"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. . . ."
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.
"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.
He pondered and rubbed his forehead, and, strange to say, after long musing, suddenly, as if it were spontaneously and by chance, a fantastic thought came into his head.
"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. . . ."
And suddenly he realised 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.
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.
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 truthlike and filled with details so delicate, so unexpectedly, 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.
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 balalaika, 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.
"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!"
But at once there was an outbreak of laughter and exclamations in the crowd.
"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 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! 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. 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.
"Let me get in, too, mates," shouted a young man in the crowd whose appetite was aroused.
"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.
"Father, father," he cried, "father, what are they doing? Father, they are 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.
"Beat her to death," cried Mikolka, "it's come to that. I'll do for her!"
"What are you about, 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.
"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! . . ."
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!
Two lads in the crowd snatched up whips and ran to the mare to beat her about 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 the cart joined in a riotous song, jingling a tambourine and whistling. The woman went on 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.
"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.
"He'll crush her," was shouted round 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.
"Thrash her, thrash her! Why have you stopped?" shouted voices in the crowd.
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.
"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," said an 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 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.
"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.
"You butchered her," someone shouted in the crowd.
"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.
"No mistake about it, you are not a Christian," many voices were shouting in the crowd.
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.
"Come along, come! Let us 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.
"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.
He waked up, gasping for breath, his hair soaked with perspiration, and 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!"
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.
"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?"
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 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.
"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 . . . ?"
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."
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!
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!
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.
"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."
"To-morrow?" said Lizaveta slowly and thoughtfully, as though unable to 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!"
"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."
"Am I to come?"
"About seven o'clock to-morrow. And they will be here. You will be able to 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 began slowly moving away.
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/.
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.
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.
