community-datasets/crime_and_punish · Datasets at Hugging Face

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faintest conscience-prick,” the student added with warmth. The officer
laughed again while Raskolnikov shuddered. How strange it was!

“Listen, I want to ask you a serious question,” the student said hotly.
“I was joking of course, but look here; on one side we have a stupid,
senseless, worthless, spiteful, ailing, horrid old woman, not simply
useless but doing actual mischief, who has not an idea what she is
living for herself, and who will die in a day or two in any case. You
understand? You understand?”

“Yes, yes, I understand,” answered the officer, watching his excited
companion attentively.

“Well, listen then. On the other side, fresh young lives thrown away for
want of help and by thousands, on every side! A hundred thousand good
deeds could be done and helped, on that old woman’s money which will be
buried in a monastery! Hundreds, thousands perhaps, might be set on the
right path; dozens of families saved from destitution, from ruin, from
vice, from the Lock hospitals--and all with her money. Kill her, take
her money and with the help of it devote oneself to the service of
humanity and the good of all. What do you think, would not one tiny
crime be wiped out by thousands of good deeds? For one life thousands
would be saved from corruption and decay. One death, and a hundred lives
in exchange--it’s simple arithmetic! Besides, what value has the life of
that sickly, stupid, ill-natured old woman in the balance of existence!
No more than the life of a louse, of a black-beetle, less in fact
because the old woman is doing harm. She is wearing out the lives of
others; the other day she bit Lizaveta’s finger out of spite; it almost
had to be amputated.”

“Of course she does not deserve to live,” remarked the officer, “but
there it is, it’s nature.”

“Oh, well, brother, but we have to correct and direct nature, and, but
for that, we should drown in an ocean of prejudice. But for that,
there would never have been a single great man. They talk of
duty, conscience--I don’t want to say anything against duty and
conscience;--but the point is, what do we mean by them? Stay, I have
another question to ask you. Listen!”

“No, you stay, I’ll ask you a question. Listen!”

“Well?”

“You are talking and speechifying away, but tell me, would you kill the
old woman _yourself_?”

“Of course not! I was only arguing the justice of it.... It’s nothing to
do with me....”

“But I think, if you would not do it yourself, there’s no justice about
it.... Let us have another game.”

Raskolnikov was violently agitated. Of course, it was all ordinary
youthful talk and thought, such as he had often heard before in
different forms and on different themes. But why had he happened to hear
such a discussion and such ideas at the very moment when his own brain
was just conceiving... _the very same ideas_? And why, just at the
moment when he had brought away the embryo of his idea from the old
woman had he dropped at once upon a conversation about her? This
coincidence always seemed strange to him. This trivial talk in a tavern
had an immense influence on him in his later action; as though there had
really been in it something preordained, some guiding hint....

*****

On returning from the Hay Market he flung himself on the sofa and sat
for a whole hour without stirring. Meanwhile it got dark; he had no
candle and, indeed, it did not occur to him to light up. He could never
recollect whether he had been thinking about anything at that time. At
last he was conscious of his former fever and shivering, and he realised
with relief that he could lie down on the sofa. Soon heavy, leaden sleep
came over him, as it were crushing him.

He slept an extraordinarily long time and without dreaming. Nastasya,
coming into his room at ten o’clock the next morning, had difficulty
in rousing him. She brought him in tea and bread. The tea was again the
second brew and again in her own tea-pot.

“My goodness, how he sleeps!” she cried indignantly. “And he is always
asleep.”

He got up with an effort. His head ached, he stood up, took a turn in
his garret and sank back on the sofa again.

“Going to sleep again,” cried Nastasya. “Are you ill, eh?”

He made no reply.

“Do you want some tea?”

“Afterwards,” he said with an effort, closing his eyes again and turning
to the wall.

Nastasya stood over him.

“Perhaps he really is ill,” she said, turned and went out. She came in
again at two o’clock with soup. He was lying as before. The tea stood
untouched. Nastasya felt positively offended and began wrathfully
rousing him.

faintest conscience-prick,” the student added with warmth. The officer

laughed again while Raskolnikov shuddered. How strange it was!

