Part 1 · Chapter 5

"Seriously, I’ve been meaning to hit up Razumihin’s lately to ask for a job, or for him to hook me up with some tutoring or something..." Raskolnikov thought. "But what good could he even be now?"

"Like, even if he got me lessons, or shared his last few bucks - if he even has any - so I could get some boots and look decent enough to teach... so what? What am I gonna do with a few measly coins? That’s not what I need right now. It's totally ridiculous for me to even go to Razumihin..."

The fact that he was even considering going to Razumihin now totally stressed him out, even more than he realized. He kept nervously looking for some hidden meaning in this seemingly normal plan.

"Did I really think I could fix everything and find a way out just by relying on Razumihin?" he asked himself, totally confused.

He thought things over, rubbing his forehead. And weirdly enough, after a long time thinking, suddenly, like it just popped into his head out of nowhere, a crazy idea hit him.

"Hmm... to Razumihin’s," he said all at once, calm as could be, like he’s finally made up his mind. "I’ll go to Razumihin’s, of course, but... not yet. I’ll go see him... the day after It, when It’s all over and everything starts fresh..."

And suddenly he realized what he was thinking about.

"After It!" he shouted, jumping up from the chair. "But is It really gonna happen? Is it even possible that it really will?"

He got up and practically ran; he meant to turn around and head home, but the thought of going back to his place totally grossed him out; for the last month, all this had been brewing up in that tiny, awful room; and he just kept walking, wherever his feet took him.

He shook it off, but a weird fever hit him, making him shiver even though it was hot. He tried to focus, almost without thinking, like he needed to, scanning everything around him, searching for something to take his mind off things. But nothing worked, and he kept spiraling into deep thought.

Then, with a jolt, he looked up, totally forgetting what he’d been thinking about, even where he was headed. That's how he ended up walking across Vassilyevsky Ostrov, out onto the Lesser Neva, crossing the bridge, and turning toward the islands.

The greenery and fresh air were a welcome relief at first after the dust and huge buildings of the city that felt like they were crushing him. No bars, no suffocating crowds, no awful smells. But that feeling didn’t last.

Sometimes he’s just frozen, staring at a brightly painted summer house surrounded by trees. He's peering through the fence, seeing stylish women on porches and balconies, kids running around the gardens.

The flowers especially grabbed his attention; he’s just staring at them, longer than anything else.

Fancy carriages and people on horseback passed by too. He watched them with curious eyes, then totally forgot about them before they were even out of sight. Once, he stopped to count his money. Thirty copecks.

"Twenty to the cop, three to Nastasya for the letter... so I must have given forty-seven or fifty to the Marmeladovs yesterday," he thought, doing the math for some reason he couldn't put his finger on.

But then he forgot why he even took the money out of his pocket.

He remembered when he passed a diner or bar, and realized he was starving. He went inside, downed a shot of vodka, and grabbed a pie. He finished it while walking away. It had been a while since he’d had vodka, and it hit him hard, even just a small glass.

His legs felt heavy, and a wave of sleepiness washed over him. He turned around to head home, but when he reached Petrovsky Ostrov, he just stopped, completely drained. He wandered off the road, into some bushes, sank down on the grass, and instantly passed out.

When your brain’s messed up like that, dreams feel unbelievably real. They’re vivid, detailed, and feel so true, it’s wild.

Sometimes they’re totally bizarre, with monster images popping up, but the setting and everything else is so realistic, so unexpectedly but perfectly consistent, that even a writer like Pushkin or Turgenev couldn't have made it up while awake.

Those kinds of dreams stick with you, leaving a lasting impression on your already messed-up nerves.

Raskolnikov had a seriously messed-up dream. He was back in his childhood, in his hometown. He was about seven, walking into the countryside with his dad on a holiday evening.

It was a gloomy, heavy day, and the countryside looked exactly as he remembered - even more vividly in his dream than he actually recalled. The little town was totally flat, bare as a bone, not even a willow tree in sight.

Way off in the distance, there was just a patch of trees, a dark blur on the horizon. A few steps past the last garden was a tavern, a huge one, that always gave him the creeps whenever he walked by with his dad.

There was always a crowd, yelling, laughing, and trash-talking, ugly, hoarse singing, and often fights. Drunk and scary-looking people hung around the tavern. He used to cling to his dad, shaking all over when he saw them. Near the tavern, the road turned into a dusty track, the dust always black.

It twisted and turned, and about a hundred paces further on, it curved to the right, towards the graveyard.

