community-datasets/crime_and_punish · Datasets at Hugging Face

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paint and stale oil from the newly decorated rooms.

After waiting a little, he decided to move forward into the next room.
All the rooms were small and low-pitched. A fearful impatience drew him
on and on. No one paid attention to him. In the second room some
clerks sat writing, dressed hardly better than he was, and rather a
queer-looking set. He went up to one of them.

“What is it?”

He showed the notice he had received.

“You are a student?” the man asked, glancing at the notice.

“Yes, formerly a student.”

The clerk looked at him, but without the slightest interest. He was a
particularly unkempt person with the look of a fixed idea in his eye.

“There would be no getting anything out of him, because he has no
interest in anything,” thought Raskolnikov.

“Go in there to the head clerk,” said the clerk, pointing towards the
furthest room.

He went into that room--the fourth in order; it was a small room and
packed full of people, rather better dressed than in the outer rooms.
Among them were two ladies. One, poorly dressed in mourning, sat at the
table opposite the chief clerk, writing something at his dictation.
The other, a very stout, buxom woman with a purplish-red, blotchy face,
excessively smartly dressed with a brooch on her bosom as big as a
saucer, was standing on one side, apparently waiting for something.
Raskolnikov thrust his notice upon the head clerk. The latter glanced
at it, said: “Wait a minute,” and went on attending to the lady in
mourning.

He breathed more freely. “It can’t be that!”

By degrees he began to regain confidence, he kept urging himself to have
courage and be calm.

“Some foolishness, some trifling carelessness, and I may betray myself!
Hm... it’s a pity there’s no air here,” he added, “it’s stifling.... It
makes one’s head dizzier than ever... and one’s mind too...”

He was conscious of a terrible inner turmoil. He was afraid of losing
his self-control; he tried to catch at something and fix his mind on it,
something quite irrelevant, but he could not succeed in this at all. Yet
the head clerk greatly interested him, he kept hoping to see through him
and guess something from his face.

He was a very young man, about two and twenty, with a dark mobile
face that looked older than his years. He was fashionably dressed and
foppish, with his hair parted in the middle, well combed and pomaded,
and wore a number of rings on his well-scrubbed fingers and a gold chain
on his waistcoat. He said a couple of words in French to a foreigner who
was in the room, and said them fairly correctly.

“Luise Ivanovna, you can sit down,” he said casually to the
gaily-dressed, purple-faced lady, who was still standing as though not
venturing to sit down, though there was a chair beside her.

“Ich danke,” said the latter, and softly, with a rustle of silk she sank
into the chair. Her light blue dress trimmed with white lace floated
about the table like an air-balloon and filled almost half the room. She
smelt of scent. But she was obviously embarrassed at filling half
the room and smelling so strongly of scent; and though her smile was
impudent as well as cringing, it betrayed evident uneasiness.

The lady in mourning had done at last, and got up. All at once, with
some noise, an officer walked in very jauntily, with a peculiar swing of
his shoulders at each step. He tossed his cockaded cap on the table and
sat down in an easy-chair. The small lady positively skipped from her
seat on seeing him, and fell to curtsying in a sort of ecstasy; but the
officer took not the smallest notice of her, and she did not venture to
sit down again in his presence. He was the assistant superintendent. He
had a reddish moustache that stood out horizontally on each side of his
face, and extremely small features, expressive of nothing much except
a certain insolence. He looked askance and rather indignantly at
Raskolnikov; he was so very badly dressed, and in spite of his
humiliating position, his bearing was by no means in keeping with his
clothes. Raskolnikov had unwarily fixed a very long and direct look on
him, so that he felt positively affronted.

“What do you want?” he shouted, apparently astonished that such a ragged
fellow was not annihilated by the majesty of his glance.

“I was summoned... by a notice...” Raskolnikov faltered.

“For the recovery of money due, from _the student_,” the head clerk
interfered hurriedly, tearing himself from his papers. “Here!” and he
flung Raskolnikov a document and pointed out the place. “Read that!”

“Money? What money?” thought Raskolnikov, “but... then... it’s certainly
not _that_.”

And he trembled with joy. He felt sudden intense indescribable relief. A
load was lifted from his back.

