community-datasets/crime_and_punish · Datasets at Hugging Face

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hands were still trembling. He remembered afterwards that he had been
particularly collected and careful, trying all the time not to get
smeared with blood.... He pulled out the keys at once, they were all,
as before, in one bunch on a steel ring. He ran at once into the bedroom
with them. It was a very small room with a whole shrine of holy images.
Against the other wall stood a big bed, very clean and covered with
a silk patchwork wadded quilt. Against a third wall was a chest of
drawers. Strange to say, so soon as he began to fit the keys into the
chest, so soon as he heard their jingling, a convulsive shudder passed
over him. He suddenly felt tempted again to give it all up and go
away. But that was only for an instant; it was too late to go back.
He positively smiled at himself, when suddenly another terrifying idea
occurred to his mind. He suddenly fancied that the old woman might be
still alive and might recover her senses. Leaving the keys in the chest,
he ran back to the body, snatched up the axe and lifted it once more
over the old woman, but did not bring it down. There was no doubt that
she was dead. Bending down and examining her again more closely, he saw
clearly that the skull was broken and even battered in on one side. He
was about to feel it with his finger, but drew back his hand and indeed
it was evident without that. Meanwhile there was a perfect pool of
blood. All at once he noticed a string on her neck; he tugged at it, but
the string was strong and did not snap and besides, it was soaked
with blood. He tried to pull it out from the front of the dress, but
something held it and prevented its coming. In his impatience he raised
the axe again to cut the string from above on the body, but did not
dare, and with difficulty, smearing his hand and the axe in the blood,
after two minutes’ hurried effort, he cut the string and took it off
without touching the body with the axe; he was not mistaken--it was a
purse. On the string were two crosses, one of Cyprus wood and one of
copper, and an image in silver filigree, and with them a small greasy
chamois leather purse with a steel rim and ring. The purse was stuffed
very full; Raskolnikov thrust it in his pocket without looking at it,
flung the crosses on the old woman’s body and rushed back into the
bedroom, this time taking the axe with him.

He was in terrible haste, he snatched the keys, and began trying them
again. But he was unsuccessful. They would not fit in the locks. It
was not so much that his hands were shaking, but that he kept making
mistakes; though he saw for instance that a key was not the right one
and would not fit, still he tried to put it in. Suddenly he remembered
and realised that the big key with the deep notches, which was hanging
there with the small keys could not possibly belong to the chest of
drawers (on his last visit this had struck him), but to some strong box,
and that everything perhaps was hidden in that box. He left the chest
of drawers, and at once felt under the bedstead, knowing that old
women usually keep boxes under their beds. And so it was; there was a
good-sized box under the bed, at least a yard in length, with an arched
lid covered with red leather and studded with steel nails. The notched
key fitted at once and unlocked it. At the top, under a white sheet, was
a coat of red brocade lined with hareskin; under it was a silk dress,
then a shawl and it seemed as though there was nothing below but
clothes. The first thing he did was to wipe his blood-stained hands on
the red brocade. “It’s red, and on red blood will be less noticeable,”
the thought passed through his mind; then he suddenly came to himself.
“Good God, am I going out of my senses?” he thought with terror.

But no sooner did he touch the clothes than a gold watch slipped from
under the fur coat. He made haste to turn them all over. There turned
out to be various articles made of gold among the clothes--probably
all pledges, unredeemed or waiting to be redeemed--bracelets, chains,
ear-rings, pins and such things. Some were in cases, others simply
wrapped in newspaper, carefully and exactly folded, and tied round with
tape. Without any delay, he began filling up the pockets of his trousers
and overcoat without examining or undoing the parcels and cases; but he
had not time to take many....

He suddenly heard steps in the room where the old woman lay. He stopped
short and was still as death. But all was quiet, so it must have been
his fancy. All at once he heard distinctly a faint cry, as though
someone had uttered a low broken moan. Then again dead silence for
a minute or two. He sat squatting on his heels by the box and waited
holding his breath. Suddenly he jumped up, seized the axe and ran out of
the bedroom.

In the middle of the room stood Lizaveta with a big bundle in her arms.
She was gazing in stupefaction at her murdered sister, white as a sheet
and seeming not to have the strength to cry out. Seeing him run out
of the bedroom, she began faintly quivering all over, like a leaf, a
shudder ran down her face; she lifted her hand, opened her mouth, but
still did not scream. She began slowly backing away from him into the
corner, staring intently, persistently at him, but still uttered no
sound, as though she could not get breath to scream. He rushed at her
with the axe; her mouth twitched piteously, as one sees babies’ mouths,
when they begin to be frightened, stare intently at what frightens them
and are on the point of screaming. And this hapless Lizaveta was so
simple and had been so thoroughly crushed and scared that she did not
even raise a hand to guard her face, though that was the most necessary
and natural action at the moment, for the axe was raised over her face.
She only put up her empty left hand, but not to her face, slowly holding
it out before her as though motioning him away. The axe fell with the
sharp edge just on the skull and split at one blow all the top of the
head. She fell heavily at once. Raskolnikov completely lost his head,
snatching up her bundle, dropped it again and ran into the entry.

