community-datasets/crime_and_punish · Datasets at Hugging Face

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Raskolnikov put in again, still addressing Nikodim Fomitch, but trying
his best to address Ilya Petrovitch also, though the latter persistently
appeared to be rummaging among his papers and to be contemptuously
oblivious of him. “Allow me to explain that I have been living with her
for nearly three years and at first... at first... for why should I not
confess it, at the very beginning I promised to marry her daughter, it
was a verbal promise, freely given... she was a girl... indeed, I liked
her, though I was not in love with her... a youthful affair in fact...
that is, I mean to say, that my landlady gave me credit freely in those
days, and I led a life of... I was very heedless...”

“Nobody asks you for these personal details, sir, we’ve no time to
waste,” Ilya Petrovitch interposed roughly and with a note of triumph;
but Raskolnikov stopped him hotly, though he suddenly found it
exceedingly difficult to speak.

“But excuse me, excuse me. It is for me to explain... how it all
happened... In my turn... though I agree with you... it is unnecessary.
But a year ago, the girl died of typhus. I remained lodging there as
before, and when my landlady moved into her present quarters, she said
to me... and in a friendly way... that she had complete trust in me,
but still, would I not give her an I O U for one hundred and fifteen
roubles, all the debt I owed her. She said if only I gave her that,
she would trust me again, as much as I liked, and that she would never,
never--those were her own words--make use of that I O U till I could pay
of myself... and now, when I have lost my lessons and have nothing to
eat, she takes action against me. What am I to say to that?”

“All these affecting details are no business of ours.” Ilya Petrovitch
interrupted rudely. “You must give a written undertaking but as for your
love affairs and all these tragic events, we have nothing to do with
that.”

“Come now... you are harsh,” muttered Nikodim Fomitch, sitting down at
the table and also beginning to write. He looked a little ashamed.

“Write!” said the head clerk to Raskolnikov.

“Write what?” the latter asked, gruffly.

“I will dictate to you.”

Raskolnikov fancied that the head clerk treated him more casually and
contemptuously after his speech, but strange to say he suddenly felt
completely indifferent to anyone’s opinion, and this revulsion took
place in a flash, in one instant. If he had cared to think a little,
he would have been amazed indeed that he could have talked to them like
that a minute before, forcing his feelings upon them. And where had
those feelings come from? Now if the whole room had been filled, not
with police officers, but with those nearest and dearest to him, he
would not have found one human word for them, so empty was his heart. A
gloomy sensation of agonising, everlasting solitude and remoteness, took
conscious form in his soul. It was not the meanness of his sentimental
effusions before Ilya Petrovitch, nor the meanness of the latter’s
triumph over him that had caused this sudden revulsion in his heart.
Oh, what had he to do now with his own baseness, with all these petty
vanities, officers, German women, debts, police-offices? If he had been
sentenced to be burnt at that moment, he would not have stirred, would
hardly have heard the sentence to the end. Something was happening to
him entirely new, sudden and unknown. It was not that he understood, but
he felt clearly with all the intensity of sensation that he could
never more appeal to these people in the police-office with sentimental
effusions like his recent outburst, or with anything whatever; and that
if they had been his own brothers and sisters and not police-officers,
it would have been utterly out of the question to appeal to them in any
circumstance of life. He had never experienced such a strange and awful
sensation. And what was most agonising--it was more a sensation than a
conception or idea, a direct sensation, the most agonising of all the
sensations he had known in his life.

The head clerk began dictating to him the usual form of declaration,
that he could not pay, that he undertook to do so at a future date, that
he would not leave the town, nor sell his property, and so on.

“But you can’t write, you can hardly hold the pen,” observed the head
clerk, looking with curiosity at Raskolnikov. “Are you ill?”

“Yes, I am giddy. Go on!”

“That’s all. Sign it.”

The head clerk took the paper, and turned to attend to others.

Raskolnikov gave back the pen; but instead of getting up and going away,
he put his elbows on the table and pressed his head in his hands. He
felt as if a nail were being driven into his skull. A strange idea
suddenly occurred to him, to get up at once, to go up to Nikodim
Fomitch, and tell him everything that had happened yesterday, and then
to go with him to his lodgings and to show him the things in the hole
in the corner. The impulse was so strong that he got up from his seat
to carry it out. “Hadn’t I better think a minute?” flashed through his
mind. “No, better cast off the burden without thinking.” But all at once
he stood still, rooted to the spot. Nikodim Fomitch was talking eagerly
with Ilya Petrovitch, and the words reached him:

“It’s impossible, they’ll both be released. To begin with, the whole
story contradicts itself. Why should they have called the porter, if it
had been their doing? To inform against themselves? Or as a blind? No,
that would be too cunning! Besides, Pestryakov, the student, was seen at
the gate by both the porters and a woman as he went in. He was walking

Raskolnikov put in again, still addressing Nikodim Fomitch, but trying

his best to address Ilya Petrovitch also, though the latter persistently

appeared to be rummaging among his papers and to be contemptuously

oblivious of him. “Allow me to explain that I have been living with her

for nearly three years and at first... at first... for why should I not

confess it, at the very beginning I promised to marry her daughter, it

was a verbal promise, freely given... she was a girl... indeed, I liked

her, though I was not in love with her... a youthful affair in fact...

that is, I mean to say, that my landlady gave me credit freely in those

days, and I led a life of... I was very heedless...”

