community-datasets/crime_and_punish · Datasets at Hugging Face

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really was such a point, and that now, now, he was left facing that
point--and for the first time, indeed, during the last two months.

“Damn it all!” he thought suddenly, in a fit of ungovernable fury.
“If it has begun, then it has begun. Hang the new life! Good Lord, how
stupid it is!... And what lies I told to-day! How despicably I fawned
upon that wretched Ilya Petrovitch! But that is all folly! What do I
care for them all, and my fawning upon them! It is not that at all! It
is not that at all!”

Suddenly he stopped; a new utterly unexpected and exceedingly simple
question perplexed and bitterly confounded him.

“If it all has really been done deliberately and not idiotically, if
I really had a certain and definite object, how is it I did not even
glance into the purse and don’t know what I had there, for which I have
undergone these agonies, and have deliberately undertaken this base,
filthy degrading business? And here I wanted at once to throw into the
water the purse together with all the things which I had not seen
either... how’s that?”

Yes, that was so, that was all so. Yet he had known it all before, and
it was not a new question for him, even when it was decided in the night
without hesitation and consideration, as though so it must be, as though
it could not possibly be otherwise.... Yes, he had known it all, and
understood it all; it surely had all been settled even yesterday at the
moment when he was bending over the box and pulling the jewel-cases out
of it.... Yes, so it was.

“It is because I am very ill,” he decided grimly at last, “I have been
worrying and fretting myself, and I don’t know what I am doing....
Yesterday and the day before yesterday and all this time I have been
worrying myself.... I shall get well and I shall not worry.... But what
if I don’t get well at all? Good God, how sick I am of it all!”

He walked on without resting. He had a terrible longing for some
distraction, but he did not know what to do, what to attempt. A new
overwhelming sensation was gaining more and more mastery over him
every moment; this was an immeasurable, almost physical, repulsion for
everything surrounding him, an obstinate, malignant feeling of hatred.
All who met him were loathsome to him--he loathed their faces, their
movements, their gestures. If anyone had addressed him, he felt that he
might have spat at him or bitten him....

He stopped suddenly, on coming out on the bank of the Little Neva, near
the bridge to Vassilyevsky Ostrov. “Why, he lives here, in that house,”
he thought, “why, I have not come to Razumihin of my own accord! Here
it’s the same thing over again.... Very interesting to know, though;
have I come on purpose or have I simply walked here by chance? Never
mind, I said the day before yesterday that I would go and see him the
day _after_; well, and so I will! Besides I really cannot go further
now.”

He went up to Razumihin’s room on the fifth floor.

The latter was at home in his garret, busily writing at the moment, and
he opened the door himself. It was four months since they had seen each
other. Razumihin was sitting in a ragged dressing-gown, with slippers on
his bare feet, unkempt, unshaven and unwashed. His face showed surprise.

“Is it you?” he cried. He looked his comrade up and down; then after a
brief pause, he whistled. “As hard up as all that! Why, brother, you’ve
cut me out!” he added, looking at Raskolnikov’s rags. “Come sit down,
you are tired, I’ll be bound.”

And when he had sunk down on the American leather sofa, which was
in even worse condition than his own, Razumihin saw at once that his
visitor was ill.

“Why, you are seriously ill, do you know that?” He began feeling his
pulse. Raskolnikov pulled away his hand.

“Never mind,” he said, “I have come for this: I have no lessons.... I
wanted,... but I don’t really want lessons....”

“But I say! You are delirious, you know!” Razumihin observed, watching
him carefully.

“No, I am not.”

Raskolnikov got up from the sofa. As he had mounted the stairs to
Razumihin’s, he had not realised that he would be meeting his friend
face to face. Now, in a flash, he knew, that what he was least of all
disposed for at that moment was to be face to face with anyone in the
wide world. His spleen rose within him. He almost choked with rage at
himself as soon as he crossed Razumihin’s threshold.

“Good-bye,” he said abruptly, and walked to the door.

“Stop, stop! You queer fish.”

“I don’t want to,” said the other, again pulling away his hand.

“Then why the devil have you come? Are you mad, or what? Why, this
is... almost insulting! I won’t let you go like that.”

“Well, then, I came to you because I know no one but you who could
help... to begin... because you are kinder than anyone--cleverer, I
mean, and can judge... and now I see that I want nothing. Do you hear?
Nothing at all... no one’s services... no one’s sympathy. I am by

really was such a point, and that now, now, he was left facing that

point--and for the first time, indeed, during the last two months.