“真的，不久前我还曾想请拉祖米欣给我找点儿活干，请他或者让我去教书，或者随便给我找个什么别的工作……”拉斯科利尼科夫想起来了，“不过现在他能用什么办法帮助我呢？即使他给我找到教书的工作，即使他连自己最后的几个戈比也分给我一些，如果他手头有钱的话，那么我甚至可以买双靴子，把衣服弄得像样一些，好去教课……嗯……哼，可是以后呢？几个戈比，我能派什么用处？难道现在我只是需要弄几个钱来用吗？真的，我去找拉祖米欣，这真好笑……”
他为什么要去找拉祖米欣，现在这个问题搅得他心神不宁，甚至比他原来所想象的还要让他心烦意乱；他焦急地在这一似乎最平常的行动中寻找某种预兆不祥的含意。
“怎么，莫非我想仅仅靠拉祖米欣来解决所有问题，在拉祖米欣这儿为一切困难找到出路吗？”他惊讶地问自己。
他苦苦思索，还揉揉自己的前额，真是怪事，经过很长时间深思熟虑之后，不知怎的，仿佛无意之中，几乎是自然而然地，他的脑子里突然出现了一个很怪的想法。
“嗯……去找拉祖米欣，”他突然完全平静地说，仿佛已经作出最后决定，“我要去找拉祖米欣，这当然……不过——不是现在……我要去找他……要在那件事以后第二天再去，在那件事已经办完，一切都走上新轨道的时候再去……”
他突然头脑清醒过来。
“在那件事以后，”他霍地从长椅子上站起来，大声说，“可难道那件事会发生吗？莫非真的会发生吗？”
他离开长椅子走了，几乎是跑着离开的；他想回转去，回家去，但他突然又对回家去感到十分厌恶：这一切正是在那里，在那半间小屋里，在这个可怕的大橱里酝酿成熟的，酝酿成熟已经有一个多月了，于是他信步朝前走去。
他那神经质的颤栗变成了热病发作的战栗；他甚至觉得一阵阵发冷；天这么热，他却觉得冷。由于内心的某种需要，他几乎无意识地、仿佛想努力注视迎面遇到的一切，似乎是竭力寻找什么能分散注意力的东西，但是这一点他几乎做不到，却不断陷入沉思。每当他浑身颤栗着，又抬起头来，环顾四周的时候，立刻就忘记了刚刚在想什么，甚至忘记了他刚刚走过的路。就这样，他走遍了瓦西利耶夫斯基岛，来到了小涅瓦河边，过了桥，转弯往群岛①走去。起初，绿荫和凉爽的空气使他疲倦的双眼，那双看惯城市里的灰尘、石灰、相互挤压的高大房屋的眼睛，倦意顿失，感到十分舒适。这儿既没有闷热的感觉，也没有刺鼻的恶臭，也没有小酒馆。但不久这些新鲜、愉快的感觉又变成了痛苦和惹人发怒的感觉。有时他在掩映在绿荫丛中的别墅前站住，往篱笆里面张望，远远看到，陽台和露台上有几个盛装的妇女，花园里有几个正在奔跑的孩子。特别吸引他注意的是那些鲜花；他看花总是看得最久。他也遇到过一些四轮马车，男女骑手；他用好奇的目光目送着他们，在他们从视野中消失之前，就又忘记了他们。有一次他站下来，数了数自己的钱；发现大约还有三十个戈比。“二十戈比给了警察，三戈比还给了娜斯塔西娅，那是她为那封信代付的钱……——这么说，昨天给了马尔梅拉多夫一家四十七戈比，要么是五十戈比，”他想，不知为什么这样计算着，但是不一会儿，甚至又忘了，他把钱从口袋里掏出来是为了什么。路过一家像是小饭馆的饮食店时，他想起了钱，同时感觉到他想吃点儿东西。他走进小饭馆，喝了一杯伏特加，吃了一个不知是什么馅的馅饼。又到了路上，他才把馅饼吃完。他很久没喝伏特加了，虽然现在他只喝了一杯，但酒劲立刻就冲上来了。他的腿突然沉重起来，他强烈地感到想要睡觉。他往回家的路上走去；但是已经走到了彼特罗夫斯基岛，他却感到疲惫不堪，于是站住了，离开道路，走进灌木丛，倒到草地上，立刻进入梦乡。
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①指涅瓦河中的群岛。夏天，陀思妥耶夫斯基喜欢在群岛上散步。
一个处于病态中的人作梦，梦境往往异常清晰、鲜明，而且与现实极其相象。有时会出现一些非常可怕的情景，但同时梦境和梦的全过程却是那么真实可信，而且有一些那样巧妙、出人意料、然而与整个梦境又极其艺术地协调一致的细节，就连作梦者本人醒着的时候也想不出这样的情节，哪怕他是像普希金或屠格涅夫那样的艺术家。这样的梦，这种病态的梦，总是让人好长时间不能忘却，并对那个病态的、已经十分紧张兴奋的人体产生强烈的印象。
拉斯科利尼科夫作了个可怕的梦。他梦见了自己的童年，还是在他们那个小城里。他只有六、七岁，在一个节日的傍晚，他和自己的父亲一起在城外散步。天陰沉沉的，是闷热的一天，那地方和他记忆里保存的印象一模一样：他记忆中的印象甚至比现在他在梦中看到的景象模糊得多。小城宛如置于掌中，四周十分空旷，连一棵柳树都没有；遥远的远方，天边黑压压的，有一片小树林。离城边最后一片菜园几步远的地方有一家酒馆，这是家大酒馆，每当他和父亲出城散步，路过这家酒馆的时候，它总是会使他产生极不愉快的印象，甚至让他感到害怕。那里总是有那么一大群人，狂呼乱叫，哈哈大笑，高声谩骂，声音嘶哑地唱歌，根本唱不成调，还经常打架；常常有一些醉鬼和面貌很可怕的人在酒馆周围闲逛……一碰到他们，他就紧紧偎依在父亲身上，浑身发抖。酒馆旁有一条道路，一条乡村土路，总是尘土飞扬，而且路上的尘土总是那么黑。