community-datasets/crime_and_punish · Datasets at Hugging Face

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him, what a sensation I shall make! But I must be cooler; I’ve become
too irritable of late. You know I was nearly shaking my fist at my
sister just now, because she turned to take a last look at me. It’s
a brutal state to be in! Ah! what am I coming to! Well, where are the
crosses?”

He seemed hardly to know what he was doing. He could not stay still or
concentrate his attention on anything; his ideas seemed to gallop after
one another, he talked incoherently, his hands trembled slightly.

Without a word Sonia took out of the drawer two crosses, one of cypress
wood and one of copper. She made the sign of the cross over herself and
over him, and put the wooden cross on his neck.

“It’s the symbol of my taking up the cross,” he laughed. “As though I
had not suffered much till now! The wooden cross, that is the peasant
one; the copper one, that is Lizaveta’s--you will wear yourself, show
me! So she had it on... at that moment? I remember two things like
these too, a silver one and a little ikon. I threw them back on the old
woman’s neck. Those would be appropriate now, really, those are what I
ought to put on now.... But I am talking nonsense and forgetting what
matters; I’m somehow forgetful.... You see I have come to warn you,
Sonia, so that you might know... that’s all--that’s all I came for. But
I thought I had more to say. You wanted me to go yourself. Well, now I
am going to prison and you’ll have your wish. Well, what are you crying
for? You too? Don’t. Leave off! Oh, how I hate it all!”

But his feeling was stirred; his heart ached, as he looked at her. “Why
is she grieving too?” he thought to himself. “What am I to her? Why does
she weep? Why is she looking after me, like my mother or Dounia? She’ll
be my nurse.”

“Cross yourself, say at least one prayer,” Sonia begged in a timid
broken voice.

“Oh certainly, as much as you like! And sincerely, Sonia, sincerely....”

But he wanted to say something quite different.

He crossed himself several times. Sonia took up her shawl and put
it over her head. It was the green _drap de dames_ shawl of which
Marmeladov had spoken, “the family shawl.” Raskolnikov thought of that
looking at it, but he did not ask. He began to feel himself that he
was certainly forgetting things and was disgustingly agitated. He was
frightened at this. He was suddenly struck too by the thought that Sonia
meant to go with him.

“What are you doing? Where are you going? Stay here, stay! I’ll go
alone,” he cried in cowardly vexation, and almost resentful, he moved
towards the door. “What’s the use of going in procession?” he muttered
going out.

Sonia remained standing in the middle of the room. He had not even said
good-bye to her; he had forgotten her. A poignant and rebellious doubt
surged in his heart.

“Was it right, was it right, all this?” he thought again as he went down
the stairs. “Couldn’t he stop and retract it all... and not go?”

But still he went. He felt suddenly once for all that he mustn’t ask
himself questions. As he turned into the street he remembered that he
had not said good-bye to Sonia, that he had left her in the middle of
the room in her green shawl, not daring to stir after he had shouted
at her, and he stopped short for a moment. At the same instant, another
thought dawned upon him, as though it had been lying in wait to strike
him then.

“Why, with what object did I go to her just now? I told her--on
business; on what business? I had no sort of business! To tell her I was
_going_; but where was the need? Do I love her? No, no, I drove her away
just now like a dog. Did I want her crosses? Oh, how low I’ve sunk! No,
I wanted her tears, I wanted to see her terror, to see how her heart
ached! I had to have something to cling to, something to delay me, some
friendly face to see! And I dared to believe in myself, to dream of what
I would do! I am a beggarly contemptible wretch, contemptible!”

He walked along the canal bank, and he had not much further to go. But
on reaching the bridge he stopped and turning out of his way along it
went to the Hay Market.

He looked eagerly to right and left, gazed intently at every object and
could not fix his attention on anything; everything slipped away. “In
another week, another month I shall be driven in a prison van over this
bridge, how shall I look at the canal then? I should like to remember
this!” slipped into his mind. “Look at this sign! How shall I read those
letters then? It’s written here ‘Campany,’ that’s a thing to remember,
that letter _a_, and to look at it again in a month--how shall I look
at it then? What shall I be feeling and thinking then?... How trivial
it all must be, what I am fretting about now! Of course it must all be
interesting... in its way... (Ha-ha-ha! What am I thinking about?) I am
becoming a baby, I am showing off to myself; why am I ashamed? Foo! how
people shove! that fat man--a German he must be--who pushed against
me, does he know whom he pushed? There’s a peasant woman with a baby,
begging. It’s curious that she thinks me happier than she is. I might
give her something, for the incongruity of it. Here’s a five copeck
piece left in my pocket, where did I get it? Here, here... take it, my
good woman!”

