community-datasets/crime_and_punish · Datasets at Hugging Face

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“Look at the rags he’s collected and sleeps with them, as though he has
got hold of a treasure...”

And Nastasya went off into her hysterical giggle.

Instantly he thrust them all under his great coat and fixed his
eyes intently upon her. Far as he was from being capable of rational
reflection at that moment, he felt that no one would behave like that
with a person who was going to be arrested. “But... the police?”

“You’d better have some tea! Yes? I’ll bring it, there’s some left.”

“No... I’m going; I’ll go at once,” he muttered, getting on to his feet.

“Why, you’ll never get downstairs!”

“Yes, I’ll go.”

“As you please.”

She followed the porter out.

At once he rushed to the light to examine the sock and the rags.

“There are stains, but not very noticeable; all covered with dirt,
and rubbed and already discoloured. No one who had no suspicion could
distinguish anything. Nastasya from a distance could not have noticed,
thank God!” Then with a tremor he broke the seal of the notice and began
reading; he was a long while reading, before he understood. It was an
ordinary summons from the district police-station to appear that day at
half-past nine at the office of the district superintendent.

“But when has such a thing happened? I never have anything to do with
the police! And why just to-day?” he thought in agonising bewilderment.
“Good God, only get it over soon!”

He was flinging himself on his knees to pray, but broke into
laughter--not at the idea of prayer, but at himself.

He began, hurriedly dressing. “If I’m lost, I am lost, I don’t care!
Shall I put the sock on?” he suddenly wondered, “it will get dustier
still and the traces will be gone.”

But no sooner had he put it on than he pulled it off again in loathing
and horror. He pulled it off, but reflecting that he had no other socks,
he picked it up and put it on again--and again he laughed.

“That’s all conventional, that’s all relative, merely a way of looking
at it,” he thought in a flash, but only on the top surface of his
mind, while he was shuddering all over, “there, I’ve got it on! I have
finished by getting it on!”

But his laughter was quickly followed by despair.

“No, it’s too much for me...” he thought. His legs shook. “From fear,”
he muttered. His head swam and ached with fever. “It’s a trick! They
want to decoy me there and confound me over everything,” he mused, as
he went out on to the stairs--“the worst of it is I’m almost
light-headed... I may blurt out something stupid...”

On the stairs he remembered that he was leaving all the things just as
they were in the hole in the wall, “and very likely, it’s on purpose
to search when I’m out,” he thought, and stopped short. But he was
possessed by such despair, such cynicism of misery, if one may so call
it, that with a wave of his hand he went on. “Only to get it over!”

In the street the heat was insufferable again; not a drop of rain had
fallen all those days. Again dust, bricks and mortar, again the stench
from the shops and pot-houses, again the drunken men, the Finnish
pedlars and half-broken-down cabs. The sun shone straight in his eyes,
so that it hurt him to look out of them, and he felt his head going
round--as a man in a fever is apt to feel when he comes out into the
street on a bright sunny day.

When he reached the turning into _the_ street, in an agony of
trepidation he looked down it... at _the_ house... and at once averted
his eyes.

“If they question me, perhaps I’ll simply tell,” he thought, as he drew
near the police-station.

The police-station was about a quarter of a mile off. It had lately been
moved to new rooms on the fourth floor of a new house. He had been once
for a moment in the old office but long ago. Turning in at the gateway,
he saw on the right a flight of stairs which a peasant was mounting with
a book in his hand. “A house-porter, no doubt; so then, the office is
here,” and he began ascending the stairs on the chance. He did not want
to ask questions of anyone.

“I’ll go in, fall on my knees, and confess everything...” he thought, as
he reached the fourth floor.

The staircase was steep, narrow and all sloppy with dirty water. The
kitchens of the flats opened on to the stairs and stood open almost
the whole day. So there was a fearful smell and heat. The staircase
was crowded with porters going up and down with their books under their
arms, policemen, and persons of all sorts and both sexes. The door of
the office, too, stood wide open. Peasants stood waiting within. There,
too, the heat was stifling and there was a sickening smell of fresh

“Look at the rags he’s collected and sleeps with them, as though he has

got hold of a treasure...”

