the day after that, when that will be over and done with and everything will begin afresh . . .'
He suddenly came to his senses.
'After that,' he cried out, fairly leaping from the bench. 'But will that really happen? Surely it can't, can it?'
He left the bench and walked off, almost running; he was about to turn back home, but the thought of doing so suddenly appalled him: it was there at home, in that horrid cupboard, that all this had been brewing for over a month now; and he walked on, wherever his legs should take him.
His nervous tremors had become almost feverish; he even felt shivery; in the stifling heat he was turning cold. As if by some almost unconscious effort, by some inner necessity, he began scrutinizing every object he passed, as though trying hard to distract himself, but he was having little success and kept sinking into thought. When, with a start, he raised his head again and looked about him, he would instantly forget whatever he had just been thinking about, even the route he had taken. He walked like so from one end of Vasilyevsky Island to the other, emerged on the banks of the Little Neva, crossed the bridge and turned towards the Islands.48 His tired eyes, accustomed to the dust of the city, to the mortar and to the massive, cramping, crushing buildings, delighted at first in the greenery and the freshness. The closeness, the stench, the drinking dens - all had been left behind. But soon even these new and pleasant sensations began to sicken and irritate him. He stopped occasionally in front of dachas bedecked with greenery, peered through the fences, and saw extravagantly dressed women on distant balconies and terraces, and children running about in the gardens. He was particularly interested in the flowers and looked at them longest of all. Magnificent carriages also crossed his path, as well as men and women on horseback; he followed them with a curious gaze and forgot about them before they even disappeared from view. At one point he stopped and counted his money: thirty copecks or so. 'Twenty to the police officer, three to Nastasya for the letter - so yesterday I must have given the Marmeladovs about forty-seven copecks or even fifty,' he thought as he did his sums, but he soon forgot why he'd taken the money out of his pocket in the first place. He remembered as he was walking past an eating-house and realized he was hungry. Entering it, he had a glass of vodka and some kind of pie, which he finished off outside, continuing on his way. He hadn't drunk vodka for a very long time and it had an instant effect, even though it was only a glass. His legs suddenly grew heavy and he began to feel extremely sleepy. He headed home; but just as he was reaching Petrovsky Island he stopped in utter exhaustion, turned off the road into the bushes, collapsed on the grass and fell asleep there and then.
In morbid states dreams are often unusually palpable and vivid, bearing an exceptional resemblance to reality. The resulting picture may be quite monstrous, but the setting and the unfolding of the entire spectacle are so credible, and the details so fine and unexpected, while artistically consistent with the picture as a whole, that the very same dreamer could not invent them in his waking hours, were he even an artist of the order of Pushkin or Turgenev. Such dreams, morbid dreams, always live long in the memory and have a powerful effect on disturbed and already excited organisms.
It was a terrifying dream. Raskolnikov dreamt that he was back in his childhood, in their little town. He's about seven, it's a holiday, towards evening, and he's out walking with his father in the outskirts. A leaden, stifling day, the setting exactly as it was preserved in his memory: actually, his memory had smoothed it out a great deal compared to what he now saw in his dream. The town lies spread out before him, not a tree in sight; only far, far away, on the very edge of the sky, is the black dot of a small wood. A few yards away from the town's last vegetable patch is a tavern, a big tavern, which always made the most unpleasant impression on him and even frightened him when he passed it on walks with his father. There was always such a crowd there, so much yelling, laughing and swearing, so much hideous, raucous singing, so many fights; so many drunken, frightening types loitering around outside . . . Coming across them, he would cling to his father and shake all over. Next to the tavern is a road, a cart-track, always dusty and always black. On it goes, winding along and curving round to the right of the town cemetery some three hundred yards away. In the middle of the cemetery stands a stone church with a green cupola, where he used to go to church twice a year with his mother and father, for services held in memory of his grandmother, who was already long dead and whom he had never seen. They would always