What impression does the panorama of the cathedral make on the hero? Essay Dostoevsky F.M.

Raskolnikov silently took the German sheets of the article, took three rubles and, without saying a word, left. Razumikhin looked after him in surprise. But, having already reached the first line, Raskolnikov suddenly turned back, went up again to Razumikhin and, putting German sheets and three rubles on the table, again without saying a word, walked out.

- You have delirium tremens or something! - Razumikhin, finally enraged, roared. - Why are you playing comedies! Even me was confused... Why did you come after that, damn it?

“No need... translations...” muttered Raskolnikov, already going down the stairs.

- So what the hell do you want? - Razumikhin shouted from above. He silently continued to descend.

- Hey, you! Where do you live?

There was no answer.

- Well, to hell with you!..

But Raskolnikov was already going out into the street. On the Nikolaevsky Bridge he had to once again come to his senses as a result of one very unpleasant incident for him. He was lashed firmly on the back with a whip by the driver of one of the carriages because he almost fell under the horses, despite the fact that the coachman shouted to him three or four times. The blow of the whip angered him so much that he jumped back to the railing (it is unknown why he was walking in the very middle of the bridge, where people drive, not walk), and angrily gnashed and clicked his teeth. There was, of course, laughter all around.

- And let's get to work!

- Some kind of burning.

“It’s known that he pretends to be drunk and deliberately gets under the wheels; and you are responsible for him.

- That’s what they do, venerable, that’s what they do...

But at that moment, as he stood at the railing and still meaninglessly and angrily looked after the retreating carriage, rubbing his back, he suddenly felt that someone was pushing money into his hands. He looked: an elderly merchant's wife, in a headdress and goat's shoes, and with her a girl, in a hat and with a green umbrella, probably her daughter. “Accept, father, for Christ’s sake.” He took it and they walked past. Two-kopeck money. Judging by his dress and appearance, they could very well take him for a beggar, for a real penny collector on the street, and he probably owed the gift of a whole two-kopeck piece to the blow of the whip, which pityed them.

He clutched the two-kopeck piece in his hand, walked ten steps and turned to face the Neva, in the direction of the palace. The sky was without the slightest cloud, and the water was almost blue, which is so rare on the Neva. The dome of the cathedral, which is not better outlined from any point than when looking at it from here, from the bridge, not twenty steps from the chapel, was shining, and through the clear air one could clearly see even every one of its decorations. The pain from the whip subsided, and Raskolnikov forgot about the blow; One restless and not entirely clear thought now occupied him exclusively. He stood and looked into the distance long and intently; this place was especially familiar to him. When he went to university, it usually happened, most often when returning home, that he would stop, perhaps a hundred times, at exactly this very place, gaze intently at this truly magnificent panorama, and each time he would almost be surprised by one unclear and insoluble problem. to your impression. An inexplicable chill always blew over him from this magnificent panorama; This magnificent picture was full of a mute and deaf spirit for him... Each time he marveled at his gloomy and mysterious impression and put off its solution, not trusting himself, to the future. Now he suddenly suddenly remembered these previous questions and perplexities, and it seemed to him that it was not by chance that he now remembered them. One thing seemed wild and wonderful to him, that he stopped in the same place as before, as if he really imagined that he could think about the same things now as before, and be interested in the same old themes and pictures, what I was interested... just recently. It almost made him feel funny, and at the same time his chest felt painfully tight. In some depth, below, somewhere barely visible under his feet, all this former past, and former thoughts, and former tasks, and former themes, and former impressions, and this whole panorama, and himself, and everything, everything... It seemed as if he was flying up somewhere, and everything was disappearing in his eyes... Having made one involuntary movement with his hand, he suddenly felt a two-kopeck note clutched in his fist. He unclenched his hand, looked intently at the coin, swung it and threw it into the water; then he turned and went home. It seemed to him that he had cut himself off from everyone and everything with scissors at that moment.

He arrived at his place in the evening, which means he had only been there for about six hours. Where and how he walked back, he didn’t remember anything. Having undressed and trembling all over like a driven horse, he lay down on the sofa, pulled on his overcoat and immediately forgot...

He woke up at full dusk from a terrible scream. God, what a cry! He had never heard or seen such unnatural sounds, such howling, screaming, grinding, tears, beatings and curses. He could not even imagine such atrocity, such frenzy. In horror, he rose and sat down on his bed, freezing and suffering every moment. But the fighting, screaming and swearing became stronger and stronger. And then, to his greatest amazement, he suddenly heard the voice of his mistress. She howled, squealed and wailed, hurrying, hurrying, letting out words so that it was impossible to make out, begging for something - of course, that they would stop beating her, because they were beating her mercilessly on the stairs. The beating man’s voice became so terrible from anger and rage that it was just hoarse, but still the beating man also said something like that, and also quickly, inaudibly, hurrying and choking. Suddenly Raskolnikov trembled like a leaf: he recognized this voice; it was the voice of Ilya Petrovich. Ilya Petrovich is here and beats the mistress! He kicks her, bangs her head on the steps - it’s clear, you can hear it from the sounds, the screams, the blows! What is this, the light has turned upside down, or what? You could hear a crowd gathering on all floors, along the entire staircase, voices, exclamations, people coming up, knocking, slamming doors, and running. “But for what, for what... and how is this possible!” - he repeated, seriously thinking that he was completely crazy. But no, he hears too clearly!.. But, therefore, they will come to him now, if so, “because... it’s true, all this is from the same thing... because of yesterday... Lord!” He wanted to lock himself on the hook, but his hand did not rise... and it was useless! Fear surrounded his soul like ice, tormented him, numbed him... But finally, all this commotion, which lasted for ten faithful minutes, began to gradually subside. The hostess moaned and groaned, Ilya Petrovich still threatened and swore... But finally, it seems, he too calmed down; Now you can’t hear him: “Is he really gone?” God!" Yes, then the landlady leaves, still moaning and crying... and then her door slammed... Now the crowd disperses from the stairs to the apartments - they gasp, argue, call each other, now raising their speech to a scream, then lowering it to a whisper. There must have been many of them; Almost the whole house came running. “But God, is all this possible! And why, why did he come here!

