community-datasets/crime_and_punish · Datasets at Hugging Face

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worry him and upset him.’ I read it, my dear, and of course there was a
great deal I did not understand; but that’s only natural--how should I?”

“Show me, mother.”

Raskolnikov took the magazine and glanced at his article. Incongruous
as it was with his mood and his circumstances, he felt that strange and
bitter sweet sensation that every author experiences the first time he
sees himself in print; besides, he was only twenty-three. It lasted only
a moment. After reading a few lines he frowned and his heart throbbed
with anguish. He recalled all the inward conflict of the preceding
months. He flung the article on the table with disgust and anger.

“But, however foolish I may be, Rodya, I can see for myself that you
will very soon be one of the leading--if not the leading man--in the
world of Russian thought. And they dared to think you were mad! You
don’t know, but they really thought that. Ah, the despicable creatures,
how could they understand genius! And Dounia, Dounia was all but
believing it--what do you say to that? Your father sent twice to
magazines--the first time poems (I’ve got the manuscript and will show
you) and the second time a whole novel (I begged him to let me copy it
out) and how we prayed that they should be taken--they weren’t! I was
breaking my heart, Rodya, six or seven days ago over your food and your
clothes and the way you are living. But now I see again how foolish
I was, for you can attain any position you like by your intellect and
talent. No doubt you don’t care about that for the present and you are
occupied with much more important matters....”

“Dounia’s not at home, mother?”

“No, Rodya. I often don’t see her; she leaves me alone. Dmitri
Prokofitch comes to see me, it’s so good of him, and he always talks
about you. He loves you and respects you, my dear. I don’t say that
Dounia is very wanting in consideration. I am not complaining. She has
her ways and I have mine; she seems to have got some secrets of late and
I never have any secrets from you two. Of course, I am sure that Dounia
has far too much sense, and besides she loves you and me... but I don’t
know what it will all lead to. You’ve made me so happy by coming now,
Rodya, but she has missed you by going out; when she comes in I’ll tell
her: ‘Your brother came in while you were out. Where have you been all
this time?’ You mustn’t spoil me, Rodya, you know; come when you can,
but if you can’t, it doesn’t matter, I can wait. I shall know, anyway,
that you are fond of me, that will be enough for me. I shall read what
you write, I shall hear about you from everyone, and sometimes you’ll
come yourself to see me. What could be better? Here you’ve come now to
comfort your mother, I see that.”

Here Pulcheria Alexandrovna began to cry.

“Here I am again! Don’t mind my foolishness. My goodness, why am I
sitting here?” she cried, jumping up. “There is coffee and I don’t offer
you any. Ah, that’s the selfishness of old age. I’ll get it at once!”

“Mother, don’t trouble, I am going at once. I haven’t come for that.
Please listen to me.”

Pulcheria Alexandrovna went up to him timidly.

“Mother, whatever happens, whatever you hear about me, whatever you are
told about me, will you always love me as you do now?” he asked suddenly
from the fullness of his heart, as though not thinking of his words and
not weighing them.

“Rodya, Rodya, what is the matter? How can you ask me such a question?
Why, who will tell me anything about you? Besides, I shouldn’t believe
anyone, I should refuse to listen.”

“I’ve come to assure you that I’ve always loved you and I am glad
that we are alone, even glad Dounia is out,” he went on with the same
impulse. “I have come to tell you that though you will be unhappy, you
must believe that your son loves you now more than himself, and that all
you thought about me, that I was cruel and didn’t care about you, was
all a mistake. I shall never cease to love you.... Well, that’s enough:
I thought I must do this and begin with this....”

Pulcheria Alexandrovna embraced him in silence, pressing him to her
bosom and weeping gently.

“I don’t know what is wrong with you, Rodya,” she said at last. “I’ve
been thinking all this time that we were simply boring you and now I see
that there is a great sorrow in store for you, and that’s why you are
miserable. I’ve foreseen it a long time, Rodya. Forgive me for speaking
about it. I keep thinking about it and lie awake at nights. Your sister
lay talking in her sleep all last night, talking of nothing but you. I
caught something, but I couldn’t make it out. I felt all the morning
as though I were going to be hanged, waiting for something, expecting
something, and now it has come! Rodya, Rodya, where are you going? You
are going away somewhere?”

“Yes.”

“That’s what I thought! I can come with you, you know, if you need
me. And Dounia, too; she loves you, she loves you dearly--and Sofya
Semyonovna may come with us if you like. You see, I am glad to look upon
her as a daughter even... Dmitri Prokofitch will help us to go together.
But... where... are you going?”

“Good-bye, mother.”

