community-datasets/crime_and_punish · Datasets at Hugging Face

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perhaps, crimes he had still to overcome or to commit, to get out of
that place and to make his way home, it is very possible that he would
have flung up everything, and would have gone to give himself up, and
not from fear, but from simple horror and loathing of what he had
done. The feeling of loathing especially surged up within him and grew
stronger every minute. He would not now have gone to the box or even
into the room for anything in the world.

But a sort of blankness, even dreaminess, had begun by degrees to take
possession of him; at moments he forgot himself, or rather, forgot what
was of importance, and caught at trifles. Glancing, however, into the
kitchen and seeing a bucket half full of water on a bench, he bethought
him of washing his hands and the axe. His hands were sticky with blood.
He dropped the axe with the blade in the water, snatched a piece of soap
that lay in a broken saucer on the window, and began washing his hands
in the bucket. When they were clean, he took out the axe, washed the
blade and spent a long time, about three minutes, washing the wood where
there were spots of blood rubbing them with soap. Then he wiped it all
with some linen that was hanging to dry on a line in the kitchen and
then he was a long while attentively examining the axe at the window.
There was no trace left on it, only the wood was still damp. He
carefully hung the axe in the noose under his coat. Then as far as was
possible, in the dim light in the kitchen, he looked over his overcoat,
his trousers and his boots. At the first glance there seemed to be
nothing but stains on the boots. He wetted the rag and rubbed the boots.
But he knew he was not looking thoroughly, that there might be something
quite noticeable that he was overlooking. He stood in the middle of the
room, lost in thought. Dark agonising ideas rose in his mind--the idea
that he was mad and that at that moment he was incapable of reasoning,
of protecting himself, that he ought perhaps to be doing something
utterly different from what he was now doing. “Good God!” he muttered “I
must fly, fly,” and he rushed into the entry. But here a shock of terror
awaited him such as he had never known before.

He stood and gazed and could not believe his eyes: the door, the outer
door from the stairs, at which he had not long before waited and rung,
was standing unfastened and at least six inches open. No lock, no bolt,
all the time, all that time! The old woman had not shut it after him
perhaps as a precaution. But, good God! Why, he had seen Lizaveta
afterwards! And how could he, how could he have failed to reflect that
she must have come in somehow! She could not have come through the wall!

He dashed to the door and fastened the latch.

“But no, the wrong thing again! I must get away, get away....”

He unfastened the latch, opened the door and began listening on the
staircase.

He listened a long time. Somewhere far away, it might be in the gateway,
two voices were loudly and shrilly shouting, quarrelling and scolding.
“What are they about?” He waited patiently. At last all was still, as
though suddenly cut off; they had separated. He was meaning to go out,
but suddenly, on the floor below, a door was noisily opened and someone
began going downstairs humming a tune. “How is it they all make such
a noise?” flashed through his mind. Once more he closed the door and
waited. At last all was still, not a soul stirring. He was just taking a
step towards the stairs when he heard fresh footsteps.

The steps sounded very far off, at the very bottom of the stairs, but
he remembered quite clearly and distinctly that from the first sound he
began for some reason to suspect that this was someone coming _there_,
to the fourth floor, to the old woman. Why? Were the sounds somehow
peculiar, significant? The steps were heavy, even and unhurried. Now
_he_ had passed the first floor, now he was mounting higher, it was
growing more and more distinct! He could hear his heavy breathing. And
now the third storey had been reached. Coming here! And it seemed to
him all at once that he was turned to stone, that it was like a dream
in which one is being pursued, nearly caught and will be killed, and is
rooted to the spot and cannot even move one’s arms.

At last when the unknown was mounting to the fourth floor, he suddenly
started, and succeeded in slipping neatly and quickly back into the
flat and closing the door behind him. Then he took the hook and softly,
noiselessly, fixed it in the catch. Instinct helped him. When he had
done this, he crouched holding his breath, by the door. The unknown
visitor was by now also at the door. They were now standing opposite one
another, as he had just before been standing with the old woman, when
the door divided them and he was listening.

The visitor panted several times. “He must be a big, fat man,” thought
Raskolnikov, squeezing the axe in his hand. It seemed like a dream
indeed. The visitor took hold of the bell and rang it loudly.

As soon as the tin bell tinkled, Raskolnikov seemed to be aware of
something moving in the room. For some seconds he listened quite
seriously. The unknown rang again, waited and suddenly tugged violently
and impatiently at the handle of the door. Raskolnikov gazed in horror
at the hook shaking in its fastening, and in blank terror expected every
minute that the fastening would be pulled out. It certainly did seem
possible, so violently was he shaking it. He was tempted to hold the
fastening, but _he_ might be aware of it. A giddiness came over him
again. “I shall fall down!” flashed through his mind, but the unknown
began to speak and he recovered himself at once.

“What’s up? Are they asleep or murdered? D-damn them!” he bawled in a
thick voice, “Hey, Alyona Ivanovna, old witch! Lizaveta Ivanovna, hey,
my beauty! open the door! Oh, damn them! Are they asleep or what?”

