Prestuplenie i nakazanie. English by Fyodor Dostoyevsky
CHAPTER V
"Of course, I've been meaning lately to go to Razumihin's to ask forwork, 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, supposehe shares his last farthing with me, if he has any farthings, so thatI 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 Iearn? That's not what I want now. It's really absurd for me to go toRazumihin...."
The question why he was now going to Razumihin agitated him even morethan he was himself aware; he kept uneasily seeking for some sinistersignificance in this apparently ordinary action.
"Could I have expected to set it all straight and to find a way out bymeans of Razumihin alone?" he asked himself in perplexity.
He pondered and rubbed his forehead, and, strange to say, after longmusing, suddenly, as if it were spontaneously and by chance, a fantasticthought came into his head.
"Hm... to Razumihin's," he said all at once, calmly, as though he hadreached 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 Itwill be over and everything will begin afresh...."
And suddenly he realised what he was thinking.
"After It," he shouted, jumping up from the seat, "but is It reallygoing to happen? Is it possible it really will happen?" He left theseat, 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 amonth past been growing up in him; and he walked on at random.
His nervous shudder had passed into a fever that made him feelshivering; in spite of the heat he felt cold. With a kind of effort hebegan almost unconsciously, from some inner craving, to stare at allthe objects before him, as though looking for something to distract hisattention; but he did not succeed, and kept dropping every moment intobrooding. 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 hewas going. In this way he walked right across Vassilyevsky Ostrov, cameout on to the Lesser Neva, crossed the bridge and turned towards theislands. The greenness and freshness were at first restful to his wearyeyes after the dust of the town and the huge houses that hemmed him inand weighed upon him. Here there were no taverns, no stifling closeness,no stench. But soon these new pleasant sensations passed into morbidirritability. Sometimes he stood still before a brightly painted summervilla standing among green foliage, he gazed through the fence, he sawin the distance smartly dressed women on the verandahs and balconies,and children running in the gardens. The flowers especially caught hisattention; he gazed at them longer than at anything. He was met, too, byluxurious carriages and by men and women on horseback; he watched themwith curious eyes and forgot about them before they had vanished fromhis sight. Once he stood still and counted his money; he found he hadthirty copecks. "Twenty to the policeman, three to Nastasya for theletter, so I must have given forty-seven or fifty to the Marmeladovsyesterday," he thought, reckoning it up for some unknown reason, but hesoon 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 hewas hungry.... Going into the tavern he drank a glass of vodka and ate apie of some sort. He finished eating it as he walked away. It was a longwhile 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 anda great drowsiness came upon him. He turned homewards, but reachingPetrovsky Ostrov he stopped completely exhausted, turned off the roadinto the bushes, sank down upon the grass and instantly fell asleep.
In a morbid condition of the brain, dreams often have a singularactuality, vividness, and extraordinary semblance of reality. At timesmonstrous images are created, but the setting and the whole picture areso truth-like and filled with details so delicate, so unexpectedly, butso artistically consistent, that the dreamer, were he an artist likePushkin or Turgenev even, could never have invented them in the wakingstate. Such sick dreams always remain long in the memory and make apowerful impression on the overwrought and deranged nervous system.