In the middle of the graveyard stood an old stone church with a green dome, where he used to go to mass with his parents two or three times a year when they remembered his grandma, who had been dead for a long time and whom he’d never even met.

On those days, they’d bring a white dish covered with a napkin - a special kind of rice pudding with raisins arranged in a cross. He loved that church, the old-fashioned icons, and the old priest with the shaky head.

Near his grandma’s grave, marked by a stone, was the tiny grave of his little brother, who died when he was just six months old. He didn’t remember him at all, but he’d been told about him, and whenever he visited the graveyard, he’d always cross himself, bow down, and kiss the little grave.

Now, he dreamt he was walking with his dad past the tavern on the way to the graveyard, holding his dad’s hand and staring at the tavern with dread.

Something weird caught his attention: it looked like there was a party going on - crowds of people in bright clothes, peasant women, their husbands, and all sorts of shady characters, all singing and pretty much wasted. Near the tavern entrance was a cart, but a seriously strange one.

It was one of those big carts usually pulled by massive horses, loaded with barrels of wine or other heavy stuff.

He always liked watching those huge horses, with their long manes, thick legs, and slow, steady pace, pulling along what looked like a mountain without even breaking a sweat, as if it was easier with a load than without it.

But now, get this, in the cart’s shafts, he saw a tiny, skinny sorrel horse, one of those peasant nags he’d often seen straining to pull a heavy load of wood or hay, especially when the wheels were stuck in the mud or rut.

And the peasants would beat them so brutally, sometimes even around the nose and eyes, and he felt so bad for them he almost cried, and his mom always used to drag him away from the window .

Suddenly, there was a huge uproar of shouting, singing, and a balalaika, and a bunch of big, super-drunk peasants spilled out of the tavern, wearing red and blue shirts and coats slung over their shoulders.

"Get in, get in!" shouted one of them, a young, stocky peasant with a fleshy face red as a carrot. "I’ll take you all, get in!"

But immediately, there was a burst of laughter and shouts from 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 that mare is twenty if she’s a day, mates!"

"Hop in, I’ll take you all," Mikolka yelled, jumping into the cart, grabbing the reins, and standing tall. "The bay went off with Matvey," he shouted from the cart - "and this stubborn thing is just killing me, I swear I could lose it. She’s eating like crazy. Get in, I’m telling you!"

I’ll make her bolt! She’ll bolt!" and he picked up the whip, ready to really lay it on the little mare."

"Get in! Come on!" The crowd laughed.

"Did you hear? She’ll bolt!"

"Bolt indeed! She hasn’t bolted in ten years!"

"She’ll trot along, no big deal."

"Don’t worry about her, guys, grab a whip each, get ready!"

"Let’s go! Give it to her!"

They all piled into Mikolka’s cart, laughing and joking around. Six guys crammed in, and there was still room for more. They hauled in a plump, rosy-cheeked woman. She was rocking a red cotton dress, a pointy, beaded headdress, and thick leather boots; she was cracking nuts and laughing.

The crowd was laughing too - how could they not? That poor nag was supposed to pull all of them at a full-on sprint! Two young dudes in the cart were getting whips ready to help Mikolka. With a shout of "Now," the mare strained with all her might, but instead of bolting, she could barely move.

She struggled with her legs, gasping and shrinking away from the three whips that rained down on her like hail. The laughter in the cart and in the crowd doubled, but Mikolka flew into a rage and started thrashing the mare, like he actually thought she could bolt.

"Let me in, too," shouted a young man in the crowd whose appetite was stoked.

"Get in, everyone get in," cried Mikolka, "she’s pulling you all. I’ll beat her to death!"

And he kept whacking and whacking at the mare, totally losing it.

"Dad, Dad," he cried, "Dad, what are they doing? Dad, they’re beating the poor horse!"

"Come on, come on," said his father. "They’re drunk and messing around, it’s just a joke. Come away, don’t watch!"

and he tried to pull him away, but he ripped himself free and, horrified, ran to the horse. The poor beast was in rough shape. She was gasping, standing still, then straining again and almost falling.

"Beat her to death," cried Mikolka, "it’s come to that. I’m finishing her off!"

"What are you doing, are you even a Christian, you monster?" shouted an old man in the crowd.

"Have you ever seen anything like it? A pathetic little thing like that pulling such a huge load," said another.

"You’ll kill her," shouted a third.

"Don’t interfere! It’s my property, I do what I want. Get in, more of you! Get in, all of you! I will make her go at a gallop...!"