土路曲折蜿蜒，在三百步开外的地方，打右边绕过城市的墓地。墓地中间有一座绿色圆顶的石头教堂，每年有一两次，他要跟父母一起去教堂作弥撒，追荐已经去世很久、他从未见过的祖母。去作弥撒的时候，他们总是带着一盘蜜饭，饭用一个白盘子盛着，再包上餐巾，蜜饭像糖一样甜，是用大米做的，还拿葡萄干嵌在饭上，做成个十字架的形状。他喜欢这座教堂和教堂里那些古老的圣像，圣像大部分都没有金属衣饰，他也喜欢那个脑袋颤颤巍巍的老神甫。祖母的坟上盖着石板，祖母坟旁还有座小坟，那是他小弟弟的坟墓，小弟弟生下来六个月就死了，他也根本不知道他，记不得了：可是大家都对他说，他有个小弟弟，每次他来墓地，都要按照宗教仪式，恭恭敬敬地对着那座小坟画十字，向它鞠躬行礼，还要吻吻它。他梦见：他和父亲顺着那条路去墓地，打从那家酒馆旁边经过；他拉着父亲的手，恐惧地回头望望酒馆。一个特殊的景象吸引了他的注意力：这一次这儿好像是在举办游园会，一群打扮得漂漂亮亮的城市妇女，乡下女人，她们的丈夫，还有形形色色偶然聚集在这里的人。大家都喝醉了，大家都在唱歌，酒馆的台阶旁停着一辆大车，不过是一辆奇怪的大车。这是一辆通常套着拉车的高头大马的大车，这种大车通常是用来运送货物和酒桶的。他总是喜欢看这些拉车的高头大马，它们的鬃毛很长，腿很粗，迈着匀称的步子，走起来不慌不忙，拉着的货物堆积如山，它们却一点儿也不吃力，似乎拉着车反倒比不拉车还轻松。可现在，真是怪事，这么大的一辆大车上套着的却是一匹庄稼人养的、又瘦又小、黄毛黑鬃的驽马，他常常看到，像这样的马有时拚命用力拉着满载木柴或干草的高大的大车，尤其是当大车陷进泥泞或车辙里的时候，庄稼人总是用鞭子狠狠地抽它，打得那么痛，有时鞭子劈头盖脸地打下来，甚至打到它的眼睛上，他那么同情、那么怜悯地看着这可怕的景象，几乎要哭出来，这时妈妈总是拉着他离开小窗子。但是突然人声嘈杂，吵吵嚷嚷：从酒馆里出来一些喝得酩酊大醉、身材高大的庄稼汉，他们穿着红色和蓝色的衬衫，披着厚呢上衣，高声叫嚷着，唱着歌，还弹着三弦琴。“坐上去，大家都坐上去！”有一个叫喊着，他还年轻，脖子那么粗，一张红通通的胖脸，红得像胡萝卜，“我送大家回去，上车吧！”
但是立刻爆发了一阵哄笑和惊叫声：
“这样一匹不中用的马会拉得动！”
“米科尔卡，你疯了：把这么小一匹小母马套到这么大一辆大车上！”
“这匹黄毛黑鬃马准能活二十年，弟兄们！”
“坐上来吧，我送大家回家！”米科尔卡又高声叫嚷，说着头一个跳上大车，拉起缰绳，站在大车的前部。“那匹枣红马不久前让马特维牵走了，”他在车上叫喊，“可这匹母马，弟兄们，只是让我伤心：真想打死它，白吃粮食。我说，坐上来吧！我要让它快跑！它会跑得像飞一样！”说着他拿起鞭子，满心欢喜地准备鞭打那匹黄毛黑鬃马。
“嘿，上车吧，干吗不上啊！”人群中有人在哈哈大笑。
“听到了吗，它会飞跑呢！”
“它大概有十年没跑了吧。”
“它跳起来了！”
“别可怜它，弟兄们，每人拿根鞭子，准备好！”
“对呀！抽它！”
大家哈哈大笑着，说着俏皮话，全都爬上米科尔卡的大车。上去了五、六个人，还可以再坐几个。把一个面色红润的胖女人也拖到了车上。她穿一身红布衣裳，戴一顶饰有小玻璃珠的双角帽子，脚上穿一双厚靴子，嘴里嗑着核桃，不时嘻嘻地笑着。四周人群也在嘻笑，而且说实在的，怎么能不笑呢：这么瘦弱的一匹母马，拉着这么重的一辆大车，还要飞跑！车上有两个小伙子立刻一人拿了一条鞭子，好帮着米科尔卡赶车。只听一声喊：“驾！”小母马拼命用力拉动了大车，可是不仅不能飞跑，就连迈步都几乎迈不开，只能一小步一小步地往前挪，呼哧呼哧地喘着气，被雨点般落到它身上的三条鞭子抽得四条腿直打弯。大车上和人群中的笑声更响了，可是米科尔卡发起火来，怒气冲冲地鞭打母马，鞭子不停地落下去，越来越快，好像他当真认为，这匹马准会飞也似地奔跑。
“让我也上去，弟兄们！”人群中有个也想上去寻开心的小伙子大声喊。
“上来吧！大家都坐上来！”米科尔卡高声叫嚷，“大家都上来，它也拉得动。我打死它！”他一鞭又一鞭，起劲地抽打着，气得发狂，都不知要拿什么打它才觉得解气了。
“爸爸，爸爸，”拉斯科利尼科夫对父亲叫喊，“爸爸，他们干什么呀！爸爸，他们在打可怜的马！”
“咱们走吧，走吧！”父亲说，“是些醉鬼，在胡闹，他们都是傻瓜。咱们走，别看了！”说着想要领他走开，可是他挣脱了父亲的手，无法控制自己，向那匹马跑去。但是可怜的马已经快不行了。它气喘吁吁，站住，又猛一拉，几乎跌倒在地下。
“往死里打！”米科尔卡叫嚷，“非打不可。我打死它！”
“难道你丧尽天良了吗，恶魔！”人群中有个老头儿大声喊。
“哪儿见过这样的事，让这么瘦的小马拉这么重的车，”另一个补上一句。
“会把它累死的！”第三个高声叫嚷。
“别多管闲事！马是我的！我想怎么着，就怎么着。再上来几个！大家都上车！我一定要叫它飞跑！……”
突然爆发了一阵连续不断的笑声，压倒了一切：小母马受不了越抽越快的鞭打，无能为力地尥起蹶子来了。就连那个老头儿也忍不住笑了。真的：这么一匹瘦弱的母马还会尥蹶子！