Raskolnikov had a fearful dream. He dreamt he was back in his childhoodin 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. Itwas 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 inmemory. The little town stood on a level flat as bare as the hand, noteven a willow near it; only in the far distance, a copse lay, a darkblur on the very edge of the horizon. A few paces beyond the last marketgarden stood a tavern, a big tavern, which had always aroused in him afeeling 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-lookingfigures were hanging about the tavern. He used to cling close to hisfather, trembling all over when he met them. Near the tavern the roadbecame a dusty track, the dust of which was always black. It was awinding road, and about a hundred paces further on, it turned to theright to the graveyard. In the middle of the graveyard stood a stonechurch with a green cupola where he used to go to mass two or threetimes a year with his father and mother, when a service was held inmemory of his grandmother, who had long been dead, and whom he had neverseen. On these occasions they used to take on a white dish tied up in atable napkin a special sort of rice pudding with raisins stuck in it inthe shape of a cross. He loved that church, the old-fashioned, unadornedikons and the old priest with the shaking head. Near his grandmother'sgrave, which was marked by a stone, was the little grave of his youngerbrother 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 visitedthe graveyard he used religiously and reverently to cross himself andto bow down and kiss the little grave. And now he dreamt that he waswalking with his father past the tavern on the way to the graveyard; hewas holding his father's hand and looking with dread at the tavern. Apeculiar circumstance attracted his attention: there seemed to besome kind of festivity going on, there were crowds of gaily dressedtownspeople, peasant women, their husbands, and riff-raff of all sorts,all singing and all more or less drunk. Near the entrance of the tavernstood a cart, but a strange cart. It was one of those big carts usuallydrawn by heavy cart-horses and laden with casks of wine or other heavygoods. He always liked looking at those great cart-horses, with theirlong manes, thick legs, and slow even pace, drawing along a perfectmountain with no appearance of effort, as though it were easier goingwith a load than without it. But now, strange to say, in the shafts ofsuch 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 loadof wood or hay, especially when the wheels were stuck in the mud or ina rut. And the peasants would beat them so cruelly, sometimes evenabout the nose and eyes, and he felt so sorry, so sorry for them thathe almost cried, and his mother always used to take him away from thewindow. All of a sudden there was a great uproar of shouting, singingand the balalaika, and from the tavern a number of big and very drunkenpeasants came out, wearing red and blue shirts and coats thrown overtheir shoulders.
"Get in, get in!" shouted one of them, a young thick-necked peasant witha fleshy face red as a carrot. "I'll take you all, get in!"
But at once there was an outbreak of laughter and exclamations in thecrowd.
"Take us all with a beast like that!"
"Why, Mikolka, are you crazy to put a nag like that in such a cart?"
"And this mare is twenty if she is a day, mates!"
"Get in, I'll take you all," Mikolka shouted again, leaping first intothe cart, seizing the reins and standing straight up in front. "The bayhas 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.
"Get in! Come along!" The crowd laughed. "D'you hear, she'll gallop!"
"Gallop indeed! She has not had a gallop in her for the last ten years!"
"She'll jog along!"
"Don't you mind her, mates, bring a whip each of you, get ready!"
"All right! Give it to her!"
They all clambered into Mikolka's cart, laughing and making jokes. Sixmen 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, beadedheaddress and thick leather shoes; she was cracking nuts and laughing.The crowd round them was laughing too and indeed, how could they helplaughing? That wretched nag was to drag all the cartload of them at agallop! Two young fellows in the cart were just getting whips ready tohelp Mikolka. With the cry of "now," the mare tugged with all her might,but far from galloping, could scarcely move forward; she struggled withher legs, gasping and shrinking from the blows of the three whips whichwere showered upon her like hail. The laughter in the cart and in thecrowd was redoubled, but Mikolka flew into a rage and furiously thrashedthe mare, as though he supposed she really could gallop.
"Let me get in, too, mates," shouted a young man in the crowd whoseappetite was aroused.
"Get in, all get in," cried Mikolka, "she will draw you all. I'll beather to death!" And he thrashed and thrashed at the mare, beside himselfwith fury.
"Father, father," he cried, "father, what are they doing? Father, theyare beating the poor horse!"
"Come along, come along!" said his father. "They are drunken andfoolish, they are in fun; come away, don't look!" and he tried to drawhim away, but he tore himself away from his hand, and, beside himselfwith horror, ran to the horse. The poor beast was in a bad way. She wasgasping, standing still, then tugging again and almost falling.
"Beat her to death," cried Mikolka, "it's come to that. I'll do forher!"
"What are you about, are you a Christian, you devil?" shouted an old manin the crowd.
"Did anyone ever see the like? A wretched nag like that pulling such acartload," said another.
"You'll kill her," shouted the third.
"Don't meddle! It's my property, I'll do what I choose. Get in, more ofyou! Get in, all of you! I will have her go at a gallop!..."
All at once laughter broke into a roar and covered everything: the mare,roused by the shower of blows, began feebly kicking. Even the old mancould not help smiling. To think of a wretched little beast like thattrying to kick!
Two lads in the crowd snatched up whips and ran to the mare to beat herabout the ribs. One ran each side.
"Hit her in the face, in the eyes, in the eyes," cried Mikolka.
"Give us a song, mates," shouted someone in the cart and everyone in thecart joined in a riotous song, jingling a tambourine and whistling. Thewoman went on cracking nuts and laughing.
