!” Mikolka shouts again, jumping first into the cart; he takes the reins and stands up at the front at his full height. “The bay went off with Matvei a while ago,” he shouts from the cart, “and this mare here, brothers, she just breaks my heart: I could kill her, it seems, she eats her bread for nothing. I tell you, get in! I’ll make her gallop! She’ll gallop!” And he takes the whip in his hands, relishing the thought of lashing the little dun.

“Well, get in, why not!” the crowd guffaws. “You hear, she’s going to gallop!”

“She hasn’t galloped in ten years, I bet.”

“She’ll gallop now!”

“No pity, brothers, everybody grab a whip, get ready!”

“That’s it! Lash her!”

They all climb into Mikolka’s cart, laughing and joking. Some six men have piled in, and there is still room for more. They take along a woman, fat and rosy. She is in red calico, with a beaded headdress, felt slippers on her feet; she is cracking nuts and giggling. The crowd around is laughing too, and really, how could you not laugh: a scrawny mare like that is going to pull such a load at a gallop! Two lads in the cart at once take a whip each to help Mikolka. Someone cries “Giddap!” and the nag pulls with all her might, but far from galloping, she can barely manage even a walk; she only shuffles her legs, grunts, and sinks under the blows of the three whips that rain down on her like peas. The laughter in the cart and in the crowd doubles, but Mikolka gets angry and in a fury lashes the mare with faster and faster blows, as though he really believes she will gallop.

“Let me in too, brothers!” shouts a lad in the crowd who has caught the taste of it.

“Get in! Everybody get in!” shouts Mikolka. “She’ll pull you all. I’ll flog her to death!” And he lashes and lashes, and in his frenzy no longer knows what to beat her with.

“Papa, Papa,” he cries to his father, “Papa, what are they doing? Papa, they’re beating the poor horse!”

“Come along, come along!” says his father. “They’re drunk, they’re playing the fool, idiots: come along, don’t look!” And he tries to lead him away, but he tears himself out of his hands and, beside himself, runs to the horse. But the poor horse is in a bad way already. She is gasping, stopping, pulling again, almost falling.

“Flog her to death!” shouts Mikolka. “It’s come to that. I’ll flog her to death!”

“Have you no cross on you or what, you devil!” shouts an old man from the crowd.

“Whoever saw a little horse like that pull a load like this,” adds another.

“You’ll kill her!” shouts a third.

“Hands off! She’s my property! I do what I like. Get in, more of you! Everybody get in! I want her to gallop, no matter what!…”

Suddenly a burst of laughter breaks out and drowns everything: the mare could not bear the rain of blows and in her helplessness began to kick. Even the old man could not help grinning. And truly: such a scrawny little mare, and kicking besides!

Two lads from the crowd get hold of another whip each and run up to the horse to lash her from the sides. Each runs to his own side.

“On the muzzle, across the eyes, whip her across the eyes!” shouts Mikolka.

“A song, brothers!” someone shouts from the cart, and everyone in the cart joins in. A rollicking song rings out, a tambourine jingles, there is whistling in the refrains. The woman cracks nuts and giggles.

…He runs alongside the horse, he runs ahead, he sees them whipping her across the eyes, right across the eyes! He is crying. His heart heaves, the tears flow. One of the men lashing her catches him across the face; he does not feel it, he wrings his hands, cries out, rushes to a gray-headed old man with a gray beard, who is shaking his head and condemning it all. A woman takes him by the hand and tries to lead him away; but he tears himself free and runs to the horse again. She is already at her last efforts, but once more she begins to kick.

“Devil take you!” Mikolka cries out in fury. He throws down the whip, bends down, and drags out of the bottom of the cart a long, thick shaft, takes it by one end in both hands, and with an effort swings it over the little dun.

“He’ll smash her!” they shout all around.

“He’ll kill her!”

“She’s my property!” shouts Mikolka, and brings the shaft down with all his might. There is a heavy thud.

“Lash her, lash her! What are you standing there for!” voices shout from the crowd.

And Mikolka swings again, and a second blow lands with all his might on the back of the wretched nag. Her whole hindquarters sink, but she leaps up and pulls, pulls with all her last strength this way and that to move the cart; but from every side six whips meet her, and the shaft rises again and falls a third time, then a fourth, steadily, with a full swing. Mikolka is in a rage that he cannot kill her with one blow.

“Tough one!” they shout all around.