“Damn it all!” he thought suddenly, in a fit of ungovernable fury.

“If it has begun, then it has begun. Hang the new life! Good Lord, how

stupid it is!... And what lies I told to-day! How despicably I fawned

upon that wretched Ilya Petrovitch! But that is all folly! What do I

care for them all, and my fawning upon them! It is not that at all! It

is not that at all!”

Suddenly he stopped; a new utterly unexpected and exceedingly simple

question perplexed and bitterly confounded him.

“If it all has really been done deliberately and not idiotically, if

I really had a certain and definite object, how is it I did not even

glance into the purse and don’t know what I had there, for which I have

undergone these agonies, and have deliberately undertaken this base,

filthy degrading business? And here I wanted at once to throw into the

water the purse together with all the things which I had not seen

either... how’s that?”

Yes, that was so, that was all so. Yet he had known it all before, and

it was not a new question for him, even when it was decided in the night

without hesitation and consideration, as though so it must be, as though

it could not possibly be otherwise.... Yes, he had known it all, and

understood it all; it surely had all been settled even yesterday at the

moment when he was bending over the box and pulling the jewel-cases out

of it.... Yes, so it was.

“It is because I am very ill,” he decided grimly at last, “I have been

worrying and fretting myself, and I don’t know what I am doing....

Yesterday and the day before yesterday and all this time I have been

worrying myself.... I shall get well and I shall not worry.... But what

if I don’t get well at all? Good God, how sick I am of it all!”

He walked on without resting. He had a terrible longing for some

distraction, but he did not know what to do, what to attempt. A new

overwhelming sensation was gaining more and more mastery over him

every moment; this was an immeasurable, almost physical, repulsion for

everything surrounding him, an obstinate, malignant feeling of hatred.

All who met him were loathsome to him--he loathed their faces, their

movements, their gestures. If anyone had addressed him, he felt that he

might have spat at him or bitten him....

He stopped suddenly, on coming out on the bank of the Little Neva, near

the bridge to Vassilyevsky Ostrov. “Why, he lives here, in that house,”

he thought, “why, I have not come to Razumihin of my own accord! Here

it’s the same thing over again.... Very interesting to know, though;

have I come on purpose or have I simply walked here by chance? Never

mind, I said the day before yesterday that I would go and see him the

day _after_; well, and so I will! Besides I really cannot go further

now.”

He went up to Razumihin’s room on the fifth floor.

The latter was at home in his garret, busily writing at the moment, and

he opened the door himself. It was four months since they had seen each

other. Razumihin was sitting in a ragged dressing-gown, with slippers on

his bare feet, unkempt, unshaven and unwashed. His face showed surprise.

“Is it you?” he cried. He looked his comrade up and down; then after a

brief pause, he whistled. “As hard up as all that! Why, brother, you’ve

cut me out!” he added, looking at Raskolnikov’s rags. “Come sit down,

you are tired, I’ll be bound.”

And when he had sunk down on the American leather sofa, which was

in even worse condition than his own, Razumihin saw at once that his

visitor was ill.

“Why, you are seriously ill, do you know that?” He began feeling his

pulse. Raskolnikov pulled away his hand.

“Never mind,” he said, “I have come for this: I have no lessons.... I

wanted,... but I don’t really want lessons....”

“But I say! You are delirious, you know!” Razumihin observed, watching

him carefully.

“No, I am not.”

Raskolnikov got up from the sofa. As he had mounted the stairs to

Razumihin’s, he had not realised that he would be meeting his friend

face to face. Now, in a flash, he knew, that what he was least of all

disposed for at that moment was to be face to face with anyone in the

wide world. His spleen rose within him. He almost choked with rage at

himself as soon as he crossed Razumihin’s threshold.

“Good-bye,” he said abruptly, and walked to the door.

“Stop, stop! You queer fish.”

“I don’t want to,” said the other, again pulling away his hand.

“Then why the devil have you come? Are you mad, or what? Why, this

is... almost insulting! I won’t let you go like that.”

“Well, then, I came to you because I know no one but you who could

help... to begin... because you are kinder than anyone--cleverer, I

mean, and can judge... and now I see that I want nothing. Do you hear?

Nothing at all... no one’s services... no one’s sympathy. I am by