Chapter 5

“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....”

“Of course, I’ve been meaning to visit Razumihin lately and ask him to find me work, tutoring or something...” Raskolnikov thought, “but how can he help me now? Suppose he finds me students. Suppose he shares his last penny with me, if he has any money. I could buy some boots and make myself presentable enough to teach... hm... Well, what then? What would I do with the few pennies 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.

Why he was going to Razumihin now troubled him more than he realized. He kept looking uneasily for some sinister meaning in this seemingly ordinary act.

“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.

“Could I really have expected to sort it all out and find a way out with Razumihin’s help alone?” he wondered, puzzled.

He pondered and rubbed his forehead, and, strange to say, after long musing, suddenly, as it were spontaneously and by chance, a fantastic thought came into his head.

He thought and rubbed his forehead. Strangely, after he had thought for a long time, a fantastic idea suddenly came to him, seemingly on its own and by chance.

“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....”

“Hmm... to Razumihin’s,” he said suddenly and calmly, as if he had finally made up his mind. “Of course I’ll go to Razumihin’s, but... not now. I’ll go to him... the day after It, when It is over and everything begins again....”

And suddenly he realised what he was thinking.

And suddenly he realized what he was thinking.

“After It,” he shouted, jumping up from the seat, “but is It really going to happen? Is it possible it really will happen?” He left the seat, and went off almost at a run; he meant to turn back, homewards, but the thought of going home suddenly filled him with intense loathing; in that hole, in that awful little cupboard of his, all this had for a month past been growing up in him; and he walked on at random.

“After It,” he shouted, jumping up from the seat, “but is It really going to happen? Is it possible it really will happen?” He left the seat and walked away, almost running. He meant to turn back toward home, but the thought of going there suddenly filled him with intense disgust. In that hole, that awful little cupboard of his, all this had been growing inside him for a month. So he walked on without knowing where he was going.

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.

His nervous trembling had turned into a fever that left him shivering. Despite the heat, he felt cold. With some effort, he began staring at everything in front of him, almost without realizing it. Some inner need drove him, as if he were looking for something to distract him. But he failed, and kept slipping back into brooding. When he suddenly raised his head and looked around, he immediately forgot what he had been thinking about. He even forgot where he was going. In this way, he walked all the way across Vassilyevsky Ostrov. He came out onto the Lesser Neva, crossed the bridge, and turned toward the islands. At first, the greenery and fresh air rested his tired eyes. He had left behind the city dust and the huge buildings that had closed in around him and weighed on him. Here there were no taverns, no stifling air, no stench. But soon these pleasant new sensations gave way to a sickly irritability. Sometimes he stopped in front of a brightly painted summer villa surrounded by green leaves. He stared through the fence and saw well-dressed women in the distance, on verandas and balconies. Children ran through the gardens. The flowers especially caught his attention, and he looked at them longer than at anything else. He also passed luxurious carriages and men and women on horseback. He watched them with curious eyes, then forgot them before they were even out of sight. Once, he stopped and counted his money. He found that 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. For some unknown reason, he was adding it all up. But he soon forgot why he had taken the money out of his pocket. He remembered as he passed an eating house or tavern, and realized he was hungry.... He went inside, drank a glass of vodka, and ate a pie of some kind. He finished it as he walked away. He had not had vodka for a long time, and it affected him at once, though he had drunk only a wineglassful. His legs suddenly felt heavy, and he became very sleepy. He turned toward home, but by the time he reached Petrovsky Ostrov, he was completely exhausted. He stopped, left the road, and went into the bushes. There he sank down on the grass and fell asleep at once.

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 unexpected, 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.

When the brain is unwell, dreams often seem unusually vivid and real. Sometimes they create monstrous images. But the setting and the whole scene seem so lifelike, and their details are so delicate, unexpected, and artistically consistent. Even an artist like Pushkin or Turgenev could never have invented them while awake. Such troubled dreams always stay in the memory for a long time. They leave a powerful impression on an overstrained and disturbed 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 balalaïka, 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.