Suddenly, laughter exploded into a roar, covering everything: the mare, spurred on by the shower of blows, started weakly kicking. Even the old man couldn’t help but smile. The thought of such a tiny thing trying to kick!

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

"Hit her in the face, in the eyes, right in the eyes!" cried Mikolka.

"Give us a song, guys," shouted someone in the cart, and everyone in the cart joined in a wild 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 her eyes, right in her eyes! He was crying, feeling like he was choking, his tears streaming down. One of the guys gave him a whack with the whip across his face, he didn’t even 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 grabbed him by the hand and tried to pull him away, but he ripped himself free and ran back to the mare.

She was practically at her last breath, but started kicking again.

"I’ll teach you to kick!" Mikolka yelled, totally losing it.

He tossed the whip down, bent over, and grabbed a long, thick pole from the bottom of the cart. He gripped one end with both hands and, with a huge effort, swung it over the mare.

"He’s gonna crush her!" people shouted around him. "He’s gonna kill her!"

"She’s my property," Mikolka yelled, bringing the pole down with a hard whack.

There was a loud thud.

"Beat her! Beat her! Why’d you stop?" the crowd screamed.

And Mikolka swung the pole again, and it crashed down on the mare’s back a second time. She stumbled back on her legs, but lunged forward, pulling with all her might, first to one side, then the other, trying to move the cart.

But six whips were attacking her from every direction, and the pole came down again, hitting her a third time, then a fourth, with heavy, steady blows. Mikolka was furious that he couldn’t kill her with just one hit.

"She’s tough," someone yelled from the crowd.

"She’s gonna go down any minute, guys, this is gonna be over soon," said an impressed spectator.

"Get an axe! Finish her off!" a third person shouted.

"Back off! I’ll show you!" Mikolka screamed frantically, throwing down the pole.

He ducked into the cart and grabbed an iron crowbar.

"Watch out!" he yelled, and with all his strength, he slammed it into the poor mare.

The blow landed; the mare staggered, sank back, tried to pull, but the bar crashed down again on her back, and she fell to the ground like a log.

"Finish her off!" Mikolka shouted, jumping out of the cart, totally hyped up.

Several young guys, also drunk, grabbed whatever they could find - whips, sticks, poles - and ran to the dying mare. Mikolka stood to one side and started hitting her randomly with the crowbar. The mare stretched out her head, took a deep breath, and died.

"You butchered her!" someone shouted in the crowd.

"Why wouldn’t she gallop then?"

"She’s my property!" Mikolka yelled, his eyes bloodshot, waving the bar in his hands.

He stood there like he wished he had something else to hit.

"No doubt about it, you’re not a Christian," many voices in the crowd shouted.

But the poor boy, completely out of control, pushed his way through the crowd to the chestnut mare, wrapped his arms around her bleeding, dead head, and kissed it, kissing her eyes and kissing her lips. Then he jumped up and started punching Mikolka with his little fists.

At that moment, his father, who had been running after him, snatched him up and carried him out of the crowd.

"Come on, let’s go home," he said.

"Dad! Why did they... kill... the poor horse!" he sobbed, but his voice broke, and the words came out as gasps from his panting chest.

"They’re drunk... They’re brutal... it’s none of our business," his father said.

He held his father close, but he felt suffocated, choked. He tried to breathe, to cry out - and woke up.

He woke up, gasping for air, his hair soaked in sweat, and sat up in terror.

"Thank God, that was just a dream," he said, sitting down under a tree and taking deep breaths. "But what is it? Is some fever coming on? Such a messed-up dream!"

He felt totally wrecked: darkness and confusion filled his soul. He rested his elbows on his knees and leaned his head on his hands.

"Good Lord!" he cried, "can it be, can it be, that I’m really gonna grab an axe, that I’m gonna hit her on the head, split her skull open... that I’m gonna step in the warm, sticky blood, break the lock, steal and tremble, hide - all covered in blood... with the axe... Good Lord, 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, totally stunned.

"I knew I could never do it, so what have I been stressing myself out about until now? Yesterday, yesterday, when I went to do that... experiment, yesterday I realized completely that I couldn't handle it... Why am I going over it again, then? Why am I second-guessing myself?"

As I came down the stairs yesterday, I told myself it was disgusting, awful, vile... just thinking about it made me sick and filled me with dread.

"No, I couldn’t do it, I couldn’t do it! Okay, okay, even if my reasoning is solid, if everything I’m sure of from the last month is as clear as day, true as math... My God! Anyway, I couldn’t bring myself to do it! I couldn’t do it, I couldn’t do it! Why, why am I still...?"

