Crime and Punishment (12 page)

‘Yes, it wasn't so long ago that I was about to ask Razumikhin about work, see if he could find me some teaching or something . . . ,' Raskolnikov went on to himself. ‘But what can he do for me now? Suppose he does find me some lessons; suppose he even shares his last copeck with me, assuming he has one, so that I might even be able to buy myself a pair of boots and patch up my clothes for teaching in . . . H'm . . . Well, what then? What use is small change to me? Is that really what I need now? How ridiculous this is – going off to Razumikhin . . .'

The question of why he'd set off to see Razumikhin troubled him more than even he was aware; he was racking his brain to find in this seemingly ordinary decision some sinister meaning.

‘What, did I really expect to patch everything up through Razumikhin alone? Was Razumikhin really my answer to everything?' he asked himself in astonishment.

He was thinking and rubbing his forehead when a peculiar thing happened: suddenly, as if by chance and almost by itself, after very lengthy hesitation, an exceedingly strange thought entered his head.

‘H'm . . . Razumikhin,' he suddenly said with perfect equanimity, as if reaching a final decision. ‘I'll go to see Razumikhin, that's for
sure . . . but – not now . . . I'll go to him . . . the day after, 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.
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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.
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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 headdress
50
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.