“And pray, what time were you directed to appear, sir?” shouted the

paint and stale oil from the newly decorated rooms.

After waiting a little, he decided to move forward into the next room.

All the rooms were small and low-pitched. A fearful impatience drew him

on and on. No one paid attention to him. In the second room some

clerks sat writing, dressed hardly better than he was, and rather a

queer-looking set. He went up to one of them.

“What is it?”

He showed the notice he had received.

“You are a student?” the man asked, glancing at the notice.

“Yes, formerly a student.”

The clerk looked at him, but without the slightest interest. He was a

particularly unkempt person with the look of a fixed idea in his eye.

“There would be no getting anything out of him, because he has no

interest in anything,” thought Raskolnikov.

“Go in there to the head clerk,” said the clerk, pointing towards the

furthest room.

He went into that room--the fourth in order; it was a small room and

packed full of people, rather better dressed than in the outer rooms.

Among them were two ladies. One, poorly dressed in mourning, sat at the

table opposite the chief clerk, writing something at his dictation.

The other, a very stout, buxom woman with a purplish-red, blotchy face,

excessively smartly dressed with a brooch on her bosom as big as a

saucer, was standing on one side, apparently waiting for something.

Raskolnikov thrust his notice upon the head clerk. The latter glanced

at it, said: “Wait a minute,” and went on attending to the lady in

mourning.

He breathed more freely. “It can’t be that!”

By degrees he began to regain confidence, he kept urging himself to have

courage and be calm.

“Some foolishness, some trifling carelessness, and I may betray myself!

Hm... it’s a pity there’s no air here,” he added, “it’s stifling.... It

makes one’s head dizzier than ever... and one’s mind too...”

He was conscious of a terrible inner turmoil. He was afraid of losing

his self-control; he tried to catch at something and fix his mind on it,

something quite irrelevant, but he could not succeed in this at all. Yet

the head clerk greatly interested him, he kept hoping to see through him

and guess something from his face.

He was a very young man, about two and twenty, with a dark mobile

face that looked older than his years. He was fashionably dressed and

foppish, with his hair parted in the middle, well combed and pomaded,

and wore a number of rings on his well-scrubbed fingers and a gold chain

on his waistcoat. He said a couple of words in French to a foreigner who

was in the room, and said them fairly correctly.

“Luise Ivanovna, you can sit down,” he said casually to the

gaily-dressed, purple-faced lady, who was still standing as though not

venturing to sit down, though there was a chair beside her.

“Ich danke,” said the latter, and softly, with a rustle of silk she sank

into the chair. Her light blue dress trimmed with white lace floated

about the table like an air-balloon and filled almost half the room. She

smelt of scent. But she was obviously embarrassed at filling half

the room and smelling so strongly of scent; and though her smile was

impudent as well as cringing, it betrayed evident uneasiness.

The lady in mourning had done at last, and got up. All at once, with

some noise, an officer walked in very jauntily, with a peculiar swing of

his shoulders at each step. He tossed his cockaded cap on the table and

sat down in an easy-chair. The small lady positively skipped from her

seat on seeing him, and fell to curtsying in a sort of ecstasy; but the

officer took not the smallest notice of her, and she did not venture to

sit down again in his presence. He was the assistant superintendent. He

had a reddish moustache that stood out horizontally on each side of his

face, and extremely small features, expressive of nothing much except

a certain insolence. He looked askance and rather indignantly at

Raskolnikov; he was so very badly dressed, and in spite of his

humiliating position, his bearing was by no means in keeping with his

clothes. Raskolnikov had unwarily fixed a very long and direct look on

him, so that he felt positively affronted.

“What do you want?” he shouted, apparently astonished that such a ragged

fellow was not annihilated by the majesty of his glance.

“I was summoned... by a notice...” Raskolnikov faltered.

“For the recovery of money due, from _the student_,” the head clerk

interfered hurriedly, tearing himself from his papers. “Here!” and he

flung Raskolnikov a document and pointed out the place. “Read that!”

“Money? What money?” thought Raskolnikov, “but... then... it’s certainly

not _that_.”

And he trembled with joy. He felt sudden intense indescribable relief. A

load was lifted from his back.

“And pray, what time were you directed to appear, sir?” shouted the