He stood up, looked around in disbelief like he didn’t recognize the place, and headed towards the bridge. He was pale, his eyes were glowing, he was exhausted, but he suddenly seemed to breathe easier.

He felt like he'd finally gotten rid of that scary weight that had been crushing him, and there was a sense of relief and peace in his soul.

"Lord," he prayed, "show me the way - I give up on that messed-up... dream of mine."

Crossing the bridge, he looked quietly and calmly at the Neva, at the bright red sun setting in the glowing sky. Despite feeling weak, he didn't feel tired. It was like an infection that had been building up in his heart for a month had finally burst. Freedom, freedom!

He was free from that spell, that sorcery, that obsession!

Later on, when he remembered that time and everything that happened to him during those days, minute by minute, point by point, he was creeped out by one thing, which, even though it wasn't really unusual, always seemed to him afterwards the turning point of his fate.

He could never figure out or explain to himself why, when he was tired and worn out, when it would have been easier to just go straight home, he'd gone back through the Hay Market where he didn’t need to go. It was totally unnecessary, even if it wasn't much of a detour.

He’d often return home without even realizing what streets he't passed.

But why, he always wondered, why did that important, that decisive, and at the same time totally random meeting happen in the Hay Market (where he didn’t even have a reason to be) at the exact hour, the exact minute of his life when he was in the perfect mood and situation for that meeting to have such a huge and life-changing effect on his whole destiny?

It was like it had been waiting for him!

It was around nine o’clock when he crossed the Hay Market. At the tables, carts, booths, and shops, everyone was shutting up shop or packing up their stuff, heading home just like their customers.

Rag pickers and street vendors of all kinds were crowding around the taverns in the dirty, smelly courtyards of the Hay Market.

Raskolnikov really liked this place and the nearby alleys - when he wandered aimlessly, his clothes didnn't draw any judgmental looks, and you could walk around in pretty much anything without causing a stir.

At the corner of an alley, a vendor and his wife had two tables set out with ribbons, thread, cotton handkerchiefs, etc. They were also heading home, but were chatting with a friend who’d just shown up.

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 day before to pawn his watch and test his plan... He already knew a lot about Lizaveta, and she knew a little about him too.

She was single, about thirty-five, tall, awkward, timid, submissive, and almost clueless. She was a total pushover and lived in constant fear of her sister, who made her work day and night and even hit her.

She was standing with a bundle before the vendor and his wife, listening intently and a bit confused. They were talking about something with a lot of feeling.

The moment Raskolnikov saw her, he was hit with a weird feeling, like intense surprise, even though there was nothing really surprising about it.

"You can decide for yourself, Lizaveta Ivanovna," the vendor was saying loudly. "Come around tomorrow about seven. They’ll be here too."

"Tomorrow?" said Lizaveta slowly and thoughtfully, as if she couldn’t make up her mind.

"I swear, you’re always so worried about Alyona Ivanovna," chattered the vendor’s wife, a lively little woman.

"I look at you, and you’d think you were a little baby. And she’s not even your own sister - just a step-sister, and the way she bosses you around!"

"But don’t say a word to Alyona Ivanovna this time," her husband interrupted; "that’s my advice, just come around to us without asking. It’s worth it. Later, your sister might figure it out herself."

"Am I supposed to come?"

"About seven o’clock tomorrow. And they’ll be here. You’ll be able to decide for yourself."

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

"Okay, I’ll come," said Lizaveta, still thinking it over, and she started slowly moving away.

Raskolnikov had just passed and heard no more. He slipped by softly, unnoticed, trying not to miss a single word. His initial shock was followed by a rush of dread, like a chill running down his spine.

He’d learned, he’d suddenly and unexpectedly found out, that tomorrow at seven o’clock, Lizaveta, the old woman’s sister and only companion, would be out of the house, and therefore, at seven o’clock precisely, the old woman would be left completely alone.

He was just a few steps from his apartment. He went in like a guy facing the death penalty. He wasn’t thinking about anything and couldn’t think; but he suddenly felt in his whole being that he had no more freedom of thought, no will, and that everything was suddenly and permanently decided.

Definitely, if he had to wait years for a good opportunity, he couldn’t have hoped for a more certain step toward 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 accuracy and less risk, and without dangerous questions and investigations, that next day at a specific time an old woman, whose life was being targeted, would be at home and completely alone.