来自：Crime and Punishment
V
"Indeed, only recently I wanted to ask Razumikhin for work, so that he might get me some lessons or something..." Raskolnikov thought to himself, "but how can he help me now? Suppose he does get me lessons, suppose he even shares his last kopeck with me, if he has a kopeck, so that I could even buy boots and mend my suit to go to the lessons... hm... But what then? What will I do with five-kopeck pieces? Is that really what I need now? Really, it's absurd that I went to Razumikhin..."
The question of why he had now gone to Razumikhin troubled him more than even he himself realized; he anxiously sought some ominous meaning for himself in this seemingly most ordinary action.
"What, did I really want to fix everything with Razumikhin alone and find a solution to everything in Razumikhin?" he asked himself with surprise.
He thought and rubbed his forehead, and, strange to say, somehow by chance, suddenly and almost of itself, after very long reflection, an extremely strange thought came into his head.
"Hm... to Razumikhin," he suddenly said quite calmly, as if in the sense of a final decision, "to Razumikhin I will go, that's certain... but—not now... I will go to him... the day after that, after it is finished and when everything goes anew..."
And suddenly he came to his senses.
"After that," he cried out, jumping up from the bench, "but will it really happen? Will it really happen?"
He left the bench and walked, almost ran; he wanted to turn back home, but going home suddenly became terribly repulsive to him: there, in that corner, in that terrible cupboard, all this had been ripening for more than a month now, and he went wherever his eyes led him.
His nervous trembling passed into a kind of fever; he even felt chills; in such heat he was becoming cold. As if with effort he began, almost unconsciously, by some inner necessity, to peer at all the objects he encountered, as if seeking distraction intensely, but this succeeded poorly, and he constantly fell into reverie. When again, starting, he raised his head and looked around, he immediately forgot what he had just been thinking about and even where he had walked. In this manner he walked through all of Vasilievsky Island, came out on the Little Neva, crossed the bridge, and turned toward the Islands. The greenery and freshness pleased at first his tired eyes, accustomed to the city dust, the lime, and the enormous, crowding and oppressive houses. Here there was neither stuffiness, nor stench, nor taverns. But soon even these new, pleasant sensations passed into painful and irritating ones. Sometimes he stopped before some cottage decorated with greenery, looked through the fence, saw in the distance, on balconies and terraces, well-dressed women and children running in the garden. He was especially occupied by the flowers; he looked at them longest. He also encountered magnificent carriages, horsemen and horsewomen; he followed them with curious eyes and forgot about them before they disappeared from sight. Once he stopped and counted his money: it turned out to be about thirty kopecks. "Twenty to the policeman, three to Nastasya for the letter—that means I gave the Marmeladovs forty-seven or fifty kopecks yesterday," he thought, calculating for some reason, but soon forgot even why he had taken the money out of his pocket. He remembered this while passing a food establishment, a kind of tavern, and felt that he wanted to eat. Going into the tavern, he drank a glass of vodka and ate a pie with some kind of filling. He finished eating it on the road. He had not drunk vodka for a very long time, and it took effect immediately, although only one glass had been drunk. His legs suddenly grew heavy, and he began to feel a strong urge to sleep. He started for home; but reaching Petrovsky Island, he stopped in complete exhaustion, left the road, went into the bushes, fell on the grass, and in that same minute fell asleep.
In a diseased state dreams are often distinguished by unusual vividness, sharpness, and extraordinary resemblance to reality. Sometimes a monstrous picture forms, but the setting and the whole process of the entire presentation are at the same time so probable and with such subtle, unexpected, but artistically corresponding details to the full picture, that the same dreamer, even if he were such an artist as Pushkin or Turgenev, could not invent them while awake. Such dreams, diseased dreams, are always long remembered and produce a strong impression on the disturbed and already excited organism of a person.