人群中的两个小伙子又一人拿了一根鞭子，跑到那马跟前，从两边抽它。他们各人从自己那一边跑过去。
“抽它的脸，抽它的眼，照准眼睛抽！”米科尔卡叫喊。
“唱起来吧，弟兄们！”有人从大车上喊，车上的人全都随声附和。唱起一首豪放欢快的歌，铃鼓叮叮噹噹地响，唱叠句的时候，有人在吹口哨，那个女人嗑着核桃，在嘿嘿地笑。
……拉斯科利尼科夫在那匹马旁边奔跑，他跑到前面去，看到人们怎样抽打它的眼睛，照准它的眼睛猛抽！他哭了。他的心剧烈地跳动，泪如泉涌。打马的人中有一个用鞭子碰到了他的脸，他一点儿也感觉不到，他难过极了，大声叫喊着，向那个摇着头谴责这一切的、须发苍白的老头儿跑去。一个女人拉住他的手，想要领他走开，但是他挣脱出来，又跑到马跟前去。那马已经作了最后的努力，不过又尥起蹶子来了。
“见它妈的鬼去吧！”米科尔卡狂怒地叫喊。他丢掉鞭子，弯下腰，从大车底部拖出一根又长又粗的辕木，用两只手抓住它的一头，用力在那匹黄毛黑鬃马的头上挥舞着。
“会把它打死的！”周围的人大声喊。
“会打死的！”
“是我的马！”米科尔卡叫喊，说着抡起辕木打了下去。听到沉重的一击声。
“揍它，揍它！干吗不打了！”人群中许多声音在喊。
米科尔卡又抡起辕木，又是沉重的一击，打到那匹倒楣的驽马的背上。马的屁股坐下去了，但是它又跳起来，猛一拉，用尽最后一点儿力气，一会儿往左，一会儿往右，拼命想拉动大车；但四面八方六条鞭子一齐向它打来，那根辕木又高高举起，第三次落到它的身上，然后是第四次，有节奏地用力猛打下来，因为不能一下就把它打死，米科尔卡气得发狂。
“还不容易死呢！”周围一片叫喊声。
“这就要倒下去了，准没错儿，弟兄们，它这就要完蛋了！”
人群中一个爱看热闹的高声说。
“干吗不给它一斧子！一斧子就能结果它的性命，”第三个大声喊。
“哼，别指手画脚了！闪开！”米科尔卡发疯似地大喊一声，丢掉辕木，又朝大车弯下腰去，推出一根铁棒来。“当心！”他大喊一声，使出全身力气，抡起铁棒，朝那匹可怜的马猛打过去。一棒打下去，只听到喀嚓一声响；母马摇摇晃晃，倒下去了。本来它还想再用力拉车，但铁棒又猛打到它的背上，于是它倒到地上，仿佛一下子把它的四条腿全砍断了。
“打死它！”米科尔卡大声喊，他好像控制不住自己，从大车上跳了下来。几个也是满脸通红、喝得醉醺醺的小伙子随手抓起鞭子、棍棒、辕木，朝那匹奄奄一息的母马跑去。米科尔卡站到一边，抡起铁棒狠狠地打它的背脊。马伸着脑袋，痛苦地长长吁了一口气，慢慢断了气。
“打死了！”人群中许多人喊。
“谁叫它不跑呢！”
“是我的马！”米科尔卡手持铁棒，两眼充血，高声大喊。他站在那儿，仿佛因为已经再也没有什么可打而感到遗憾。
“唉，这么说，你当真是丧尽天良了！”人群中已经有许多声音在大声叫喊。
但可怜的孩子已经无法控制自己。他高声叫喊着，从人丛中挤进去，冲到那匹黄毛黑鬃马前，抱住鲜血淋漓、已经死了的马脸，吻它，吻它的眼睛，吻它的嘴唇…… 随后他突然跳起来，发疯似地攥着两只小拳头朝米科尔卡扑了过去。就在这一瞬间，已经追了他好久的父亲一把抓住他，终于把他拉出了人群。
“咱们走吧！走吧！”父亲对他说，“咱们回家吧！”
“爸爸！他们为什么……把可怜的马……打死了！”他抽抽搭搭地说，但是他喘不过气来，他的话变成了叫喊，从他憋得难受的胸膛里冲了出来。
“是些醉鬼，他们在胡闹，不关我们的事，咱们走吧！”父亲说。他双手抱住父亲，但是他的胸部感到气闷，憋得难受。
他想喘一口气，大喊一声，于是醒了。
他醒来时浑身是汗，头发也给汗水浸得湿淋淋的，他气喘吁吁，恐惧地欠起身来。
“谢天谢地，这只不过是一个梦，”他说，说着坐到树下，深深地喘了口气。“不过这是怎么回事？我是不是发烧了：作了一个这么岂有此理的梦！”
他全身仿佛散了架；心烦意乱，郁郁不乐。他把胳膊肘放到膝盖上，用双手托住自己的头。
“天哪！”他突然大喊一声，“难道，难道我真的会拿起斧头，照准脑袋砍下去，砍碎她的头盖骨……会在一摊黏搭搭、热呼呼的鲜血上滑得站不住脚，会去撬锁，偷窃，吓得发抖吗；难道我会浑身溅满鲜血，去躲藏起来……还拿着斧头……上帝啊，难道真会这样吗？”
他说这些话的时候，抖得像一片树叶。
“我这是怎么了！”他继续想，更往下低下头，仿佛十分惊讶，“因为我知道，这我可受不了，那么为什么直到现在我一直在折磨自己呢？要知道，还在昨天，昨天，当我去进行这次……试探的时候，要知道，昨天我就完全明白了，我受不了……那我为什么现在还要想它呢？为什么直到现在我还犹豫不决呢？不是吗，还在昨天，下楼梯的时候，我就说过，这是肮脏的，卑污的，恶劣的，恶劣的……要知道，清醒的时候，单是这么想一想，我就感到恶心，感到恐惧……”
“不，我决受不了，决受不了！即使，即使所有这些计算都毫无疑问，即使这个月以来所决定的一切都像白昼一般清楚，像算术一样准确。上帝啊！要知道，反正我还是下不了决心！要知道，我准受不了，准受不了！……为什么，为什么直到现在……”
