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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 around； 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 wine…glassful。
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 dre