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- Федор Достоевский
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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
truth
-
like
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
balalaïka
,
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
?
”
