community-datasets/crime_and_punish · Datasets at Hugging Face

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within. People seemed to be playing cards and drinking tea there. Words
of the most unceremonious kind flew out from time to time.

Raskolnikov recognised Katerina Ivanovna at once. She was a rather tall,
slim and graceful woman, terribly emaciated, with magnificent dark brown
hair and with a hectic flush in her cheeks. She was pacing up and down
in her little room, pressing her hands against her chest; her lips
were parched and her breathing came in nervous broken gasps. Her eyes
glittered as in fever and looked about with a harsh immovable stare. And
that consumptive and excited face with the last flickering light of the
candle-end playing upon it made a sickening impression. She seemed to
Raskolnikov about thirty years old and was certainly a strange wife for
Marmeladov.... She had not heard them and did not notice them coming in.
She seemed to be lost in thought, hearing and seeing nothing. The room
was close, but she had not opened the window; a stench rose from the
staircase, but the door on to the stairs was not closed. From the inner
rooms clouds of tobacco smoke floated in, she kept coughing, but did not
close the door. The youngest child, a girl of six, was asleep, sitting
curled up on the floor with her head on the sofa. A boy a year older
stood crying and shaking in the corner, probably he had just had a
beating. Beside him stood a girl of nine years old, tall and thin,
wearing a thin and ragged chemise with an ancient cashmere pelisse flung
over her bare shoulders, long outgrown and barely reaching her knees.
Her arm, as thin as a stick, was round her brother’s neck. She was
trying to comfort him, whispering something to him, and doing all she
could to keep him from whimpering again. At the same time her large
dark eyes, which looked larger still from the thinness of her frightened
face, were watching her mother with alarm. Marmeladov did not enter the
door, but dropped on his knees in the very doorway, pushing Raskolnikov
in front of him. The woman seeing a stranger stopped indifferently
facing him, coming to herself for a moment and apparently wondering what
he had come for. But evidently she decided that he was going into
the next room, as he had to pass through hers to get there. Taking no
further notice of him, she walked towards the outer door to close it
and uttered a sudden scream on seeing her husband on his knees in the
doorway.

“Ah!” she cried out in a frenzy, “he has come back! The criminal! the
monster!... And where is the money? What’s in your pocket, show me! And
your clothes are all different! Where are your clothes? Where is the
money! Speak!”

And she fell to searching him. Marmeladov submissively and obediently
held up both arms to facilitate the search. Not a farthing was there.

“Where is the money?” she cried--“Mercy on us, can he have drunk it all?
There were twelve silver roubles left in the chest!” and in a fury
she seized him by the hair and dragged him into the room. Marmeladov
seconded her efforts by meekly crawling along on his knees.

“And this is a consolation to me! This does not hurt me, but is a
positive con-so-la-tion, ho-nou-red sir,” he called out, shaken to and
fro by his hair and even once striking the ground with his forehead.
The child asleep on the floor woke up, and began to cry. The boy in the
corner losing all control began trembling and screaming and rushed
to his sister in violent terror, almost in a fit. The eldest girl was
shaking like a leaf.

“He’s drunk it! he’s drunk it all,” the poor woman screamed in
despair--“and his clothes are gone! And they are hungry, hungry!”--and
wringing her hands she pointed to the children. “Oh, accursed life!
And you, are you not ashamed?”--she pounced all at once upon
Raskolnikov--“from the tavern! Have you been drinking with him? You have
been drinking with him, too! Go away!”

The young man was hastening away without uttering a word. The inner door
was thrown wide open and inquisitive faces were peering in at it. Coarse
laughing faces with pipes and cigarettes and heads wearing caps thrust
themselves in at the doorway. Further in could be seen figures in
dressing gowns flung open, in costumes of unseemly scantiness, some of
them with cards in their hands. They were particularly diverted, when
Marmeladov, dragged about by his hair, shouted that it was a consolation
to him. They even began to come into the room; at last a sinister shrill
outcry was heard: this came from Amalia Lippevechsel herself pushing her
way amongst them and trying to restore order after her own fashion and
for the hundredth time to frighten the poor woman by ordering her
with coarse abuse to clear out of the room next day. As he went out,
Raskolnikov had time to put his hand into his pocket, to snatch up the
coppers he had received in exchange for his rouble in the tavern and to
lay them unnoticed on the window. Afterwards on the stairs, he changed
his mind and would have gone back.

“What a stupid thing I’ve done,” he thought to himself, “they have Sonia
and I want it myself.” But reflecting that it would be impossible to
take it back now and that in any case he would not have taken it, he
dismissed it with a wave of his hand and went back to his lodging.
“Sonia wants pomatum too,” he said as he walked along the street, and he
laughed malignantly--“such smartness costs money.... Hm! And maybe Sonia
herself will be bankrupt to-day, for there is always a risk, hunting
big game... digging for gold... then they would all be without a crust
to-morrow except for my money. Hurrah for Sonia! What a mine they’ve dug
there! And they’re making the most of it! Yes, they are making the most
of it! They’ve wept over it and grown used to it. Man grows used to
everything, the scoundrel!”

He sank into thought.

“And what if I am wrong,” he cried suddenly after a moment’s thought.
“What if man is not really a scoundrel, man in general, I mean, the
whole race of mankind--then all the rest is prejudice, simply artificial

within. People seemed to be playing cards and drinking tea there. Words

of the most unceremonious kind flew out from time to time.

