community-datasets/crime_and_punish · Datasets at Hugging Face

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worry yourself; you said nothing about a countess. But you said a lot
about a bulldog, and about ear-rings and chains, and about Krestovsky
Island, and some porter, and Nikodim Fomitch and Ilya Petrovitch, the
assistant superintendent. And another thing that was of special interest
to you was your own sock. You whined, ‘Give me my sock.’ Zametov
hunted all about your room for your socks, and with his own scented,
ring-bedecked fingers he gave you the rag. And only then were you
comforted, and for the next twenty-four hours you held the wretched
thing in your hand; we could not get it from you. It is most likely
somewhere under your quilt at this moment. And then you asked so
piteously for fringe for your trousers. We tried to find out what sort
of fringe, but we could not make it out. Now to business! Here are
thirty-five roubles; I take ten of them, and shall give you an account
of them in an hour or two. I will let Zossimov know at the same time,
though he ought to have been here long ago, for it is nearly twelve. And
you, Nastasya, look in pretty often while I am away, to see whether he
wants a drink or anything else. And I will tell Pashenka what is wanted
myself. Good-bye!”

“He calls her Pashenka! Ah, he’s a deep one!” said Nastasya as he went
out; then she opened the door and stood listening, but could not resist
running downstairs after him. She was very eager to hear what he would
say to the landlady. She was evidently quite fascinated by Razumihin.

No sooner had she left the room than the sick man flung off the
bedclothes and leapt out of bed like a madman. With burning, twitching
impatience he had waited for them to be gone so that he might set to
work. But to what work? Now, as though to spite him, it eluded him.

“Good God, only tell me one thing: do they know of it yet or not? What
if they know it and are only pretending, mocking me while I am laid up,
and then they will come in and tell me that it’s been discovered long
ago and that they have only... What am I to do now? That’s what I’ve
forgotten, as though on purpose; forgotten it all at once, I remembered
a minute ago.”

He stood in the middle of the room and gazed in miserable bewilderment
about him; he walked to the door, opened it, listened; but that was not
what he wanted. Suddenly, as though recalling something, he rushed to
the corner where there was a hole under the paper, began examining it,
put his hand into the hole, fumbled--but that was not it. He went to the
stove, opened it and began rummaging in the ashes; the frayed edges of
his trousers and the rags cut off his pocket were lying there just as
he had thrown them. No one had looked, then! Then he remembered the sock
about which Razumihin had just been telling him. Yes, there it lay on
the sofa under the quilt, but it was so covered with dust and grime that
Zametov could not have seen anything on it.

“Bah, Zametov! The police office! And why am I sent for to the police
office? Where’s the notice? Bah! I am mixing it up; that was then. I
looked at my sock then, too, but now... now I have been ill. But
what did Zametov come for? Why did Razumihin bring him?” he muttered,
helplessly sitting on the sofa again. “What does it mean? Am I still in
delirium, or is it real? I believe it is real.... Ah, I remember; I must
escape! Make haste to escape. Yes, I must, I must escape! Yes... but
where? And where are my clothes? I’ve no boots. They’ve taken them away!
They’ve hidden them! I understand! Ah, here is my coat--they passed that
over! And here is money on the table, thank God! And here’s the I O U...
I’ll take the money and go and take another lodging. They won’t find
me!... Yes, but the address bureau? They’ll find me, Razumihin will find
me. Better escape altogether... far away... to America, and let them
do their worst! And take the I O U... it would be of use there.... What
else shall I take? They think I am ill! They don’t know that I can walk,
ha-ha-ha! I could see by their eyes that they know all about it! If
only I could get downstairs! And what if they have set a watch
there--policemen! What’s this tea? Ah, and here is beer left, half a
bottle, cold!”

He snatched up the bottle, which still contained a glassful of beer, and
gulped it down with relish, as though quenching a flame in his breast.
But in another minute the beer had gone to his head, and a faint and
even pleasant shiver ran down his spine. He lay down and pulled the
quilt over him. His sick and incoherent thoughts grew more and more
disconnected, and soon a light, pleasant drowsiness came upon him. With
a sense of comfort he nestled his head into the pillow, wrapped more
closely about him the soft, wadded quilt which had replaced the old,
ragged greatcoat, sighed softly and sank into a deep, sound, refreshing
sleep.

He woke up, hearing someone come in. He opened his eyes and saw
Razumihin standing in the doorway, uncertain whether to come in or
not. Raskolnikov sat up quickly on the sofa and gazed at him, as though
trying to recall something.

“Ah, you are not asleep! Here I am! Nastasya, bring in the parcel!”
Razumihin shouted down the stairs. “You shall have the account
directly.”

“What time is it?” asked Raskolnikov, looking round uneasily.

“Yes, you had a fine sleep, brother, it’s almost evening, it will be six
o’clock directly. You have slept more than six hours.”

“Good heavens! Have I?”