“God bless you,” the beggar chanted in a lachrymose voice.

him, what a sensation I shall make! But I must be cooler; I’ve become

too irritable of late. You know I was nearly shaking my fist at my

sister just now, because she turned to take a last look at me. It’s

a brutal state to be in! Ah! what am I coming to! Well, where are the

crosses?”

He seemed hardly to know what he was doing. He could not stay still or

concentrate his attention on anything; his ideas seemed to gallop after

one another, he talked incoherently, his hands trembled slightly.

Without a word Sonia took out of the drawer two crosses, one of cypress

wood and one of copper. She made the sign of the cross over herself and

over him, and put the wooden cross on his neck.

“It’s the symbol of my taking up the cross,” he laughed. “As though I

had not suffered much till now! The wooden cross, that is the peasant

one; the copper one, that is Lizaveta’s--you will wear yourself, show

me! So she had it on... at that moment? I remember two things like

these too, a silver one and a little ikon. I threw them back on the old

woman’s neck. Those would be appropriate now, really, those are what I

ought to put on now.... But I am talking nonsense and forgetting what

matters; I’m somehow forgetful.... You see I have come to warn you,

Sonia, so that you might know... that’s all--that’s all I came for. But

I thought I had more to say. You wanted me to go yourself. Well, now I

am going to prison and you’ll have your wish. Well, what are you crying

for? You too? Don’t. Leave off! Oh, how I hate it all!”

But his feeling was stirred; his heart ached, as he looked at her. “Why

is she grieving too?” he thought to himself. “What am I to her? Why does

she weep? Why is she looking after me, like my mother or Dounia? She’ll

be my nurse.”

“Cross yourself, say at least one prayer,” Sonia begged in a timid

broken voice.

“Oh certainly, as much as you like! And sincerely, Sonia, sincerely....”

But he wanted to say something quite different.

He crossed himself several times. Sonia took up her shawl and put

it over her head. It was the green _drap de dames_ shawl of which

Marmeladov had spoken, “the family shawl.” Raskolnikov thought of that

looking at it, but he did not ask. He began to feel himself that he

was certainly forgetting things and was disgustingly agitated. He was

frightened at this. He was suddenly struck too by the thought that Sonia

meant to go with him.

“What are you doing? Where are you going? Stay here, stay! I’ll go

alone,” he cried in cowardly vexation, and almost resentful, he moved

towards the door. “What’s the use of going in procession?” he muttered

going out.

Sonia remained standing in the middle of the room. He had not even said

good-bye to her; he had forgotten her. A poignant and rebellious doubt

surged in his heart.

“Was it right, was it right, all this?” he thought again as he went down

the stairs. “Couldn’t he stop and retract it all... and not go?”

But still he went. He felt suddenly once for all that he mustn’t ask

himself questions. As he turned into the street he remembered that he

had not said good-bye to Sonia, that he had left her in the middle of

the room in her green shawl, not daring to stir after he had shouted

at her, and he stopped short for a moment. At the same instant, another

thought dawned upon him, as though it had been lying in wait to strike

him then.

“Why, with what object did I go to her just now? I told her--on

business; on what business? I had no sort of business! To tell her I was

_going_; but where was the need? Do I love her? No, no, I drove her away

just now like a dog. Did I want her crosses? Oh, how low I’ve sunk! No,

I wanted her tears, I wanted to see her terror, to see how her heart

ached! I had to have something to cling to, something to delay me, some

friendly face to see! And I dared to believe in myself, to dream of what

I would do! I am a beggarly contemptible wretch, contemptible!”

He walked along the canal bank, and he had not much further to go. But

on reaching the bridge he stopped and turning out of his way along it

went to the Hay Market.

He looked eagerly to right and left, gazed intently at every object and

could not fix his attention on anything; everything slipped away. “In

another week, another month I shall be driven in a prison van over this

bridge, how shall I look at the canal then? I should like to remember

this!” slipped into his mind. “Look at this sign! How shall I read those

letters then? It’s written here ‘Campany,’ that’s a thing to remember,

that letter _a_, and to look at it again in a month--how shall I look

at it then? What shall I be feeling and thinking then?... How trivial

it all must be, what I am fretting about now! Of course it must all be

interesting... in its way... (Ha-ha-ha! What am I thinking about?) I am

becoming a baby, I am showing off to myself; why am I ashamed? Foo! how

people shove! that fat man--a German he must be--who pushed against

me, does he know whom he pushed? There’s a peasant woman with a baby,

begging. It’s curious that she thinks me happier than she is. I might

give her something, for the incongruity of it. Here’s a five copeck

piece left in my pocket, where did I get it? Here, here... take it, my

good woman!”

“God bless you,” the beggar chanted in a lachrymose voice.