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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.