bring kutya on a white dish covered with a napkin, and the kutya would be made of sugar, rice and raisins pressed into the rice to form a cross.49 He loved this church and its ancient icons, most of them without metal casing, and the old priest with the twitching head. Next to his grandmother's grave, which had a tombstone, was the small grave of his younger brother, who died at six months and whom he'd also never known and couldn't remember; but he'd been told he once had a little brother, and every time he visited the cemetery he made a pious, respectful sign of the cross before the little grave, bowed to it and kissed it. And now he's dreaming that he and his father are walking along the path past the tavern towards the cemetery; he's holding his father's hand and keeps glancing back at the tavern in terror. A particular circumstance attracts his attention: some kind of party is under way - there's a crowd of dressed-up townswomen with their husbands and assorted low life. Everyone's drunk, everyone's singing, and there's a cart, a rather strange one, by the entrance to the tavern. It's one of those big carts to which big draught horses are harnessed, which carry goods and wine barrels. He always liked looking at these enormous draught horses with their long manes and sturdy legs, walking along at a measured pace and pulling entire mountains of stuff, not straining in the slightest, as though they found it easier to carry a load than not to. But now, strangely enough, the horse harnessed to such a big cart is small, scrawny and yellowish-brown, a real peasant's nag, one of those which he had often seen struggling beneath a load of firewood or hay, especially if the cart had got stuck in mud or in a rut, and then the peasants always beat them so very hard with their whips, sometimes right across their muzzles and eyes, and he would feel so very sorry for them that he'd be on the verge of tears and Mummy would lead him away from the window. But now it's suddenly become terribly noisy: great strapping peasants, roaring drunk, in red and blue shirts, their heavy coats hanging loose from their shoulders, are coming out of the tavern, shouting, singing and playing balalaikas. 'Hop on, all of yer!' shouts one, still young, with a big fat neck and a pulpy, carrot-red face. 'I'll take the lot of yer, hop on!' But everyone starts laughing and yelling:
'On a nag like that!'
'Mikolka, you must be soft in the head: an old mare pulling a cart like that!'
'That sorrel must be going on twenty, lads!'
'Hop on, I'll take the lot of yer!' Mikolka shouts again. Jumping first onto the cart, he takes the reins and stands up tall on the front board. 'The bay's gone with Matvey,' he shouts from the cart, 'and this old mare just pains my heart! I've half a mind to kill 'er, brothers - she's money down the drain. Hop on, I say! I'll get 'er galloping! Galloping!' He picks up the whip, relishing the prospect of flogging the sorrel.
'Hop on, why not?' someone guffaws in the crowd. 'Galloping, eh?'
'Bet she's not galloped for ten years or more!'
'She will now!'
'Show no mercy, brothers - grab your whips, all of yer, and have 'em ready!'
'Right you are! Flog 'er!'
They clamber into Mikolka's cart, laughing and joking. Some half a dozen men have climbed aboard and there's still room for more. They've got a woman with them, fat and ruddy-cheeked. She's wearing red calico, a horned headdress50 with beads, and little booties; she's cracking nuts and tittering. Everyone in the crowd is laughing as well, and who could blame them? This clapped-out old mare galloping with a load like that! Two lads in the cart grab a whip each, to help Mikolka. 'Gee up!' someone cries and the old nag tugs with all the strength she can muster, but she's barely capable of walking, never mind galloping; she just takes tiny little steps, groans and slumps under the blows raining down on her from the three whips. The laughter in the cart and the crowd becomes twice as loud, but Mikolka's furious and his blows land faster and faster, as if he really does believe that the old mare will start galloping.
'Brothers, wait for me!' shouts a lad from the crowd, getting into the spirit.
'Hop in! Hop in, all of yer!' shouts Mikolka. 'She'll take the lot of yer. I'll flog 'er dead!' He's lashing her and lashing her and no longer knows what to hit her with in his frenzy.
'Daddy! Daddy!' he shouts to his father. 'What are they doing, Daddy? Daddy, they're beating the poor little horse!'
'Come on, boy!' says the father. 'Just drunken idiots fooling around: off we go, boy, don't look!' - and tries to lead him away, but he breaks free of his grasp and, quite beside himself, runs to the horse. But the poor little horse is in a bad way. She's struggling for breath, stops, gives another tug and almost falls.
'Flog 'er till she drops!' shouts Mikolka. 'She's asking for it. I'll flog 'er dead!'
