community-datasets/crime_and_punish · Datasets at Hugging Face

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He gazed at her, hardly able to breathe.

“I heard it myself.... I was not asleep... I was sitting up,” he
said still more timidly. “I listened a long while. The assistant
superintendent came.... Everyone ran out on to the stairs from all the
flats.”

“No one has been here. That’s the blood crying in your ears. When
there’s no outlet for it and it gets clotted, you begin fancying
things.... Will you eat something?”

He made no answer. Nastasya still stood over him, watching him.

“Give me something to drink... Nastasya.”

She went downstairs and returned with a white earthenware jug of water.
He remembered only swallowing one sip of the cold water and spilling
some on his neck. Then followed forgetfulness.



CHAPTER III

He was not completely unconscious, however, all the time he was ill; he
was in a feverish state, sometimes delirious, sometimes half conscious.
He remembered a great deal afterwards. Sometimes it seemed as though
there were a number of people round him; they wanted to take him away
somewhere, there was a great deal of squabbling and discussing about
him. Then he would be alone in the room; they had all gone away afraid
of him, and only now and then opened the door a crack to look at him;
they threatened him, plotted something together, laughed, and mocked
at him. He remembered Nastasya often at his bedside; he distinguished
another person, too, whom he seemed to know very well, though he could
not remember who he was, and this fretted him, even made him cry.
Sometimes he fancied he had been lying there a month; at other times
it all seemed part of the same day. But of _that_--of _that_ he had
no recollection, and yet every minute he felt that he had forgotten
something he ought to remember. He worried and tormented himself trying
to remember, moaned, flew into a rage, or sank into awful, intolerable
terror. Then he struggled to get up, would have run away, but someone
always prevented him by force, and he sank back into impotence and
forgetfulness. At last he returned to complete consciousness.

It happened at ten o’clock in the morning. On fine days the sun shone
into the room at that hour, throwing a streak of light on the right
wall and the corner near the door. Nastasya was standing beside him
with another person, a complete stranger, who was looking at him
very inquisitively. He was a young man with a beard, wearing a full,
short-waisted coat, and looked like a messenger. The landlady was
peeping in at the half-opened door. Raskolnikov sat up.

“Who is this, Nastasya?” he asked, pointing to the young man.

“I say, he’s himself again!” she said.

“He is himself,” echoed the man.

Concluding that he had returned to his senses, the landlady closed the
door and disappeared. She was always shy and dreaded conversations or
discussions. She was a woman of forty, not at all bad-looking, fat
and buxom, with black eyes and eyebrows, good-natured from fatness and
laziness, and absurdly bashful.

“Who... are you?” he went on, addressing the man. But at that moment
the door was flung open, and, stooping a little, as he was so tall,
Razumihin came in.

“What a cabin it is!” he cried. “I am always knocking my head. You call
this a lodging! So you are conscious, brother? I’ve just heard the news
from Pashenka.”

“He has just come to,” said Nastasya.

“Just come to,” echoed the man again, with a smile.

“And who are you?” Razumihin asked, suddenly addressing him. “My name is
Vrazumihin, at your service; not Razumihin, as I am always called, but
Vrazumihin, a student and gentleman; and he is my friend. And who are
you?”

“I am the messenger from our office, from the merchant Shelopaev, and
I’ve come on business.”

“Please sit down.” Razumihin seated himself on the other side of the
table. “It’s a good thing you’ve come to, brother,” he went on to
Raskolnikov. “For the last four days you have scarcely eaten or drunk
anything. We had to give you tea in spoonfuls. I brought Zossimov to see
you twice. You remember Zossimov? He examined you carefully and said at
once it was nothing serious--something seemed to have gone to your head.
Some nervous nonsense, the result of bad feeding, he says you have not
had enough beer and radish, but it’s nothing much, it will pass and you
will be all right. Zossimov is a first-rate fellow! He is making quite a
name. Come, I won’t keep you,” he said, addressing the man again. “Will
you explain what you want? You must know, Rodya, this is the second time
they have sent from the office; but it was another man last time, and I
talked to him. Who was it came before?”

“That was the day before yesterday, I venture to say, if you please,
sir. That was Alexey Semyonovitch; he is in our office, too.”

