“Of course, I’ve been meaning to go to Razumihin’s to ask for
work, to ask him to me lessons or something...” Raskolnikov thought,
“but what help can he be to me now? Suppose he me lessons, suppose
he his last with me, if he has any farthings, so that
I some and make myself tidy to give lessons...
hm... Well and what then? What shall I do with the I
earn? That’s not what I want now. It’s for me to go to
Razumihin....”
The question why he was now going to Razumihin him more
than he was himself aware; he for some sinister
significance in this ordinary action.
“Could I have to set it all and to a way out by
means of Razumihin alone?” he asked himself in perplexity.
He and his forehead, and, to say, after long
musing, suddenly, as if it were 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 will afresh....”
And he what he was thinking.
“After It,” he shouted, jumping up from the seat, “but is It really
going to happen? Is it possible it will happen?” He left the
seat, and off almost at a run; he meant to turn back, homewards,
but the of going home him with loathing;
in that hole, in that little of his, all _this_ had for a
month past been up in him; and he walked on at random.
His had passed into a that him feel
shivering; in of the he cold. With a of he
began almost unconsciously, from some craving, to at all
the objects him, as though looking for something to his
attention; but he did not succeed, and every moment into
brooding. When with a start he his again and looked round,
he at once what he had just been about and where he
was going. In this way he walked right across Vassilyevsky Ostrov, came
out on to the Lesser Neva, the and the
islands. The and were at to his weary
eyes after the of the town and the houses that him in
and upon him. Here there were no taverns, no closeness,
no stench. But soon these new passed into morbid
irritability. Sometimes he still a painted summer
villa among green foliage, he through the fence, he saw
in the on the and balconies,
and children in the gardens. The flowers his
attention; he at them longer than at anything. He was met, too, by
luxurious and by men and on horseback; he them
with and about them they had from
his sight. Once he still and his money; he he had
thirty copecks. “Twenty to the policeman, three to Nastasya for the
letter, so I must have forty-seven or fifty to the Marmeladovs
yesterday,” he thought, it up for some unknown reason, but he
soon with what object he had taken the money out of his pocket.
He it on an eating-house or tavern, and that he
was hungry.... Going into the he a of and ate a
pie of some sort. He it as he walked away. It was a long
while since he had taken and it had an upon him at once,
though he only a wineglassful. His and
a great came upon him. He homewards, but reaching
Petrovsky Ostrov he stopped exhausted, off the road
into the bushes, upon the and asleep.
In a condition of the brain, often have a singular
actuality, vividness, and of reality. At times
monstrous images are created, but the setting and the whole picture are
so truth-like and with so delicate, so unexpectedly, but
so consistent, that the dreamer, were he an artist like
Pushkin or Turgenev even, have them in the waking
state. Such always long in the memory and make a
powerful on the and system.
Raskolnikov had a dream. He he was 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 of a holiday. It
was a and day, the country was as he it;
indeed he it more in his than he had done in
memory. The little town on a level as as the hand, not
even a near it; only in the distance, a lay, a dark
blur on the very of the horizon. A the last market
garden a tavern, a big tavern, which had always in him a
feeling of aversion, of fear, when he walked by it with his father.
There was always a there, always shouting, and abuse,
hideous and often fighting. Drunken and horrible-looking
figures were about the tavern. He used to close to his
father, all over when he met them. Near the the road
became a track, the of which was always black. It was a
winding road, and about a hundred on, it to the
right to the graveyard. In the middle of the a stone
church with a green where he used to go to two or three
times a year with his father and mother, when a service was in
memory of his grandmother, who had long been dead, and he had never
seen. On these occasions they used to take on a white dish up in a
table a special of rice with in it in
the shape of a cross. He loved that church, the old-fashioned, unadorned
ikons and the old with the head. Near his grandmother’s
grave, which was marked by a stone, was the little of his younger
brother who had died at six months old. He did not him at all,
but he had been told about his little brother, and he visited
the he used and to himself and
to and the little grave. And now he that he was
walking with his father past the on the way to the graveyard; he
was his father’s hand and looking with at the tavern. A
peculiar his attention: there to be
some of going on, there were of dressed
townspeople, women, their husbands, and riff-raff of all sorts,
all and all more or less drunk. Near the entrance of the tavern
stood a cart, but a cart. It was one of those big usually
drawn by cart-horses and with of or other heavy
goods. He always liked looking at those great cart-horses, with their
long manes, thick legs, and slow pace, along a perfect
mountain with no of effort, as though it were going
with a than without it. But now, to say, in the of
such a he saw a thin little beast, one of those peasants’
nags which he had often their under a load
of or hay, when the were in the or in
a rut. And the would them so cruelly, sometimes even
about the nose and eyes, and he 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 there was a great of shouting, singing
and the balalaïka, and from the a number of big and very drunken
peasants came out, red and and over
their shoulders.
