community-datasets/crime_and_punish · Datasets at Hugging Face

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myself... alone. Come, that’s enough. Leave me alone.”

“Stay a minute, you sweep! You are a perfect madman. As you like for all
I care. I have no lessons, do you see, and I don’t care about that, but
there’s a bookseller, Heruvimov--and he takes the place of a lesson.
I would not exchange him for five lessons. He’s doing publishing of a
kind, and issuing natural science manuals and what a circulation they
have! The very titles are worth the money! You always maintained that I
was a fool, but by Jove, my boy, there are greater fools than I am!
Now he is setting up for being advanced, not that he has an inkling of
anything, but, of course, I encourage him. Here are two signatures of
the German text--in my opinion, the crudest charlatanism; it discusses
the question, ‘Is woman a human being?’ And, of course, triumphantly
proves that she is. Heruvimov is going to bring out this work as a
contribution to the woman question; I am translating it; he will expand
these two and a half signatures into six, we shall make up a gorgeous
title half a page long and bring it out at half a rouble. It will do! He
pays me six roubles the signature, it works out to about fifteen roubles
for the job, and I’ve had six already in advance. When we have finished
this, we are going to begin a translation about whales, and then some of
the dullest scandals out of the second part of _Les Confessions_ we have
marked for translation; somebody has told Heruvimov, that Rousseau was
a kind of Radishchev. You may be sure I don’t contradict him, hang him!
Well, would you like to do the second signature of ‘_Is woman a human
being?_’ If you would, take the German and pens and paper--all those
are provided, and take three roubles; for as I have had six roubles in
advance on the whole thing, three roubles come to you for your share.
And when you have finished the signature there will be another three
roubles for you. And please don’t think I am doing you a service; quite
the contrary, as soon as you came in, I saw how you could help me; to
begin with, I am weak in spelling, and secondly, I am sometimes utterly
adrift in German, so that I make it up as I go along for the most part.
The only comfort is, that it’s bound to be a change for the better.
Though who can tell, maybe it’s sometimes for the worse. Will you take
it?”

Raskolnikov took the German sheets in silence, took the three roubles
and without a word went out. Razumihin gazed after him in astonishment.
But when Raskolnikov was in the next street, he turned back, mounted the
stairs to Razumihin’s again and laying on the table the German article
and the three roubles, went out again, still without uttering a word.

“Are you raving, or what?” Razumihin shouted, roused to fury at last.
“What farce is this? You’ll drive me crazy too... what did you come to
see me for, damn you?”

“I don’t want... translation,” muttered Raskolnikov from the stairs.

“Then what the devil do you want?” shouted Razumihin from above.
Raskolnikov continued descending the staircase in silence.

“Hey, there! Where are you living?”

No answer.

“Well, confound you then!”

But Raskolnikov was already stepping into the street. On the Nikolaevsky
Bridge he was roused to full consciousness again by an unpleasant
incident. A coachman, after shouting at him two or three times, gave him
a violent lash on the back with his whip, for having almost fallen under
his horses’ hoofs. The lash so infuriated him that he dashed away to the
railing (for some unknown reason he had been walking in the very middle
of the bridge in the traffic). He angrily clenched and ground his teeth.
He heard laughter, of course.

“Serves him right!”

“A pickpocket I dare say.”

“Pretending to be drunk, for sure, and getting under the wheels on
purpose; and you have to answer for him.”

“It’s a regular profession, that’s what it is.”

But while he stood at the railing, still looking angry and bewildered
after the retreating carriage, and rubbing his back, he suddenly felt
someone thrust money into his hand. He looked. It was an elderly woman
in a kerchief and goatskin shoes, with a girl, probably her daughter,
wearing a hat, and carrying a green parasol.

“Take it, my good man, in Christ’s name.”

He took it and they passed on. It was a piece of twenty copecks. From
his dress and appearance they might well have taken him for a beggar
asking alms in the streets, and the gift of the twenty copecks he
doubtless owed to the blow, which made them feel sorry for him.

He closed his hand on the twenty copecks, walked on for ten paces, and
turned facing the Neva, looking towards the palace. The sky was without
a cloud and the water was almost bright blue, which is so rare in the
Neva. The cupola of the cathedral, which is seen at its best from the
bridge about twenty paces from the chapel, glittered in the sunlight,
and in the pure air every ornament on it could be clearly distinguished.
The pain from the lash went off, and Raskolnikov forgot about it; one
uneasy and not quite definite idea occupied him now completely. He stood
still, and gazed long and intently into the distance; this spot was
especially familiar to him. When he was attending the university, he had
hundreds of times--generally on his way home--stood still on this spot,
gazed at this truly magnificent spectacle and almost always marvelled at

myself... alone. Come, that’s enough. Leave me alone.”