Fear gained more and more mastery over him, especially after this
second, quite unexpected murder. He longed to run away from the place
as fast as possible. And if at that moment he had been capable of seeing
and reasoning more correctly, if he had been able to realise all the
difficulties of his position, the hopelessness, the hideousness and the
absurdity of it, if he could have understood how many obstacles and,

hands were still trembling. He remembered afterwards that he had been

particularly collected and careful, trying all the time not to get

smeared with blood.... He pulled out the keys at once, they were all,

as before, in one bunch on a steel ring. He ran at once into the bedroom

with them. It was a very small room with a whole shrine of holy images.

Against the other wall stood a big bed, very clean and covered with

a silk patchwork wadded quilt. Against a third wall was a chest of

drawers. Strange to say, so soon as he began to fit the keys into the

chest, so soon as he heard their jingling, a convulsive shudder passed

over him. He suddenly felt tempted again to give it all up and go

away. But that was only for an instant; it was too late to go back.

He positively smiled at himself, when suddenly another terrifying idea

occurred to his mind. He suddenly fancied that the old woman might be

still alive and might recover her senses. Leaving the keys in the chest,

he ran back to the body, snatched up the axe and lifted it once more

over the old woman, but did not bring it down. There was no doubt that

she was dead. Bending down and examining her again more closely, he saw

clearly that the skull was broken and even battered in on one side. He

was about to feel it with his finger, but drew back his hand and indeed

it was evident without that. Meanwhile there was a perfect pool of

blood. All at once he noticed a string on her neck; he tugged at it, but

the string was strong and did not snap and besides, it was soaked

with blood. He tried to pull it out from the front of the dress, but

something held it and prevented its coming. In his impatience he raised

the axe again to cut the string from above on the body, but did not

dare, and with difficulty, smearing his hand and the axe in the blood,

after two minutes’ hurried effort, he cut the string and took it off

without touching the body with the axe; he was not mistaken--it was a

purse. On the string were two crosses, one of Cyprus wood and one of

copper, and an image in silver filigree, and with them a small greasy

chamois leather purse with a steel rim and ring. The purse was stuffed

very full; Raskolnikov thrust it in his pocket without looking at it,

flung the crosses on the old woman’s body and rushed back into the

bedroom, this time taking the axe with him.

He was in terrible haste, he snatched the keys, and began trying them

again. But he was unsuccessful. They would not fit in the locks. It

was not so much that his hands were shaking, but that he kept making

mistakes; though he saw for instance that a key was not the right one

and would not fit, still he tried to put it in. Suddenly he remembered

and realised that the big key with the deep notches, which was hanging

there with the small keys could not possibly belong to the chest of

drawers (on his last visit this had struck him), but to some strong box,

and that everything perhaps was hidden in that box. He left the chest

of drawers, and at once felt under the bedstead, knowing that old

women usually keep boxes under their beds. And so it was; there was a

good-sized box under the bed, at least a yard in length, with an arched

lid covered with red leather and studded with steel nails. The notched

key fitted at once and unlocked it. At the top, under a white sheet, was

a coat of red brocade lined with hareskin; under it was a silk dress,

then a shawl and it seemed as though there was nothing below but

clothes. The first thing he did was to wipe his blood-stained hands on

the red brocade. “It’s red, and on red blood will be less noticeable,”

the thought passed through his mind; then he suddenly came to himself.

“Good God, am I going out of my senses?” he thought with terror.

But no sooner did he touch the clothes than a gold watch slipped from

under the fur coat. He made haste to turn them all over. There turned

out to be various articles made of gold among the clothes--probably

all pledges, unredeemed or waiting to be redeemed--bracelets, chains,

ear-rings, pins and such things. Some were in cases, others simply

wrapped in newspaper, carefully and exactly folded, and tied round with

tape. Without any delay, he began filling up the pockets of his trousers

and overcoat without examining or undoing the parcels and cases; but he

had not time to take many....

He suddenly heard steps in the room where the old woman lay. He stopped

short and was still as death. But all was quiet, so it must have been

his fancy. All at once he heard distinctly a faint cry, as though

someone had uttered a low broken moan. Then again dead silence for

a minute or two. He sat squatting on his heels by the box and waited

holding his breath. Suddenly he jumped up, seized the axe and ran out of

the bedroom.

In the middle of the room stood Lizaveta with a big bundle in her arms.

She was gazing in stupefaction at her murdered sister, white as a sheet

and seeming not to have the strength to cry out. Seeing him run out

of the bedroom, she began faintly quivering all over, like a leaf, a

shudder ran down her face; she lifted her hand, opened her mouth, but

still did not scream. She began slowly backing away from him into the

corner, staring intently, persistently at him, but still uttered no

sound, as though she could not get breath to scream. He rushed at her

with the axe; her mouth twitched piteously, as one sees babies’ mouths,

when they begin to be frightened, stare intently at what frightens them

and are on the point of screaming. And this hapless Lizaveta was so

simple and had been so thoroughly crushed and scared that she did not

even raise a hand to guard her face, though that was the most necessary

and natural action at the moment, for the axe was raised over her face.

She only put up her empty left hand, but not to her face, slowly holding

it out before her as though motioning him away. The axe fell with the

sharp edge just on the skull and split at one blow all the top of the

head. She fell heavily at once. Raskolnikov completely lost his head,

snatching up her bundle, dropped it again and ran into the entry.

Fear gained more and more mastery over him, especially after this

second, quite unexpected murder. He longed to run away from the place

as fast as possible. And if at that moment he had been capable of seeing

and reasoning more correctly, if he had been able to realise all the

difficulties of his position, the hopelessness, the hideousness and the

absurdity of it, if he could have understood how many obstacles and,