community-datasets/crime_and_punish · Datasets at Hugging Face

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it to Dounia.

“I used to talk a great deal about it to her, only to her,” he said
thoughtfully. “To her heart I confided much of what has since been so
hideously realised. Don’t be uneasy,” he returned to Dounia, “she was
as much opposed to it as you, and I am glad that she is gone. The great
point is that everything now is going to be different, is going to
be broken in two,” he cried, suddenly returning to his dejection.
“Everything, everything, and am I prepared for it? Do I want it myself?
They say it is necessary for me to suffer! What’s the object of these
senseless sufferings? shall I know any better what they are for, when I
am crushed by hardships and idiocy, and weak as an old man after twenty
years’ penal servitude? And what shall I have to live for then? Why am I
consenting to that life now? Oh, I knew I was contemptible when I stood
looking at the Neva at daybreak to-day!”

At last they both went out. It was hard for Dounia, but she loved him.
She walked away, but after going fifty paces she turned round to look
at him again. He was still in sight. At the corner he too turned and for
the last time their eyes met; but noticing that she was looking at him,
he motioned her away with impatience and even vexation, and turned the
corner abruptly.

“I am wicked, I see that,” he thought to himself, feeling ashamed a
moment later of his angry gesture to Dounia. “But why are they so fond
of me if I don’t deserve it? Oh, if only I were alone and no one loved
me and I too had never loved anyone! _Nothing of all this would have
happened._ But I wonder shall I in those fifteen or twenty years grow so
meek that I shall humble myself before people and whimper at every word
that I am a criminal? Yes, that’s it, that’s it, that’s what they are
sending me there for, that’s what they want. Look at them running to and
fro about the streets, every one of them a scoundrel and a criminal at
heart and, worse still, an idiot. But try to get me off and they’d be
wild with righteous indignation. Oh, how I hate them all!”

He fell to musing by what process it could come to pass, that he could
be humbled before all of them, indiscriminately--humbled by conviction.
And yet why not? It must be so. Would not twenty years of continual
bondage crush him utterly? Water wears out a stone. And why, why should
he live after that? Why should he go now when he knew that it would be
so? It was the hundredth time perhaps that he had asked himself that
question since the previous evening, but still he went.



CHAPTER VIII

When he went into Sonia’s room, it was already getting dark. All day
Sonia had been waiting for him in terrible anxiety. Dounia had been
waiting with her. She had come to her that morning, remembering
Svidrigaïlov’s words that Sonia knew. We will not describe the
conversation and tears of the two girls, and how friendly they became.
Dounia gained one comfort at least from that interview, that her
brother would not be alone. He had gone to her, Sonia, first with his
confession; he had gone to her for human fellowship when he needed it;
she would go with him wherever fate might send him. Dounia did not ask,
but she knew it was so. She looked at Sonia almost with reverence and
at first almost embarrassed her by it. Sonia was almost on the point
of tears. She felt herself, on the contrary, hardly worthy to look at
Dounia. Dounia’s gracious image when she had bowed to her so attentively
and respectfully at their first meeting in Raskolnikov’s room had
remained in her mind as one of the fairest visions of her life.

Dounia at last became impatient and, leaving Sonia, went to her
brother’s room to await him there; she kept thinking that he would come
there first. When she had gone, Sonia began to be tortured by the dread
of his committing suicide, and Dounia too feared it. But they had spent
the day trying to persuade each other that that could not be, and both
were less anxious while they were together. As soon as they parted, each
thought of nothing else. Sonia remembered how Svidrigaïlov had said to
her the day before that Raskolnikov had two alternatives--Siberia or...
Besides she knew his vanity, his pride and his lack of faith.

“Is it possible that he has nothing but cowardice and fear of death to
make him live?” she thought at last in despair.

Meanwhile the sun was setting. Sonia was standing in dejection, looking
intently out of the window, but from it she could see nothing but the
unwhitewashed blank wall of the next house. At last when she began to
feel sure of his death--he walked into the room.

She gave a cry of joy, but looking carefully into his face she turned
pale.

“Yes,” said Raskolnikov, smiling. “I have come for your cross, Sonia. It
was you told me to go to the cross-roads; why is it you are frightened
now it’s come to that?”

Sonia gazed at him astonished. His tone seemed strange to her; a cold
shiver ran over her, but in a moment she guessed that the tone and the
words were a mask. He spoke to her looking away, as though to avoid
meeting her eyes.

“You see, Sonia, I’ve decided that it will be better so. There is one
fact.... But it’s a long story and there’s no need to discuss it. But
do you know what angers me? It annoys me that all those stupid brutish
faces will be gaping at me directly, pestering me with their stupid
questions, which I shall have to answer--they’ll point their fingers at
me.... Tfoo! You know I am not going to Porfiry, I am sick of him. I’d
rather go to my friend, the Explosive Lieutenant; how I shall surprise

it to Dounia.