A terrible dream came to Raskolnikov. He dreamed of his childhood, still in their little town. He is about seven years old and walking on a holiday evening with his father outside the town. The time is grayish, the day is stifling, the locality is exactly the same as has remained in his memory: indeed, in his memory it has faded much more than it now appeared in the dream. The little town stands open, as if on the palm of one's hand, not a willow around; somewhere very far away, at the very edge of the sky, a little wood turns black. A few steps from the last town garden stands a tavern, a large tavern, which always produced in him the most unpleasant impression and even fear when he passed by it, walking with his father. There was always such a crowd there, they shouted so, laughed, cursed, sang so disgustingly and hoarsely, and fought so often; such drunken and terrible faces always loitered around the tavern... Meeting them, he pressed closely to his father and trembled all over. Near the tavern is a road, a country road, always dusty, and the dust on it is always so black. It goes, winding, farther and about three hundred paces away curves to the right around the town cemetery. In the middle of the cemetery is a stone church with a green dome, to which he went with his father and mother to mass twice a year, when requiems were served for his grandmother, who had died long ago and whom he had never seen. On these occasions they always took with them kutya on a white dish, in a napkin, and the kutya was made of sugar, rice, and raisins pressed into the rice in the form of a cross. He loved this church and the old icons in it, mostly without frames, and the old priest with the trembling head. Beside his grandmother's grave, on which there was a slab, was also the little grave of his younger brother, who had died at six months and whom he likewise did not know at all and could not remember; but he had been told that he had a little brother, and every time he visited the cemetery, he religiously and reverently crossed himself over the little grave, bowed to it, and kissed it. And now he dreams: they are walking with his father along the road to the cemetery and passing by the tavern; he is holding his father's hand and looking fearfully back at the tavern. A particular circumstance attracts his attention: this time there seems to be a holiday gathering, a crowd of dressed-up tradesmen's wives, women, their husbands, and all sorts of rabble. Everyone is drunk, everyone is singing songs, and near the tavern porch stands a cart, but a strange cart. It is one of those large carts into which large draft horses are harnessed and which transport goods and wine barrels. He always loved to look at those enormous draft horses, long-maned, with thick legs, walking calmly, with measured step, and pulling behind them some whole mountain, not straining themselves at all, as if it were even easier for them with loads than without loads. But now, strange to say, a small, thin, dun peasant nag was harnessed to such a large cart, one of those that—he had often seen this—sometimes strain with a high load of firewood or hay, especially when the cart gets stuck in mud or in a rut, and at the same time the peasants beat them so painfully, so painfully with whips, sometimes even right on the muzzle and on the eyes, and he feels so sorry, so sorry to watch this, that he almost cries, and mama always used to lead him away from the window. But now suddenly it becomes very noisy: from the tavern come out with shouts, with songs, with balalaikas, very drunk, large peasants in red and blue shirts, with coats thrown over their shoulders. "Get in, everyone get in!" shouts one, still young, with a thick neck and a fleshy face, red as a carrot, "I'll take everyone, get in!" But immediately laughter and exclamations are heard:
"That nag couldn't pull it!"
"Have you lost your mind, Mikolka, harnessing such a little mare to such a cart!"
"Why, that dun mare must be twenty years old, brothers!"
"Get in, I'll take everyone!" Mikolka shouts again, jumping first into the cart, taking the reins and standing up at full height in front. "Matvey took the bay horse away," he shouts from the cart, "and this little mare, brothers, just breaks my heart: I feel like killing her, she eats bread for nothing. Get in, I say! I'll make her gallop! She'll gallop!" And he takes the whip in his hands, preparing with pleasure to lash the dun mare.
"Well, get in, why not!" they laugh in the crowd. "You hear, she'll gallop!"
"She probably hasn't galloped in ten years."
"She'll gallop!"
"Don't spare her, brothers, everyone take whips, get ready!"
"That's it! Lash her!"
