community-datasets/crime_and_punish · Datasets at Hugging Face

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its tail between its legs. A man in a greatcoat lay face downwards; dead
drunk, across the pavement. He looked at him and went on. A high tower
stood up on the left. “Bah!” he shouted, “here is a place. Why should
it be Petrovsky? It will be in the presence of an official witness
anyway....”

He almost smiled at this new thought and turned into the street where
there was the big house with the tower. At the great closed gates of
the house, a little man stood with his shoulder leaning against them,
wrapped in a grey soldier’s coat, with a copper Achilles helmet on his
head. He cast a drowsy and indifferent glance at Svidrigaïlov. His
face wore that perpetual look of peevish dejection, which is so sourly
printed on all faces of Jewish race without exception. They both,
Svidrigaïlov and Achilles, stared at each other for a few minutes
without speaking. At last it struck Achilles as irregular for a man
not drunk to be standing three steps from him, staring and not saying a
word.

“What do you want here?” he said, without moving or changing his
position.

“Nothing, brother, good morning,” answered Svidrigaïlov.

“This isn’t the place.”

“I am going to foreign parts, brother.”

“To foreign parts?”

“To America.”

“America.”

Svidrigaïlov took out the revolver and cocked it. Achilles raised his
eyebrows.

“I say, this is not the place for such jokes!”

“Why shouldn’t it be the place?”

“Because it isn’t.”

“Well, brother, I don’t mind that. It’s a good place. When you are
asked, you just say he was going, he said, to America.”

He put the revolver to his right temple.

“You can’t do it here, it’s not the place,” cried Achilles, rousing
himself, his eyes growing bigger and bigger.

Svidrigaïlov pulled the trigger.



CHAPTER VII

The same day, about seven o’clock in the evening, Raskolnikov was on
his way to his mother’s and sister’s lodging--the lodging in Bakaleyev’s
house which Razumihin had found for them. The stairs went up from
the street. Raskolnikov walked with lagging steps, as though still
hesitating whether to go or not. But nothing would have turned him back:
his decision was taken.

“Besides, it doesn’t matter, they still know nothing,” he thought, “and
they are used to thinking of me as eccentric.”

He was appallingly dressed: his clothes torn and dirty, soaked with a
night’s rain. His face was almost distorted from fatigue, exposure, the
inward conflict that had lasted for twenty-four hours. He had spent all
the previous night alone, God knows where. But anyway he had reached a
decision.

He knocked at the door which was opened by his mother. Dounia was not
at home. Even the servant happened to be out. At first Pulcheria
Alexandrovna was speechless with joy and surprise; then she took him by
the hand and drew him into the room.

“Here you are!” she began, faltering with joy. “Don’t be angry with
me, Rodya, for welcoming you so foolishly with tears: I am laughing not
crying. Did you think I was crying? No, I am delighted, but I’ve got
into such a stupid habit of shedding tears. I’ve been like that ever
since your father’s death. I cry for anything. Sit down, dear boy, you
must be tired; I see you are. Ah, how muddy you are.”

“I was in the rain yesterday, mother....” Raskolnikov began.

“No, no,” Pulcheria Alexandrovna hurriedly interrupted, “you thought I
was going to cross-question you in the womanish way I used to; don’t be
anxious, I understand, I understand it all: now I’ve learned the ways
here and truly I see for myself that they are better. I’ve made up my
mind once for all: how could I understand your plans and expect you to
give an account of them? God knows what concerns and plans you may have,
or what ideas you are hatching; so it’s not for me to keep nudging your
elbow, asking you what you are thinking about? But, my goodness! why
am I running to and fro as though I were crazy...? I am reading your
article in the magazine for the third time, Rodya. Dmitri Prokofitch
brought it to me. Directly I saw it I cried out to myself: ‘There,
foolish one,’ I thought, ‘that’s what he is busy about; that’s the
solution of the mystery! Learned people are always like that. He may
have some new ideas in his head just now; he is thinking them over and I

its tail between its legs. A man in a greatcoat lay face downwards; dead

drunk, across the pavement. He looked at him and went on. A high tower

stood up on the left. “Bah!” he shouted, “here is a place. Why should

it be Petrovsky? It will be in the presence of an official witness

anyway....”