Raskolnikov recognised Katerina Ivanovna at once. She was a rather tall,

slim and graceful woman, terribly emaciated, with magnificent dark brown

hair and with a hectic flush in her cheeks. She was pacing up and down

in her little room, pressing her hands against her chest; her lips

were parched and her breathing came in nervous broken gasps. Her eyes

glittered as in fever and looked about with a harsh immovable stare. And

that consumptive and excited face with the last flickering light of the

candle-end playing upon it made a sickening impression. She seemed to

Raskolnikov about thirty years old and was certainly a strange wife for

Marmeladov.... She had not heard them and did not notice them coming in.

She seemed to be lost in thought, hearing and seeing nothing. The room

was close, but she had not opened the window; a stench rose from the

staircase, but the door on to the stairs was not closed. From the inner

rooms clouds of tobacco smoke floated in, she kept coughing, but did not

close the door. The youngest child, a girl of six, was asleep, sitting

curled up on the floor with her head on the sofa. A boy a year older

stood crying and shaking in the corner, probably he had just had a

beating. Beside him stood a girl of nine years old, tall and thin,

wearing a thin and ragged chemise with an ancient cashmere pelisse flung

over her bare shoulders, long outgrown and barely reaching her knees.

Her arm, as thin as a stick, was round her brother’s neck. She was

trying to comfort him, whispering something to him, and doing all she

could to keep him from whimpering again. At the same time her large

dark eyes, which looked larger still from the thinness of her frightened

face, were watching her mother with alarm. Marmeladov did not enter the

door, but dropped on his knees in the very doorway, pushing Raskolnikov

in front of him. The woman seeing a stranger stopped indifferently

facing him, coming to herself for a moment and apparently wondering what

he had come for. But evidently she decided that he was going into

the next room, as he had to pass through hers to get there. Taking no

further notice of him, she walked towards the outer door to close it

and uttered a sudden scream on seeing her husband on his knees in the

doorway.

“Ah!” she cried out in a frenzy, “he has come back! The criminal! the

monster!... And where is the money? What’s in your pocket, show me! And

your clothes are all different! Where are your clothes? Where is the

money! Speak!”

And she fell to searching him. Marmeladov submissively and obediently

held up both arms to facilitate the search. Not a farthing was there.

“Where is the money?” she cried--“Mercy on us, can he have drunk it all?

There were twelve silver roubles left in the chest!” and in a fury

she seized him by the hair and dragged him into the room. Marmeladov

seconded her efforts by meekly crawling along on his knees.

“And this is a consolation to me! This does not hurt me, but is a

positive con-so-la-tion, ho-nou-red sir,” he called out, shaken to and

fro by his hair and even once striking the ground with his forehead.

The child asleep on the floor woke up, and began to cry. The boy in the

corner losing all control began trembling and screaming and rushed

to his sister in violent terror, almost in a fit. The eldest girl was

shaking like a leaf.

“He’s drunk it! he’s drunk it all,” the poor woman screamed in

despair--“and his clothes are gone! And they are hungry, hungry!”--and

wringing her hands she pointed to the children. “Oh, accursed life!

And you, are you not ashamed?”--she pounced all at once upon

Raskolnikov--“from the tavern! Have you been drinking with him? You have

been drinking with him, too! Go away!”

The young man was hastening away without uttering a word. The inner door

was thrown wide open and inquisitive faces were peering in at it. Coarse

laughing faces with pipes and cigarettes and heads wearing caps thrust

themselves in at the doorway. Further in could be seen figures in

dressing gowns flung open, in costumes of unseemly scantiness, some of

them with cards in their hands. They were particularly diverted, when

Marmeladov, dragged about by his hair, shouted that it was a consolation

to him. They even began to come into the room; at last a sinister shrill

outcry was heard: this came from Amalia Lippevechsel herself pushing her

way amongst them and trying to restore order after her own fashion and

for the hundredth time to frighten the poor woman by ordering her

with coarse abuse to clear out of the room next day. As he went out,

Raskolnikov had time to put his hand into his pocket, to snatch up the

coppers he had received in exchange for his rouble in the tavern and to

lay them unnoticed on the window. Afterwards on the stairs, he changed

his mind and would have gone back.

“What a stupid thing I’ve done,” he thought to himself, “they have Sonia

and I want it myself.” But reflecting that it would be impossible to

take it back now and that in any case he would not have taken it, he

dismissed it with a wave of his hand and went back to his lodging.

“Sonia wants pomatum too,” he said as he walked along the street, and he

laughed malignantly--“such smartness costs money.... Hm! And maybe Sonia

herself will be bankrupt to-day, for there is always a risk, hunting

big game... digging for gold... then they would all be without a crust

to-morrow except for my money. Hurrah for Sonia! What a mine they’ve dug

there! And they’re making the most of it! Yes, they are making the most

of it! They’ve wept over it and grown used to it. Man grows used to

everything, the scoundrel!”

He sank into thought.

“And what if I am wrong,” he cried suddenly after a moment’s thought.

“What if man is not really a scoundrel, man in general, I mean, the

whole race of mankind--then all the rest is prejudice, simply artificial