“She’ll drop any minute now, brothers, that’ll be the end of her!” shouts an enthusiast from the crowd.

“Take an ax to her, why not! Finish her off at one go,” shouts a third.

“Eh, may the mosquitoes eat you! Out of the way!” Mikolka screams in a frenzy, throws down the shaft, bends into the cart again, and drags out an iron crowbar. “Look out!” he shouts, and with all his strength he swings and stuns his poor horse. The blow crashes down; the mare staggers, sinks, tries to pull, but the crowbar again lands on her back with all his might, and she falls to the ground as if all four legs had been cut from under her at once.

“Finish her!” shouts Mikolka, and he leaps down from the cart, as though beside himself. Several lads, also red and drunk, grab whatever comes to hand—whips, sticks, the shaft—and run to the dying mare. Mikolka stands to one side and begins beating her across the back with the crowbar, at random. The nag stretches out her muzzle, sighs heavily, and dies.

“He’s done for her!” they shout in the crowd.

“Why wouldn’t she gallop!”

“She’s my property!” shouts Mikolka, with the crowbar in his hands and his eyes bloodshot. He stands there as if sorry there is no one left to beat.

“Well, there really is no cross on you!” many voices are shouting from the crowd now.

But the poor boy is beside himself by now. With a cry he pushes his way through the crowd to the little dun, throws his arms around her dead, bloodied muzzle, and kisses it, kisses her on the eyes, on the lips… Then suddenly he jumps up and in a frenzy flings himself with his little fists at Mikolka. At that instant his father, who has long been chasing after him, at last seizes him and carries him out of the crowd.

“Come along! come along!” he says to him. “Let’s go home!”

“Papa! What did they… the poor horse… why did they kill her!” he sobs, but his breath catches, and the words burst from his tight chest in cries.

“They’re drunk, they’re playing the fool, it’s not our business, come along!” says his father. He throws his arms around his father, but his chest is tight, so tight. He wants to catch his breath, to cry out, and wakes up.

He woke up all in a sweat, his hair wet with sweat, gasping, and raised himself in horror.

“Thank God, it’s only a dream!” he said, sitting down under a tree and drawing deep breaths. “But what is this? Can a fever be starting in me: such a hideous dream!”

His whole body felt as if it had been broken; his soul was murky and dark. He put his elbows on his knees and propped his head in both hands.

“God!” he exclaimed, “can it be, can it be that I’ll really take an ax, that I’ll strike her on the head, smash her skull… that I’ll slip in the sticky, warm blood, break open the lock, steal, and tremble; hide, all drenched in blood… with the ax… Lord, can it be?”

He was trembling like a leaf as he said this.

“But what’s the matter with me!” he went on, sitting up again and as if in deep amazement. “I knew, after all, that I couldn’t stand it, so why have I been tormenting myself till now? Why, only yesterday, yesterday, when I went to make that… rehearsal, I understood perfectly yesterday that I couldn’t bear it… What’s the matter with me now? Why was I still doubting up to now? Why, yesterday, coming down the stairs, I said myself that it was base, vile, low, low… why, the mere thought of it, when I was wide awake, made me sick and threw me into horror…

“No, I can’t bear it, I can’t bear it! Even if, even if there is no doubt at all in all those calculations, even if everything I decided this month is clear as day, as just as arithmetic. Lord! I still won’t bring myself to do it, all the same! I can’t bear it, I can’t bear it!… Why, then, why, even until now…”

He got to his feet, looked around in surprise, as if wondering even that he had wandered here, and went toward T—— Bridge. He was pale, his eyes were burning, exhaustion was in every limb, but suddenly he seemed to breathe more easily. He felt that he had already thrown off that terrible burden which had crushed him for so long, and suddenly his soul grew light and peaceful. “Lord!” he prayed, “show me my way, and I renounce this cursed… dream of mine!”

Crossing the bridge, he looked quietly and calmly at the Neva, at the bright sunset of the bright red sun. In spite of his weakness he did not even feel tired. It was as though an abscess on his heart, which had been festering all month, had suddenly burst. Freedom, freedom! He was free now from those spells, from sorcery, enchantment, from delusion!

Later, when he recalled that time and everything that had happened to him in those days, minute by minute, point by point, feature by feature, one circumstance always struck him almost superstitiously, though in essence it was not so very unusual, yet afterward it constantly seemed to him a kind of predestination of his fate.