Everyone climbs into Mikolka's cart with laughter and jokes. About six people got in, and there's still room for more. They take along a woman, fat and ruddy. She is in calico, in a kokoshnik with beads, wearing bast shoes on her feet, cracking nuts and giggling. The crowd around is also laughing, and indeed, how can one not laugh: such a worthless little mare is going to pull such a load at a gallop! Two fellows in the cart immediately take up whips to help Mikolka. The cry "giddyup!" sounds, the nag pulls with all her strength, but not only can't gallop, but can hardly even manage to walk, just minces with her feet, grunts and crouches from the blows of three whips raining down on her like peas. The laughter in the cart and in the crowd doubles, but Mikolka gets angry and in fury lashes the little mare with quickened blows, as if he really believes she will gallop.
"Let me in too, brothers!" shouts one fellow who has gotten excited from the crowd.
"Get in! Everyone get in!" shouts Mikolka, "she'll take everyone. I'll flog her to death!" And he lashes, lashes, and no longer knows what to beat her with in his frenzy.
"Papa, papa," he shouts to his father, "papa, what are they doing? Papa, they're beating the poor horse!"
"Come, come!" says his father, "they're drunk, playing around, fools: come, don't look!" and he wants to lead him away, but he tears himself from his hands and, beside himself, runs to the horse. But the poor horse is in a bad way. She is gasping, stops, pulls again, almost falls.
"Flog her to death!" shouts Mikolka, "that's what it's come to. I'll flog her to death!"
"Don't you have a cross on you or something, you devil!" shouts an old man from the crowd.
"Who ever saw such a horse pull such a load," adds another.
"You'll kill her!" shouts a third.
"Don't touch! It's my property! I'll do what I want. Get in some more! Everyone get in! I want her to gallop no matter what!..."
Suddenly laughter bursts out in a volley and drowns everything: the little mare couldn't bear the quickened blows and in her weakness began to kick. Even the old man couldn't help himself and smiled. And indeed: such a worthless little mare, and still kicking!
Two fellows from the crowd get more whips and run to the horse to lash her from the sides. Each runs from his side.
"Hit her on the muzzle, on the eyes, on the eyes!" shouts Mikolka.
"A song, brothers!" shouts someone from the cart, and everyone in the cart joins in. A wild song sounds out, a tambourine clatters, whistling in the refrains. The woman cracks nuts and giggles.
...He runs beside the horse, he runs ahead, he sees how they lash her on the eyes, on the very eyes! He cries. His heart rises up, tears flow. One of those lashing strikes him across the face; he doesn't feel it, he wrings his hands, shouts, rushes to the gray-haired old man with the gray beard, who shakes his head and condemns all this. A woman takes him by the hand and wants to lead him away; but he tears himself away and runs again to the horse. She is already at her last efforts, but begins kicking once more.
"May the devil take you!" screams Mikolka in fury. He throws down the whip, bends down and pulls out from the bottom of the cart a long, thick shaft, takes it by the end in both hands, and swings it with effort over the dun mare.
"He'll crush her!" they shout around.
"He'll kill her!"
"It's my property!" shouts Mikolka and brings the shaft down with full swing. A heavy blow sounds.
"Lash her, lash her! What are you standing there for!" shout voices from the crowd.
And Mikolka swings a second time, and a second blow with full swing lands on the back of the unfortunate nag. She sinks down with her whole rear, but springs up and pulls, pulls with all her last strength in different directions to pull the load; but she is met on all sides with six whips, and the shaft rises and falls a third time, then a fourth, rhythmically, with a swing. Mikolka is in a rage that he can't kill her with one blow.
"She's tough!" they shout around.
"She'll fall any moment now, brothers, that'll be her end!" shouts one enthusiast from the crowd.
"Hit her with an axe, what are you waiting for! Finish her off at once," shouts a third.
"Eh, may the mosquitoes eat you! Stand aside!" Mikolka screams furiously, throws down the shaft, bends down again in the cart and pulls out an iron crowbar. "Watch out!" he shouts and strikes with all his strength at his poor horse with a swing. The blow crashes down; the little mare staggers, sinks, wanted to pull, but the crowbar with full swing lands on her back again, and she falls to the ground, as if all four legs had been cut from under her at once.