'Where's your fear of God, you mad beast?' yells an old man in the crowd.
'When's a mare like that ever hauled such a load?' adds another.
'You'll do 'er in!' shouts a third.
'Stay out of it! She's my property! I'll do what I like. Hop on! All of yer! I'll be damned if she don't gallop!'
A sudden volley of laughter drowns out everything else: the ever more frequent blows prove too much for the old nag and she begins feebly kicking out. Even the old man can't hold back a grin. And no wonder: a clapped-out old mare like her and still kicking out!
Two other lads in the crowd grab a whip each and run up to the horse to flog her from the side. They race in from opposite directions.
'Whip her on the snout - the eyes, the eyes!' shouts Mikolka.
'A song, brothers!' someone shouts from the cart and everyone in the cart sings along with him. A boisterous song starts up, a tambourine jingles and there's whistling during the refrain. The fat woman cracks nuts and titters.
... He's running alongside the little horse, running ahead, watching them as they whip her across the eyes, right across the eyes! He's crying. His heart surges, tears flow. One of the floggers catches him on the face; he doesn't feel it, wrings his hands, shouts, rushes to the grey old man with the grey beard, who's shaking his head in disapproval. A woman grabs his hand and tries to lead him away; but he breaks free and again he runs to the horse. She has no strength, yet still, she kicks out once more.
'Mad beast, eh?' screams Mikolka in wild fury. He drops the whip, bends over the cart and pulls out from the bottom a long thick shaft; he picks up one end with both hands and, straining every sinew, starts swinging it over the sorrel.
'He'll smash 'er in two!' someone shouts.
'He'll kill her!'
'My property!' shouts Mikolka and brings the shaft down with all his force. The impact is loud and heavy.
'Flog 'er! Flog 'er! Don't stop!' shout voices from the crowd.
Mikolka swings for a second time and another crashing blow lands on the spine of the wretched nag. She falls right back on her rump, but jerks up again and tugs, tugs every which way with her last ounce of strength, trying to shift the cart; but six whips are lashing her from all sides, and again the shaft is raised and falls for a third time, then a fourth, steadily, with heaving swings. Mikolka is furious that one blow is not enough to kill her.
'She's a sticker!' someone shouts from the crowd.
'Now she's sure to fall, brothers, now she's had it!' yells another enthusiastic observer.
'An axe'll do it!' shouts a third.
'I'll feed yer to the flies! Out of my way!' Mikolka screams uncontrollably. He drops the shaft, leans over the cart once more and pulls out an iron crowbar. 'Look out!' he shouts, and clubs his poor mare with all his strength. A shattering blow; the mare begins to totter, slumps, tries to tug, but the bar comes crashing down on her spine once more and she falls to the ground, as if her four legs had all been hacked off at once.
'Finish 'er off!' shouts Mikolka and, quite beside himself, jumps down from the cart. Several lads, also red-faced with drink, grab whatever they can - whips, sticks, the shaft - and run over to the dying mare. Mikolka stands on one side and starts hitting her over the back with the crowbar. The nag stretches out her muzzle, sighs heavily and dies.
'Got there in the end!' comes a voice from the crowd.
'She should've galloped!'
'My property!' shouts Mikolka, standing there with the bar in his hands and bloodshot eyes. He seems sorry not to have anyone left to hit.
'You've no fear of God!' shouts the crowd, in many voices now.
But the poor boy is beside himself. He yells and squeezes his way through the crowd to the sorrel, throws his arms around her dead, bloodied muzzle and kisses her, kisses her on her eyes, her lips . . . Then he suddenly jumps up and charges at Mikolka with his little fists. At that very moment his father, who's been chasing after him in vain, finally grabs him and hauls him out of the crowd.
'Off we go now! Off we go!' he tells him. 'Home!'
'Daddy! The poor little horse . . . They've killed it . . . What for?' he sobs, but he can barely breathe and the words burst from his tightening chest like screams.
'Just drunks fooling around. Off we go! It's none of our business!' says his father. He hugs his father, but his chest feels tighter and tighter. He wants to catch his breath and scream, then wakes.
He woke in a cold sweat, his hair soaked; gasping for breath, he lifted himself up in terror.
