community-datasets/crime_and_punish · Datasets at Hugging Face

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the whip, bent forward and picked up from the bottom of the cart a long,
thick shaft, he took hold of one end with both hands and with an effort
brandished it over the mare.

“He’ll crush her,” was shouted round him. “He’ll kill her!”

“It’s my property,” shouted Mikolka and brought the shaft down with a
swinging blow. There was a sound of a heavy thud.

“Thrash her, thrash her! Why have you stopped?” shouted voices in the
crowd.

And Mikolka swung the shaft a second time and it fell a second time
on the spine of the luckless mare. She sank back on her haunches, but
lurched forward and tugged forward with all her force, tugged first on
one side and then on the other, trying to move the cart. But the six
whips were attacking her in all directions, and the shaft was raised
again and fell upon her a third time, then a fourth, with heavy measured
blows. Mikolka was in a fury that he could not kill her at one blow.

“She’s a tough one,” was shouted in the crowd.

“She’ll fall in a minute, mates, there will soon be an end of her,” said
an admiring spectator in the crowd.

“Fetch an axe to her! Finish her off,” shouted a third.

“I’ll show you! Stand off,” Mikolka screamed frantically; he threw down
the shaft, stooped down in the cart and picked up an iron crowbar. “Look
out,” he shouted, and with all his might he dealt a stunning blow at the
poor mare. The blow fell; the mare staggered, sank back, tried to pull,
but the bar fell again with a swinging blow on her back and she fell on
the ground like a log.

“Finish her off,” shouted Mikolka and he leapt beside himself, out of
the cart. Several young men, also flushed with drink, seized anything
they could come across--whips, sticks, poles, and ran to the dying
mare. Mikolka stood on one side and began dealing random blows with the
crowbar. The mare stretched out her head, drew a long breath and died.

“You butchered her,” someone shouted in the crowd.

“Why wouldn’t she gallop then?”

“My property!” shouted Mikolka, with bloodshot eyes, brandishing the bar
in his hands. He stood as though regretting that he had nothing more to
beat.

“No mistake about it, you are not a Christian,” many voices were
shouting in the crowd.

But the poor boy, beside himself, made his way, screaming, through the
crowd to the sorrel nag, put his arms round her bleeding dead head and
kissed it, kissed the eyes and kissed the lips.... Then he jumped up and
flew in a frenzy with his little fists out at Mikolka. At that instant
his father, who had been running after him, snatched him up and carried
him out of the crowd.

“Come along, come! Let us go home,” he said to him.

“Father! Why did they... kill... the poor horse!” he sobbed, but his
voice broke and the words came in shrieks from his panting chest.

“They are drunk.... They are brutal... it’s not our business!” said his
father. He put his arms round his father but he felt choked, choked. He
tried to draw a breath, to cry out--and woke up.

He waked up, gasping for breath, his hair soaked with perspiration, and
stood up in terror.

“Thank God, that was only a dream,” he said, sitting down under a tree
and drawing deep breaths. “But what is it? Is it some fever coming on?
Such a hideous dream!”

He felt utterly broken: darkness and confusion were in his soul. He
rested his elbows on his knees and leaned his head on his hands.

“Good God!” he cried, “can it be, can it be, that I shall really take an
axe, that I shall strike her on the head, split her skull open... that I
shall tread in the sticky warm blood, break the lock, steal and tremble;
hide, all spattered in the blood... with the axe.... Good God, can it
be?”

He was shaking like a leaf as he said this.

“But why am I going on like this?” he continued, sitting up again, as it
were in profound amazement. “I knew that I could never bring myself
to it, so what have I been torturing myself for till now? Yesterday,
yesterday, when I went to make that... _experiment_, yesterday I
realised completely that I could never bear to do it.... Why am I going
over it again, then? Why am I hesitating? As I came down the stairs
yesterday, I said myself that it was base, loathsome, vile, vile... the
very thought of it made me feel sick and filled me with horror.

“No, I couldn’t do it, I couldn’t do it! Granted, granted that there is
no flaw in all that reasoning, that all that I have concluded this last
month is clear as day, true as arithmetic.... My God! Anyway I couldn’t
bring myself to it! I couldn’t do it, I couldn’t do it! Why, why then am
I still...?”

the whip, bent forward and picked up from the bottom of the cart a long,

thick shaft, he took hold of one end with both hands and with an effort

brandished it over the mare.