"Finish her off!" shouts Mikolka and jumps, as if beside himself, from the cart. Several fellows, also red-faced and drunk, grab whatever they can—whips, sticks, the shaft—and run to the dying mare. Mikolka stands to the side and begins beating randomly with the crowbar on her back. The nag stretches out her muzzle, sighs heavily, and dies.
"Done her in!" they shout in the crowd.
"Why wouldn't she gallop!"
"My property!" shouts Mikolka, with the crowbar in his hands and bloodshot eyes. He stands as if regretting that there's no one else to beat.
"Well, it's true, you must have no cross on you!" shout many voices from the crowd now.
But the poor boy no longer remembers himself. With a cry he pushes his way through the crowd to the dun mare, embraces her dead, bloodied muzzle and kisses it, kisses her eyes, her lips... Then suddenly he jumps up and in a frenzy rushes with his little fists at Mikolka. At this moment his father, who has been chasing him for a long time, finally grabs him and carries him out of the crowd.
"Come! Come!" he says to him, "let's go home!"
"Papa! Why did they... kill... the poor horse!" he sobs, but his breath catches, and the words burst out in cries from his constricted chest.
"They're drunk, playing around, it's not our business, come!" says his father. He embraces his father with his arms, but his chest is tight, tight. He wants to catch his breath, to cry out, and wakes up.
He woke up all in sweat, with hair wet from sweat, gasping, and raised himself up in horror.
"Thank God, it's only a dream!" he said, sitting up under the tree and breathing deeply. "But what is this? Is it fever beginning in me: such a hideous dream!"
His whole body felt as if broken; dim and dark in his soul. He put his elbows on his knees and propped his head with both hands.
"God!" he exclaimed, "can it be, can it really be that I will actually take an axe, strike her on the head, smash her skull... will slip in the sticky, warm blood, break the lock, steal and tremble; hide, all covered in blood... with an axe... Lord, can it be?"
He trembled like a leaf, saying this.
"But what is this!" he continued, leaning back again and as if in deep amazement, "after all, I knew that I couldn't bear this, so why have I been tormenting myself until now? After all, even yesterday, yesterday, when I went to make that... trial, I understood completely yesterday that I wouldn't endure it... What am I doing now? Why am I still doubting until now? After all, yesterday, going down the stairs, I myself said that it was base, vile, low, low... after all, I was sickened and thrown into horror by the very thought while awake...
"No, I won't endure it, I won't endure it! Even if, even if there are no doubts in all these calculations, even if all that has been decided this month is clear as day, just as arithmetic. Lord! After all, I still won't decide! I won't endure it, I won't endure it!... Why then, why then even until now..."
He rose to his feet, looked around in surprise, as if marveling that he had wandered here, and walked to the T— Bridge. He was pale, his eyes burned, exhaustion was in all his limbs, but suddenly it became easier for him to breathe, as it were. He felt that he had already thrown off this terrible burden that had pressed on him for so long, and his soul suddenly became light and peaceful. "Lord!" he prayed, "show me my path, and I renounce this accursed... dream of mine!"
Crossing the bridge, he looked quietly and calmly at the Neva, at the bright sunset of the bright, red sun. Despite his weakness, he did not even feel fatigue in himself. As if an abscess on his heart, which had been festering for a whole month, had suddenly burst. Freedom, freedom! He was free now from these charms, from sorcery, enchantment, from obsession!
Later, when he recalled this time and everything that happened to him in those days, minute by minute, point by point, feature by feature, one circumstance always struck him superstitiously, although in essence it was not very extraordinary, but which constantly seemed to him afterward as if some predetermination of his fate. Namely: he could in no way understand and explain to himself why he, tired, exhausted, for whom it would have been most advantageous to return home by the shortest and most direct route, returned home through the Hay Market, which was completely out of his way. The detour was small, but obvious and completely unnecessary. Of course, dozens of times it had happened that he returned home without remembering the streets along which he had walked. But why, he always asked, why did such an important, such a decisive meeting for him, and at the same time such an extremely accidental meeting at the Hay Market (through which he didn't even need to go) come up just now at such an hour, at such a minute in his life, precisely at such a mood of his spirit and at precisely such circumstances, under which alone this meeting could produce the most decisive and most final effect on his entire fate? As if someone had been waiting for him there on purpose!