Raskolnikov fell helplessly onto the sofa, but could no longer close his eyes; he lay for half an hour in such suffering, in such an unbearable feeling of boundless horror, which he had never experienced before. Suddenly a bright light illuminated his room: Nastasya entered with a candle and a plate of soup. Looking at him carefully and seeing that he was not sleeping, she put the candle on the table and began to lay out what she had brought: bread, salt, plate, spoon.

“I suppose I haven’t eaten since yesterday.” I've been walking around all day, and the fever itself is hitting me.

- Nastasya... why did they beat the owner?

She looked at him closely.

-Who beat the owner?

- Now... half an hour ago, Ilya Petrovich, assistant warden, on the stairs... Why did he beat her like that? and... why did you come?..

Nastasya looked at him silently and frowning and looked at him for a long time. He felt very unpleasant from this examination, even scared.

- Nastasya, why are you silent? – he said timidly, finally, in a weak voice.

“This is blood,” she finally answered quietly and as if speaking to herself.

“Blood!.. What blood?..” he muttered, turning pale and moving back towards the wall. Nastasya continued to look at him silently.

“Nobody beat the owner,” she said again in a stern and decisive voice. He looked at her, barely breathing.

“I heard it myself... I didn’t sleep... I sat,” he said even more timidly. - I listened for a long time... The warden’s assistant came... Everyone came running to the stairs, from all the apartments...

- Nobody came. And it’s the blood in you screaming. It’s when she has no way out and starts to bake herself into liver, then she starts to imagine... Are you going to eat something, or what?

He didn't answer. Nastasya still stood over him, looked at him intently and did not leave.

- Give me a drink... Nastasyushka.

She went downstairs and returned two minutes later with water in a white clay mug; but he no longer remembered what happened next. I only remembered how I took one sip of cold water and spilled it from the mug onto my chest. Then came unconsciousness.

III

He, however, was not completely unconscious during the entire period of his illness: it was a feverish state, with delirium and semi-consciousness. He remembered a lot later. It seemed to him that a lot of people were gathering around him and wanted to take him and take him somewhere, they were arguing and quarreling about him. Then suddenly he is alone in the room, everyone has left and is afraid of him, and only occasionally they open the door a little to look at him, threaten him, agree on something among themselves, laugh and tease him. He often remembered Nastasya next to him; He also distinguished another person, who seemed very familiar to him, but who exactly he could not guess and he grieved about it, even cried. Sometimes it seemed to him that he had been lying there for a month; another time - that the same day continues. But he completely forgot about that; but every minute he remembered that he had forgotten something, which should not be forgotten - he was tormented, tormented, remembering, groaning, falling into rage or into terrible, unbearable fear. Then he would break out and want to run, but someone would always forcefully stop him, and he would again fall into powerlessness and unconsciousness. Finally, he completely came to his senses.

This happened in the morning, at ten o'clock. At this hour of the morning, on clear days, the sun always passed in a long strip along its right wall and illuminated the corner near the door. At his bedside stood Nastasya and another person, looking at him very curiously and completely unfamiliar to him. He was a young guy in a caftan, with a beard, and looked like an artel worker. The landlady was looking out from the half-open door. Raskolnikov stood up.

-Who is this, Nastasya? – he asked, pointing at the guy.

- Look, I woke up! - she said.

“We woke up,” the artel worker responded. Guessing that he had woken up, the hostess, who was peeking from the doors, immediately closed them and hid. She was always shy and endured conversations and explanations with difficulty, she was about forty, and she was fat and fat, black-browed and dark-eyed, kind from fatness and from laziness; and she’s even very pretty. Shy beyond necessity.

- Who are you? - he continued to interrogate, turning to the artel worker himself. But at that moment the door opened wide again and, bending a little because he was tall, Razumikhin entered.

