community-datasets/crime_and_punish · Datasets at Hugging Face

line stringlengths 2 76
But he soon felt it very cold, standing by the water; he turned and
went towards Y. Prospect. He walked along that endless street for a long
time, almost half an hour, more than once stumbling in the dark on the
wooden pavement, but continually looking for something on the right side
of the street. He had noticed passing through this street lately that
there was a hotel somewhere towards the end, built of wood, but fairly
large, and its name he remembered was something like Adrianople. He was
not mistaken: the hotel was so conspicuous in that God-forsaken place
that he could not fail to see it even in the dark. It was a long,
blackened wooden building, and in spite of the late hour there were
lights in the windows and signs of life within. He went in and asked
a ragged fellow who met him in the corridor for a room. The latter,
scanning Svidrigaïlov, pulled himself together and led him at once to a
close and tiny room in the distance, at the end of the corridor, under
the stairs. There was no other, all were occupied. The ragged fellow
looked inquiringly.

“Is there tea?” asked Svidrigaïlov.

“Yes, sir.”

“What else is there?”

“Veal, vodka, savouries.”

“Bring me tea and veal.”

“And you want nothing else?” he asked with apparent surprise.

“Nothing, nothing.”

The ragged man went away, completely disillusioned.

“It must be a nice place,” thought Svidrigaïlov. “How was it I didn’t
know it? I expect I look as if I came from a café chantant and have
had some adventure on the way. It would be interesting to know who stayed
here?”

He lighted the candle and looked at the room more carefully. It was a
room so low-pitched that Svidrigaïlov could only just stand up in it;
it had one window; the bed, which was very dirty, and the plain-stained
chair and table almost filled it up. The walls looked as though they
were made of planks, covered with shabby paper, so torn and dusty
that the pattern was indistinguishable, though the general
colour--yellow--could still be made out. One of the walls was cut short
by the sloping ceiling, though the room was not an attic but just under
the stairs.

Svidrigaïlov set down the candle, sat down on the bed and sank into
thought. But a strange persistent murmur which sometimes rose to a shout
in the next room attracted his attention. The murmur had not ceased from
the moment he entered the room. He listened: someone was upbraiding and
almost tearfully scolding, but he heard only one voice.

Svidrigaïlov got up, shaded the light with his hand and at once he saw
light through a crack in the wall; he went up and peeped through. The
room, which was somewhat larger than his, had two occupants. One of
them, a very curly-headed man with a red inflamed face, was standing
in the pose of an orator, without his coat, with his legs wide apart to
preserve his balance, and smiting himself on the breast. He reproached
the other with being a beggar, with having no standing whatever. He
declared that he had taken the other out of the gutter and he could turn
him out when he liked, and that only the finger of Providence sees it
all. The object of his reproaches was sitting in a chair, and had the
air of a man who wants dreadfully to sneeze, but can’t. He sometimes
turned sheepish and befogged eyes on the speaker, but obviously had not
the slightest idea what he was talking about and scarcely heard it. A
candle was burning down on the table; there were wine-glasses, a nearly
empty bottle of vodka, bread and cucumber, and glasses with the dregs
of stale tea. After gazing attentively at this, Svidrigaïlov turned away
indifferently and sat down on the bed.

The ragged attendant, returning with the tea, could not resist asking
him again whether he didn’t want anything more, and again receiving a
negative reply, finally withdrew. Svidrigaïlov made haste to drink a
glass of tea to warm himself, but could not eat anything. He began
to feel feverish. He took off his coat and, wrapping himself in the
blanket, lay down on the bed. He was annoyed. “It would have been better
to be well for the occasion,” he thought with a smile. The room was
close, the candle burnt dimly, the wind was roaring outside, he heard
a mouse scratching in the corner and the room smelt of mice and of
leather. He lay in a sort of reverie: one thought followed another. He
felt a longing to fix his imagination on something. “It must be a garden
under the window,” he thought. “There’s a sound of trees. How I dislike
the sound of trees on a stormy night, in the dark! They give one a
horrid feeling.” He remembered how he had disliked it when he passed
Petrovsky Park just now. This reminded him of the bridge over the Little
Neva and he felt cold again as he had when standing there. “I never have
liked water,” he thought, “even in a landscape,” and he suddenly smiled
again at a strange idea: “Surely now all these questions of taste and
comfort ought not to matter, but I’ve become more particular, like an
animal that picks out a special place... for such an occasion. I ought
to have gone into the Petrovsky Park! I suppose it seemed dark, cold,
ha-ha! As though I were seeking pleasant sensations!... By the way, why
haven’t I put out the candle?” he blew it out. “They’ve gone to bed next
door,” he thought, not seeing the light at the crack. “Well, now, Marfa
Petrovna, now is the time for you to turn up; it’s dark, and the very
time and place for you. But now you won’t come!”