... He ran beside the mare, ran in front of her, saw her being whippedacross the eyes, right in the eyes! He was crying, he felt choking, histears were streaming. One of the men gave him a cut with the whip acrossthe face, he did not feel it. Wringing his hands and screaming, herushed up to the grey-headed old man with the grey beard, who wasshaking his head in disapproval. One woman seized him by the hand andwould have taken him away, but he tore himself from her and ran back tothe mare. She was almost at the last gasp, but began kicking once more.
"I'll teach you to kick," Mikolka shouted ferociously. He threw downthe 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 effortbrandished it over the mare.
"He'll crush her," was shouted round him. "He'll kill her!"
"It's my property," shouted Mikolka and brought the shaft down with aswinging blow. There was a sound of a heavy thud.
"Thrash her, thrash her! Why have you stopped?" shouted voices in thecrowd.
And Mikolka swung the shaft a second time and it fell a second timeon the spine of the luckless mare. She sank back on her haunches, butlurched forward and tugged forward with all her force, tugged first onone side and then on the other, trying to move the cart. But the sixwhips were attacking her in all directions, and the shaft was raisedagain and fell upon her a third time, then a fourth, with heavy measuredblows. Mikolka was in a fury that he could not kill her at one blow.
"She's a tough one," was shouted in the crowd.
"She'll fall in a minute, mates, there will soon be an end of her," saidan admiring spectator in the crowd.
"Fetch an axe to her! Finish her off," shouted a third.
"I'll show you! Stand off," Mikolka screamed frantically; he threw downthe shaft, stooped down in the cart and picked up an iron crowbar. "Lookout," he shouted, and with all his might he dealt a stunning blow at thepoor 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 onthe ground like a log.
"Finish her off," shouted Mikolka and he leapt beside himself, out ofthe cart. Several young men, also flushed with drink, seized anythingthey could come across--whips, sticks, poles, and ran to the dyingmare. Mikolka stood on one side and began dealing random blows with thecrowbar. The mare stretched out her head, drew a long breath and died.
"You butchered her," someone shouted in the crowd.
"Why wouldn't she gallop then?"
"My property!" shouted Mikolka, with bloodshot eyes, brandishing the barin his hands. He stood as though regretting that he had nothing more tobeat.
"No mistake about it, you are not a Christian," many voices wereshouting in the crowd.
But the poor boy, beside himself, made his way, screaming, through thecrowd to the sorrel nag, put his arms round her bleeding dead head andkissed it, kissed the eyes and kissed the lips.... Then he jumped up andflew in a frenzy with his little fists out at Mikolka. At that instanthis father, who had been running after him, snatched him up and carriedhim out of the crowd.
"Come along, come! Let us go home," he said to him.
"Father! Why did they... kill... the poor horse!" he sobbed, but hisvoice broke and the words came in shrieks from his panting chest.
"They are drunk.... They are brutal... it's not our business!" said hisfather. He put his arms round his father but he felt choked, choked. Hetried to draw a breath, to cry out--and woke up.
He waked up, gasping for breath, his hair soaked with perspiration, andstood up in terror.
"Thank God, that was only a dream," he said, sitting down under a treeand drawing deep breaths. "But what is it? Is it some fever coming on?Such a hideous dream!"
He felt utterly broken: darkness and confusion were in his soul. Herested 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 anaxe, that I shall strike her on the head, split her skull open... that Ishall tread in the sticky warm blood, break the lock, steal and tremble;hide, all spattered in the blood... with the axe.... Good God, can itbe?"
He was shaking like a leaf as he said this.
"But why am I going on like this?" he continued, sitting up again, as itwere in profound amazement. "I knew that I could never bring myselfto it, so what have I been torturing myself for till now? Yesterday,yesterday, when I went to make that... _experiment_, yesterday Irealised completely that I could never bear to do it.... Why am I goingover it again, then? Why am I hesitating? As I came down the stairsyesterday, I said myself that it was base, loathsome, vile, vile... thevery thought of it made me feel sick and filled me with horror.
"No, I couldn't do it, I couldn't do it! Granted, granted that there isno flaw in all that reasoning, that all that I have concluded this lastmonth is clear as day, true as arithmetic.... My God! Anyway I couldn'tbring myself to it! I couldn't do it, I couldn't do it! Why, why then amI still...?"