And again, enraged, he tugged with all his might a dozen times at

perhaps, crimes he had still to overcome or to commit, to get out of

that place and to make his way home, it is very possible that he would

have flung up everything, and would have gone to give himself up, and

not from fear, but from simple horror and loathing of what he had

done. The feeling of loathing especially surged up within him and grew

stronger every minute. He would not now have gone to the box or even

into the room for anything in the world.

But a sort of blankness, even dreaminess, had begun by degrees to take

possession of him; at moments he forgot himself, or rather, forgot what

was of importance, and caught at trifles. Glancing, however, into the

kitchen and seeing a bucket half full of water on a bench, he bethought

him of washing his hands and the axe. His hands were sticky with blood.

He dropped the axe with the blade in the water, snatched a piece of soap

that lay in a broken saucer on the window, and began washing his hands

in the bucket. When they were clean, he took out the axe, washed the

blade and spent a long time, about three minutes, washing the wood where

there were spots of blood rubbing them with soap. Then he wiped it all

with some linen that was hanging to dry on a line in the kitchen and

then he was a long while attentively examining the axe at the window.

There was no trace left on it, only the wood was still damp. He

carefully hung the axe in the noose under his coat. Then as far as was

possible, in the dim light in the kitchen, he looked over his overcoat,

his trousers and his boots. At the first glance there seemed to be

nothing but stains on the boots. He wetted the rag and rubbed the boots.

But he knew he was not looking thoroughly, that there might be something

quite noticeable that he was overlooking. He stood in the middle of the

room, lost in thought. Dark agonising ideas rose in his mind--the idea

that he was mad and that at that moment he was incapable of reasoning,

of protecting himself, that he ought perhaps to be doing something

utterly different from what he was now doing. “Good God!” he muttered “I

must fly, fly,” and he rushed into the entry. But here a shock of terror

awaited him such as he had never known before.

He stood and gazed and could not believe his eyes: the door, the outer

door from the stairs, at which he had not long before waited and rung,

was standing unfastened and at least six inches open. No lock, no bolt,

all the time, all that time! The old woman had not shut it after him

perhaps as a precaution. But, good God! Why, he had seen Lizaveta

afterwards! And how could he, how could he have failed to reflect that

she must have come in somehow! She could not have come through the wall!

He dashed to the door and fastened the latch.

“But no, the wrong thing again! I must get away, get away....”

He unfastened the latch, opened the door and began listening on the

staircase.

He listened a long time. Somewhere far away, it might be in the gateway,

two voices were loudly and shrilly shouting, quarrelling and scolding.

“What are they about?” He waited patiently. At last all was still, as

though suddenly cut off; they had separated. He was meaning to go out,

but suddenly, on the floor below, a door was noisily opened and someone

began going downstairs humming a tune. “How is it they all make such

a noise?” flashed through his mind. Once more he closed the door and

waited. At last all was still, not a soul stirring. He was just taking a

step towards the stairs when he heard fresh footsteps.

The steps sounded very far off, at the very bottom of the stairs, but

he remembered quite clearly and distinctly that from the first sound he

began for some reason to suspect that this was someone coming _there_,

to the fourth floor, to the old woman. Why? Were the sounds somehow

peculiar, significant? The steps were heavy, even and unhurried. Now

_he_ had passed the first floor, now he was mounting higher, it was

growing more and more distinct! He could hear his heavy breathing. And

now the third storey had been reached. Coming here! And it seemed to

him all at once that he was turned to stone, that it was like a dream

in which one is being pursued, nearly caught and will be killed, and is

rooted to the spot and cannot even move one’s arms.

At last when the unknown was mounting to the fourth floor, he suddenly

started, and succeeded in slipping neatly and quickly back into the

flat and closing the door behind him. Then he took the hook and softly,

noiselessly, fixed it in the catch. Instinct helped him. When he had

done this, he crouched holding his breath, by the door. The unknown

visitor was by now also at the door. They were now standing opposite one

another, as he had just before been standing with the old woman, when

the door divided them and he was listening.

The visitor panted several times. “He must be a big, fat man,” thought

Raskolnikov, squeezing the axe in his hand. It seemed like a dream

indeed. The visitor took hold of the bell and rang it loudly.

As soon as the tin bell tinkled, Raskolnikov seemed to be aware of

something moving in the room. For some seconds he listened quite

seriously. The unknown rang again, waited and suddenly tugged violently

and impatiently at the handle of the door. Raskolnikov gazed in horror

at the hook shaking in its fastening, and in blank terror expected every

minute that the fastening would be pulled out. It certainly did seem

possible, so violently was he shaking it. He was tempted to hold the

fastening, but _he_ might be aware of it. A giddiness came over him

again. “I shall fall down!” flashed through his mind, but the unknown

began to speak and he recovered himself at once.

“What’s up? Are they asleep or murdered? D-damn them!” he bawled in a

thick voice, “Hey, Alyona Ivanovna, old witch! Lizaveta Ivanovna, hey,

my beauty! open the door! Oh, damn them! Are they asleep or what?”

And again, enraged, he tugged with all his might a dozen times at