Nikolaevsky Bridge (now Lieutenant Schmidt Bridge) Raskolnikov peers into St. Isaac's Cathedral. In the picture described by Dostoevsky there is a strange duality, a split that even concerns Raskolnikov’s perception of space. On the one hand, this is a temple as a symbol of purity and sinlessness. On the other hand, this magnificent panorama emanated a “dumb and deaf spirit.” Each time Raskolnikov was amazed at his “gloomy and mysterious impression” of this picture. In the panorama of St. Isaac's Cathedral, the stern and gloomy spirit of the custodian and founder of the city, Peter I, seems to be hidden, and the monument to Peter reared on a horse - this stone idol - is the material embodiment of the genius of the place, in the words of N.P. Antsiferov. The specter of gloomy statehood, already noted by Pushkin in the poem “The Bronze Horseman,” when an idol, jumping off a pedestal, chases the “little man” Eugene, also frightens and haunts Raskolnikov. In front of this majestic, but devastatingly cold statehood, Raskolnikov, who imagines himself to be a superman, turns out to be a microscopic “little man”, from whom this “incomprehensible city” of kings and officials indifferently turns away. As if ironizing Raskolnikov and his “superhuman” theory, St. Petersburg first, with a blow of a whip on the back, admonishes the hero who hesitated on the bridge, and then with the hand of a compassionate merchant’s daughter throws alms to Raskolnikov - a two-kopeck piece falls into Raskolnikov’s palms. He, not wanting to accept handouts from the hostile city, throws the two-kopeck piece into the water: “He clutched the two-kopeck piece in his hand, walked ten steps and turned to face the Neva, in the direction of the palace (Winter Palace - A.G.). The sky was without the slightest cloud , and the water is almost blue, which is so rare on the Neva. The dome of the cathedral, which is not outlined better from any point than when looking at it from here, from the bridge, not reaching twenty steps from the chapel, was shining, and through the clean air you can it was possible to clearly see even every piece of his jewelry (...) When he went to the university, it usually happened, most often when returning home, maybe a hundred times, to stop at this very same place, to peer intently at this a truly magnificent panorama..."
“The artist M.V. Dobuzhinsky became interested in why Dostoevsky noted this place as the most suitable for contemplating St. Isaac’s Cathedral. It turned out that from here the entire mass of the cathedral is located diagonally and complete symmetry in the arrangement of parts is obtained” (Belov S.V. Roman F. M. Dostoevsky "Crime and Punishment". Commentary. M., "Enlightenment", 1985, p. 118).

", part 2, chapter 2.)

...Raskolnikov was already going out into the street. On the Nikolaevsky Bridge he had to once again come to his senses as a result of one very unpleasant incident for him. The driver of one of the carriages lashed him firmly on the back with a whip because he almost got run over by the horses, despite the fact that the coachman shouted to him three or four times. The blow of the whip angered him so much that, jumping back to the railing (it is unknown why he was walking in the very middle of the bridge, where people drive, not walk), he angrily gnashed and clicked his teeth. There was, of course, laughter all around.

- And let's get to work!

- Some kind of burning.

“It’s known that he pretends to be drunk and deliberately gets under the wheels; and you are responsible for him.

- That’s what they do, venerable, that’s what they do...

Crime and Punishment. Feature film 1969 Episode 1

But at that moment, as he stood at the railing and was still meaninglessly and angrily looking after the retreating carriage, rubbing his back, he suddenly felt that someone was pushing money into his hands. He looked: an elderly merchant's wife, in a headdress and goat's shoes, and with her a girl, in a hat and with a green umbrella, probably her daughter. “Accept, father, for Christ’s sake.” He took it and they walked past. Two-kopeck money. Judging by his dress and appearance, they could very well take him for a beggar, for a real collector of pennies on the street, and he probably owed the gift of a whole two-kopeck piece to the blow of the whip, which moved them to pity.

He clutched the two-kopeck piece in his hand, walked ten steps and turned to face the Neva, in the direction of the palace. The sky was without the slightest cloud, and the water was almost blue, which is so rare on the Neva. The dome of the cathedral, which is not better outlined from any point than when looking at it from here, from the bridge, not twenty steps from the chapel, was shining, and through the clear air one could clearly see even every one of its decorations. The pain from the whip subsided, and Raskolnikov forgot about the blow; One restless and not entirely clear thought now occupied him exclusively. He stood and looked into the distance long and intently; this place was especially familiar to him. When he went to university, it usually happened, most often when returning home, that he would stop, perhaps a hundred times, at this very same place, gaze intently at this truly magnificent panorama, and each time he would almost be surprised by one unclear and insoluble problem of his own. impression. An inexplicable chill always blew over him from this magnificent panorama; This magnificent picture was full of a mute and deaf spirit for him... Each time he marveled at his gloomy and mysterious impression and put off its solution, not trusting himself, to the future. Now he suddenly suddenly remembered these previous questions and perplexities, and it seemed to him that it was not by chance that he now remembered them. One thing seemed wild and wonderful to him, that he stopped in the same place as before, as if he really imagined that he could think about the same things now as before, and be interested in the same old themes and pictures, what I was interested... just recently. He almost felt funny, and at the same time his chest felt painfully tight. In some depth, below, somewhere barely visible under his feet, all this former past, and former thoughts, and former tasks, and former themes, and former impressions, and this whole panorama, and himself, and everything, everything... It seemed as if he was flying up somewhere and everything was disappearing in his eyes... Having made one involuntary movement with his hand, he suddenly felt a two-kopeck note clutched in his fist. He unclenched his hand, looked intently at the coin, swung it and threw it into the water; then he turned and went home. It seemed to him that he had cut himself off from everyone and everything with scissors at that moment.

