community-datasets/crime_and_punish · Datasets at Hugging Face

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come back, he was expecting it; besides it was not only yesterday’s
thought. The difference was that a month ago, yesterday even, the
thought was a mere dream: but now... now it appeared not a dream at all,
it had taken a new menacing and quite unfamiliar shape, and he suddenly
became aware of this himself.... He felt a hammering in his head, and
there was a darkness before his eyes.

He looked round hurriedly, he was searching for something. He wanted
to sit down and was looking for a seat; he was walking along the K----
Boulevard. There was a seat about a hundred paces in front of him. He
walked towards it as fast he could; but on the way he met with a little
adventure which absorbed all his attention. Looking for the seat, he had
noticed a woman walking some twenty paces in front of him, but at first
he took no more notice of her than of other objects that crossed his
path. It had happened to him many times going home not to notice the
road by which he was going, and he was accustomed to walk like that. But
there was at first sight something so strange about the woman in front
of him, that gradually his attention was riveted upon her, at first
reluctantly and, as it were, resentfully, and then more and more
intently. He felt a sudden desire to find out what it was that was so
strange about the woman. In the first place, she appeared to be a girl
quite young, and she was walking in the great heat bareheaded and with
no parasol or gloves, waving her arms about in an absurd way. She had
on a dress of some light silky material, but put on strangely awry, not
properly hooked up, and torn open at the top of the skirt, close to the
waist: a great piece was rent and hanging loose. A little kerchief was
flung about her bare throat, but lay slanting on one side. The girl was
walking unsteadily, too, stumbling and staggering from side to side. She
drew Raskolnikov’s whole attention at last. He overtook the girl at the
seat, but, on reaching it, she dropped down on it, in the corner;
she let her head sink on the back of the seat and closed her eyes,
apparently in extreme exhaustion. Looking at her closely, he saw at once
that she was completely drunk. It was a strange and shocking sight. He
could hardly believe that he was not mistaken. He saw before him the
face of a quite young, fair-haired girl--sixteen, perhaps not more than
fifteen, years old, pretty little face, but flushed and heavy looking
and, as it were, swollen. The girl seemed hardly to know what she was
doing; she crossed one leg over the other, lifting it indecorously, and
showed every sign of being unconscious that she was in the street.

Raskolnikov did not sit down, but he felt unwilling to leave her,
and stood facing her in perplexity. This boulevard was never much
frequented; and now, at two o’clock, in the stifling heat, it was quite
deserted. And yet on the further side of the boulevard, about fifteen
paces away, a gentleman was standing on the edge of the pavement. He,
too, would apparently have liked to approach the girl with some object
of his own. He, too, had probably seen her in the distance and had
followed her, but found Raskolnikov in his way. He looked angrily at
him, though he tried to escape his notice, and stood impatiently biding
his time, till the unwelcome man in rags should have moved away. His
intentions were unmistakable. The gentleman was a plump, thickly-set
man, about thirty, fashionably dressed, with a high colour, red lips and
moustaches. Raskolnikov felt furious; he had a sudden longing to insult
this fat dandy in some way. He left the girl for a moment and walked
towards the gentleman.

“Hey! You Svidrigaïlov! What do you want here?” he shouted, clenching
his fists and laughing, spluttering with rage.

“What do you mean?” the gentleman asked sternly, scowling in haughty
astonishment.

“Get away, that’s what I mean.”

“How dare you, you low fellow!”

He raised his cane. Raskolnikov rushed at him with his fists, without
reflecting that the stout gentleman was a match for two men like
himself. But at that instant someone seized him from behind, and a
police constable stood between them.

“That’s enough, gentlemen, no fighting, please, in a public place. What
do you want? Who are you?” he asked Raskolnikov sternly, noticing his
rags.

Raskolnikov looked at him intently. He had a straight-forward, sensible,
soldierly face, with grey moustaches and whiskers.

“You are just the man I want,” Raskolnikov cried, catching at his arm.
“I am a student, Raskolnikov.... You may as well know that too,” he
added, addressing the gentleman, “come along, I have something to show
you.”

And taking the policeman by the hand he drew him towards the seat.

“Look here, hopelessly drunk, and she has just come down the boulevard.
There is no telling who and what she is, she does not look like a
professional. It’s more likely she has been given drink and deceived
somewhere... for the first time... you understand? and they’ve put her
out into the street like that. Look at the way her dress is torn, and
the way it has been put on: she has been dressed by somebody, she has
not dressed herself, and dressed by unpractised hands, by a man’s hands;
that’s evident. And now look there: I don’t know that dandy with whom I
was going to fight, I see him for the first time, but he, too, has seen
her on the road, just now, drunk, not knowing what she is doing, and now
he is very eager to get hold of her, to get her away somewhere while she
is in this state... that’s certain, believe me, I am not wrong. I saw
him myself watching her and following her, but I prevented him, and he
is just waiting for me to go away. Now he has walked away a little, and
is standing still, pretending to make a cigarette.... Think how can we

come back, he was expecting it; besides it was not only yesterday’s

thought. The difference was that a month ago, yesterday even, the

thought was a mere dream: but now... now it appeared not a dream at all,

it had taken a new menacing and quite unfamiliar shape, and he suddenly

became aware of this himself.... He felt a hammering in his head, and

there was a darkness before his eyes.

