community-datasets/crime_and_punish · Datasets at Hugging Face

line stringlengths 2 76
While they were knocking and talking together, the idea several times
occurred to him to end it all at once and shout to them through the
door. Now and then he was tempted to swear at them, to jeer at them,
while they could not open the door! “Only make haste!” was the thought
that flashed through his mind.

“But what the devil is he about?...” Time was passing, one minute, and
another--no one came. Koch began to be restless.

“What the devil?” he cried suddenly and in impatience deserting his
sentry duty, he, too, went down, hurrying and thumping with his heavy
boots on the stairs. The steps died away.

“Good heavens! What am I to do?”

Raskolnikov unfastened the hook, opened the door--there was no sound.
Abruptly, without any thought at all, he went out, closing the door as
thoroughly as he could, and went downstairs.

He had gone down three flights when he suddenly heard a loud voice
below--where could he go! There was nowhere to hide. He was just going
back to the flat.

“Hey there! Catch the brute!”

Somebody dashed out of a flat below, shouting, and rather fell than ran
down the stairs, bawling at the top of his voice.

“Mitka! Mitka! Mitka! Mitka! Mitka! Blast him!”

The shout ended in a shriek; the last sounds came from the yard; all was
still. But at the same instant several men talking loud and fast began
noisily mounting the stairs. There were three or four of them. He
distinguished the ringing voice of the young man. “Hey!”

Filled with despair he went straight to meet them, feeling “come what
must!” If they stopped him--all was lost; if they let him pass--all was
lost too; they would remember him. They were approaching; they were only
a flight from him--and suddenly deliverance! A few steps from him on the
right, there was an empty flat with the door wide open, the flat on the
second floor where the painters had been at work, and which, as though
for his benefit, they had just left. It was they, no doubt, who had just
run down, shouting. The floor had only just been painted, in the middle
of the room stood a pail and a broken pot with paint and brushes. In one
instant he had whisked in at the open door and hidden behind the wall
and only in the nick of time; they had already reached the landing.
Then they turned and went on up to the fourth floor, talking loudly. He
waited, went out on tiptoe and ran down the stairs.

No one was on the stairs, nor in the gateway. He passed quickly through
the gateway and turned to the left in the street.

He knew, he knew perfectly well that at that moment they were at the
flat, that they were greatly astonished at finding it unlocked, as
the door had just been fastened, that by now they were looking at the
bodies, that before another minute had passed they would guess and
completely realise that the murderer had just been there, and had
succeeded in hiding somewhere, slipping by them and escaping. They would
guess most likely that he had been in the empty flat, while they were
going upstairs. And meanwhile he dared not quicken his pace much, though
the next turning was still nearly a hundred yards away. “Should he
slip through some gateway and wait somewhere in an unknown street? No,
hopeless! Should he fling away the axe? Should he take a cab? Hopeless,
hopeless!”

At last he reached the turning. He turned down it more dead than alive.
Here he was half way to safety, and he understood it; it was less risky
because there was a great crowd of people, and he was lost in it like a
grain of sand. But all he had suffered had so weakened him that he could
scarcely move. Perspiration ran down him in drops, his neck was all wet.
“My word, he has been going it!” someone shouted at him when he came out
on the canal bank.

He was only dimly conscious of himself now, and the farther he went the
worse it was. He remembered however, that on coming out on to the canal
bank, he was alarmed at finding few people there and so being more
conspicuous, and he had thought of turning back. Though he was almost
falling from fatigue, he went a long way round so as to get home from
quite a different direction.

He was not fully conscious when he passed through the gateway of his
house! He was already on the staircase before he recollected the axe.
And yet he had a very grave problem before him, to put it back and to
escape observation as far as possible in doing so. He was of course
incapable of reflecting that it might perhaps be far better not to
restore the axe at all, but to drop it later on in somebody’s yard. But
it all happened fortunately, the door of the porter’s room was closed
but not locked, so that it seemed most likely that the porter was at
home. But he had so completely lost all power of reflection that he
walked straight to the door and opened it. If the porter had asked him,
“What do you want?” he would perhaps have simply handed him the axe. But
again the porter was not at home, and he succeeded in putting the axe
back under the bench, and even covering it with the chunk of wood as
before. He met no one, not a soul, afterwards on the way to his room;
the landlady’s door was shut. When he was in his room, he flung himself
on the sofa just as he was--he did not sleep, but sank into blank
forgetfulness. If anyone had come into his room then, he would have
jumped up at once and screamed. Scraps and shreds of thoughts were
simply swarming in his brain, but he could not catch at one, he could
not rest on one, in spite of all his efforts....