“What if there was already a search? What if I find them at my place?” But here is his room. Nothing and no one; no one looked. Even Nastasya didn’t touch it. But, Lord! How could he leave all these things in this hole just now? He rushed to the corner, put his hand under the wallpaper and began to pull out things and load his pockets with them. There were eight pieces in total: two small boxes with earrings or something like that - he didn’t take a good look; then four small morocco cases. One chain was simply wrapped in newsprint. Something else in the newsprint, it seems like an order... He put everything in different pockets, in his coat and in the remaining right pocket of his trousers, trying to make it as inconspicuous as possible. He also took his wallet along with his things. Then he left the room, this time even leaving it completely wide open. He walked quickly and firmly, and although he felt that he was all broken, his consciousness was with him. He was afraid of being chased, afraid that in half an hour, in a quarter of an hour, perhaps, instructions would come out to watch him; therefore, no matter what, it was necessary to bury the loose ends before the time. It was necessary to cope while there was still at least some strength and at least some reasoning left... Where to go? It was decided long ago: “Throw everything into the ditch, and the ends into the water, and be done with it.” So he decided at night, in his delirium, in those moments when, he remembered this, he tried several times to get up and walk: “quickly, quickly, and throw everything away.” But it turned out to be very difficult to throw it away. He had been wandering along the embankment of the Catherine Canal for half an hour, maybe more, and several times glanced at the descents into the ditch where he had met them. But it was impossible to even think of fulfilling the intention: either the rafts were standing right at the exit and the washerwomen were washing clothes on them, or the boats were moored, and people were swarming everywhere, and from everywhere on the embankments, on all sides, one could see and notice: suspiciously, that the man deliberately came down, stopped and threw something into the water. How come the cases float rather than sink? And of course it is. Everyone will see. And without that, everyone already looks like that, when they meet, they look around, as if they only care about him. “Why should that be so, or maybe it seems to me,” he thought. Finally it occurred to him that wouldn’t it be better to go somewhere on the Neva? There are fewer people there, and it’s more inconspicuous, and in any case it’s more convenient, and most importantly, it’s further from these places. And he was suddenly surprised: how could he wander for a whole half hour in melancholy and anxiety, and in dangerous places, and he could not have imagined this before! And that’s why he only killed a whole half hour on a reckless task, because it was already decided once in a dream, in delirium! He was becoming extremely distracted and forgetful and he knew it. It was absolutely necessary to hurry! He went to the Neva along Vmu Avenue; but on the way, another thought suddenly occurred to him: “Why go to the Neva? Why in the water? Isn’t it better to go somewhere very far, again even to the Islands, and there somewhere, in a lonely place, in the forest, under a bush, bury all this and perhaps notice the tree?” And although he felt that he was not able to discuss everything clearly and sensibly at that moment, the idea seemed to him unmistakable. But he was not destined to get to the Islands either, but something else happened: leaving Vgo Avenue to the square, he suddenly saw on the left the entrance to a courtyard, surrounded by completely blank walls. To the right, immediately after the entrance to the gate, the blank unwhitened wall of a neighboring four-story building stretched far into the courtyard. To the left, parallel to the blank wall and also now from the gate, there was a wooden fence, about twenty steps deep into the yard, and then it turned to the left. It was a remote, fenced-off place where some materials lay. Further, in the recess of the yard, the corner of a low, smoky, stone barn peeked out from behind the fence, obviously part of some kind of workshop. There must have been some kind of establishment here, a carriage shop or a locksmith shop, or something like that; everywhere, almost from the very gates, there was a lot of black coal dust. “What a place to drop off and go!” he suddenly took it into his head. Not noticing anyone in the yard, he walked through the gate and just saw, right next to the gate, a gutter installed near the fence (as is often installed in such houses where there are many factory workers, artels, cab drivers, etc.), and above the gutter, here And on the fence, inscribed in chalk, was the usual witticism in such cases: “It is forbidden to enter the camp here.” Therefore, it’s good that there is no suspicion that he came in and stopped. “Here it’s all at once and you just throw it in a pile somewhere and leave!” Looking around again, he had already put his hand in his pocket, when suddenly, at the very outer wall, between the gate and the gutter, where the entire distance was an arshin wide, he noticed a large unhewn stone, about maybe a pound and a half in weight, adjacent directly to the stone street wall. Behind this wall there was a street, a sidewalk, you could hear passers-by, of whom there are always a lot here, darting about; but no one could see him outside the gates, unless someone came in from the street, which, however, could very well happen, and therefore it was necessary to hurry. He bent down to the stone, grabbed the top of it tightly with both hands, gathered all his strength and turned the stone over. A small depression appeared under the stone; He immediately began throwing everything from his pocket at him. The wallet was at the very top, and yet there was still room in the recess. Then he grabbed the stone again, turned it over to its original side with one turn, and it just fell back into its original place, except that it seemed a little bit higher. But he scooped up the earth and pressed it down at the edges with his foot. Nothing was noticeable. Then he left and headed towards the square. Again, a strong, barely unbearable joy, like earlier in the office, took possession of him for a moment. “The ends are buried! And who, who would even think of looking under this stone? It has been lying here, perhaps, since the construction of the house and will lie there for the same amount of time. And even if they found it: who would think of me? Everything is over! There is no evidence! and he laughed. Yes, he remembered later that he laughed with a nervous, small, inaudible, long laugh, and he kept laughing, all the time as he passed through the square. But when he stepped onto Ky Boulevard, where the day before yesterday he met that girl, his laughter suddenly disappeared. Other thoughts came into his head. It suddenly seemed to him, too, that it was terribly disgusting for him to now pass by that bench on which he had then, after the girl left, sat and thought, and it would also be terribly difficult to meet again that mustache to whom he then gave two kopecks: “Damn him!” He walked, looking around absent-mindedly and angrily. All his thoughts were now spinning around one main point, and he himself felt that this really was such a main point, and that now, precisely now, he was left alone with this main point, and that even in the first time after these two months. “Damn it all! he suddenly thought in a fit of inexhaustible anger. Well, it began, so it began, to hell with her and with her new life! How stupid is this, Lord!.. And how much I lied and was mean today! How disgustingly he fawned and flirted with the worst Ilya Petrovich just now! But even that is nonsense! I don’t give a damn about all of them, and I don’t even care about the fact that I fawned and flirted! Not at all! Not at all!..” Suddenly he stopped; a new, completely unexpected and extremely simple question