community-datasets/crime_and_punish · Datasets at Hugging Face

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a vague and mysterious emotion it roused in him. It left him strangely
cold; this gorgeous picture was for him blank and lifeless. He wondered
every time at his sombre and enigmatic impression and, mistrusting
himself, put off finding the explanation of it. He vividly recalled
those old doubts and perplexities, and it seemed to him that it was
no mere chance that he recalled them now. It struck him as strange and
grotesque, that he should have stopped at the same spot as before,
as though he actually imagined he could think the same thoughts, be
interested in the same theories and pictures that had interested him...
so short a time ago. He felt it almost amusing, and yet it wrung his
heart. Deep down, hidden far away out of sight all that seemed to him
now--all his old past, his old thoughts, his old problems and theories,
his old impressions and that picture and himself and all, all.... He
felt as though he were flying upwards, and everything were vanishing
from his sight. Making an unconscious movement with his hand, he
suddenly became aware of the piece of money in his fist. He opened his
hand, stared at the coin, and with a sweep of his arm flung it into
the water; then he turned and went home. It seemed to him, he had cut
himself off from everyone and from everything at that moment.

Evening was coming on when he reached home, so that he must have been
walking about six hours. How and where he came back he did not remember.
Undressing, and quivering like an overdriven horse, he lay down on the
sofa, drew his greatcoat over him, and at once sank into oblivion....

It was dusk when he was waked up by a fearful scream. Good God, what a
scream! Such unnatural sounds, such howling, wailing, grinding, tears,
blows and curses he had never heard.

He could never have imagined such brutality, such frenzy. In terror he
sat up in bed, almost swooning with agony. But the fighting, wailing
and cursing grew louder and louder. And then to his intense amazement
he caught the voice of his landlady. She was howling, shrieking and
wailing, rapidly, hurriedly, incoherently, so that he could not make
out what she was talking about; she was beseeching, no doubt, not to be
beaten, for she was being mercilessly beaten on the stairs. The voice of
her assailant was so horrible from spite and rage that it was almost
a croak; but he, too, was saying something, and just as quickly
and indistinctly, hurrying and spluttering. All at once Raskolnikov
trembled; he recognised the voice--it was the voice of Ilya Petrovitch.
Ilya Petrovitch here and beating the landlady! He is kicking her,
banging her head against the steps--that’s clear, that can be told
from the sounds, from the cries and the thuds. How is it, is the world
topsy-turvy? He could hear people running in crowds from all the storeys
and all the staircases; he heard voices, exclamations, knocking, doors
banging. “But why, why, and how could it be?” he repeated, thinking
seriously that he had gone mad. But no, he heard too distinctly! And
they would come to him then next, “for no doubt... it’s all about
that... about yesterday.... Good God!” He would have fastened his door
with the latch, but he could not lift his hand... besides, it would
be useless. Terror gripped his heart like ice, tortured him and numbed
him.... But at last all this uproar, after continuing about ten minutes,
began gradually to subside. The landlady was moaning and groaning; Ilya
Petrovitch was still uttering threats and curses.... But at last he,
too, seemed to be silent, and now he could not be heard. “Can he have
gone away? Good Lord!” Yes, and now the landlady is going too, still
weeping and moaning... and then her door slammed.... Now the crowd was
going from the stairs to their rooms, exclaiming, disputing, calling
to one another, raising their voices to a shout, dropping them to a
whisper. There must have been numbers of them--almost all the inmates
of the block. “But, good God, how could it be! And why, why had he come
here!”

Raskolnikov sank worn out on the sofa, but could not close his eyes. He
lay for half an hour in such anguish, such an intolerable sensation of
infinite terror as he had never experienced before. Suddenly a bright
light flashed into his room. Nastasya came in with a candle and a plate
of soup. Looking at him carefully and ascertaining that he was not
asleep, she set the candle on the table and began to lay out what she
had brought--bread, salt, a plate, a spoon.

“You’ve eaten nothing since yesterday, I warrant. You’ve been trudging
about all day, and you’re shaking with fever.”

“Nastasya... what were they beating the landlady for?”

She looked intently at him.

“Who beat the landlady?”

“Just now... half an hour ago, Ilya Petrovitch, the assistant
superintendent, on the stairs.... Why was he ill-treating her like that,
and... why was he here?”

Nastasya scrutinised him, silent and frowning, and her scrutiny lasted a
long time. He felt uneasy, even frightened at her searching eyes.

“Nastasya, why don’t you speak?” he said timidly at last in a weak
voice.

“It’s the blood,” she answered at last softly, as though speaking to
herself.

“Blood? What blood?” he muttered, growing white and turning towards the
wall.

Nastasya still looked at him without speaking.