Raskolnikov had a frightening dream. He dreamed he was back in the small town where he had been born. He was about seven years old, walking into the countryside with his father on a holiday evening. The day was gray and gloomy, and the countryside was exactly as he remembered it. In fact, he saw it far more vividly in his dream than he had in his memories. The little town stood on a flat plain, as bare as the palm of a hand. There was not even a willow tree nearby. Only in the far distance was there a small wood, a dark blur at the edge of the horizon. A few steps beyond the last vegetable garden stood a large tavern. Whenever he passed it with his father, he had always felt disgust, even fear. There was always a crowd, always shouting, laughter, insults, and dreadful, hoarse singing. There were often fights. Drunken, horrible-looking figures hung around the tavern. Whenever he met them, he would cling to his father, trembling all over. Near the tavern, the road became a dusty track. The dust was always black. The road wound on for about a hundred paces, then turned right toward the graveyard. In the middle of the graveyard stood a stone church with a green dome. Two or three times a year, he went there to mass with his father and mother. They went when a service was held in memory of his grandmother. She had died long ago, and he had never seen her. On those occasions, they brought a special rice pudding on a white dish, wrapped in a table napkin. Raisins were arranged on the pudding in the shape of a cross. He loved the church, its old-fashioned, plain icons, and the old priest whose head shook. Near his grandmother’s grave, which had a stone marker, was the little grave of his younger brother. His brother had died at six months old. He did not remember him at all, but he had been told about him. Whenever he visited the graveyard, he would faithfully and reverently cross himself, bow down, and kiss the little grave. Now he dreamed that he was walking with his father past the tavern on their way to the graveyard. He held his father’s hand and looked at the tavern with dread. Something unusual caught his attention. There seemed to be some kind of celebration. There were crowds of brightly dressed townspeople, peasant women and their husbands, and riff-raff of all sorts. They were all singing and all more or less drunk. A cart stood near the tavern entrance, but it was a strange cart. It was one of the large carts usually pulled by heavy cart-horses and loaded with wine casks or other heavy goods. He had always liked watching those great cart-horses. They had long manes, thick legs, and a slow, steady pace. They pulled what seemed like a whole mountain without any apparent effort. They looked as though pulling a load was easier than going without one. But now, strangely, he saw a thin little reddish-brown horse between the shafts of such a cart. It was one of those peasant nags he had often seen straining with all their might. They struggled under heavy loads of wood or hay, especially when the wheels got stuck in mud or a rut. The peasants would beat them so cruelly, sometimes even on the nose and around the eyes. He felt so sorry, so sorry for the horses that he almost cried. His mother always used to take him away from the window. Suddenly, there was a great uproar of shouting, singing, and balalaika music. A number of big, very drunken peasants came out of the tavern. They wore red and blue shirts and had 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!”

“Get in, get in!” shouted one of them. He was a young peasant with a thick neck and a fleshy face as 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.

But the crowd immediately burst into laughter and cries.

“Take us all with a beast like that!”

“Take us all with a beast like that!”

“Why, Mikolka, are you crazy to put a nag like that in such a cart?”

“Mikolka, are you crazy to put a horse like that in a cart like this?”

“And this mare is twenty if she is a day, mates!”

“And this mare is at least twenty years old, 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, I’ll take you all,” Mikolka shouted again. He jumped into the cart first, grabbed the reins, and stood up straight at the front. “The bay horse has gone with Matvey,” he shouted from the cart. “And this brute, mates, is breaking my heart. I feel as if I could kill her. All she does is eat. Get in, I tell you! I’ll make her gallop! She’ll gallop!” He picked up the whip, eager to beat the little mare.

“Get in! Come along!” The crowd laughed. “D’you hear, she’ll gallop!”

“Get in! Come on!” The crowd laughed. “Do you hear? She’ll gallop!”

“Gallop indeed! She has not had a gallop in her for the last ten years!”

“Gallop? She hasn't been able to gallop for the last ten years!”

“She’ll jog along!”

“She’ll get along!”

“Don’t you mind her, mates, bring a whip each of you, get ready!”

“Don’t pay attention to her, mates. Each of you bring a whip and get ready!”

“All right! Give it to her!”

“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.

They all climbed into Mikolka’s cart, laughing and joking. Six men got in, and there was still room for more. They pulled in a fat, rosy-cheeked woman. She wore a red cotton dress, a pointed beaded headdress, and thick leather shoes. She was cracking nuts and laughing. The crowd around them was laughing too. How could they help laughing? That miserable old horse was supposed to pull the whole cartload of them at a gallop! Two young men in the cart were getting their whips ready to help Mikolka. At the cry of “now,” the mare pulled with all her strength. But instead of galloping, she could hardly move forward. Her legs struggled as she gasped and shrank from the blows of the three whips, which rained down like hail. The people in the cart and the crowd laughed even harder. But Mikolka flew into a rage and beat the mare furiously, as if he thought she really could gallop.

“Let me get in, too, mates,” shouted a young man in the crowd whose appetite was aroused.

“Let me in too, guys,” shouted a young man in the crowd, eager to join in.

“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.