'Thank God, just a dream!' he said, sitting up under a tree and drawing deep breaths. 'But what's happening? Hope it's not a fever coming on: what a hideous dream!'
His whole body felt broken, his soul troubled and dark. Resting his elbows on his knees, he propped his head in his hands.
'My God!' he exclaimed. 'Will I really - I mean, really - actually take an axe, start bashing her on the head, smash her skull to pieces? . . . Will I really slip in sticky, warm blood, force the lock, steal, tremble, hide, all soaked in blood . . . axe in hand? . . . Lord, will I really?'
He shook as he said this.
'But what am I saying!' he continued, raising himself up once more, as if in deep astonishment. 'After all, I knew this would be too much for me, so why have I been tormenting myself all this time? Yesterday, just yesterday, when I went to do that . . . test, even then I understood full well that I'd crack . . . So what is all this? How can I still be in any doubt? Only yesterday, coming down the stairs, didn't I say that all this is despicable, foul, vile . . . ? The very thought of it in reality made me sick with horror . . .
'No, I'll crack! I'll crack! Even supposing that all these calculations are entirely sound, that all the decisions taken during this past month are as clear as day, as sound as arithmetic. Lord! Even then I'll not dare! In the end I'll crack! I'll crack! So what on earth am I still . . . ?'
He got to his feet, looked about in surprise, as if his coming here were also a cause for wonder, and made off towards T---- Bridge. He was pale, his eyes were burning and every limb ached with exhaustion, but suddenly he seemed to be breathing more freely. He felt that he had cast off the terrible weight that had been crushing him for so long, and his soul suddenly felt light and at peace. 'Lord,' he prayed, 'show me my path, while I renounce this damned . . . dream of mine!'
Crossing the bridge, he gazed in quiet serenity at the Neva, at the bright setting of the bright red sun. Despite his weakness, he felt no tiredness. As if an abscess that had been developing all month on his heart had suddenly burst. Freedom! Freedom! He was free from this spell, from sorcery and charms, from evil delusion!
Subsequently, when he recalled this time and all that had happened to him during these days, minute by minute, point by point, mark by mark, he was always struck to a superstitious degree by a certain circumstance which, though in fact not all that extraordinary, had, he later felt, somehow predetermined his fate.
Namely: he was simply incapable of understanding or explaining to himself why he'd returned home via Haymarket Square, a place he had not the slightest reason to visit, when it would have made far more sense for him, tired and worn out as he was, to take the shortest, most direct route home. It wasn't much of a detour, but it was an unmistakable and quite unnecessary one. Of course, there had been dozens of occasions when he'd returned home without remembering the streets along which he'd walked. But why on earth, he would always wonder, should this encounter on Haymarket Square - one so important and so decisive for him and at the same time so very fortuitous (in a place he had no need to go to) - why should it have occurred right then, at such an hour, such a moment of his life, when he found himself in precisely the mood and precisely the circumstances required for this encounter to have the most decisive and most definitive effect on his entire fate? As if it had been lying in wait for him!
It was about nine when he crossed Haymarket. All the traders at the tables and stalls, and in the shops and little stores, were locking up their goods or taking them down and putting them away, and making their way home, as were their customers. In the filthy, stinking courtyards of Haymarket Square, near the eating-houses on the lower floors, and especially outside the drinking dens, thronged traffickers and rag dealers of every kind. Raskolnikov was often drawn to this square, and all the nearby streets, during his aimless wanders. Here his rags attracted no one's disdain and nobody could care less what he looked like. On the corner of K---- Lane a tradesman and his wife were selling goods at two tables: thread, tape, cotton handkerchiefs and so on. They, too, were packing up for the day, but they'd paused to chat to an acquaintance. The acquaintance was Lizaveta Ivanovna, or simply Lizaveta, as everyone called her, the younger sister of that same old woman, Alyona Ivanovna - the collegiate registrar's widow and moneylender whom Raskolnikov had visited the day before to pawn the watch and do his test . . . He had long known all there was to know about this Lizaveta, and she even knew him a little. She was a tall, ungainly, timid, meek spinster, thirty-fiv