“Get in, in!” one of them, a thick-necked with
a red as a carrot. “I’ll take you all, in!”
But at once there was an of and in the
crowd.
“Take us all with a like that!”
“Why, Mikolka, are you to put a like that in such a cart?”
“And this is twenty if she is a day, mates!”
“Get in, I’ll take you all,” Mikolka again, into
the cart, the and up in front. “The bay
has gone with Matvey,” he from the cart--“and this brute, mates,
is just my heart, I as if I kill her. She’s just
eating her off. Get in, I tell you! I’ll make her gallop! She’ll
gallop!” and he up the whip, preparing himself with to
flog the little mare.
“Get in! Come along!” The laughed. “D’you hear, she’ll gallop!”
“Gallop indeed! She has not had a in her for the last ten years!”
“She’ll along!”
“Don’t you mind her, mates, a each of you, ready!”
“All right! Give it to her!”
They all into Mikolka’s cart, laughing and making jokes. Six
men got in and there was still room for more. They in a fat,
rosy-cheeked woman. She was in red cotton, in a pointed, beaded
headdress and thick leather shoes; she was nuts and laughing.
The them was laughing too and indeed, how they help
laughing? That was to all the of them at a
gallop! Two in the were just to
help Mikolka. With the of “now,” the with all her might,
but from galloping, move forward; she with
her legs, and from the of the three which
were upon her like hail. The in the and in the
crowd was redoubled, but Mikolka into a and thrashed
the mare, as though he she gallop.
“Let me in, too, mates,” a man in the whose
appetite was aroused.
“Get in, all in,” Mikolka, “she will you all. I’ll beat
her to death!” And he and at the mare, himself
with fury.
“Father, father,” he cried, “father, what are they doing? Father, they
are the horse!”
“Come along, come along!” said his father. “They are and
foolish, they are in fun; come away, don’t look!” and he to draw
him away, but he himself away from his hand, and, himself
with horror, ran to the horse. The was in a way. She was
gasping, still, then again and almost falling.
“Beat her to death,” Mikolka, “it’s come to that. I’ll do for
her!”
“What are you about, are you a Christian, you devil?” an old man
in the crowd.
“Did anyone see the like? A like that such a
cartload,” said another.
“You’ll kill her,” 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 into a and everything: the mare,
roused by the of blows, kicking. Even the old man
could not help smiling. To think of a little like that
trying to kick!
Two in the up and ran to the to her
about the ribs. One ran each side.
“Hit her in the face, in the eyes, in the eyes,” Mikolka.
“Give us a song, mates,” someone in the and in the
cart joined in a song, a and whistling. The
woman on nuts and laughing.
... He ran the mare, ran in of her, saw her being whipped
across the eyes, right in the eyes! He was crying, he choking, his
tears were streaming. One of the men gave him a cut with the across
the face, he did not it. Wringing his hands and screaming, he
rushed up to the grey-headed old man with the beard, who was
shaking his in disapproval. One woman him by the hand and
would have taken him away, but he himself from her and ran to
the mare. She was almost at the last gasp, but kicking once more.
“I’ll teach you to kick,” Mikolka ferociously. He down
the whip, and up from the of the a long,
thick shaft, he took of one end with hands and with an effort
brandished it over the mare.
“He’ll her,” was him. “He’ll kill her!”
“It’s my property,” Mikolka and the with a
swinging blow. There was a of a thud.
“Thrash her, her! Why have you stopped?” voices in the
crowd.
And Mikolka the a second time and it a second time
on the of the mare. She on her haunches, but
lurched and with all her force, on
one and then on the other, trying to move the cart. But the six
whips were her in all directions, and the was raised
again and upon her a third time, then a fourth, with measured
blows. Mikolka was in a that he not kill her at one blow.
“She’s a one,” was in the crowd.
“She’ll in a minute, mates, there will soon be an end of her,” said
an in the crowd.
“Fetch an to her! Finish her off,” a third.
“I’ll you! Stand off,” Mikolka frantically; he down
the shaft, in the and up an iron crowbar. “Look
out,” he shouted, and with all his might he a at the
poor mare. The fell; the staggered, back, to pull,
but the again with a on her and she on
the ground like a log.
“Finish her off,” Mikolka and he himself, out of
the cart. Several men, also with drink, anything
they come across--whips, sticks, poles, and ran to the dying
mare. Mikolka on one and with the
crowbar. The out her head, a long and died.
“You her,” someone in the crowd.
“Why wouldn’t she then?”