He rose to his
Crossing the bridge, he gazed quietly and calmly at the Neva, at theglowing red sun setting in the glowing sky. In spite of his weakness hewas not conscious of fatigue. It was as though an abscess that had beenforming for a month past in his heart had suddenly broken. Freedom,freedom! He was free from that spell, that sorcery, that obsession!
Later on, when he recalled that time and all that happened to him duringthose days, minute by minute, point by point, he was superstitiouslyimpressed by one circumstance, which, though in itself not veryexceptional, always seemed to him afterwards the predestinedturning-point of his fate. He could never understand and explain tohimself why, when he was tired and worn out, when it would have beenmore 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 wasobviously and quite unnecessarily out of his way, though not much so. Itis true that it happened to him dozens of times to return home withoutnoticing what streets he passed through. But why, he was always askinghimself, why had such an important, such a decisive and at the same timesuch an absolutely chance meeting happened in the Hay Market (where hehad moreover no reason to go) at the very hour, the very minute of hislife when he was just in the very mood and in the very circumstancesin which that meeting was able to exert the gravest and most decisiveinfluence on his whole destiny? As though it had been lying in wait forhim on purpose!
It was about nine o'clock when he crossed the Hay Market. At the tablesand the barrows, at the booths and the shops, all the market people wereclosing their establishments or clearing away and packing up theirwares and, like their customers, were going home. Rag pickers andcostermongers of all kinds were crowding round the taverns in the dirtyand stinking courtyards of the Hay Market. Raskolnikov particularlyliked this place and the neighbouring alleys, when he wandered aimlesslyin the streets. Here his rags did not attract contemptuous attention,and one could walk about in any attire without scandalising people. Atthe corner of an alley a huckster and his wife had two tables set outwith tapes, thread, cotton handkerchiefs, etc. They, too, had got up togo home, but were lingering in conversation with a friend, who had justcome up to them. This friend was Lizaveta Ivanovna, or, as everyonecalled her, Lizaveta, the younger sister of the old pawnbroker, AlyonaIvanovna, whom Raskolnikov had visited the previous day to pawn hiswatch and make his _experiment_.... He already knew all about Lizavetaand she knew him a little too. She was a single woman of aboutthirty-five, tall, clumsy, timid, submissive and almost idiotic. She wasa complete slave and went in fear and trembling of her sister, whomade her work day and night, and even beat her. She was standing witha bundle before the huckster and his wife, listening earnestly anddoubtfully. They were talking of something with special warmth. Themoment Raskolnikov caught sight of her, he was overcome by a strangesensation as it were of intense astonishment, though there was nothingastonishing about this meeting.
"You could make up your mind for yourself, Lizaveta Ivanovna," thehuckster was saying aloud. "Come round to-morrow about seven. They willbe here too."
"To-morrow?" said Lizaveta slowly and thoughtfully, as though unable tomake up her mind.
"Upon my word, what a fright you are in of Alyona Ivanovna," gabbledthe huckster's wife, a lively little woman. "I look at you, you are likesome little babe. And she is not your own sister either--nothing but astep-sister and what a hand she keeps over you!"
"But this time don't say a word to Alyona Ivanovna," her husbandinterrupted; "that's my advice, but come round to us without asking.It will be worth your while. Later on your sister herself may have anotion."
"Am I to come?"
"About seven o'clock to-morrow. And they will be here. You will be ableto 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 beganslowly moving away.
Raskolnikov had just passed and heard no more. He passed softly,unnoticed, trying not to miss a word. His first amazement was followedby a thrill of horror, like a shiver running down his spine. He hadlearnt, he had suddenly quite unexpectedly learnt, that the next day atseven o'clock Lizaveta, the old woman's sister and only companion, wouldbe away from home and that therefore at seven o'clock precisely the oldwoman _would be left alone_.
He was only a few steps from his lodging. He went in like a mancondemned to death. He thought of nothing and was incapable of thinking;but he felt suddenly in his whole being that he had no more freedomof thought, no will, and that everything was suddenly and irrevocablydecided.
Certainly, if he had to wait whole years for a suitable opportunity, hecould not reckon on a more certain step towards the success of the planthan that which had just presented itself. In any case, it would havebeen difficult to find out beforehand and with certainty, withgreater exactness and less risk, and without dangerous inquiries andinvestigations, that next day at a certain time an old woman, on whoselife an attempt was contemplated, would be at home and entirely alone.