at once confused him and bitterly amazed him: “If this whole thing was really done consciously, and not foolishly, if you really had a definite and firm goal, then how come you still haven’t even looked into your wallet and don’t know what you got, because Why did you accept all the torment and deliberately undertake such a vile, disgusting, base thing? But you wanted to throw it into the water just now, your wallet, along with all the things that you also haven’t seen yet... How is that possible?” Yes it is; that's all true. He, however, knew this before, and this is not at all a new question for him; and when at night it was decided to throw him into the water, it was decided without any hesitation or objection, but as if this was how it should be, as if it were impossible to do otherwise... Yes, he knew all this and remembered everything; Yes, it almost wasn’t so decided yesterday, at that very minute when he was sitting over the chest and carrying cases from it... But so!.. “It’s because I’m very sick,” he finally decided gloomily, “I’ve tormented and tormented myself, and I don’t know what I’m doing... Yesterday, and the day before, and all this time I’ve been tormenting myself... I’ll get better and ... I won’t torment myself... How come I won’t recover at all? God! How tired I am of all this!..” He walked without stopping. He really wanted to get away somehow, but he didn’t know what to do or what to do. One new, irresistible sensation took possession of him more and more almost every minute: it was some kind of endless, almost physical disgust for everything he encountered and around him, stubborn, angry, hateful. Everyone he met was disgusting to him; their faces, their gait, their movements were disgusting. He would simply spit on someone, would bite, it seems, if someone spoke to him... He stopped suddenly when he came out onto the Malaya Neva embankment, on Vasilyevsky Island, near the bridge. “He lives here, in this house,” he thought. What is this, no way I came to Razumikhin myself! Again the same story as then... But I’m very curious: did I come myself or did I just walk and come here? Doesn't matter; I said... the third day... what's next for him? Togo I’ll go the next day, well, I’ll go! It’s as if I can’t come in now...” He went up to Razumikhin on the fifth floor. He was at home, in his closet, and at that moment he was studying, writing, and he opened the door for him. They haven't seen each other for four months. Razumikhin sat in his robe, frayed to tatters, with shoes on his bare feet, disheveled, unshaven and unwashed. Surprise showed on his face. What are you? - he shouted, looking his comrade who had entered from head to toe; then he paused and whistled. Is it really that bad? Yes, brother, you have outdone our brother,” he added, looking at Raskolnikov’s rags. Sit down, I’m probably tired! and when he collapsed on the oilcloth Turkish sofa, which was even worse than his own, Razumikhin suddenly saw that his guest was sick. Yes, you are seriously ill, do you know that? He began to feel his pulse; Raskolnikov pulled his hand away. “No need,” he said, “I came... that’s it: I don’t have any lessons... I wanted to... however, I don’t need lessons at all... Do you know what? After all, you are delusional! noticed Razumikhin, who was watching him intently. No, I’m not delusional... Raskolnikov got up from the sofa. Going up to Razumikhin, he did not think about the fact that, therefore, he had to come face to face with him. Now, in an instant, he guessed, already from experience, that at that moment he was least inclined to come face to face with anyone in the whole world. All the bile rose in him. He almost choked with anger at himself as soon as he crossed Razumikhin’s threshold. Farewell! he said suddenly and went to the door. Wait, wait, you weirdo! Don’t!.. he repeated, again snatching his hand away. So why the hell did you come after that! Are you crazy, or what? After all, it's... almost offensive. I won't let you go like that. Well, listen: I came to you because, besides you, I don’t know anyone who could help... get started... because you are kinder than all of them, that is, smarter, and you can discuss... And now I I see that I don’t need anything, you hear, nothing at all... no one’s services or participation... I myself... alone... Well, that’s enough! Leave me alone! Wait a minute, chimney sweep! Completely crazy! For me, whatever you want. You see: I don’t have any lessons either, and I don’t care, but there is a bookseller on Tolkuchy, Kherubimov, and that’s a lesson in itself. I wouldn’t trade it for five merchant lessons now. He makes these kind of publications and publishes books on natural sciences, but how they sell out! The titles alone are worth it! You always claimed that I was stupid; By God, brother, there are people stupider than me! Now I also started to get in the direction; I don’t feel a problem myself, but I, of course, encourage it. Here are more than two sheets of German text, in my opinion, the most stupid quackery: in a word, it is considered whether a woman is a person or not a person? Well, of course, it is solemnly proven that he is a man. Kherubimov is preparing this regarding the women's issue; I am translating; he will stretch these two and a half sheets of pages into six, we will add a magnificent title of half a page and let it go for fifty dollars. It'll do! For the translation I received six rubles per sheet, which means that I would get fifteen rubles for the whole thing, and I took six rubles in advance. Let’s finish this, let’s start translating about whales, then from the second part of “Confessions” we also noted some boring gossip, we’ll translate; Someone told Kherubimov that Rousseau was a kind of Radishchev. Of course, I don’t contradict it, to hell with it! Well, do you want the second sheet of “Is Woman Human?” transfer? If you want, then take the text now, take the pens, take the paper it’s all government property and take three rubles: since I took the entire translation in advance, for the first and for the second page, then, therefore, three rubles directly to your share and will have to. And if you finish the sheet, you’ll get three more rubles. Yes, here’s what else, please, don’t consider it some kind of favor on my part. On the contrary, as soon as you came in, I already calculated how you would be useful to me. Firstly, I’m bad at spelling, and secondly, sometimes my German is just bad, so I compose more and more on my own and my only consolation is that it comes out even better. Well, who knows, maybe it’s not better, but worse... Do you take it or not? Raskolnikov silently took the German sheets of the article, took three rubles and, without saying a word, left. Razumikhin looked after him in surprise. But having already reached the first line, Raskolnikov suddenly turned back, went up again to Razumikhin and, putting both German sheets and three rubles on the table, again without saying a word, walked out. You have delirium tremens or something! - Razumikhin, finally enraged, roared. Why are you playing comedies! Even me was confused... Why did you come after that, damn it? No need... translations... Raskolnikov muttered, already going down the stairs. So what the hell do you want? Razumikhin shouted from above. He silently continued to descend. Hey you! Where do you live? There was no answer. Well, to hell with you!.. But Raskolnikov was already going out into the street. On the Nikolaevsky Bridge he had to once again come to his senses as a result of one very unpleasant incident for him. The driver of one of the carriages lashed him firmly on the back with a whip because he almost got run over by the horses, despite the fact that the coachman shouted to him three or four times. The blow of the whip angered him so much that, jumping back to the railing (it is unknown why he was walking in the very middle of the bridge, where people drive, not walk), he angrily gnashed and clicked his teeth. There was, of course, laughter all around. And let's get to work! Some kind of burning. It is known that he introduces himself