community-datasets/crime_and_punish · Datasets at Hugging Face

line stringlengths 2 76
“After It,” he shouted, jumping up from the seat, “but is It really
going to happen? Is it possible it really will happen?” He left the
seat, and went off almost at a run; he meant to turn back, homewards,
but the thought of going home suddenly filled him with intense loathing;
in that hole, in that awful little cupboard of his, all _this_ had for a
month past been growing up in him; and he walked on at random.

His nervous shudder had passed into a fever that made him feel
shivering; in spite of the heat he felt cold. With a kind of effort he
began almost unconsciously, from some inner craving, to stare at all
the objects before him, as though looking for something to distract his
attention; but he did not succeed, and kept dropping every moment into
brooding. When with a start he lifted his head again and looked round,
he forgot at once what he had just been thinking about and even where he
was going. In this way he walked right across Vassilyevsky Ostrov, came
out on to the Lesser Neva, crossed the bridge and turned towards the
islands. The greenness and freshness were at first restful to his weary
eyes after the dust of the town and the huge houses that hemmed him in
and weighed upon him. Here there were no taverns, no stifling closeness,
no stench. But soon these new pleasant sensations passed into morbid
irritability. Sometimes he stood still before a brightly painted summer
villa standing among green foliage, he gazed through the fence, he saw
in the distance smartly dressed women on the verandahs and balconies,
and children running in the gardens. 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

“After It,” he shouted, jumping up from the seat, “but is It really

going to happen? Is it possible it really will happen?” He left the

seat, and went off almost at a run; he meant to turn back, homewards,

but the thought of going home suddenly filled him with intense loathing;

in that hole, in that awful little cupboard of his, all _this_ had for a

month past been growing up in him; and he walked on at random.

His nervous shudder had passed into a fever that made him feel

shivering; in spite of the heat he felt cold. With a kind of effort he

began almost unconsciously, from some inner craving, to stare at all

the objects before him, as though looking for something to distract his

attention; but he did not succeed, and kept dropping every moment into

brooding. When with a start he lifted his head again and looked round,

he forgot at once what he had just been thinking about and even where he

was going. In this way he walked right across Vassilyevsky Ostrov, came

out on to the Lesser Neva, crossed the bridge and turned towards the

islands. The greenness and freshness were at first restful to his weary

eyes after the dust of the town and the huge houses that hemmed him in

and weighed upon him. Here there were no taverns, no stifling closeness,

no stench. But soon these new pleasant sensations passed into morbid

irritability. Sometimes he stood still before a brightly painted summer

villa standing among green foliage, he gazed through the fence, he saw

in the distance smartly dressed women on the verandahs and balconies,

and children running in the gardens. 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