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- J2 CRIME AND PUNISHMENT
times he stood still before a brightly painted summer villa stand-
ing among green foliage, he gazed through the fence, he saw in
the distance smartly dressed women on the verandahs and bal-
conies, and children running in the gardens. The flowers espe-
cially 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 cojjecks. "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 sud-
denly heavy and a great drowsiness came upon him. He turned
homewards, but reaching Petrovsky Ostrov he stopped com-
pletely 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 singu-
lar 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 al-
ways remain long in the memory and make a powerful impres-
sion 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 covmtry 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
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