“Stay a minute, you sweep! You are a perfect madman. As you like for all

I care. I have no lessons, do you see, and I don’t care about that, but

there’s a bookseller, Heruvimov--and he takes the place of a lesson.

I would not exchange him for five lessons. He’s doing publishing of a

kind, and issuing natural science manuals and what a circulation they

have! The very titles are worth the money! You always maintained that I

was a fool, but by Jove, my boy, there are greater fools than I am!

Now he is setting up for being advanced, not that he has an inkling of

anything, but, of course, I encourage him. Here are two signatures of

the German text--in my opinion, the crudest charlatanism; it discusses

the question, ‘Is woman a human being?’ And, of course, triumphantly

proves that she is. Heruvimov is going to bring out this work as a

contribution to the woman question; I am translating it; he will expand

these two and a half signatures into six, we shall make up a gorgeous

title half a page long and bring it out at half a rouble. It will do! He

pays me six roubles the signature, it works out to about fifteen roubles

for the job, and I’ve had six already in advance. When we have finished

this, we are going to begin a translation about whales, and then some of

the dullest scandals out of the second part of _Les Confessions_ we have

marked for translation; somebody has told Heruvimov, that Rousseau was

a kind of Radishchev. You may be sure I don’t contradict him, hang him!

Well, would you like to do the second signature of ‘_Is woman a human

being?_’ If you would, take the German and pens and paper--all those

are provided, and take three roubles; for as I have had six roubles in

advance on the whole thing, three roubles come to you for your share.

And when you have finished the signature there will be another three

roubles for you. And please don’t think I am doing you a service; quite

the contrary, as soon as you came in, I saw how you could help me; to

begin with, I am weak in spelling, and secondly, I am sometimes utterly

adrift in German, so that I make it up as I go along for the most part.

The only comfort is, that it’s bound to be a change for the better.

Though who can tell, maybe it’s sometimes for the worse. Will you take

it?”

Raskolnikov took the German sheets in silence, took the three roubles

and without a word went out. Razumihin gazed after him in astonishment.

But when Raskolnikov was in the next street, he turned back, mounted the

stairs to Razumihin’s again and laying on the table the German article

and the three roubles, went out again, still without uttering a word.

“Are you raving, or what?” Razumihin shouted, roused to fury at last.

“What farce is this? You’ll drive me crazy too... what did you come to

see me for, damn you?”

“I don’t want... translation,” muttered Raskolnikov from the stairs.

“Then what the devil do you want?” shouted Razumihin from above.

Raskolnikov continued descending the staircase in silence.

“Hey, there! Where are you living?”

No answer.

“Well, confound you then!”

But Raskolnikov was already stepping into the street. On the Nikolaevsky

Bridge he was roused to full consciousness again by an unpleasant

incident. A coachman, after shouting at him two or three times, gave him

a violent lash on the back with his whip, for having almost fallen under

his horses’ hoofs. The lash so infuriated him that he dashed away to the

railing (for some unknown reason he had been walking in the very middle

of the bridge in the traffic). He angrily clenched and ground his teeth.

He heard laughter, of course.

“Serves him right!”

“A pickpocket I dare say.”

“Pretending to be drunk, for sure, and getting under the wheels on

purpose; and you have to answer for him.”

“It’s a regular profession, that’s what it is.”

But while he stood at the railing, still looking angry and bewildered

after the retreating carriage, and rubbing his back, he suddenly felt

someone thrust money into his hand. He looked. It was an elderly woman

in a kerchief and goatskin shoes, with a girl, probably her daughter,

wearing a hat, and carrying a green parasol.

“Take it, my good man, in Christ’s name.”

He took it and they passed on. It was a piece of twenty copecks. From

his dress and appearance they might well have taken him for a beggar

asking alms in the streets, and the gift of the twenty copecks he

doubtless owed to the blow, which made them feel sorry for him.

He closed his hand on the twenty copecks, walked on for ten paces, and

turned facing the Neva, looking towards the palace. The sky was without

a cloud and the water was almost bright blue, which is so rare in the

Neva. The cupola of the cathedral, which is seen at its best from the

bridge about twenty paces from the chapel, glittered in the sunlight,

and in the pure air every ornament on it could be clearly distinguished.

The pain from the lash went off, and Raskolnikov forgot about it; one

uneasy and not quite definite idea occupied him now completely. He stood

still, and gazed long and intently into the distance; this spot was

especially familiar to him. When he was attending the university, he had

hundreds of times--generally on his way home--stood still on this spot,

gazed at this truly magnificent spectacle and almost always marvelled at