community-datasets/crime_and_punish · Datasets at Hugging Face

line stringlengths 2 76
assistant superintendent, seeming for some unknown reason more and more
aggrieved. “You are told to come at nine, and now it’s twelve!”

“The notice was only brought me a quarter of an hour ago,” Raskolnikov
answered loudly over his shoulder. To his own surprise he, too, grew
suddenly angry and found a certain pleasure in it. “And it’s enough that
I have come here ill with fever.”

“Kindly refrain from shouting!”

“I’m not shouting, I’m speaking very quietly, it’s you who are shouting
at me. I’m a student, and allow no one to shout at me.”

The assistant superintendent was so furious that for the first minute he
could only splutter inarticulately. He leaped up from his seat.

“Be silent! You are in a government office. Don’t be impudent, sir!”

“You’re in a government office, too,” cried Raskolnikov, “and you’re
smoking a cigarette as well as shouting, so you are showing disrespect
to all of us.”

He felt an indescribable satisfaction at having said this.

The head clerk looked at him with a smile. The angry assistant
superintendent was obviously disconcerted.

“That’s not your business!” he shouted at last with unnatural loudness.
“Kindly make the declaration demanded of you. Show him. Alexandr
Grigorievitch. There is a complaint against you! You don’t pay your
debts! You’re a fine bird!”

But Raskolnikov was not listening now; he had eagerly clutched at the
paper, in haste to find an explanation. He read it once, and a second
time, and still did not understand.

“What is this?” he asked the head clerk.

“It is for the recovery of money on an I O U, a writ. You must
either pay it, with all expenses, costs and so on, or give a written
declaration when you can pay it, and at the same time an undertaking not
to leave the capital without payment, and nor to sell or conceal your
property. The creditor is at liberty to sell your property, and proceed
against you according to the law.”

“But I... am not in debt to anyone!”

“That’s not our business. Here, an I O U for a hundred and fifteen
roubles, legally attested, and due for payment, has been brought us
for recovery, given by you to the widow of the assessor Zarnitsyn, nine
months ago, and paid over by the widow Zarnitsyn to one Mr. Tchebarov.
We therefore summon you, hereupon.”

“But she is my landlady!”

“And what if she is your landlady?”

The head clerk looked at him with a condescending smile of compassion,
and at the same time with a certain triumph, as at a novice under fire
for the first time--as though he would say: “Well, how do you feel now?”
But what did he care now for an I O U, for a writ of recovery! Was that
worth worrying about now, was it worth attention even! He stood, he
read, he listened, he answered, he even asked questions himself, but
all mechanically. The triumphant sense of security, of deliverance from
overwhelming danger, that was what filled his whole soul that moment
without thought for the future, without analysis, without suppositions
or surmises, without doubts and without questioning. It was an instant
of full, direct, purely instinctive joy. But at that very moment
something like a thunderstorm took place in the office. The assistant
superintendent, still shaken by Raskolnikov’s disrespect, still fuming
and obviously anxious to keep up his wounded dignity, pounced on the
unfortunate smart lady, who had been gazing at him ever since he came in
with an exceedingly silly smile.

“You shameful hussy!” he shouted suddenly at the top of his voice. (The
lady in mourning had left the office.) “What was going on at your house
last night? Eh! A disgrace again, you’re a scandal to the whole street.
Fighting and drinking again. Do you want the house of correction? Why,
I have warned you ten times over that I would not let you off the
eleventh! And here you are again, again, you... you...!”

The paper fell out of Raskolnikov’s hands, and he looked wildly at the
smart lady who was so unceremoniously treated. But he soon saw what it
meant, and at once began to find positive amusement in the scandal. He
listened with pleasure, so that he longed to laugh and laugh... all his
nerves were on edge.

“Ilya Petrovitch!” the head clerk was beginning anxiously, but stopped
short, for he knew from experience that the enraged assistant could not
be stopped except by force.

As for the smart lady, at first she positively trembled before the
storm. But, strange to say, the more numerous and violent the terms of
abuse became, the more amiable she looked, and the more seductive the
smiles she lavished on the terrible assistant. She moved uneasily, and
curtsied incessantly, waiting impatiently for a chance of putting in her
word: and at last she found it.