“Get in, all of you,” cried Mikolka. “She’ll pull you all. I’ll beat her to death!” He beat the mare again and again, beside himself with fury.

“Father, father,” he cried, “father, what are they doing? Father, they are beating the poor horse!”

“Father, father,” he cried, “father, what are they doing? Father, they’re 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.

“Come on, come on!” said his father. “They’re drunk and foolish, they’re only having fun. Come away, don’t look!” He tried to pull him away, but the boy tore free and ran to the horse, frantic with horror. The poor horse was in a bad way. She was gasping and standing still, then pulling again and nearly falling.

“Beat her to death,” cried Mikolka, “it’s come to that. I’ll do for her!”

“Beat her to death,” shouted Mikolka. “It’s come to that. I’ll kill her!”

“What are you about, are you a Christian, you devil?” shouted an old man in the crowd.

“What are you doing? 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.

“Has anyone ever seen anything like it? A miserable old horse pulling such a heavy cart,” said another.

“You’ll kill her,” shouted the third.

“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!...”

“Stay out of it! It’s my property. I’ll do what I want with it. Get in, more of you! Get in, all of you! I’ll make her 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!

Suddenly, laughter roared and drowned out everything else. The mare, stirred by the rain of blows, began kicking weakly. Even the old man could not help smiling. Imagine a miserable little animal 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.

Two boys in the crowd grabbed whips and ran to the mare to beat her ribs. One ran on each side.

“Hit her in the face, in the eyes, in the eyes,” cried Mikolka.

“Hit her in the face, in the eyes, in the eyes,” shouted 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.

“Give us a song, mates,” someone in the cart shouted. Everyone in the cart joined in a rowdy song, jingling a tambourine and whistling. The woman kept 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.

... He ran beside the mare, then in front of her. He saw her being whipped across the eyes, right in the eyes! He was crying and choking, with tears streaming down his face. One of the men struck him across the face with a whip, but he did not feel it. Wringing his hands and screaming, he rushed up to the gray-haired, gray-bearded old man, who was shaking his head in disapproval. A woman seized the boy by the hand and tried to take him away. But he tore himself free and ran back to the mare. She was almost at her last breath, but she began kicking again.

“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.

“I’ll teach you to kick,” Mikolka shouted fiercely. He threw down the whip, bent forward, and picked up a long, thick shaft from the bottom of the cart. He gripped one end with both hands and, with an effort, swung it over the mare.

“He’ll crush her,” was shouted round him. “He’ll kill her!”

“He’ll crush her,” people shouted around 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.

“It’s my property,” Mikolka shouted. He swung the shaft down. There was a heavy thud.

“Thrash her, thrash her! Why have you stopped?” shouted voices in the crowd.

“Beat her, beat her! Why did you stop?” voices in the crowd shouted.

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.

Mikolka swung the shaft a second time, and it struck the unfortunate mare’s spine again. She sank back on her haunches, but lunged forward and pulled with all her strength. She pulled first to one side, then the other, trying to move the cart. But six whips struck her from all directions. The shaft rose again and fell on her a third time, then a fourth, in heavy, measured blows. Mikolka was furious that he could not kill her with one blow.

“She’s a tough one,” was shouted in the crowd.

“She’s a tough one,” someone in the crowd shouted.

“She’ll fall in a minute, mates, there will soon be an end of her,” said an admiring spectator in the crowd.

“She’ll fall in a minute, mates. She’ll soon be done for,” said an admiring spectator in the crowd.

“Fetch an axe to her! Finish her off,” shouted a third.

“Bring an axe over to her! Finish her off,” shouted a third person.

“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.

“I’ll show you! Stand back,” Mikolka screamed frantically. He threw down the shaft, bent down in the cart, and picked up an iron crowbar. “Look out,” he shouted, and struck the poor mare with all his might. The mare staggered, sank back, and tried to pull. But the bar came swinging down on her back again, and she fell to 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.

“Finish her off,” shouted Mikolka. Out of his mind, he leapt from the cart. Several young men, also drunk, grabbed whatever they could find: whips, sticks, and poles. They ran to the dying mare. Mikolka stood to one side and struck her wildly with the crowbar. The mare stretched out her head, took a long breath, and died.

“You butchered her,” someone shouted in the crowd.

“You butchered her,” someone in the crowd shouted.

“Why wouldn’t she gallop then?”

“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.

“My property!” shouted Mikolka, his eyes bloodshot as he waved the bar in his hands. He stood there as if regretting that he had nothing left to beat.

“No mistake about it, you are not a Christian,” many voices were shouting in the crowd.

“There's no doubt about it, you're not a Christian,” many voices in the crowd shouted.

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.