And Nastasya went off into her hysterical giggle.

Instantly he thrust them all under his great coat and fixed his

eyes intently upon her. Far as he was from being capable of rational

reflection at that moment, he felt that no one would behave like that

with a person who was going to be arrested. “But... the police?”

“You’d better have some tea! Yes? I’ll bring it, there’s some left.”

“No... I’m going; I’ll go at once,” he muttered, getting on to his feet.

“Why, you’ll never get downstairs!”

“Yes, I’ll go.”

“As you please.”

She followed the porter out.

At once he rushed to the light to examine the sock and the rags.

“There are stains, but not very noticeable; all covered with dirt,

and rubbed and already discoloured. No one who had no suspicion could

distinguish anything. Nastasya from a distance could not have noticed,

thank God!” Then with a tremor he broke the seal of the notice and began

reading; he was a long while reading, before he understood. It was an

ordinary summons from the district police-station to appear that day at

half-past nine at the office of the district superintendent.

“But when has such a thing happened? I never have anything to do with

the police! And why just to-day?” he thought in agonising bewilderment.

“Good God, only get it over soon!”

He was flinging himself on his knees to pray, but broke into

laughter--not at the idea of prayer, but at himself.

He began, hurriedly dressing. “If I’m lost, I am lost, I don’t care!

Shall I put the sock on?” he suddenly wondered, “it will get dustier

still and the traces will be gone.”

But no sooner had he put it on than he pulled it off again in loathing

and horror. He pulled it off, but reflecting that he had no other socks,

he picked it up and put it on again--and again he laughed.

“That’s all conventional, that’s all relative, merely a way of looking

at it,” he thought in a flash, but only on the top surface of his

mind, while he was shuddering all over, “there, I’ve got it on! I have

finished by getting it on!”

But his laughter was quickly followed by despair.

“No, it’s too much for me...” he thought. His legs shook. “From fear,”

he muttered. His head swam and ached with fever. “It’s a trick! They

want to decoy me there and confound me over everything,” he mused, as

he went out on to the stairs--“the worst of it is I’m almost

light-headed... I may blurt out something stupid...”

On the stairs he remembered that he was leaving all the things just as

they were in the hole in the wall, “and very likely, it’s on purpose

to search when I’m out,” he thought, and stopped short. But he was

possessed by such despair, such cynicism of misery, if one may so call

it, that with a wave of his hand he went on. “Only to get it over!”

In the street the heat was insufferable again; not a drop of rain had

fallen all those days. Again dust, bricks and mortar, again the stench

from the shops and pot-houses, again the drunken men, the Finnish

pedlars and half-broken-down cabs. The sun shone straight in his eyes,

so that it hurt him to look out of them, and he felt his head going

round--as a man in a fever is apt to feel when he comes out into the

street on a bright sunny day.

When he reached the turning into _the_ street, in an agony of

trepidation he looked down it... at _the_ house... and at once averted

his eyes.

“If they question me, perhaps I’ll simply tell,” he thought, as he drew

near the police-station.

The police-station was about a quarter of a mile off. It had lately been

moved to new rooms on the fourth floor of a new house. He had been once

for a moment in the old office but long ago. Turning in at the gateway,

he saw on the right a flight of stairs which a peasant was mounting with

a book in his hand. “A house-porter, no doubt; so then, the office is

here,” and he began ascending the stairs on the chance. He did not want

to ask questions of anyone.

“I’ll go in, fall on my knees, and confess everything...” he thought, as

he reached the fourth floor.

The staircase was steep, narrow and all sloppy with dirty water. The

kitchens of the flats opened on to the stairs and stood open almost

the whole day. So there was a fearful smell and heat. The staircase

was crowded with porters going up and down with their books under their

arms, policemen, and persons of all sorts and both sexes. The door of

the office, too, stood wide open. Peasants stood waiting within. There,

too, the heat was stifling and there was a sickening smell of fresh