“Nobody has been beating the landlady,” she declared at last in a firm,
resolute voice.

a vague and mysterious emotion it roused in him. It left him strangely

cold; this gorgeous picture was for him blank and lifeless. He wondered

every time at his sombre and enigmatic impression and, mistrusting

himself, put off finding the explanation of it. He vividly recalled

those old doubts and perplexities, and it seemed to him that it was

no mere chance that he recalled them now. It struck him as strange and

grotesque, that he should have stopped at the same spot as before,

as though he actually imagined he could think the same thoughts, be

interested in the same theories and pictures that had interested him...

so short a time ago. He felt it almost amusing, and yet it wrung his

heart. Deep down, hidden far away out of sight all that seemed to him

now--all his old past, his old thoughts, his old problems and theories,

his old impressions and that picture and himself and all, all.... He

felt as though he were flying upwards, and everything were vanishing

from his sight. Making an unconscious movement with his hand, he

suddenly became aware of the piece of money in his fist. He opened his

hand, stared at the coin, and with a sweep of his arm flung it into

the water; then he turned and went home. It seemed to him, he had cut

himself off from everyone and from everything at that moment.

Evening was coming on when he reached home, so that he must have been

walking about six hours. How and where he came back he did not remember.

Undressing, and quivering like an overdriven horse, he lay down on the

sofa, drew his greatcoat over him, and at once sank into oblivion....

It was dusk when he was waked up by a fearful scream. Good God, what a

scream! Such unnatural sounds, such howling, wailing, grinding, tears,

blows and curses he had never heard.

He could never have imagined such brutality, such frenzy. In terror he

sat up in bed, almost swooning with agony. But the fighting, wailing

and cursing grew louder and louder. And then to his intense amazement

he caught the voice of his landlady. She was howling, shrieking and

wailing, rapidly, hurriedly, incoherently, so that he could not make

out what she was talking about; she was beseeching, no doubt, not to be

beaten, for she was being mercilessly beaten on the stairs. The voice of

her assailant was so horrible from spite and rage that it was almost

a croak; but he, too, was saying something, and just as quickly

and indistinctly, hurrying and spluttering. All at once Raskolnikov

trembled; he recognised the voice--it was the voice of Ilya Petrovitch.

Ilya Petrovitch here and beating the landlady! He is kicking her,

banging her head against the steps--that’s clear, that can be told

from the sounds, from the cries and the thuds. How is it, is the world

topsy-turvy? He could hear people running in crowds from all the storeys

and all the staircases; he heard voices, exclamations, knocking, doors

banging. “But why, why, and how could it be?” he repeated, thinking

seriously that he had gone mad. But no, he heard too distinctly! And

they would come to him then next, “for no doubt... it’s all about

that... about yesterday.... Good God!” He would have fastened his door

with the latch, but he could not lift his hand... besides, it would

be useless. Terror gripped his heart like ice, tortured him and numbed

him.... But at last all this uproar, after continuing about ten minutes,

began gradually to subside. The landlady was moaning and groaning; Ilya

Petrovitch was still uttering threats and curses.... But at last he,

too, seemed to be silent, and now he could not be heard. “Can he have

gone away? Good Lord!” Yes, and now the landlady is going too, still

weeping and moaning... and then her door slammed.... Now the crowd was

going from the stairs to their rooms, exclaiming, disputing, calling

to one another, raising their voices to a shout, dropping them to a

whisper. There must have been numbers of them--almost all the inmates

of the block. “But, good God, how could it be! And why, why had he come

here!”

Raskolnikov sank worn out on the sofa, but could not close his eyes. He

lay for half an hour in such anguish, such an intolerable sensation of

infinite terror as he had never experienced before. Suddenly a bright

light flashed into his room. Nastasya came in with a candle and a plate

of soup. Looking at him carefully and ascertaining that he was not

asleep, she set the candle on the table and began to lay out what she

had brought--bread, salt, a plate, a spoon.

“You’ve eaten nothing since yesterday, I warrant. You’ve been trudging

about all day, and you’re shaking with fever.”

“Nastasya... what were they beating the landlady for?”

She looked intently at him.

“Who beat the landlady?”

“Just now... half an hour ago, Ilya Petrovitch, the assistant

superintendent, on the stairs.... Why was he ill-treating her like that,

and... why was he here?”

Nastasya scrutinised him, silent and frowning, and her scrutiny lasted a

long time. He felt uneasy, even frightened at her searching eyes.

“Nastasya, why don’t you speak?” he said timidly at last in a weak

voice.

“It’s the blood,” she answered at last softly, as though speaking to

herself.

“Blood? What blood?” he muttered, growing white and turning towards the

wall.

Nastasya still looked at him without speaking.

“Nobody has been beating the landlady,” she declared at last in a firm,

resolute voice.