He gazed at her, hardly able to breathe.

“I heard it myself.... I was not asleep... I was sitting up,” he

said still more timidly. “I listened a long while. The assistant

superintendent came.... Everyone ran out on to the stairs from all the

flats.”

“No one has been here. That’s the blood crying in your ears. When

there’s no outlet for it and it gets clotted, you begin fancying

things.... Will you eat something?”

He made no answer. Nastasya still stood over him, watching him.

“Give me something to drink... Nastasya.”

She went downstairs and returned with a white earthenware jug of water.

He remembered only swallowing one sip of the cold water and spilling

some on his neck. Then followed forgetfulness.

CHAPTER III

He was not completely unconscious, however, all the time he was ill; he

was in a feverish state, sometimes delirious, sometimes half conscious.

He remembered a great deal afterwards. Sometimes it seemed as though

there were a number of people round him; they wanted to take him away

somewhere, there was a great deal of squabbling and discussing about

him. Then he would be alone in the room; they had all gone away afraid

of him, and only now and then opened the door a crack to look at him;

they threatened him, plotted something together, laughed, and mocked

at him. He remembered Nastasya often at his bedside; he distinguished

another person, too, whom he seemed to know very well, though he could

not remember who he was, and this fretted him, even made him cry.

Sometimes he fancied he had been lying there a month; at other times

it all seemed part of the same day. But of _that_--of _that_ he had

no recollection, and yet every minute he felt that he had forgotten

something he ought to remember. He worried and tormented himself trying

to remember, moaned, flew into a rage, or sank into awful, intolerable

terror. Then he struggled to get up, would have run away, but someone

always prevented him by force, and he sank back into impotence and

forgetfulness. At last he returned to complete consciousness.

It happened at ten o’clock in the morning. On fine days the sun shone

into the room at that hour, throwing a streak of light on the right

wall and the corner near the door. Nastasya was standing beside him

with another person, a complete stranger, who was looking at him

very inquisitively. He was a young man with a beard, wearing a full,

short-waisted coat, and looked like a messenger. The landlady was

peeping in at the half-opened door. Raskolnikov sat up.

“Who is this, Nastasya?” he asked, pointing to the young man.

“I say, he’s himself again!” she said.

“He is himself,” echoed the man.

Concluding that he had returned to his senses, the landlady closed the

door and disappeared. She was always shy and dreaded conversations or

discussions. She was a woman of forty, not at all bad-looking, fat

and buxom, with black eyes and eyebrows, good-natured from fatness and

laziness, and absurdly bashful.

“Who... are you?” he went on, addressing the man. But at that moment

the door was flung open, and, stooping a little, as he was so tall,

Razumihin came in.

“What a cabin it is!” he cried. “I am always knocking my head. You call

this a lodging! So you are conscious, brother? I’ve just heard the news

from Pashenka.”

“He has just come to,” said Nastasya.

“Just come to,” echoed the man again, with a smile.

“And who are you?” Razumihin asked, suddenly addressing him. “My name is

Vrazumihin, at your service; not Razumihin, as I am always called, but

Vrazumihin, a student and gentleman; and he is my friend. And who are

you?”

“I am the messenger from our office, from the merchant Shelopaev, and

I’ve come on business.”

“Please sit down.” Razumihin seated himself on the other side of the

table. “It’s a good thing you’ve come to, brother,” he went on to

Raskolnikov. “For the last four days you have scarcely eaten or drunk

anything. We had to give you tea in spoonfuls. I brought Zossimov to see

you twice. You remember Zossimov? He examined you carefully and said at

once it was nothing serious--something seemed to have gone to your head.

Some nervous nonsense, the result of bad feeding, he says you have not

had enough beer and radish, but it’s nothing much, it will pass and you

will be all right. Zossimov is a first-rate fellow! He is making quite a

name. Come, I won’t keep you,” he said, addressing the man again. “Will

you explain what you want? You must know, Rodya, this is the second time

they have sent from the office; but it was another man last time, and I

talked to him. Who was it came before?”

“That was the day before yesterday, I venture to say, if you please,

sir. That was Alexey Semyonovitch; he is in our office, too.”