But the poor boy was beside himself. Screaming, he pushed through the crowd to the chestnut horse. He put his arms around her bloody, dead head and kissed it. He kissed her eyes and her lips.... Then he jumped up and rushed at Mikolka in a frenzy, swinging his little fists. At that moment, his father, who had been running after him, grabbed him and carried him out of the crowd.

“Come along, come! Let us go home,” he said to him.

“Come on, come on! Let’s 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.

“Father! Why did they... kill... the poor horse!” he sobbed. But his voice broke, and the words came out as shrieks as he gasped for breath.

“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.

“They’re drunk.... They’re brutal... it’s none of our business!” said his father. He put his arms around his father, but he felt like he was choking, choking. He tried to breathe, to cry out, and woke up.

He waked up, gasping for breath, his hair soaked with perspiration, and stood up in terror.

He woke up gasping for breath, his hair soaked with sweat. He 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!”

“Thank God, that was only a dream,” he said, sitting down under a tree and breathing deeply. “But what is it? Am I coming down with a fever? What a horrible 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.

He felt completely broken. His soul was filled with darkness and confusion. 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?”

“Good God!” he cried. “Could it really happen? Could I really take an axe and strike her on the head, split her skull open... tread in the sticky, warm blood, break the lock, steal and tremble? Could I hide, spattered with blood... with the axe.... Good God, could it happen?”

He was shaking like a leaf as he said this.

He was shaking like a leaf as he said this.

“But why am I going on like this?” he continued, sitting up again, as it were in profound amazement. “I knew that I could never bring myself to it, so what have I been torturing myself for till now? Yesterday, yesterday, when I went to make that... experiment, yesterday I realised completely that I could never bear to do it.... Why am I going over it again, then? Why am I still hesitating? As I came down the stairs yesterday, I said myself that it was base, loathsome, vile, vile... the very thought of it made me feel sick and filled me with horror.

“But why am I going on like this?” he continued, sitting up again, as if deeply amazed. “I knew I could never bring myself to do it. So why have I been torturing myself all this time? Yesterday, when I went to make that... experiment, I realized completely that I could never bear to do it.... So why am I going over it again? Why am I still hesitating? As I came down the stairs yesterday, I told myself it was base, disgusting, vile, vile... The very thought made me feel sick and filled me with horror.

“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...?”

“No, I couldn’t do it, I couldn’t do it! Even if there’s no flaw in any of that reasoning, even if everything I’ve concluded this past month is clear as day, true as arithmetic.... My God! I still couldn’t bring myself to do 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.”

He stood up and looked around in wonder, as if surprised to find himself there. Then he headed toward the bridge. He was pale, his eyes glowed, and his whole body was exhausted. But he suddenly seemed to breathe more easily. He felt he had thrown off the terrible burden that had weighed on him for so long. All at once, he felt relief and peace in his soul. “Lord,” he prayed, “show me my path. I give up that cursed... 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!

As he crossed the bridge, he gazed quietly and calmly at the Neva and the red sun setting in the glowing sky. Though he was weak, he did not feel tired. It was as if an abscess that had been forming in his heart for a month had suddenly burst. Freedom, freedom! He was free from that spell, that magic, 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!

Later, he recalled that time and everything that happened during those days, minute by minute, detail by detail. One circumstance struck him with superstitious force. It was not very unusual in itself, but afterward it always seemed to him the destined turning point of his life. He could never understand why he had gone home by way of the Hay Market, where he had no need to go. He was tired and worn out, and it would have been easier to take the shortest, most direct route home. Going through the Hay Market was clearly unnecessary, though it was not much out of his way. It was true that dozens of times he had gone home without noticing which streets he took. But he kept asking himself why such an important, decisive, and completely chance meeting had happened in the Hay Market. He had no reason to go there. Why had it happened at the very hour, the very minute when his mood and circumstances allowed it to have such a grave and decisive effect on his whole destiny? It was as though the meeting had been waiting for him on purpose!