Namely: he could never understand or explain to himself why he, tired, worn out, who would have done best to return home by the shortest and most direct way, went home across the Haymarket, where he had no need to go at all. The detour was not long, but it was obvious and completely unnecessary. Of course, dozens of times he had returned home without remembering the streets he had walked along. But why, he always asked, why had so important, so decisive, and at the same time so utterly chance an encounter on the Haymarket (where he had no reason even to go) come just now, at such an hour, at such a minute of his life, in precisely such a frame of mind, and in precisely such circumstances, the only ones in which it, that encounter, could produce the most decisive and the most conclusive effect on his whole fate? As if it had been lying in wait for him there on purpose!

It was about nine o’clock when he crossed the Haymarket. All the traders at tables, at stands, in shops and little shops were closing up their establishments or taking down and putting away their wares and going home, as were their customers. Around the cookshops on the ground floors, in the dirty and stinking courtyards of the Haymarket buildings, and most of all around the taverns, crowds of every kind and sort of tradesmen and ragamuffins were gathered. Raskolnikov loved these places above all, as well as all the neighboring lanes, when he went out into the street without purpose. Here his rags drew no one’s haughty attention, and one could go about looking any way one liked without scandalizing anyone. Right at K—— Lane, on the corner, a townsman and a woman, his wife, were selling goods from two tables: thread, tape, cotton kerchiefs, and so on. They too were getting ready to go home, but had lingered, talking with an acquaintance who had come up. This acquaintance was Lizaveta Ivanovna, or simply, as everyone called her, Lizaveta, the younger sister of that same old woman Alyona Ivanovna, the collegiate registrar’s widow and moneylender, whom Raskolnikov had visited yesterday, coming to pawn his watch and make his rehearsal… He had long known all about this Lizaveta, and she even knew him a little. She was a tall, awkward, timid, and meek spinster, almost an idiot, thirty-five years old, who was in complete slavery to her sister, worked for her day and night, trembled before her, and even endured beatings from her. She was standing with a bundle before the townsman and the woman, lost in thought, and listening to them attentively. They were explaining something to her with particular warmth. When Raskolnikov suddenly saw her, a strange sensation, like the deepest amazement, came over him, although there was nothing amazing in this encounter.

“You’d better decide it in person, Lizaveta Ivanovna,” the townsman was saying loudly. “Come by tomorrow, sometime after six, ma’am. And they’ll be there too.”

“Tomorrow?” Lizaveta said slowly and thoughtfully, as though she could not make up her mind.

“My, how Alyona Ivanovna has frightened you!” the tradesman’s wife, a sprightly little woman, started chattering. “I look at you, and you’re just like a little child. And she’s not even your own sister, only a half sister, and look how she lords it over you.”

“Now this time don’t say anything to Alyona Ivanovna, ma’am,” the husband broke in, “that’s my advice, ma’am, just drop in on us without asking. It’s a profitable business, ma’am. Your sister can see the sense of it later herself.”

“Should I come, then?”

“After six, tomorrow; and someone will come from their side, ma’am; you can decide it in person, ma’am.”

“And we’ll put the samovar on,” added the wife.

“All right, I’ll come,” Lizaveta said, still pondering, and slowly began to move off.

At this point Raskolnikov had already passed and heard no more. He had passed quietly, unnoticed, trying not to miss a single word. His first amazement gave way little by little to horror, as if a frost had passed down his spine. He had learned, he had suddenly, abruptly, and quite unexpectedly learned that tomorrow, at exactly seven o’clock in the evening, Lizaveta, the old woman’s sister and the only person who lived with her, would not be at home, and that, therefore, the old woman, at exactly seven o’clock in the evening, would be left at home alone.

Only a few steps remained to his room. He went in like a man condemned to death. He reasoned about nothing and was utterly unable to reason; but with his whole being he suddenly felt that he no longer had any freedom of reason or of will, and that everything had suddenly been decided once and for all.

Of course, even if he had had to wait whole years for a suitable occasion, even then, having the plan, he could not have counted with certainty on a more obvious step toward the success of that plan than the one that had suddenly presented itself just now. In any case, it would have been hard to find out the day before, and for certain, with greater precision and with the least risk, without any dangerous inquiries and searches, that tomorrow, at such and such an hour, such and such an old woman, on whose life an attempt was being prepared, would be at home all by herself.