community-datasets/crime_and_punish · Datasets at Hugging Face

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they came to the conclusion that the letters could not be better, for
from these letters they received a complete picture of their unfortunate
brother’s life. Sonia’s letters were full of the most matter-of-fact
detail, the simplest and clearest description of all Raskolnikov’s
surroundings as a convict. There was no word of her own hopes, no
conjecture as to the future, no description of her feelings. Instead of
any attempt to interpret his state of mind and inner life, she gave the
simple facts--that is, his own words, an exact account of his health,
what he asked for at their interviews, what commission he gave her
and so on. All these facts she gave with extraordinary minuteness. The
picture of their unhappy brother stood out at last with great clearness
and precision. There could be no mistake, because nothing was given but
facts.

But Dounia and her husband could get little comfort out of the news,
especially at first. Sonia wrote that he was constantly sullen and not
ready to talk, that he scarcely seemed interested in the news she gave
him from their letters, that he sometimes asked after his mother and
that when, seeing that he had guessed the truth, she told him at last
of her death, she was surprised to find that he did not seem greatly
affected by it, not externally at any rate. She told them that, although
he seemed so wrapped up in himself and, as it were, shut himself off
from everyone--he took a very direct and simple view of his new life;
that he understood his position, expected nothing better for the time,
had no ill-founded hopes (as is so common in his position) and scarcely
seemed surprised at anything in his surroundings, so unlike anything he
had known before. She wrote that his health was satisfactory; he did his
work without shirking or seeking to do more; he was almost indifferent
about food, but except on Sundays and holidays the food was so bad that
at last he had been glad to accept some money from her, Sonia, to have
his own tea every day. He begged her not to trouble about anything else,
declaring that all this fuss about him only annoyed him. Sonia wrote
further that in prison he shared the same room with the rest, that she
had not seen the inside of their barracks, but concluded that they were
crowded, miserable and unhealthy; that he slept on a plank bed with a
rug under him and was unwilling to make any other arrangement. But that
he lived so poorly and roughly, not from any plan or design, but simply
from inattention and indifference.

Sonia wrote simply that he had at first shown no interest in her visits,
had almost been vexed with her indeed for coming, unwilling to talk and
rude to her. But that in the end these visits had become a habit and
almost a necessity for him, so that he was positively distressed when
she was ill for some days and could not visit him. She used to see him
on holidays at the prison gates or in the guard-room, to which he was
brought for a few minutes to see her. On working days she would go to
see him at work either at the workshops or at the brick kilns, or at the
sheds on the banks of the Irtish.

About herself, Sonia wrote that she had succeeded in making some
acquaintances in the town, that she did sewing, and, as there
was scarcely a dressmaker in the town, she was looked upon as an
indispensable person in many houses. But she did not mention that the
authorities were, through her, interested in Raskolnikov; that his task
was lightened and so on.

At last the news came (Dounia had indeed noticed signs of alarm and
uneasiness in the preceding letters) that he held aloof from everyone,
that his fellow prisoners did not like him, that he kept silent for days
at a time and was becoming very pale. In the last letter Sonia wrote
that he had been taken very seriously ill and was in the convict ward of
the hospital.



II

He was ill a long time. But it was not the horrors of prison life, not
the hard labour, the bad food, the shaven head, or the patched clothes
that crushed him. What did he care for all those trials and hardships!
he was even glad of the hard work. Physically exhausted, he could at
least reckon on a few hours of quiet sleep. And what was the food to
him--the thin cabbage soup with beetles floating in it? In the past as a
student he had often not had even that. His clothes were warm and suited
to his manner of life. He did not even feel the fetters. Was he ashamed
of his shaven head and parti-coloured coat? Before whom? Before Sonia?
Sonia was afraid of him, how could he be ashamed before her? And yet he
was ashamed even before Sonia, whom he tortured because of it with
his contemptuous rough manner. But it was not his shaven head and his
fetters he was ashamed of: his pride had been stung to the quick. It was
wounded pride that made him ill. Oh, how happy he would have been if he
could have blamed himself! He could have borne anything then, even
shame and disgrace. But he judged himself severely, and his exasperated
conscience found no particularly terrible fault in his past, except
a simple _blunder_ which might happen to anyone. He was ashamed just
because he, Raskolnikov, had so hopelessly, stupidly come to grief
through some decree of blind fate, and must humble himself and submit to
“the idiocy” of a sentence, if he were anyhow to be at peace.