as drunk and deliberately gets under the wheels; and you are responsible for him. That’s what they do, venerable one, that’s what they do... But at that moment, as he stood at the railing and was still meaninglessly and angrily looking after the retreating carriage, rubbing his back, he suddenly felt that someone was pushing money into his hands. He looked: an elderly merchant's wife, in a headdress and goat's shoes, and with her a girl, in a hat and with a green umbrella, probably her daughter. “Accept, father, for Christ’s sake.” He took it and they walked past. Two-kopeck money. Judging by his dress and appearance, they could very well take him for a beggar, for a real collector of pennies on the street, and he probably owed the gift of a whole two-kopeck piece to the blow of the whip, which moved them to pity. He clutched the two-kopeck piece in his hand, walked ten steps and turned to face the Neva, in the direction of the palace. The sky was without the slightest cloud, and the water was almost blue, which is so rare on the Neva. The dome of the cathedral, which is not better outlined from any point than when looking at it from here, from the bridge, not twenty steps from the chapel, was shining, and through the clear air one could clearly see even every one of its decorations. The pain from the whip subsided, and Raskolnikov forgot about the blow; One restless and not entirely clear thought now occupied him exclusively. He stood and looked into the distance long and intently; this place was especially familiar to him. When he went to the university, he usually, most often when returning home, happened to him, maybe a hundred times, to stop at this very same place, gaze intently at this truly magnificent panorama and each time almost be surprised by one unclear and insoluble problem of his own. impression. An inexplicable chill always blew over him from this magnificent panorama; This magnificent picture was full of a mute and deaf spirit for him... Each time he marveled at his gloomy and mysterious impression and put off its solution, not trusting himself, to the future. Now he suddenly suddenly remembered these previous questions and perplexities, and it seemed to him that it was not by chance that he now remembered them. One thing seemed wild and wonderful to him, that he stopped in the same place as before, as if he really imagined that he could think about the same things now as before, and be interested in the same old themes and pictures, what I was interested... just recently. He almost felt funny, and at the same time his chest felt painfully tight. In some depth, below, somewhere barely visible under his feet, all this former past, and former thoughts, and former tasks, and former themes, and former impressions, and this whole panorama, and himself, and everything, everything... It seemed as if he was flying up somewhere and everything was disappearing in his eyes... Having made one involuntary movement with his hand, he suddenly felt a two-kopeck note clutched in his fist. He unclenched his hand, looked intently at the coin, swung it and threw it into the water; then he turned and went home. It seemed to him that he had cut himself off from everyone and everything with scissors at that moment. He arrived at his place in the evening, which means he had only been there for about six hours. Where and how he walked back, he didn’t remember anything. Having undressed and trembling all over like a driven horse, he lay down on the sofa, pulled on his overcoat and immediately forgot... He woke up at full dusk from a terrible scream. God, what a cry! He had never heard or seen such unnatural sounds, such howling, screaming, grinding, tears, beatings and curses. He could not even imagine such atrocity, such frenzy. In horror, he rose and sat down on his bed, freezing and suffering every moment. But the fighting, screaming and cursing became stronger and stronger. And then, to his greatest amazement, he suddenly heard the voice of his mistress. She howled, squealed and wailed, hurrying, hurrying, letting out words so that it was impossible to make out, begging for something - of course, that they would stop beating her, because they were beating her mercilessly on the stairs. The beating man’s voice became so terrible from anger and rage that it was just hoarse, but still the beating man also said something like that, and also quickly, inaudibly, hurrying and choking. Suddenly Raskolnikov trembled like a leaf: he recognized this voice; it was the voice of Ilya Petrovich. Ilya Petrovich is here and beats the mistress! He kicks her, bangs her head on the steps, it’s clear, you can hear it from the sounds, the screams, the blows! What is this, the light has turned upside down, or what? You could hear a crowd gathering on all floors, along the entire staircase, voices, exclamations, people coming up, knocking, slamming doors, and running. “But for what, for what, and how is this possible!” “he repeated, seriously thinking that he was completely crazy. But no, he hears too clearly!.. But, therefore, they will come to him now, if so, “because... it’s true, all this is from the same thing... because of yesterday... Lord!” He wanted to lock himself on the hook, but his hand did not rise... and it was useless! Fear, like ice, surrounded his soul, tormented him, numbed him... But finally all this commotion, which lasted for ten faithful minutes, began to gradually subside. The hostess moaned and groaned, Ilya Petrovich still threatened and swore... But finally, it seems, he calmed down; now you can’t hear him; “Has he really left? God!" Yes, the landlady is leaving, still moaning and crying... and then her door slammed... So the crowd disperses from the stairs to the apartments, gasping, arguing, calling to each other, now raising their speech to a scream, then lowering it to whisper. There must have been many of them; Almost the whole house came running. “But God, is all this possible! And why, why did he come here! Raskolnikov fell helplessly onto the sofa, but could no longer close his eyes; he lay for half an hour in such suffering, in such an unbearable feeling of boundless horror, which he had never experienced before. Suddenly a bright light illuminated his room: Nastasya entered with a candle and a plate of soup. Looking at him carefully and seeing that he was not sleeping, she put the candle on the table and began to lay out what she had brought: bread, salt, plate, spoon. I probably haven’t eaten since yesterday. I've been walking around all day, and the fever itself is hitting me. Nastasya... why was the hostess beaten? She looked at him closely. Who beat the mistress? Now... half an hour ago, Ilya Petrovich, the warden's assistant, was on the stairs... Why did he beat her like that? and... why did you come?.. Nastasya looked at him silently and frowning and looked at him for a long time. He felt very unpleasant from this examination, even scared. Nastasya, why are you silent? “He finally said timidly in a weak voice. “This is blood,” she finally answered, quietly and as if speaking to herself. Blood!.. What blood?.. he muttered, turning pale and moving back towards the wall. Nastasya continued to look at him silently. “Nobody beat the owner,” she said again in a stern and decisive voice. He looked at her, barely breathing. “I heard it myself... I didn’t sleep... I sat,” he said even more timidly. I listened for a long time... The warden's assistant came... Everyone came running to the stairs, from all the apartments... Nobody came. And it’s the blood in you screaming. It’s when there’s no way out for her and she’s already starting to bake herself into liver, then she starts to imagine... You’re going to start eating, or what? He didn't answer. Nastasya still stood over him, looked at him intently and did not leave. Give me a drink... Nastasyushka. She went downstairs and returned two minutes later with water in a white clay mug; but he no longer remembered what happened next. I only remembered how I took one sip of cold water and spilled it from the mug onto my chest. Then came unconsciousness.