“I used to talk a great deal about it to her, only to her,” he said

thoughtfully. “To her heart I confided much of what has since been so

hideously realised. Don’t be uneasy,” he returned to Dounia, “she was

as much opposed to it as you, and I am glad that she is gone. The great

point is that everything now is going to be different, is going to

be broken in two,” he cried, suddenly returning to his dejection.

“Everything, everything, and am I prepared for it? Do I want it myself?

They say it is necessary for me to suffer! What’s the object of these

senseless sufferings? shall I know any better what they are for, when I

am crushed by hardships and idiocy, and weak as an old man after twenty

years’ penal servitude? And what shall I have to live for then? Why am I

consenting to that life now? Oh, I knew I was contemptible when I stood

looking at the Neva at daybreak to-day!”

At last they both went out. It was hard for Dounia, but she loved him.

She walked away, but after going fifty paces she turned round to look

at him again. He was still in sight. At the corner he too turned and for

the last time their eyes met; but noticing that she was looking at him,

he motioned her away with impatience and even vexation, and turned the

corner abruptly.

“I am wicked, I see that,” he thought to himself, feeling ashamed a

moment later of his angry gesture to Dounia. “But why are they so fond

of me if I don’t deserve it? Oh, if only I were alone and no one loved

me and I too had never loved anyone! _Nothing of all this would have

happened._ But I wonder shall I in those fifteen or twenty years grow so

meek that I shall humble myself before people and whimper at every word

that I am a criminal? Yes, that’s it, that’s it, that’s what they are

sending me there for, that’s what they want. Look at them running to and

fro about the streets, every one of them a scoundrel and a criminal at

heart and, worse still, an idiot. But try to get me off and they’d be

wild with righteous indignation. Oh, how I hate them all!”

He fell to musing by what process it could come to pass, that he could

be humbled before all of them, indiscriminately--humbled by conviction.

And yet why not? It must be so. Would not twenty years of continual

bondage crush him utterly? Water wears out a stone. And why, why should

he live after that? Why should he go now when he knew that it would be

so? It was the hundredth time perhaps that he had asked himself that

question since the previous evening, but still he went.

CHAPTER VIII

When he went into Sonia’s room, it was already getting dark. All day

Sonia had been waiting for him in terrible anxiety. Dounia had been

waiting with her. She had come to her that morning, remembering

Svidrigaïlov’s words that Sonia knew. We will not describe the

conversation and tears of the two girls, and how friendly they became.

Dounia gained one comfort at least from that interview, that her

brother would not be alone. He had gone to her, Sonia, first with his

confession; he had gone to her for human fellowship when he needed it;

she would go with him wherever fate might send him. Dounia did not ask,

but she knew it was so. She looked at Sonia almost with reverence and

at first almost embarrassed her by it. Sonia was almost on the point

of tears. She felt herself, on the contrary, hardly worthy to look at

Dounia. Dounia’s gracious image when she had bowed to her so attentively

and respectfully at their first meeting in Raskolnikov’s room had

remained in her mind as one of the fairest visions of her life.

Dounia at last became impatient and, leaving Sonia, went to her

brother’s room to await him there; she kept thinking that he would come

there first. When she had gone, Sonia began to be tortured by the dread

of his committing suicide, and Dounia too feared it. But they had spent

the day trying to persuade each other that that could not be, and both

were less anxious while they were together. As soon as they parted, each

thought of nothing else. Sonia remembered how Svidrigaïlov had said to

her the day before that Raskolnikov had two alternatives--Siberia or...

Besides she knew his vanity, his pride and his lack of faith.

“Is it possible that he has nothing but cowardice and fear of death to

make him live?” she thought at last in despair.

Meanwhile the sun was setting. Sonia was standing in dejection, looking

intently out of the window, but from it she could see nothing but the

unwhitewashed blank wall of the next house. At last when she began to

feel sure of his death--he walked into the room.

She gave a cry of joy, but looking carefully into his face she turned

pale.

“Yes,” said Raskolnikov, smiling. “I have come for your cross, Sonia. It

was you told me to go to the cross-roads; why is it you are frightened

now it’s come to that?”

Sonia gazed at him astonished. His tone seemed strange to her; a cold

shiver ran over her, but in a moment she guessed that the tone and the

words were a mask. He spoke to her looking away, as though to avoid

meeting her eyes.

“You see, Sonia, I’ve decided that it will be better so. There is one

fact.... But it’s a long story and there’s no need to discuss it. But

do you know what angers me? It annoys me that all those stupid brutish

faces will be gaping at me directly, pestering me with their stupid

questions, which I shall have to answer--they’ll point their fingers at

me.... Tfoo! You know I am not going to Porfiry, I am sick of him. I’d

rather go to my friend, the Explosive Lieutenant; how I shall surprise