community-datasets/crime_and_punish · Datasets at Hugging Face

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The frayed rags he had cut off his trousers were actually lying on the
floor in the middle of the room, where anyone coming in would see them!

“What is the matter with me!” he cried again, like one distraught.

Then a strange idea entered his head; that, perhaps, all his clothes
were covered with blood, that, perhaps, there were a great many
stains, but that he did not see them, did not notice them because
his perceptions were failing, were going to pieces... his reason was
clouded.... Suddenly he remembered that there had been blood on the
purse too. “Ah! Then there must be blood on the pocket too, for I put
the wet purse in my pocket!”

In a flash he had turned the pocket inside out and, yes!--there were
traces, stains on the lining of the pocket!

“So my reason has not quite deserted me, so I still have some sense and
memory, since I guessed it of myself,” he thought triumphantly, with
a deep sigh of relief; “it’s simply the weakness of fever, a moment’s
delirium,” and he tore the whole lining out of the left pocket of his
trousers. At that instant the sunlight fell on his left boot; on the
sock which poked out from the boot, he fancied there were traces! He
flung off his boots; “traces indeed! The tip of the sock was soaked with
blood;” he must have unwarily stepped into that pool.... “But what am I
to do with this now? Where am I to put the sock and rags and pocket?”

He gathered them all up in his hands and stood in the middle of the
room.

“In the stove? But they would ransack the stove first of all. Burn them?
But what can I burn them with? There are no matches even. No, better
go out and throw it all away somewhere. Yes, better throw it away,” he
repeated, sitting down on the sofa again, “and at once, this minute,
without lingering...”

But his head sank on the pillow instead. Again the unbearable icy
shivering came over him; again he drew his coat over him.

And for a long while, for some hours, he was haunted by the impulse to
“go off somewhere at once, this moment, and fling it all away, so that
it may be out of sight and done with, at once, at once!” Several times
he tried to rise from the sofa, but could not.

He was thoroughly waked up at last by a violent knocking at his door.

“Open, do, are you dead or alive? He keeps sleeping here!” shouted
Nastasya, banging with her fist on the door. “For whole days together
he’s snoring here like a dog! A dog he is too. Open I tell you. It’s
past ten.”

“Maybe he’s not at home,” said a man’s voice.

“Ha! that’s the porter’s voice.... What does he want?”

He jumped up and sat on the sofa. The beating of his heart was a
positive pain.

“Then who can have latched the door?” retorted Nastasya. “He’s taken to
bolting himself in! As if he were worth stealing! Open, you stupid, wake
up!”

“What do they want? Why the porter? All’s discovered. Resist or open?
Come what may!...”

He half rose, stooped forward and unlatched the door.

His room was so small that he could undo the latch without leaving the
bed. Yes; the porter and Nastasya were standing there.

Nastasya stared at him in a strange way. He glanced with a defiant and
desperate air at the porter, who without a word held out a grey folded
paper sealed with bottle-wax.

“A notice from the office,” he announced, as he gave him the paper.

“From what office?”

“A summons to the police office, of course. You know which office.”

“To the police?... What for?...”

“How can I tell? You’re sent for, so you go.”

The man looked at him attentively, looked round the room and turned to
go away.

“He’s downright ill!” observed Nastasya, not taking her eyes off him.
The porter turned his head for a moment. “He’s been in a fever since
yesterday,” she added.

Raskolnikov made no response and held the paper in his hands, without
opening it. “Don’t you get up then,” Nastasya went on compassionately,
seeing that he was letting his feet down from the sofa. “You’re ill, and
so don’t go; there’s no such hurry. What have you got there?”

He looked; in his right hand he held the shreds he had cut from his
trousers, the sock, and the rags of the pocket. So he had been asleep
with them in his hand. Afterwards reflecting upon it, he remembered that
half waking up in his fever, he had grasped all this tightly in his hand
and so fallen asleep again.

The frayed rags he had cut off his trousers were actually lying on the

floor in the middle of the room, where anyone coming in would see them!

“What is the matter with me!” he cried again, like one distraught.

Then a strange idea entered his head; that, perhaps, all his clothes

were covered with blood, that, perhaps, there were a great many

stains, but that he did not see them, did not notice them because

his perceptions were failing, were going to pieces... his reason was

clouded.... Suddenly he remembered that there had been blood on the

purse too. “Ah! Then there must be blood on the pocket too, for I put

the wet purse in my pocket!”

In a flash he had turned the pocket inside out and, yes!--there were

traces, stains on the lining of the pocket!

“So my reason has not quite deserted me, so I still have some sense and

memory, since I guessed it of myself,” he thought triumphantly, with

a deep sigh of relief; “it’s simply the weakness of fever, a moment’s

delirium,” and he tore the whole lining out of the left pocket of his

trousers. At that instant the sunlight fell on his left boot; on the

sock which poked out from the boot, he fancied there were traces! He

flung off his boots; “traces indeed! The tip of the sock was soaked with

blood;” he must have unwarily stepped into that pool.... “But what am I

to do with this now? Where am I to put the sock and rags and pocket?”

He gathered them all up in his hands and stood in the middle of the

room.

“In the stove? But they would ransack the stove first of all. Burn them?

But what can I burn them with? There are no matches even. No, better

go out and throw it all away somewhere. Yes, better throw it away,” he

repeated, sitting down on the sofa again, “and at once, this minute,

without lingering...”

But his head sank on the pillow instead. Again the unbearable icy

shivering came over him; again he drew his coat over him.

And for a long while, for some hours, he was haunted by the impulse to

“go off somewhere at once, this moment, and fling it all away, so that

it may be out of sight and done with, at once, at once!” Several times

he tried to rise from the sofa, but could not.

He was thoroughly waked up at last by a violent knocking at his door.

“Open, do, are you dead or alive? He keeps sleeping here!” shouted

Nastasya, banging with her fist on the door. “For whole days together

he’s snoring here like a dog! A dog he is too. Open I tell you. It’s

past ten.”

“Maybe he’s not at home,” said a man’s voice.

“Ha! that’s the porter’s voice.... What does he want?”

He jumped up and sat on the sofa. The beating of his heart was a

positive pain.

“Then who can have latched the door?” retorted Nastasya. “He’s taken to

bolting himself in! As if he were worth stealing! Open, you stupid, wake

up!”

“What do they want? Why the porter? All’s discovered. Resist or open?

Come what may!...”

He half rose, stooped forward and unlatched the door.

His room was so small that he could undo the latch without leaving the

bed. Yes; the porter and Nastasya were standing there.

Nastasya stared at him in a strange way. He glanced with a defiant and

desperate air at the porter, who without a word held out a grey folded

paper sealed with bottle-wax.

“A notice from the office,” he announced, as he gave him the paper.

“From what office?”

“A summons to the police office, of course. You know which office.”

“To the police?... What for?...”

“How can I tell? You’re sent for, so you go.”

The man looked at him attentively, looked round the room and turned to

go away.

“He’s downright ill!” observed Nastasya, not taking her eyes off him.

The porter turned his head for a moment. “He’s been in a fever since

yesterday,” she added.

Raskolnikov made no response and held the paper in his hands, without

opening it. “Don’t you get up then,” Nastasya went on compassionately,

seeing that he was letting his feet down from the sofa. “You’re ill, and

so don’t go; there’s no such hurry. What have you got there?”

He looked; in his right hand he held the shreds he had cut from his

trousers, the sock, and the rags of the pocket. So he had been asleep

with them in his hand. Afterwards reflecting upon it, he remembered that

half waking up in his fever, he had grasped all this tightly in his hand

and so fallen asleep again.