“He’ll crush her,” was shouted round him. “He’ll kill her!”

“It’s my property,” shouted Mikolka and brought the shaft down with a

swinging blow. There was a sound of a heavy thud.

“Thrash her, thrash her! Why have you stopped?” shouted voices in the

crowd.

And Mikolka swung the shaft a second time and it fell a second time

on the spine of the luckless mare. She sank back on her haunches, but

lurched forward and tugged forward with all her force, tugged first on

one side and then on the other, trying to move the cart. But the six

whips were attacking her in all directions, and the shaft was raised

again and fell upon her a third time, then a fourth, with heavy measured

blows. Mikolka was in a fury that he could not kill her at one blow.

“She’s a tough one,” was shouted in the crowd.

“She’ll fall in a minute, mates, there will soon be an end of her,” said

an admiring spectator in the crowd.

“Fetch an axe to her! Finish her off,” shouted a third.

“I’ll show you! Stand off,” Mikolka screamed frantically; he threw down

the shaft, stooped down in the cart and picked up an iron crowbar. “Look

out,” he shouted, and with all his might he dealt a stunning blow at the

poor mare. The blow fell; the mare staggered, sank back, tried to pull,

but the bar fell again with a swinging blow on her back and she fell on

the ground like a log.

“Finish her off,” shouted Mikolka and he leapt beside himself, out of

the cart. Several young men, also flushed with drink, seized anything

they could come across--whips, sticks, poles, and ran to the dying

mare. Mikolka stood on one side and began dealing random blows with the

crowbar. The mare stretched out her head, drew a long breath and died.

“You butchered her,” someone shouted in the crowd.

“Why wouldn’t she gallop then?”

“My property!” shouted Mikolka, with bloodshot eyes, brandishing the bar

in his hands. He stood as though regretting that he had nothing more to

beat.

“No mistake about it, you are not a Christian,” many voices were

shouting in the crowd.

But the poor boy, beside himself, made his way, screaming, through the

crowd to the sorrel nag, put his arms round her bleeding dead head and

kissed it, kissed the eyes and kissed the lips.... Then he jumped up and

flew in a frenzy with his little fists out at Mikolka. At that instant

his father, who had been running after him, snatched him up and carried

him out of the crowd.

“Come along, come! Let us go home,” he said to him.

“Father! Why did they... kill... the poor horse!” he sobbed, but his

voice broke and the words came in shrieks from his panting chest.

“They are drunk.... They are brutal... it’s not our business!” said his

father. He put his arms round his father but he felt choked, choked. He

tried to draw a breath, to cry out--and woke up.

He waked up, gasping for breath, his hair soaked with perspiration, and

stood up in terror.

“Thank God, that was only a dream,” he said, sitting down under a tree

and drawing deep breaths. “But what is it? Is it some fever coming on?

Such a hideous dream!”

He felt utterly broken: darkness and confusion were in his soul. He

rested his elbows on his knees and leaned his head on his hands.

“Good God!” he cried, “can it be, can it be, that I shall really take an

axe, that I shall strike her on the head, split her skull open... that I

shall tread in the sticky warm blood, break the lock, steal and tremble;

hide, all spattered in the blood... with the axe.... Good God, can it

be?”

He was shaking like a leaf as he said this.

“But why am I going on like this?” he continued, sitting up again, as it

were in profound amazement. “I knew that I could never bring myself

to it, so what have I been torturing myself for till now? Yesterday,

yesterday, when I went to make that... _experiment_, yesterday I

realised completely that I could never bear to do it.... Why am I going

over it again, then? Why am I hesitating? As I came down the stairs

yesterday, I said myself that it was base, loathsome, vile, vile... the

very thought of it made me feel sick and filled me with horror.

“No, I couldn’t do it, I couldn’t do it! Granted, granted that there is

no flaw in all that reasoning, that all that I have concluded this last

month is clear as day, true as arithmetic.... My God! Anyway I couldn’t

bring myself to it! I couldn’t do it, I couldn’t do it! Why, why then am

I still...?”