community-datasets/crime_and_punish · Datasets at Hugging Face

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it now?” And he had hardly thought it when, somewhere near, a clock on
the wall, ticking away hurriedly, struck three.

“Aha! It will be light in an hour! Why wait? I’ll go out at once
straight to the park. I’ll choose a great bush there drenched with rain,
so that as soon as one’s shoulder touches it, millions of drops drip on
one’s head.”

He moved away from the window, shut it, lighted the candle, put on his
waistcoat, his overcoat and his hat and went out, carrying the candle,
into the passage to look for the ragged attendant who would be asleep
somewhere in the midst of candle-ends and all sorts of rubbish, to pay
him for the room and leave the hotel. “It’s the best minute; I couldn’t
choose a better.”

He walked for some time through a long narrow corridor without finding
anyone and was just going to call out, when suddenly in a dark corner
between an old cupboard and the door he caught sight of a strange object
which seemed to be alive. He bent down with the candle and saw a little
girl, not more than five years old, shivering and crying, with her
clothes as wet as a soaking house-flannel. She did not seem afraid of
Svidrigaïlov, but looked at him with blank amazement out of her big
black eyes. Now and then she sobbed as children do when they have been
crying a long time, but are beginning to be comforted. The child’s face
was pale and tired, she was numb with cold. “How can she have come here?
She must have hidden here and not slept all night.” He began questioning
her. The child suddenly becoming animated, chattered away in her baby
language, something about “mammy” and that “mammy would beat her,” and
about some cup that she had “bwoken.” The child chattered on without
stopping. He could only guess from what she said that she was a
neglected child, whose mother, probably a drunken cook, in the service
of the hotel, whipped and frightened her; that the child had broken
a cup of her mother’s and was so frightened that she had run away the
evening before, had hidden for a long while somewhere outside in the
rain, at last had made her way in here, hidden behind the cupboard and
spent the night there, crying and trembling from the damp, the darkness
and the fear that she would be badly beaten for it. He took her in his
arms, went back to his room, sat her on the bed, and began undressing
her. The torn shoes which she had on her stockingless feet were as
wet as if they had been standing in a puddle all night. When he had
undressed her, he put her on the bed, covered her up and wrapped her in
the blanket from her head downwards. She fell asleep at once. Then he
sank into dreary musing again.

“What folly to trouble myself,” he decided suddenly with an oppressive
feeling of annoyance. “What idiocy!” In vexation he took up the candle
to go and look for the ragged attendant again and make haste to go away.
“Damn the child!” he thought as he opened the door, but he turned again
to see whether the child was asleep. He raised the blanket carefully.
The child was sleeping soundly, she had got warm under the blanket,
and her pale cheeks were flushed. But strange to say that flush seemed
brighter and coarser than the rosy cheeks of childhood. “It’s a flush
of fever,” thought Svidrigaïlov. It was like the flush from drinking, as
though she had been given a full glass to drink. Her crimson lips were
hot and glowing; but what was this? He suddenly fancied that her long
black eyelashes were quivering, as though the lids were opening and a
sly crafty eye peeped out with an unchildlike wink, as though the little
girl were not asleep, but pretending. Yes, it was so. Her lips parted in
a smile. The corners of her mouth quivered, as though she were trying to
control them. But now she quite gave up all effort, now it was a grin,
a broad grin; there was something shameless, provocative in that quite
unchildish face; it was depravity, it was the face of a harlot, the
shameless face of a French harlot. Now both eyes opened wide; they
turned a glowing, shameless glance upon him; they laughed, invited
him.... There was something infinitely hideous and shocking in that
laugh, in those eyes, in such nastiness in the face of a child. “What,
at five years old?” Svidrigaïlov muttered in genuine horror. “What does
it mean?” And now she turned to him, her little face all aglow, holding
out her arms.... “Accursed child!” Svidrigaïlov cried, raising his hand
to strike her, but at that moment he woke up.

He was in the same bed, still wrapped in the blanket. The candle had not
been lighted, and daylight was streaming in at the windows.

“I’ve had nightmare all night!” He got up angrily, feeling utterly
shattered; his bones ached. There was a thick mist outside and he could
see nothing. It was nearly five. He had overslept himself! He got up,
put on his still damp jacket and overcoat. Feeling the revolver in his
pocket, he took it out and then he sat down, took a notebook out of his
pocket and in the most conspicuous place on the title page wrote a few
lines in large letters. Reading them over, he sank into thought with his
elbows on the table. The revolver and the notebook lay beside him. Some
flies woke up and settled on the untouched veal, which was still on
the table. He stared at them and at last with his free right hand began
trying to catch one. He tried till he was tired, but could not catch it.
At last, realising that he was engaged in this interesting pursuit, he
started, got up and walked resolutely out of the room. A minute later he
was in the street.

A thick milky mist hung over the town. Svidrigaïlov walked along the
slippery dirty wooden pavement towards the Little Neva. He was picturing
the waters of the Little Neva swollen in the night, Petrovsky Island,
the wet paths, the wet grass, the wet trees and bushes and at last the
bush.... He began ill-humouredly staring at the houses, trying to think
of something else. There was not a cabman or a passer-by in the street.
The bright yellow, wooden, little houses looked dirty and dejected with
their closed shutters. The cold and damp penetrated his whole body and
he began to shiver. From time to time he came across shop signs and read
each carefully. At last he reached the end of the wooden pavement and
came to a big stone house. A dirty, shivering dog crossed his path with

it now?” And he had hardly thought it when, somewhere near, a clock on

the wall, ticking away hurriedly, struck three.