“Nobody asks you for these personal details, sir, we’ve no time to

waste,” Ilya Petrovitch interposed roughly and with a note of triumph;

but Raskolnikov stopped him hotly, though he suddenly found it

exceedingly difficult to speak.

“But excuse me, excuse me. It is for me to explain... how it all

happened... In my turn... though I agree with you... it is unnecessary.

But a year ago, the girl died of typhus. I remained lodging there as

before, and when my landlady moved into her present quarters, she said

to me... and in a friendly way... that she had complete trust in me,

but still, would I not give her an I O U for one hundred and fifteen

roubles, all the debt I owed her. She said if only I gave her that,

she would trust me again, as much as I liked, and that she would never,

never--those were her own words--make use of that I O U till I could pay

of myself... and now, when I have lost my lessons and have nothing to

eat, she takes action against me. What am I to say to that?”

“All these affecting details are no business of ours.” Ilya Petrovitch

interrupted rudely. “You must give a written undertaking but as for your

love affairs and all these tragic events, we have nothing to do with

that.”

“Come now... you are harsh,” muttered Nikodim Fomitch, sitting down at

the table and also beginning to write. He looked a little ashamed.

“Write!” said the head clerk to Raskolnikov.

“Write what?” the latter asked, gruffly.

“I will dictate to you.”

Raskolnikov fancied that the head clerk treated him more casually and

contemptuously after his speech, but strange to say he suddenly felt

completely indifferent to anyone’s opinion, and this revulsion took

place in a flash, in one instant. If he had cared to think a little,

he would have been amazed indeed that he could have talked to them like

that a minute before, forcing his feelings upon them. And where had

those feelings come from? Now if the whole room had been filled, not

with police officers, but with those nearest and dearest to him, he

would not have found one human word for them, so empty was his heart. A

gloomy sensation of agonising, everlasting solitude and remoteness, took

conscious form in his soul. It was not the meanness of his sentimental

effusions before Ilya Petrovitch, nor the meanness of the latter’s

triumph over him that had caused this sudden revulsion in his heart.

Oh, what had he to do now with his own baseness, with all these petty

vanities, officers, German women, debts, police-offices? If he had been

sentenced to be burnt at that moment, he would not have stirred, would

hardly have heard the sentence to the end. Something was happening to

him entirely new, sudden and unknown. It was not that he understood, but

he felt clearly with all the intensity of sensation that he could

never more appeal to these people in the police-office with sentimental

effusions like his recent outburst, or with anything whatever; and that

if they had been his own brothers and sisters and not police-officers,

it would have been utterly out of the question to appeal to them in any

circumstance of life. He had never experienced such a strange and awful

sensation. And what was most agonising--it was more a sensation than a

conception or idea, a direct sensation, the most agonising of all the

sensations he had known in his life.

The head clerk began dictating to him the usual form of declaration,

that he could not pay, that he undertook to do so at a future date, that

he would not leave the town, nor sell his property, and so on.

“But you can’t write, you can hardly hold the pen,” observed the head

clerk, looking with curiosity at Raskolnikov. “Are you ill?”

“Yes, I am giddy. Go on!”

“That’s all. Sign it.”

The head clerk took the paper, and turned to attend to others.

Raskolnikov gave back the pen; but instead of getting up and going away,

he put his elbows on the table and pressed his head in his hands. He

felt as if a nail were being driven into his skull. A strange idea

suddenly occurred to him, to get up at once, to go up to Nikodim

Fomitch, and tell him everything that had happened yesterday, and then

to go with him to his lodgings and to show him the things in the hole

in the corner. The impulse was so strong that he got up from his seat

to carry it out. “Hadn’t I better think a minute?” flashed through his

mind. “No, better cast off the burden without thinking.” But all at once

he stood still, rooted to the spot. Nikodim Fomitch was talking eagerly

with Ilya Petrovitch, and the words reached him:

“It’s impossible, they’ll both be released. To begin with, the whole

story contradicts itself. Why should they have called the porter, if it

had been their doing? To inform against themselves? Or as a blind? No,

that would be too cunning! Besides, Pestryakov, the student, was seen at

the gate by both the porters and a woman as he went in. He was walking