He looked round hurriedly, he was searching for something. He wanted

to sit down and was looking for a seat; he was walking along the K----

Boulevard. There was a seat about a hundred paces in front of him. He

walked towards it as fast he could; but on the way he met with a little

adventure which absorbed all his attention. Looking for the seat, he had

noticed a woman walking some twenty paces in front of him, but at first

he took no more notice of her than of other objects that crossed his

path. It had happened to him many times going home not to notice the

road by which he was going, and he was accustomed to walk like that. But

there was at first sight something so strange about the woman in front

of him, that gradually his attention was riveted upon her, at first

reluctantly and, as it were, resentfully, and then more and more

intently. He felt a sudden desire to find out what it was that was so

strange about the woman. In the first place, she appeared to be a girl

quite young, and she was walking in the great heat bareheaded and with

no parasol or gloves, waving her arms about in an absurd way. She had

on a dress of some light silky material, but put on strangely awry, not

properly hooked up, and torn open at the top of the skirt, close to the

waist: a great piece was rent and hanging loose. A little kerchief was

flung about her bare throat, but lay slanting on one side. The girl was

walking unsteadily, too, stumbling and staggering from side to side. She

drew Raskolnikov’s whole attention at last. He overtook the girl at the

seat, but, on reaching it, she dropped down on it, in the corner;

she let her head sink on the back of the seat and closed her eyes,

apparently in extreme exhaustion. Looking at her closely, he saw at once

that she was completely drunk. It was a strange and shocking sight. He

could hardly believe that he was not mistaken. He saw before him the

face of a quite young, fair-haired girl--sixteen, perhaps not more than

fifteen, years old, pretty little face, but flushed and heavy looking

and, as it were, swollen. The girl seemed hardly to know what she was

doing; she crossed one leg over the other, lifting it indecorously, and

showed every sign of being unconscious that she was in the street.

Raskolnikov did not sit down, but he felt unwilling to leave her,

and stood facing her in perplexity. This boulevard was never much

frequented; and now, at two o’clock, in the stifling heat, it was quite

deserted. And yet on the further side of the boulevard, about fifteen

paces away, a gentleman was standing on the edge of the pavement. He,

too, would apparently have liked to approach the girl with some object

of his own. He, too, had probably seen her in the distance and had

followed her, but found Raskolnikov in his way. He looked angrily at

him, though he tried to escape his notice, and stood impatiently biding

his time, till the unwelcome man in rags should have moved away. His

intentions were unmistakable. The gentleman was a plump, thickly-set

man, about thirty, fashionably dressed, with a high colour, red lips and

moustaches. Raskolnikov felt furious; he had a sudden longing to insult

this fat dandy in some way. He left the girl for a moment and walked

towards the gentleman.

“Hey! You Svidrigaïlov! What do you want here?” he shouted, clenching

his fists and laughing, spluttering with rage.

“What do you mean?” the gentleman asked sternly, scowling in haughty

astonishment.

“Get away, that’s what I mean.”

“How dare you, you low fellow!”

He raised his cane. Raskolnikov rushed at him with his fists, without

reflecting that the stout gentleman was a match for two men like

himself. But at that instant someone seized him from behind, and a

police constable stood between them.

“That’s enough, gentlemen, no fighting, please, in a public place. What

do you want? Who are you?” he asked Raskolnikov sternly, noticing his

rags.

Raskolnikov looked at him intently. He had a straight-forward, sensible,

soldierly face, with grey moustaches and whiskers.

“You are just the man I want,” Raskolnikov cried, catching at his arm.

“I am a student, Raskolnikov.... You may as well know that too,” he

added, addressing the gentleman, “come along, I have something to show

you.”

And taking the policeman by the hand he drew him towards the seat.

“Look here, hopelessly drunk, and she has just come down the boulevard.

There is no telling who and what she is, she does not look like a

professional. It’s more likely she has been given drink and deceived

somewhere... for the first time... you understand? and they’ve put her

out into the street like that. Look at the way her dress is torn, and

the way it has been put on: she has been dressed by somebody, she has

not dressed herself, and dressed by unpractised hands, by a man’s hands;

that’s evident. And now look there: I don’t know that dandy with whom I

was going to fight, I see him for the first time, but he, too, has seen

her on the road, just now, drunk, not knowing what she is doing, and now

he is very eager to get hold of her, to get her away somewhere while she

is in this state... that’s certain, believe me, I am not wrong. I saw

him myself watching her and following her, but I prevented him, and he

is just waiting for me to go away. Now he has walked away a little, and

is standing still, pretending to make a cigarette.... Think how can we