"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 Marvey,"
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
"Let me get in, too, mates," shouted a young man in the crowd whose appetite
"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
"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
"Did any one ever see the like? A wretched nag like that pulling such a cartload,"
"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 some one in the cart and every one 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," some one 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
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. Ragpickers 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, &c.
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 every one
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 tomorrow 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 stepsister 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
"And we'll have a cup of tea," added his wife.