While they were knocking and talking together, the idea several times

occurred to him to end it all at once and shout to them through the

door. Now and then he was tempted to swear at them, to jeer at them,

while they could not open the door! “Only make haste!” was the thought

that flashed through his mind.

“But what the devil is he about?...” Time was passing, one minute, and

another--no one came. Koch began to be restless.

“What the devil?” he cried suddenly and in impatience deserting his

sentry duty, he, too, went down, hurrying and thumping with his heavy

boots on the stairs. The steps died away.

“Good heavens! What am I to do?”

Raskolnikov unfastened the hook, opened the door--there was no sound.

Abruptly, without any thought at all, he went out, closing the door as

thoroughly as he could, and went downstairs.

He had gone down three flights when he suddenly heard a loud voice

below--where could he go! There was nowhere to hide. He was just going

back to the flat.

“Hey there! Catch the brute!”

Somebody dashed out of a flat below, shouting, and rather fell than ran

down the stairs, bawling at the top of his voice.

“Mitka! Mitka! Mitka! Mitka! Mitka! Blast him!”

The shout ended in a shriek; the last sounds came from the yard; all was

still. But at the same instant several men talking loud and fast began

noisily mounting the stairs. There were three or four of them. He

distinguished the ringing voice of the young man. “Hey!”

Filled with despair he went straight to meet them, feeling “come what

must!” If they stopped him--all was lost; if they let him pass--all was

lost too; they would remember him. They were approaching; they were only

a flight from him--and suddenly deliverance! A few steps from him on the

right, there was an empty flat with the door wide open, the flat on the

second floor where the painters had been at work, and which, as though

for his benefit, they had just left. It was they, no doubt, who had just

run down, shouting. The floor had only just been painted, in the middle

of the room stood a pail and a broken pot with paint and brushes. In one

instant he had whisked in at the open door and hidden behind the wall

and only in the nick of time; they had already reached the landing.

Then they turned and went on up to the fourth floor, talking loudly. He

waited, went out on tiptoe and ran down the stairs.

No one was on the stairs, nor in the gateway. He passed quickly through

the gateway and turned to the left in the street.

He knew, he knew perfectly well that at that moment they were at the

flat, that they were greatly astonished at finding it unlocked, as

the door had just been fastened, that by now they were looking at the

bodies, that before another minute had passed they would guess and

completely realise that the murderer had just been there, and had

succeeded in hiding somewhere, slipping by them and escaping. They would

guess most likely that he had been in the empty flat, while they were

going upstairs. And meanwhile he dared not quicken his pace much, though

the next turning was still nearly a hundred yards away. “Should he

slip through some gateway and wait somewhere in an unknown street? No,

hopeless! Should he fling away the axe? Should he take a cab? Hopeless,

hopeless!”

At last he reached the turning. He turned down it more dead than alive.

Here he was half way to safety, and he understood it; it was less risky

because there was a great crowd of people, and he was lost in it like a

grain of sand. But all he had suffered had so weakened him that he could

scarcely move. Perspiration ran down him in drops, his neck was all wet.

“My word, he has been going it!” someone shouted at him when he came out

on the canal bank.

He was only dimly conscious of himself now, and the farther he went the

worse it was. He remembered however, that on coming out on to the canal

bank, he was alarmed at finding few people there and so being more

conspicuous, and he had thought of turning back. Though he was almost

falling from fatigue, he went a long way round so as to get home from

quite a different direction.

He was not fully conscious when he passed through the gateway of his

house! He was already on the staircase before he recollected the axe.

And yet he had a very grave problem before him, to put it back and to

escape observation as far as possible in doing so. He was of course

incapable of reflecting that it might perhaps be far better not to

restore the axe at all, but to drop it later on in somebody’s yard. But

it all happened fortunately, the door of the porter’s room was closed

but not locked, so that it seemed most likely that the porter was at

home. But he had so completely lost all power of reflection that he

walked straight to the door and opened it. If the porter had asked him,

“What do you want?” he would perhaps have simply handed him the axe. But

again the porter was not at home, and he succeeded in putting the axe

back under the bench, and even covering it with the chunk of wood as

before. He met no one, not a soul, afterwards on the way to his room;

the landlady’s door was shut. When he was in his room, he flung himself

on the sofa just as he was--he did not sleep, but sank into blank

forgetfulness. If anyone had come into his room then, he would have

jumped up at once and screamed. Scraps and shreds of thoughts were

simply swarming in his brain, but he could not catch at one, he could

not rest on one, in spite of all his efforts....