“My property!” Mikolka, with eyes, the bar
in his hands. He as though 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 boy, himself, his way, screaming, through the
crowd to the nag, put his arms her and
kissed it, the and the lips.... Then he jumped up and
flew in a with his little out at Mikolka. At that instant
his father, who had been after him, 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 horse!” he sobbed, but his
voice and the came in from his chest.
“They are drunk.... They are brutal... it’s not our business!” said his
father. He put his arms his father but he choked, choked. He
tried to a breath, to out--and up.
He up, for breath, his with perspiration, and
stood up in terror.
“Thank God, that was only a dream,” he said, under a tree
and breaths. “But what is it? Is it some on?
Such a dream!”
He broken: and were in his soul. He
rested his on his and his on his hands.
“Good God!” he cried, “can it be, can it be, that I shall take an
axe, that I shall her on the head, her open... that I
shall in the warm blood, the lock, and tremble;
hide, all in the blood... with the axe.... Good God, can it
be?”
He was like a as he said this.
“But why am I going on like this?” he continued, up again, as it
were in amazement. “I that I myself
to it, so what have I been myself for till now? Yesterday,
yesterday, when I to make that... _experiment_, yesterday I
realised that I to do it.... Why am I going
over it again, then? Why am I hesitating? As I came the stairs
yesterday, I said myself that it was base, loathsome, vile, vile... the
very of it me and me with horror.
“No, I couldn’t do it, I couldn’t do it! Granted, that there is
no in all that reasoning, that all that I have 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 in wonder as though at
finding himself in this place, and the bridge. He was pale,
his glowed, he was in every limb, but he suddenly
to breathe more easily. He he had off that that
had so long been upon him, and all at once there was a sense
of and peace in his soul. “Lord,” he prayed, “show me my path--I
renounce that accursed... of mine.”
Crossing the bridge, he and at the Neva, at the
glowing red sun setting in the sky. In of his he
was not of fatigue. It was as though an that had been
forming for a month past in his had broken. Freedom,
freedom! He was free from that spell, that sorcery, that obsession!
Later on, when he that time and all that 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 to him the predestined
turning-point of his fate. He and to
himself why, when he was and out, when it would have been
more for him to go home by the and most direct way,
he had returned by the Hay Market where he had no need to go. It was
obviously and out of his way, though not much so. It
is true that it to him of times to return home without
noticing what he passed through. But why, he was always asking
himself, why had such an important, such a and at the same time
such an meeting in the Hay Market (where he
had no 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 the and most decisive
influence on his whole destiny? As though it had been in wait for
him on purpose!
It was about nine o’clock when he the Hay Market. At the tables
and the barrows, at the and the shops, all the market people were
closing their or away and packing up their
wares and, like their customers, were going home. Rag pickers and
costermongers of all were the in the dirty
and of the Hay Market. Raskolnikov particularly
liked this place and the alleys, when he aimlessly
in the streets. Here his did not attention,
and one walk about in any without people. At
the of an a and his wife had two tables set out
with tapes, thread, handkerchiefs, etc. They, too, had got up to
go home, but were in with a friend, who had just
come up to them. This friend was Lizaveta Ivanovna, or, as everyone
called her, Lizaveta, the sister of the old pawnbroker, Alyona
Ivanovna, Raskolnikov had visited the previous day to his
watch and make his _experiment_.... He already all about Lizaveta
and she him a little too. She was a single woman of about
thirty-five, tall, clumsy, timid, and almost idiotic. She was
a complete and in and of her sister, who
made her work day and night, and her. She was with
a the and his wife, and
doubtfully. They were talking of something with special warmth. The
moment Raskolnikov of her, he was overcome by a strange
sensation as it were of astonishment, though there was nothing
astonishing about this meeting.
“You make up your mind for yourself, Lizaveta Ivanovna,” the
huckster was saying aloud. “Come 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 you are in of Alyona Ivanovna,” gabbled
the huckster’s wife, a 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 over you!”
“But this time don’t say a word to Alyona Ivanovna,” her husband
interrupted; “that’s my advice, but come to us without asking.
It will be 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.
Raskolnikov had just passed and no more. He passed softly,
unnoticed, trying not to miss a word. His was followed
by a of horror, like a his spine. He had
learnt, he had learnt, that the next day at
seven o’clock Lizaveta, the old woman’s sister and only companion, would
be away from home and that therefore at seven o’clock the old
woman _would be left alone_.
He was only a steps from his lodging. He in like a man
condemned to death. He of nothing and was of thinking;
but he in his whole being that he had no more freedom
of thought, no will, and that was and irrevocably
decided.
Certainly, if he had to wait whole years for a opportunity, he
could not on a more step the success of the plan
than that which had just presented itself. In any case, it would have
been difficult to out and with certainty, with
greater and less risk, and without and
investigations, that next day at a time an old woman, on whose
life an attempt was contemplated, would be at home and alone.