It was about nine o'clock when he was passing through the Hay Market. All the traders at the stalls, at the trays, in the shops and little shops were locking up their establishments, or removing and putting away their goods, and dispersing to their homes, as were their customers. Around the cookshops on the lower floors, in the dirty and stinking courtyards of the houses of the Hay Market, and most of all near the taverns, crowded many different sorts of tradesmen and ragamuffins. Raskolnikov especially loved these places, as well as all the nearby alleys, when he went out aimlessly to the street. Here his rags did not attract anyone's haughty attention, and one could walk in whatever guise one liked without scandalizing anyone. At the very K— Lane, on the corner, a tradesman and his wife were selling goods from two stalls: threads, ribbons, calico kerchiefs, and so on. They too were getting ready to go home, but were lingering, talking with an acquaintance who had come up. This acquaintance was Lizaveta Ivanovna, or simply, as everyone called her, Lizaveta, the younger sister of that same old woman Alena Ivanovna, the collegiate registrar and moneylender, with whom Raskolnikov had been yesterday, coming to pawn his watch and make his trial... He had long known everything about this Lizaveta, and she even knew him a little. She was a tall, awkward, timid and humble girl, almost an idiot, thirty-five years old, in complete slavery to her sister, working for her day and night, trembling before her and enduring even beatings from her. She stood hesitating with a bundle before the tradesman and his wife and was listening to them attentively. They were explaining something to her with special fervor. When Raskolnikov suddenly saw her, a strange sensation, resembling the deepest astonishment, seized him, although there was nothing astonishing in this meeting.
"You, Lizaveta Ivanovna, should decide for yourself," the tradesman said loudly. "Come tomorrow, around seven o'clock, sir. And they will come too."
"Tomorrow?" said Lizaveta slowly and thoughtfully, as if not deciding.
"Look how Alena Ivanovna has frightened you!" chattered the trader's wife, a lively woman. "I look at you, you're just like a little child. And she's not even your real sister, just a stepsister, and look what power she's taken."
"But you don't say anything to Alena Ivanovna this time, sir," interrupted the husband, "that's my advice, sir, but come to us without asking. It's a profitable business, sir. Then your sister herself can figure it out."
"Shall I come?"
"At seven o'clock, tomorrow; and some of them will come too, sir; you'll decide for yourself, sir."
"And we'll put on the samovar," added his wife.
"All right, I'll come," said Lizaveta, still thinking, and slowly began to move away.
Raskolnikov had already passed by then and heard no more. He passed quietly, imperceptibly, trying not to miss a single word. His initial astonishment gradually changed to horror, as if a frost had passed down his spine. He learned, he suddenly, unexpectedly and completely unexpectedly learned that tomorrow, at exactly seven o'clock in the evening, Lizaveta, the old woman's sister and her only cohabitant, would not be at home, and that, consequently, the old woman, at exactly seven o'clock in the evening, would remain at home alone.
Only a few steps remained to his apartment. He entered it like a man condemned to death. He reasoned about nothing and was completely incapable of reasoning; but with his whole being he suddenly felt that he no longer had either freedom of reason or will, and that everything had suddenly been decided finally.
Of course, even if he had to wait whole years for a suitable opportunity, even then, having such a design, it would be impossible to count for certain on a more obvious step toward the success of this design than the one that suddenly presented itself just now. In any case, it would be difficult to learn the day before and for certain, with greater precision and with the least risk, without any dangerous inquiries and investigations, that tomorrow, at such and such an hour, such and such an old woman, against whom an attempt is being prepared, would be at home all alone.