“What, to-day?” she cried, as though losing him for ever.

worry him and upset him.’ I read it, my dear, and of course there was a

great deal I did not understand; but that’s only natural--how should I?”

“Show me, mother.”

Raskolnikov took the magazine and glanced at his article. Incongruous

as it was with his mood and his circumstances, he felt that strange and

bitter sweet sensation that every author experiences the first time he

sees himself in print; besides, he was only twenty-three. It lasted only

a moment. After reading a few lines he frowned and his heart throbbed

with anguish. He recalled all the inward conflict of the preceding

months. He flung the article on the table with disgust and anger.

“But, however foolish I may be, Rodya, I can see for myself that you

will very soon be one of the leading--if not the leading man--in the

world of Russian thought. And they dared to think you were mad! You

don’t know, but they really thought that. Ah, the despicable creatures,

how could they understand genius! And Dounia, Dounia was all but

believing it--what do you say to that? Your father sent twice to

magazines--the first time poems (I’ve got the manuscript and will show

you) and the second time a whole novel (I begged him to let me copy it

out) and how we prayed that they should be taken--they weren’t! I was

breaking my heart, Rodya, six or seven days ago over your food and your

clothes and the way you are living. But now I see again how foolish

I was, for you can attain any position you like by your intellect and

talent. No doubt you don’t care about that for the present and you are

occupied with much more important matters....”

“Dounia’s not at home, mother?”

“No, Rodya. I often don’t see her; she leaves me alone. Dmitri

Prokofitch comes to see me, it’s so good of him, and he always talks

about you. He loves you and respects you, my dear. I don’t say that

Dounia is very wanting in consideration. I am not complaining. She has

her ways and I have mine; she seems to have got some secrets of late and

I never have any secrets from you two. Of course, I am sure that Dounia

has far too much sense, and besides she loves you and me... but I don’t

know what it will all lead to. You’ve made me so happy by coming now,

Rodya, but she has missed you by going out; when she comes in I’ll tell

her: ‘Your brother came in while you were out. Where have you been all

this time?’ You mustn’t spoil me, Rodya, you know; come when you can,

but if you can’t, it doesn’t matter, I can wait. I shall know, anyway,

that you are fond of me, that will be enough for me. I shall read what

you write, I shall hear about you from everyone, and sometimes you’ll

come yourself to see me. What could be better? Here you’ve come now to

comfort your mother, I see that.”

Here Pulcheria Alexandrovna began to cry.

“Here I am again! Don’t mind my foolishness. My goodness, why am I

sitting here?” she cried, jumping up. “There is coffee and I don’t offer

you any. Ah, that’s the selfishness of old age. I’ll get it at once!”

“Mother, don’t trouble, I am going at once. I haven’t come for that.

Please listen to me.”

Pulcheria Alexandrovna went up to him timidly.

“Mother, whatever happens, whatever you hear about me, whatever you are

told about me, will you always love me as you do now?” he asked suddenly

from the fullness of his heart, as though not thinking of his words and

not weighing them.

“Rodya, Rodya, what is the matter? How can you ask me such a question?

Why, who will tell me anything about you? Besides, I shouldn’t believe

anyone, I should refuse to listen.”

“I’ve come to assure you that I’ve always loved you and I am glad

that we are alone, even glad Dounia is out,” he went on with the same

impulse. “I have come to tell you that though you will be unhappy, you

must believe that your son loves you now more than himself, and that all

you thought about me, that I was cruel and didn’t care about you, was

all a mistake. I shall never cease to love you.... Well, that’s enough:

I thought I must do this and begin with this....”

Pulcheria Alexandrovna embraced him in silence, pressing him to her

bosom and weeping gently.

“I don’t know what is wrong with you, Rodya,” she said at last. “I’ve

been thinking all this time that we were simply boring you and now I see

that there is a great sorrow in store for you, and that’s why you are

miserable. I’ve foreseen it a long time, Rodya. Forgive me for speaking

about it. I keep thinking about it and lie awake at nights. Your sister

lay talking in her sleep all last night, talking of nothing but you. I

caught something, but I couldn’t make it out. I felt all the morning

as though I were going to be hanged, waiting for something, expecting

something, and now it has come! Rodya, Rodya, where are you going? You

are going away somewhere?”

“Yes.”

“That’s what I thought! I can come with you, you know, if you need

me. And Dounia, too; she loves you, she loves you dearly--and Sofya

Semyonovna may come with us if you like. You see, I am glad to look upon

her as a daughter even... Dmitri Prokofitch will help us to go together.

But... where... are you going?”

“Good-bye, mother.”

“What, to-day?” she cried, as though losing him for ever.