The image of an octopus city in which “man has nowhere to go…”

F.M. Dostoevsky, let me remind you once again, constantly peered into the streets, alleys, houses, taverns, dens of the poor St. Petersburg, seeing its pitiful inhabitants, with their bitter fate. And the essence of the city was contained not in its apparent (!) magnificent decoration, but in its social contradictions.

The story of Raskolnikov's crime and punishment takes place in St. Petersburg. And this is no coincidence: the most fantastic city in the world gives birth to the most fantastic hero. In Dostoevsky's world, place, setting, nature are inextricably linked with the characters and form a single whole. Only in gloomy and mysterious Petersburg could the “ugly dream” of a beggar student be born, and Petersburg here is not just a place of action, not just an image - Petersburg is a participant in Raskolnikov’s crime. Throughout the entire novel there are only a few brief descriptions of the city, reminiscent of theatrical stage directions, but they are quite enough to penetrate the “spiritual” landscape and feel “Dostoevsky’s Petersburg”.

dostoevsky petersburg crime punishment

Raskolnikov is as dual as the Petersburg that gave birth to him (on the one hand, Sennaya Square is a “disgusting and sad coloring of the picture”; on the other, the Neva is a “magnificent panorama”), and the entire novel is dedicated to unraveling this duality between Raskolnikov and Petersburg. On a clear summer day, Raskolnikov stands on the Nikolaevsky Bridge and “peers intently” at the “truly magnificent panorama” opening before him: “An inexplicable cold always blew over him from this magnificent panorama; this magnificent picture was full of a dumb and deaf spirit for him. He marveled. each time to my gloomy and mysterious impression and put off solving it."