He suddenly recalled how, an hour before carrying out his design on

But he soon felt it very cold, standing by the water; he turned and

went towards Y. Prospect. He walked along that endless street for a long

time, almost half an hour, more than once stumbling in the dark on the

wooden pavement, but continually looking for something on the right side

of the street. He had noticed passing through this street lately that

there was a hotel somewhere towards the end, built of wood, but fairly

large, and its name he remembered was something like Adrianople. He was

not mistaken: the hotel was so conspicuous in that God-forsaken place

that he could not fail to see it even in the dark. It was a long,

blackened wooden building, and in spite of the late hour there were

lights in the windows and signs of life within. He went in and asked

a ragged fellow who met him in the corridor for a room. The latter,

scanning Svidrigaïlov, pulled himself together and led him at once to a

close and tiny room in the distance, at the end of the corridor, under

the stairs. There was no other, all were occupied. The ragged fellow

looked inquiringly.

“Is there tea?” asked Svidrigaïlov.

“Yes, sir.”

“What else is there?”

“Veal, vodka, savouries.”

“Bring me tea and veal.”

“And you want nothing else?” he asked with apparent surprise.

“Nothing, nothing.”

The ragged man went away, completely disillusioned.

“It must be a nice place,” thought Svidrigaïlov. “How was it I didn’t

know it? I expect I look as if I came from a café chantant and have

had some adventure on the way. It would be interesting to know who stayed

here?”

He lighted the candle and looked at the room more carefully. It was a

room so low-pitched that Svidrigaïlov could only just stand up in it;

it had one window; the bed, which was very dirty, and the plain-stained

chair and table almost filled it up. The walls looked as though they

were made of planks, covered with shabby paper, so torn and dusty

that the pattern was indistinguishable, though the general

colour--yellow--could still be made out. One of the walls was cut short

by the sloping ceiling, though the room was not an attic but just under

the stairs.

Svidrigaïlov set down the candle, sat down on the bed and sank into

thought. But a strange persistent murmur which sometimes rose to a shout

in the next room attracted his attention. The murmur had not ceased from

the moment he entered the room. He listened: someone was upbraiding and

almost tearfully scolding, but he heard only one voice.

Svidrigaïlov got up, shaded the light with his hand and at once he saw

light through a crack in the wall; he went up and peeped through. The

room, which was somewhat larger than his, had two occupants. One of

them, a very curly-headed man with a red inflamed face, was standing

in the pose of an orator, without his coat, with his legs wide apart to

preserve his balance, and smiting himself on the breast. He reproached

the other with being a beggar, with having no standing whatever. He

declared that he had taken the other out of the gutter and he could turn

him out when he liked, and that only the finger of Providence sees it

all. The object of his reproaches was sitting in a chair, and had the

air of a man who wants dreadfully to sneeze, but can’t. He sometimes

turned sheepish and befogged eyes on the speaker, but obviously had not

the slightest idea what he was talking about and scarcely heard it. A

candle was burning down on the table; there were wine-glasses, a nearly

empty bottle of vodka, bread and cucumber, and glasses with the dregs

of stale tea. After gazing attentively at this, Svidrigaïlov turned away

indifferently and sat down on the bed.

The ragged attendant, returning with the tea, could not resist asking

him again whether he didn’t want anything more, and again receiving a

negative reply, finally withdrew. Svidrigaïlov made haste to drink a

glass of tea to warm himself, but could not eat anything. He began

to feel feverish. He took off his coat and, wrapping himself in the

blanket, lay down on the bed. He was annoyed. “It would have been better

to be well for the occasion,” he thought with a smile. The room was

close, the candle burnt dimly, the wind was roaring outside, he heard

a mouse scratching in the corner and the room smelt of mice and of

leather. He lay in a sort of reverie: one thought followed another. He

felt a longing to fix his imagination on something. “It must be a garden

under the window,” he thought. “There’s a sound of trees. How I dislike

the sound of trees on a stormy night, in the dark! They give one a

horrid feeling.” He remembered how he had disliked it when he passed

Petrovsky Park just now. This reminded him of the bridge over the Little

Neva and he felt cold again as he had when standing there. “I never have

liked water,” he thought, “even in a landscape,” and he suddenly smiled

again at a strange idea: “Surely now all these questions of taste and

comfort ought not to matter, but I’ve become more particular, like an

animal that picks out a special place... for such an occasion. I ought

to have gone into the Petrovsky Park! I suppose it seemed dark, cold,

ha-ha! As though I were seeking pleasant sensations!... By the way, why

haven’t I put out the candle?” he blew it out. “They’ve gone to bed next

door,” he thought, not seeing the light at the crack. “Well, now, Marfa

Petrovna, now is the time for you to turn up; it’s dark, and the very

time and place for you. But now you won’t come!”

He suddenly recalled how, an hour before carrying out his design on