Vague and objectless anxiety in the present, and in the future a
continual sacrifice leading to nothing--that was all that lay before
him. And what comfort was it to him that at the end of eight years he
would only be thirty-two and able to begin a new life! What had he to
live for? What had he to look forward to? Why should he strive? To live
in order to exist? Why, he had been ready a thousand times before to
give up existence for the sake of an idea, for a hope, even for a fancy.
Mere existence had always been too little for him; he had always wanted
more. Perhaps it was just because of the strength of his desires that he
had thought himself a man to whom more was permissible than to others.

they came to the conclusion that the letters could not be better, for

from these letters they received a complete picture of their unfortunate

brother’s life. Sonia’s letters were full of the most matter-of-fact

detail, the simplest and clearest description of all Raskolnikov’s

surroundings as a convict. There was no word of her own hopes, no

conjecture as to the future, no description of her feelings. Instead of

any attempt to interpret his state of mind and inner life, she gave the

simple facts--that is, his own words, an exact account of his health,

what he asked for at their interviews, what commission he gave her

and so on. All these facts she gave with extraordinary minuteness. The

picture of their unhappy brother stood out at last with great clearness

and precision. There could be no mistake, because nothing was given but

facts.

But Dounia and her husband could get little comfort out of the news,

especially at first. Sonia wrote that he was constantly sullen and not

ready to talk, that he scarcely seemed interested in the news she gave

him from their letters, that he sometimes asked after his mother and

that when, seeing that he had guessed the truth, she told him at last

of her death, she was surprised to find that he did not seem greatly

affected by it, not externally at any rate. She told them that, although

he seemed so wrapped up in himself and, as it were, shut himself off

from everyone--he took a very direct and simple view of his new life;

that he understood his position, expected nothing better for the time,

had no ill-founded hopes (as is so common in his position) and scarcely

seemed surprised at anything in his surroundings, so unlike anything he

had known before. She wrote that his health was satisfactory; he did his

work without shirking or seeking to do more; he was almost indifferent

about food, but except on Sundays and holidays the food was so bad that

at last he had been glad to accept some money from her, Sonia, to have

his own tea every day. He begged her not to trouble about anything else,

declaring that all this fuss about him only annoyed him. Sonia wrote

further that in prison he shared the same room with the rest, that she

had not seen the inside of their barracks, but concluded that they were

crowded, miserable and unhealthy; that he slept on a plank bed with a

rug under him and was unwilling to make any other arrangement. But that

he lived so poorly and roughly, not from any plan or design, but simply

from inattention and indifference.

Sonia wrote simply that he had at first shown no interest in her visits,

had almost been vexed with her indeed for coming, unwilling to talk and

rude to her. But that in the end these visits had become a habit and

almost a necessity for him, so that he was positively distressed when

she was ill for some days and could not visit him. She used to see him

on holidays at the prison gates or in the guard-room, to which he was

brought for a few minutes to see her. On working days she would go to

see him at work either at the workshops or at the brick kilns, or at the

sheds on the banks of the Irtish.

About herself, Sonia wrote that she had succeeded in making some

acquaintances in the town, that she did sewing, and, as there

was scarcely a dressmaker in the town, she was looked upon as an

indispensable person in many houses. But she did not mention that the

authorities were, through her, interested in Raskolnikov; that his task

was lightened and so on.

At last the news came (Dounia had indeed noticed signs of alarm and

uneasiness in the preceding letters) that he held aloof from everyone,

that his fellow prisoners did not like him, that he kept silent for days

at a time and was becoming very pale. In the last letter Sonia wrote

that he had been taken very seriously ill and was in the convict ward of

the hospital.

II

He was ill a long time. But it was not the horrors of prison life, not

the hard labour, the bad food, the shaven head, or the patched clothes

that crushed him. What did he care for all those trials and hardships!

he was even glad of the hard work. Physically exhausted, he could at

least reckon on a few hours of quiet sleep. And what was the food to

him--the thin cabbage soup with beetles floating in it? In the past as a

student he had often not had even that. His clothes were warm and suited

to his manner of life. He did not even feel the fetters. Was he ashamed

of his shaven head and parti-coloured coat? Before whom? Before Sonia?

Sonia was afraid of him, how could he be ashamed before her? And yet he

was ashamed even before Sonia, whom he tortured because of it with

his contemptuous rough manner. But it was not his shaven head and his

fetters he was ashamed of: his pride had been stung to the quick. It was

wounded pride that made him ill. Oh, how happy he would have been if he

could have blamed himself! He could have borne anything then, even

shame and disgrace. But he judged himself severely, and his exasperated

conscience found no particularly terrible fault in his past, except

a simple _blunder_ which might happen to anyone. He was ashamed just

because he, Raskolnikov, had so hopelessly, stupidly come to grief

through some decree of blind fate, and must humble himself and submit to

“the idiocy” of a sentence, if he were anyhow to be at peace.

Vague and objectless anxiety in the present, and in the future a

continual sacrifice leading to nothing--that was all that lay before

him. And what comfort was it to him that at the end of eight years he

would only be thirty-two and able to begin a new life! What had he to

live for? What had he to look forward to? Why should he strive? To live

in order to exist? Why, he had been ready a thousand times before to

give up existence for the sake of an idea, for a hope, even for a fancy.

Mere existence had always been too little for him; he had always wanted

more. Perhaps it was just because of the strength of his desires that he

had thought himself a man to whom more was permissible than to others.