他站起来，惊异地环顾四周，仿佛连他来到这里也让他感到惊讶，于是他走上了T桥。他面色苍白，两眼发光，四肢疲惫无力，可是他突然感到呼吸好像轻松了些。他觉得已经丢掉了压在他身上这么久的可怕的重担，他心里突然感到轻松、宁静。“上帝啊！”他祷告说，“请把我的路指给我吧，我要放弃这该死的……我的梦想！”
过桥时他心情平静、悠然自得地望着涅瓦河，望着鲜红的落日撒在空中的鲜红的晚霞。别看他很虚弱，但他甚至没感到疲倦。仿佛一个月来一直在他心里化脓的那个脓疮突然破了。自由！自由！现在他摆脱了这些妖术，魔法，诱惑和魔力，现在他自由了！
后来，每当他想起这时的情况，每当他一分钟一分钟、一点一点地回忆这些天来所发生的一切的时候，有一个情况总是让他感到吃惊，甚至惊讶到了迷信的程度，虽然实际上这情况并不十分特殊，但后来他却老是觉得，好像这是他命中注定的。这就是：他怎么也弄不懂，而且无法解释，他已经很累了，疲惫不堪，对他来说，最好是走一条最近的直路回家，可是为什么他却要穿过干草广场回去，而去干草广场完全是多余的。绕的弯不算大，但显然完全没有必要。当然啦，他回家时记不得自己所走的路，这样的事已经发生过几十次了。但是，为什么呢？他常常问，那次在干草广场上（他甚至用不着经过那里）的相遇，那次对他如此重要、如此具有决定意义、同时又是那样纯属偶然的相遇，为什么不早不迟，恰恰是现在，在他一生中的那个时刻、那一分钟发生？而且恰恰是在他正处于那种心情、那种情况之下的时候？而只有在这种情况下，它，那次相遇才会对他一生的命运产生最具有决定意义、举足轻重的影响。仿佛那次相遇是故意在那儿等着他似的！
他经过干草广场的时候，大约是九点钟左右。所有摆摊的、顶着托盘的小贩，还有在大小铺子里做生意的商贩，全都关上店门，或者收拾起自己的货物，像他们的顾客一样，各自回家了。开设在底层的那些饭馆附近，还有干草广场上一幢幢房子的那些又脏又臭的院子里，特别是那些小酒馆旁边，聚集着许多形形色色、各行各业的手艺人和衣衫褴褛的人。拉斯科利尼科夫毫无目的出来闲逛的时候，多半喜欢来这些地方，也喜欢到附近几条胡同里去。在这些地方，他的破衣服不会招来任何人高傲蔑视的目光，可以爱穿什么就穿什么，而不会惹恼别人。在K胡同口一个角落里，一个小市民和一个女人，他的妻子，摆着两张桌子在做生意，卖的是线、带子、印花布头巾，以及诸如此类的东西。他们也打算回家了，可是因为和一个走过来的熟人闲聊，所以就耽搁了一会儿。这熟人是莉扎薇塔·伊万诺芙娜，或者跟大家一样，就叫她莉扎薇塔，就是那个十四等文官的太太、放高利贷的老太婆阿廖娜·伊万诺芙娜的妹妹，昨天拉斯科利尼科夫才去过老太婆那儿，用一块表作抵押跟她借钱……而且是去进行试探……他早已了解这个莉扎薇塔的一切情况；就连她，也有点儿认识他。这是个高个子、迟钝、胆小、性情温和的老姑娘，差不多是个白痴，三十五岁，完全是她姐姐的奴隶，整天整夜给姐姐干活，在姐姐面前会吓得浑身发抖，甚至常挨姐姐的打。她拿着个包袱，若有所思地站在那个小市民和他老婆跟前，留心听他们说话。那两个正特别热心地向她解释什么。拉斯科利尼科夫突然看到她的时候，一种奇怪的感觉，仿佛是十分惊讶的感觉，一下子支配了他，虽说遇到她并没有任何可以惊讶的地方。
“莉扎薇塔·伊万诺芙娜，您可以自己作主嘛，”小市民高声说。“您明儿个来，六点多钟。他们也会来的。”
“明儿个？”莉扎薇塔拖长声音、若有所思地说，好像拿不定主意。
“唉，准是阿廖娜·伊万诺芙娜吓唬您了！”商贩的妻子，一个机智果断的女人，像爆豆似不停地说。“我看您完全像个小孩子。她又不是您亲姐姐，跟您不是一个妈，可样样都让您听她的。”
“是嘛，这一次您跟阿廖娜·伊万诺芙娜什么也别说，”丈夫打断了她的话，“我给您出个主意，不用她同意，您就来我们这儿。这是件有好处的事儿。以后您姐姐也会明白的。”
“那您来吗？”
“六点多钟，明天；他们也会来的；您自己决定好了。”
“我们还要生上茶炊，请你们喝茶呢，”妻子补上一句。
“好吧，我来，”莉扎薇塔说，可一直还在犹豫不决，说罢慢慢地走了。
拉斯科利尼科夫这时已经走过去了，再也听不见他们的谈话。他轻轻地、悄悄地走了过去，竭力不听漏他们的每一句话。他最初感到的惊讶渐渐变成了恐惧，仿佛有一股冷气掠过他的背脊。他得知，突然意想不到地，完全出乎意外地得知，明天，晚上七点整，莉扎薇塔，老太婆的妹妹，也就是和她住在一起的唯一的一个人，不在家，可见晚上七点整只有老太婆独自一人待在家里。
离他的住所只剩几步路了。他像一个被判处死刑的人走进自己屋里。他什么也没思考，而且也完全丧失了思考力；但是他突然以全身心感觉到，他再也没有思考的自由，再也没有意志，一切突然都最后决定了。
当然啦，他心中有个计划，即使他曾整年整年等待一个适当的时机，也不可能期望会有比目前突然出现的机会更好，能更顺利地实现这一计划的时机了。无论如何，很难在头天晚上确切得知，而且尽可能了解得准确无误，尽可能少冒险，不必一再冒险去打听和调查，就能确知，明天，某时某刻，打算去谋害的那个老太婆只有独自一人在家。