It was about nine o’clock when he crossed the Hay Market. At the tables and the barrows, at the booths and the shops, all the market people were closing their establishments or clearing away and packing up their wares and, like their customers, were going home. Rag pickers and costermongers of all kinds were crowding round the taverns in the dirty and stinking courtyards of the Hay Market. Raskolnikov particularly liked this place and the neighbouring alleys, when he wandered aimlessly in the streets. Here his rags did not attract contemptuous attention, and one could walk about in any attire without scandalising people. At the corner of an alley a huckster and his wife had two tables set out with tapes, thread, cotton handkerchiefs, etc. They, too, had got up to go home, but were lingering in conversation with a friend, who had just come up to them. This friend was Lizaveta Ivanovna, or, as everyone called her, Lizaveta, the younger sister of the old pawnbroker, Alyona Ivanovna, whom Raskolnikov had visited the previous day to pawn his watch and make his experiment.... He already knew all about Lizaveta and she knew him a little too. She was a single woman of about thirty-five, tall, clumsy, timid, submissive and almost idiotic. She was a complete slave and went in fear and trembling of her sister, who made her work day and night, and even beat her. She was standing with a bundle before the huckster and his wife, listening earnestly and doubtfully. They were talking of something with special warmth. The moment Raskolnikov caught sight of her, he was overcome by a strange sensation as it were of intense astonishment, though there was nothing astonishing about this meeting.

It was about nine o’clock when he crossed the Hay Market. At the tables, carts, booths, and shops, all the market people were closing up or packing away their goods. Like their customers, they were going home. Rag pickers and street vendors of all kinds crowded around the taverns in the Hay Market’s dirty, stinking courtyards. Raskolnikov particularly liked this place and the nearby alleys when he wandered aimlessly through the streets. Here, his rags drew no scornful looks, and a person could wear anything without shocking anyone. At the corner of an alley, a seller and his wife had two tables set out with ribbon, thread, cotton handkerchiefs, and other goods. They, too, had gotten up to go home, but they had stayed to talk with a friend who had just arrived. This friend was Lizaveta Ivanovna, or Lizaveta, as everyone called her. She was the younger sister of the old pawnbroker, Alyona Ivanovna. Raskolnikov had visited Alyona the previous day to pawn his watch and carry out his experiment.... He already knew all about Lizaveta, and she knew him a little too. Lizaveta was a single woman of about thirty-five, tall, clumsy, timid, submissive, and almost idiotic. She was a complete slave and lived in fear of her sister. Alyona made her work day and night and even beat her. Lizaveta stood before the seller and his wife, holding a bundle and listening intently, though she seemed doubtful. They were talking about something with particular warmth. The moment Raskolnikov saw her, he was overcome by a strange feeling, almost one of intense surprise. Yet there was nothing surprising about meeting her there.

“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.”

“You can decide for yourself, Lizaveta Ivanovna,” the peddler said aloud. “Come by tomorrow around seven. They’ll be here too.”

“To-morrow?” said Lizaveta slowly and thoughtfully, as though unable to make up her mind.

“Tomorrow?” Lizaveta said slowly and thoughtfully, as if she couldn’t 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!”

“Goodness, how frightened you are of Alyona Ivanovna,” chattered the peddler’s wife, a lively little woman. “Just look at you. You’re like a little baby. And she isn’t even your own sister, only your stepsister. Yet she has such control 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.”

“But this time, don’t say a word to Alyona Ivanovna,” her husband interrupted. “That’s my advice. Just come over to our place without asking. It will be worth your while. Later, your sister herself may have an idea.”

“Am I to come?”

“Should I come?”

“About seven o’clock to-morrow. And they will be here. You will be able to decide for yourself.”

“About seven o’clock tomorrow. And they’ll be here. You can decide for yourself.”

“And we’ll have a cup of tea,” added his wife.

“And we’ll have a cup of tea,” his wife added.

“All right, I’ll come,” said Lizaveta, still pondering, and she began slowly moving away.

“All right, I’ll come,” Lizaveta said, still thinking. She began to walk away slowly.

Raskolnikov had just passed and heard no more. He passed softly, unnoticed, trying not to miss a word. His first amazement was followed by a thrill of horror, like a shiver running down his spine. He had learnt, he had suddenly quite unexpectedly 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 precisely the old woman would be left alone.

Raskolnikov had just passed by and heard nothing more. He had walked past quietly, unnoticed, trying not to miss a word. His initial amazement was followed by a thrill of horror, like a shiver running down his spine. He had learned something suddenly and quite unexpectedly. The next day at seven o’clock, Lizaveta, the old woman’s sister and only companion, would be away from home. So at exactly seven o’clock, the old woman would be left alone.

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.

He was only a few steps from his room. He went in like a man condemned to death. He thought of nothing and was unable to think. But suddenly, he felt with his whole being that he no longer had freedom of thought or will. Everything had suddenly and irreversibly been 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.

Even if he had to wait years for the right opportunity, he could hardly count on a better chance to advance his plan than the one that had just presented itself. In any case, it would have been hard to learn more precisely and with less risk that the old woman he planned to kill would be home alone at a certain time the next day. It would have been hard to learn this in advance and with certainty, without making dangerous inquiries or investigations.