Another example of the spiritualization of matter is the homes of Dostoevsky’s heroes. Raskolnikov's "yellow closet", which Dostoevsky compares to a coffin, is contrasted with Sonya's room: Raskolnikov, closed from the world, has a cramped coffin, Sonya, open to the world, has a "large room with three windows"; About the room of the old pawnbroker, Raskolnikov remarks: “It’s the wicked and old widows who have such cleanliness.” The homes of Dostoevsky's heroes do not have an independent existence - they are only one of the functions of the heroes' consciousness.

This also applies to Dostoevsky’s description of nature. The world surrounding a person is always given as a part of the soul of this person, becomes, as it were, the inner landscape of the human soul, and to a large extent determines human actions. In the soul of Raskolnikov the killer it is just as “cold, dark and damp” as in St. Petersburg, and the “dumb and deaf spirit” of the city sounds in Raskolnikov like the melancholy song of a lonely organ-organ.

“The evening was fresh, warm and clear. Raskolnikov was walking to his apartment, he was in a hurry. He wanted to finish everything before sunset.”

The sun appears only at the very end of the novel, in the epilogue. “There, in the sun-drenched boundless steppe,” Raskolnikov will be freed from the nightmare of murder. There the sunrise and rebirth will become possible. This will happen in Siberia. In St. Petersburg, Raskolnikov will always feel like he is “sentenced to execution.” He committed a crime to free himself, but it turned out that he had painted himself into a corner. He is now oppressed not only by his own closet, but also by the psychological state of the dead end. He runs outside, but cannot find a way out. This is how he walks around the city: “He walked along the sidewalk like a drunk, not noticing passers-by and bumping into them”; "It was difficult to become more dejected and shabby, but Raskolnikov even found it pleasant in his current state of mind. He decisively left everyone, like a turtle in its shell." As usual, he walked, not noticing the road, whispering to himself and even speaking out loud to himself, which greatly surprised passers-by. Many took him for a drunk."; “One new, irresistible sensation took possession of him more and more almost every minute: it was some kind of endless, almost physical disgust for everything he encountered and around him, stubborn, angry, hateful. Everyone he met was disgusting to him - their faces were disgusting , gait, movements. He would simply spit on someone, would bite, it seems, if someone spoke to him."

Raskolnikov suffers not only in reality. Horrors haunt him in his dreams. Fantastic Petersburg in Raskolnikov's dreams takes on surrealistic features. Let us recall, for example, Raskolnikov’s dream with a laughing old woman: “It was already late evening. Twilight was deepening, the full moon was getting brighter and brighter; but somehow it was especially stuffy in the air. The whole room was brightly bathed in moonlight;. Huge, round, the copper-red moon looked straight into the windows. “It’s because of the month that there is such silence,” thought Raskolnikov, “he’s probably asking a riddle now.” He stood and waited, waited a long time, and the quieter the month was, the stronger his heart beat, It even started to hurt. And there was still silence. Suddenly an instant dry crack was heard, as if a splinter had been broken, and everything froze again. The awakened fly suddenly hit the glass and buzzed pitifully..."

It is also impossible not to remember that the events of the novel take place in the summer, and in a very hot and stuffy summer: “The heat outside was terrible, and also stuffy, crowded, there was lime everywhere, forests, bricks, dust and that special summer stench, so well known to every St. Petersburg resident who does not have the opportunity to rent a dacha..."; “Once again the heat on the street was unbearable; if only there was a drop of rain all these days. Again dust, brick and mortar, again the stench from the shops and taverns, again drunk every minute...”; “The stuffiness remained as before; but with greed he breathed in this stinking, dusty air contaminated by the city...”

The picture of this city stuffiness is complemented and aggravated by the feeling of spiritual loneliness of a person in the crowd.

The amazingly selfish, suspicious and distrustful attitude of people towards each other; They are united only by gloating and curiosity about the misfortunes of their neighbors.

Thus, the image of St. Petersburg is created as a dead, cold, indifferent person to the fate of a person.

In Crime and Punishment, the internal drama is uniquely brought to the crowded streets and squares of St. Petersburg. The action constantly shifts from narrow and low rooms to the capital's neighborhoods: on the street Sonya sacrifices herself, here Marmeladov falls dead, Katerina Ivanovna bleeds on the pavement, on the avenue in front of the tower Svidrigailov shoots himself, on Sennaya Square Raskolnikov tries to publicly repent. Multi-storey buildings, narrow alleys, dusty squares, humpbacked bridges - this is the complex structure of a big city, which grows ponderously above the dreamer of the unlimited rights of a lonely intellect!

St. Petersburg is inseparable from Raskolnikov’s personal drama: it is the object of oppression of metropolitan life, which destroys and destroys the human soul.

Crime and Punishment is, first and foremost, a novel of a sick city in the 19th century. The broad background of the capitalist capital determines the nature of the conflicts and dramas here. Taverns, taverns, brothels, slum hotels, police offices, students' attics and moneylenders' apartments, streets and back streets, courtyards and backyards, Haymarket and the "ditch" - all this seems to give rise to Raskolnikov's criminal plan.