“There was no sort of noise or fighting in my house, Mr. Captain,” she
pattered all at once, like peas dropping, speaking Russian confidently,

assistant superintendent, seeming for some unknown reason more and more

aggrieved. “You are told to come at nine, and now it’s twelve!”

“The notice was only brought me a quarter of an hour ago,” Raskolnikov

answered loudly over his shoulder. To his own surprise he, too, grew

suddenly angry and found a certain pleasure in it. “And it’s enough that

I have come here ill with fever.”

“Kindly refrain from shouting!”

“I’m not shouting, I’m speaking very quietly, it’s you who are shouting

at me. I’m a student, and allow no one to shout at me.”

The assistant superintendent was so furious that for the first minute he

could only splutter inarticulately. He leaped up from his seat.

“Be silent! You are in a government office. Don’t be impudent, sir!”

“You’re in a government office, too,” cried Raskolnikov, “and you’re

smoking a cigarette as well as shouting, so you are showing disrespect

to all of us.”

He felt an indescribable satisfaction at having said this.

The head clerk looked at him with a smile. The angry assistant

superintendent was obviously disconcerted.

“That’s not your business!” he shouted at last with unnatural loudness.

“Kindly make the declaration demanded of you. Show him. Alexandr

Grigorievitch. There is a complaint against you! You don’t pay your

debts! You’re a fine bird!”

But Raskolnikov was not listening now; he had eagerly clutched at the

paper, in haste to find an explanation. He read it once, and a second

time, and still did not understand.

“What is this?” he asked the head clerk.

“It is for the recovery of money on an I O U, a writ. You must

either pay it, with all expenses, costs and so on, or give a written

declaration when you can pay it, and at the same time an undertaking not

to leave the capital without payment, and nor to sell or conceal your

property. The creditor is at liberty to sell your property, and proceed

against you according to the law.”

“But I... am not in debt to anyone!”

“That’s not our business. Here, an I O U for a hundred and fifteen

roubles, legally attested, and due for payment, has been brought us

for recovery, given by you to the widow of the assessor Zarnitsyn, nine

months ago, and paid over by the widow Zarnitsyn to one Mr. Tchebarov.

We therefore summon you, hereupon.”

“But she is my landlady!”

“And what if she is your landlady?”

The head clerk looked at him with a condescending smile of compassion,

and at the same time with a certain triumph, as at a novice under fire

for the first time--as though he would say: “Well, how do you feel now?”

But what did he care now for an I O U, for a writ of recovery! Was that

worth worrying about now, was it worth attention even! He stood, he

read, he listened, he answered, he even asked questions himself, but

all mechanically. The triumphant sense of security, of deliverance from

overwhelming danger, that was what filled his whole soul that moment

without thought for the future, without analysis, without suppositions

or surmises, without doubts and without questioning. It was an instant

of full, direct, purely instinctive joy. But at that very moment

something like a thunderstorm took place in the office. The assistant

superintendent, still shaken by Raskolnikov’s disrespect, still fuming

and obviously anxious to keep up his wounded dignity, pounced on the

unfortunate smart lady, who had been gazing at him ever since he came in

with an exceedingly silly smile.

“You shameful hussy!” he shouted suddenly at the top of his voice. (The

lady in mourning had left the office.) “What was going on at your house

last night? Eh! A disgrace again, you’re a scandal to the whole street.

Fighting and drinking again. Do you want the house of correction? Why,

I have warned you ten times over that I would not let you off the

eleventh! And here you are again, again, you... you...!”

The paper fell out of Raskolnikov’s hands, and he looked wildly at the

smart lady who was so unceremoniously treated. But he soon saw what it

meant, and at once began to find positive amusement in the scandal. He

listened with pleasure, so that he longed to laugh and laugh... all his

nerves were on edge.

“Ilya Petrovitch!” the head clerk was beginning anxiously, but stopped

short, for he knew from experience that the enraged assistant could not

be stopped except by force.

As for the smart lady, at first she positively trembled before the

storm. But, strange to say, the more numerous and violent the terms of

abuse became, the more amiable she looked, and the more seductive the

smiles she lavished on the terrible assistant. She moved uneasily, and

curtsied incessantly, waiting impatiently for a chance of putting in her

word: and at last she found it.

“There was no sort of noise or fighting in my house, Mr. Captain,” she

pattered all at once, like peas dropping, speaking Russian confidently,