“Aha! It will be light in an hour! Why wait? I’ll go out at once

straight to the park. I’ll choose a great bush there drenched with rain,

so that as soon as one’s shoulder touches it, millions of drops drip on

one’s head.”

He moved away from the window, shut it, lighted the candle, put on his

waistcoat, his overcoat and his hat and went out, carrying the candle,

into the passage to look for the ragged attendant who would be asleep

somewhere in the midst of candle-ends and all sorts of rubbish, to pay

him for the room and leave the hotel. “It’s the best minute; I couldn’t

choose a better.”

He walked for some time through a long narrow corridor without finding

anyone and was just going to call out, when suddenly in a dark corner

between an old cupboard and the door he caught sight of a strange object

which seemed to be alive. He bent down with the candle and saw a little

girl, not more than five years old, shivering and crying, with her

clothes as wet as a soaking house-flannel. She did not seem afraid of

Svidrigaïlov, but looked at him with blank amazement out of her big

black eyes. Now and then she sobbed as children do when they have been

crying a long time, but are beginning to be comforted. The child’s face

was pale and tired, she was numb with cold. “How can she have come here?

She must have hidden here and not slept all night.” He began questioning

her. The child suddenly becoming animated, chattered away in her baby

language, something about “mammy” and that “mammy would beat her,” and

about some cup that she had “bwoken.” The child chattered on without

stopping. He could only guess from what she said that she was a

neglected child, whose mother, probably a drunken cook, in the service

of the hotel, whipped and frightened her; that the child had broken

a cup of her mother’s and was so frightened that she had run away the

evening before, had hidden for a long while somewhere outside in the

rain, at last had made her way in here, hidden behind the cupboard and

spent the night there, crying and trembling from the damp, the darkness

and the fear that she would be badly beaten for it. He took her in his

arms, went back to his room, sat her on the bed, and began undressing

her. The torn shoes which she had on her stockingless feet were as

wet as if they had been standing in a puddle all night. When he had

undressed her, he put her on the bed, covered her up and wrapped her in

the blanket from her head downwards. She fell asleep at once. Then he

sank into dreary musing again.

“What folly to trouble myself,” he decided suddenly with an oppressive

feeling of annoyance. “What idiocy!” In vexation he took up the candle

to go and look for the ragged attendant again and make haste to go away.

“Damn the child!” he thought as he opened the door, but he turned again

to see whether the child was asleep. He raised the blanket carefully.

The child was sleeping soundly, she had got warm under the blanket,

and her pale cheeks were flushed. But strange to say that flush seemed

brighter and coarser than the rosy cheeks of childhood. “It’s a flush

of fever,” thought Svidrigaïlov. It was like the flush from drinking, as

though she had been given a full glass to drink. Her crimson lips were

hot and glowing; but what was this? He suddenly fancied that her long

black eyelashes were quivering, as though the lids were opening and a

sly crafty eye peeped out with an unchildlike wink, as though the little

girl were not asleep, but pretending. Yes, it was so. Her lips parted in

a smile. The corners of her mouth quivered, as though she were trying to

control them. But now she quite gave up all effort, now it was a grin,

a broad grin; there was something shameless, provocative in that quite

unchildish face; it was depravity, it was the face of a harlot, the

shameless face of a French harlot. Now both eyes opened wide; they

turned a glowing, shameless glance upon him; they laughed, invited

him.... There was something infinitely hideous and shocking in that

laugh, in those eyes, in such nastiness in the face of a child. “What,

at five years old?” Svidrigaïlov muttered in genuine horror. “What does

it mean?” And now she turned to him, her little face all aglow, holding

out her arms.... “Accursed child!” Svidrigaïlov cried, raising his hand

to strike her, but at that moment he woke up.

He was in the same bed, still wrapped in the blanket. The candle had not

been lighted, and daylight was streaming in at the windows.

“I’ve had nightmare all night!” He got up angrily, feeling utterly

shattered; his bones ached. There was a thick mist outside and he could

see nothing. It was nearly five. He had overslept himself! He got up,

put on his still damp jacket and overcoat. Feeling the revolver in his

pocket, he took it out and then he sat down, took a notebook out of his

pocket and in the most conspicuous place on the title page wrote a few

lines in large letters. Reading them over, he sank into thought with his

elbows on the table. The revolver and the notebook lay beside him. Some

flies woke up and settled on the untouched veal, which was still on

the table. He stared at them and at last with his free right hand began

trying to catch one. He tried till he was tired, but could not catch it.

At last, realising that he was engaged in this interesting pursuit, he

started, got up and walked resolutely out of the room. A minute later he

was in the street.

A thick milky mist hung over the town. Svidrigaïlov walked along the

slippery dirty wooden pavement towards the Little Neva. He was picturing

the waters of the Little Neva swollen in the night, Petrovsky Island,

the wet paths, the wet grass, the wet trees and bushes and at last the

bush.... He began ill-humouredly staring at the houses, trying to think

of something else. There was not a cabman or a passer-by in the street.

The bright yellow, wooden, little houses looked dirty and dejected with

their closed shutters. The cold and damp penetrated his whole body and

he began to shiver. From time to time he came across shop signs and read

each carefully. At last he reached the end of the wooden pavement and

came to a big stone house. A dirty, shivering dog crossed his path with