He almost smiled at this new thought and turned into the street where

there was the big house with the tower. At the great closed gates of

the house, a little man stood with his shoulder leaning against them,

wrapped in a grey soldier’s coat, with a copper Achilles helmet on his

head. He cast a drowsy and indifferent glance at Svidrigaïlov. His

face wore that perpetual look of peevish dejection, which is so sourly

printed on all faces of Jewish race without exception. They both,

Svidrigaïlov and Achilles, stared at each other for a few minutes

without speaking. At last it struck Achilles as irregular for a man

not drunk to be standing three steps from him, staring and not saying a

word.

“What do you want here?” he said, without moving or changing his

position.

“Nothing, brother, good morning,” answered Svidrigaïlov.

“This isn’t the place.”

“I am going to foreign parts, brother.”

“To foreign parts?”

“To America.”

“America.”

Svidrigaïlov took out the revolver and cocked it. Achilles raised his

eyebrows.

“I say, this is not the place for such jokes!”

“Why shouldn’t it be the place?”

“Because it isn’t.”

“Well, brother, I don’t mind that. It’s a good place. When you are

asked, you just say he was going, he said, to America.”

He put the revolver to his right temple.

“You can’t do it here, it’s not the place,” cried Achilles, rousing

himself, his eyes growing bigger and bigger.

Svidrigaïlov pulled the trigger.

CHAPTER VII

The same day, about seven o’clock in the evening, Raskolnikov was on

his way to his mother’s and sister’s lodging--the lodging in Bakaleyev’s

house which Razumihin had found for them. The stairs went up from

the street. Raskolnikov walked with lagging steps, as though still

hesitating whether to go or not. But nothing would have turned him back:

his decision was taken.

“Besides, it doesn’t matter, they still know nothing,” he thought, “and

they are used to thinking of me as eccentric.”

He was appallingly dressed: his clothes torn and dirty, soaked with a

night’s rain. His face was almost distorted from fatigue, exposure, the

inward conflict that had lasted for twenty-four hours. He had spent all

the previous night alone, God knows where. But anyway he had reached a

decision.

He knocked at the door which was opened by his mother. Dounia was not

at home. Even the servant happened to be out. At first Pulcheria

Alexandrovna was speechless with joy and surprise; then she took him by

the hand and drew him into the room.

“Here you are!” she began, faltering with joy. “Don’t be angry with

me, Rodya, for welcoming you so foolishly with tears: I am laughing not

crying. Did you think I was crying? No, I am delighted, but I’ve got

into such a stupid habit of shedding tears. I’ve been like that ever

since your father’s death. I cry for anything. Sit down, dear boy, you

must be tired; I see you are. Ah, how muddy you are.”

“I was in the rain yesterday, mother....” Raskolnikov began.

“No, no,” Pulcheria Alexandrovna hurriedly interrupted, “you thought I

was going to cross-question you in the womanish way I used to; don’t be

anxious, I understand, I understand it all: now I’ve learned the ways

here and truly I see for myself that they are better. I’ve made up my

mind once for all: how could I understand your plans and expect you to

give an account of them? God knows what concerns and plans you may have,

or what ideas you are hatching; so it’s not for me to keep nudging your

elbow, asking you what you are thinking about? But, my goodness! why

am I running to and fro as though I were crazy...? I am reading your

article in the magazine for the third time, Rodya. Dmitri Prokofitch

brought it to me. Directly I saw it I cried out to myself: ‘There,

foolish one,’ I thought, ‘that’s what he is busy about; that’s the

solution of the mystery! Learned people are always like that. He may

have some new ideas in his head just now; he is thinking them over and I