“And why not? It will do you good. What’s the hurry? A tryst, is it?
We’ve all time before us. I’ve been waiting for the last three hours for
you; I’ve been up twice and found you asleep. I’ve called on Zossimov
twice; not at home, only fancy! But no matter, he will turn up. And
I’ve been out on my own business, too. You know I’ve been moving to-day,

worry yourself; you said nothing about a countess. But you said a lot

about a bulldog, and about ear-rings and chains, and about Krestovsky

Island, and some porter, and Nikodim Fomitch and Ilya Petrovitch, the

assistant superintendent. And another thing that was of special interest

to you was your own sock. You whined, ‘Give me my sock.’ Zametov

hunted all about your room for your socks, and with his own scented,

ring-bedecked fingers he gave you the rag. And only then were you

comforted, and for the next twenty-four hours you held the wretched

thing in your hand; we could not get it from you. It is most likely

somewhere under your quilt at this moment. And then you asked so

piteously for fringe for your trousers. We tried to find out what sort

of fringe, but we could not make it out. Now to business! Here are

thirty-five roubles; I take ten of them, and shall give you an account

of them in an hour or two. I will let Zossimov know at the same time,

though he ought to have been here long ago, for it is nearly twelve. And

you, Nastasya, look in pretty often while I am away, to see whether he

wants a drink or anything else. And I will tell Pashenka what is wanted

myself. Good-bye!”

“He calls her Pashenka! Ah, he’s a deep one!” said Nastasya as he went

out; then she opened the door and stood listening, but could not resist

running downstairs after him. She was very eager to hear what he would

say to the landlady. She was evidently quite fascinated by Razumihin.

No sooner had she left the room than the sick man flung off the

bedclothes and leapt out of bed like a madman. With burning, twitching

impatience he had waited for them to be gone so that he might set to

work. But to what work? Now, as though to spite him, it eluded him.

“Good God, only tell me one thing: do they know of it yet or not? What

if they know it and are only pretending, mocking me while I am laid up,

and then they will come in and tell me that it’s been discovered long

ago and that they have only... What am I to do now? That’s what I’ve

forgotten, as though on purpose; forgotten it all at once, I remembered

a minute ago.”

He stood in the middle of the room and gazed in miserable bewilderment

about him; he walked to the door, opened it, listened; but that was not

what he wanted. Suddenly, as though recalling something, he rushed to

the corner where there was a hole under the paper, began examining it,

put his hand into the hole, fumbled--but that was not it. He went to the

stove, opened it and began rummaging in the ashes; the frayed edges of

his trousers and the rags cut off his pocket were lying there just as

he had thrown them. No one had looked, then! Then he remembered the sock

about which Razumihin had just been telling him. Yes, there it lay on

the sofa under the quilt, but it was so covered with dust and grime that

Zametov could not have seen anything on it.

“Bah, Zametov! The police office! And why am I sent for to the police

office? Where’s the notice? Bah! I am mixing it up; that was then. I

looked at my sock then, too, but now... now I have been ill. But

what did Zametov come for? Why did Razumihin bring him?” he muttered,

helplessly sitting on the sofa again. “What does it mean? Am I still in

delirium, or is it real? I believe it is real.... Ah, I remember; I must

escape! Make haste to escape. Yes, I must, I must escape! Yes... but

where? And where are my clothes? I’ve no boots. They’ve taken them away!

They’ve hidden them! I understand! Ah, here is my coat--they passed that

over! And here is money on the table, thank God! And here’s the I O U...

I’ll take the money and go and take another lodging. They won’t find

me!... Yes, but the address bureau? They’ll find me, Razumihin will find

me. Better escape altogether... far away... to America, and let them

do their worst! And take the I O U... it would be of use there.... What

else shall I take? They think I am ill! They don’t know that I can walk,

ha-ha-ha! I could see by their eyes that they know all about it! If

only I could get downstairs! And what if they have set a watch

there--policemen! What’s this tea? Ah, and here is beer left, half a

bottle, cold!”

He snatched up the bottle, which still contained a glassful of beer, and

gulped it down with relish, as though quenching a flame in his breast.

But in another minute the beer had gone to his head, and a faint and

even pleasant shiver ran down his spine. He lay down and pulled the

quilt over him. His sick and incoherent thoughts grew more and more

disconnected, and soon a light, pleasant drowsiness came upon him. With

a sense of comfort he nestled his head into the pillow, wrapped more

closely about him the soft, wadded quilt which had replaced the old,

ragged greatcoat, sighed softly and sank into a deep, sound, refreshing

sleep.

He woke up, hearing someone come in. He opened his eyes and saw

Razumihin standing in the doorway, uncertain whether to come in or

not. Raskolnikov sat up quickly on the sofa and gazed at him, as though

trying to recall something.

“Ah, you are not asleep! Here I am! Nastasya, bring in the parcel!”

Razumihin shouted down the stairs. “You shall have the account

directly.”

“What time is it?” asked Raskolnikov, looking round uneasily.

“Yes, you had a fine sleep, brother, it’s almost evening, it will be six

o’clock directly. You have slept more than six hours.”

“Good heavens! Have I?”

“And why not? It will do you good. What’s the hurry? A tryst, is it?

We’ve all time before us. I’ve been waiting for the last three hours for

you; I’ve been up twice and found you asleep. I’ve called on Zossimov

twice; not at home, only fancy! But no matter, he will turn up. And

I’ve been out on my own business, too. You know I’ve been moving to-day,