“Listen, I want to ask you a serious question,” the student said hotly.

“I was joking of course, but look here; on one side we have a stupid,

senseless, worthless, spiteful, ailing, horrid old woman, not simply

useless but doing actual mischief, who has not an idea what she is

living for herself, and who will die in a day or two in any case. You

understand? You understand?”

“Yes, yes, I understand,” answered the officer, watching his excited

companion attentively.

“Well, listen then. On the other side, fresh young lives thrown away for

want of help and by thousands, on every side! A hundred thousand good

deeds could be done and helped, on that old woman’s money which will be

buried in a monastery! Hundreds, thousands perhaps, might be set on the

right path; dozens of families saved from destitution, from ruin, from

vice, from the Lock hospitals--and all with her money. Kill her, take

her money and with the help of it devote oneself to the service of

humanity and the good of all. What do you think, would not one tiny

crime be wiped out by thousands of good deeds? For one life thousands

would be saved from corruption and decay. One death, and a hundred lives

in exchange--it’s simple arithmetic! Besides, what value has the life of

that sickly, stupid, ill-natured old woman in the balance of existence!

No more than the life of a louse, of a black-beetle, less in fact

because the old woman is doing harm. She is wearing out the lives of

others; the other day she bit Lizaveta’s finger out of spite; it almost

had to be amputated.”

“Of course she does not deserve to live,” remarked the officer, “but

there it is, it’s nature.”

“Oh, well, brother, but we have to correct and direct nature, and, but

for that, we should drown in an ocean of prejudice. But for that,

there would never have been a single great man. They talk of

duty, conscience--I don’t want to say anything against duty and

conscience;--but the point is, what do we mean by them? Stay, I have

another question to ask you. Listen!”

“No, you stay, I’ll ask you a question. Listen!”

“Well?”

“You are talking and speechifying away, but tell me, would you kill the

old woman _yourself_?”

“Of course not! I was only arguing the justice of it.... It’s nothing to

do with me....”

“But I think, if you would not do it yourself, there’s no justice about

it.... Let us have another game.”

Raskolnikov was violently agitated. Of course, it was all ordinary

youthful talk and thought, such as he had often heard before in

different forms and on different themes. But why had he happened to hear

such a discussion and such ideas at the very moment when his own brain

was just conceiving... _the very same ideas_? And why, just at the

moment when he had brought away the embryo of his idea from the old

woman had he dropped at once upon a conversation about her? This

coincidence always seemed strange to him. This trivial talk in a tavern

had an immense influence on him in his later action; as though there had

really been in it something preordained, some guiding hint....

*****

On returning from the Hay Market he flung himself on the sofa and sat

for a whole hour without stirring. Meanwhile it got dark; he had no

candle and, indeed, it did not occur to him to light up. He could never

recollect whether he had been thinking about anything at that time. At

last he was conscious of his former fever and shivering, and he realised

with relief that he could lie down on the sofa. Soon heavy, leaden sleep

came over him, as it were crushing him.

He slept an extraordinarily long time and without dreaming. Nastasya,

coming into his room at ten o’clock the next morning, had difficulty

in rousing him. She brought him in tea and bread. The tea was again the

second brew and again in her own tea-pot.

“My goodness, how he sleeps!” she cried indignantly. “And he is always

asleep.”

He got up with an effort. His head ached, he stood up, took a turn in

his garret and sank back on the sofa again.

“Going to sleep again,” cried Nastasya. “Are you ill, eh?”

He made no reply.

“Do you want some tea?”

“Afterwards,” he said with an effort, closing his eyes again and turning

to the wall.

Nastasya stood over him.

“Perhaps he really is ill,” she said, turned and went out. She came in

again at two o’clock with soup. He was lying as before. The tea stood

untouched. Nastasya felt positively offended and began wrathfully

rousing him.