community-datasets/crime_and_punish · Datasets at Hugging Face

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instructions, left with Sonia presents and money for them. Their wives
and sweethearts knew her and used to visit her. And when she visited
Raskolnikov at work, or met a party of the prisoners on the road, they
all took off their hats to her. “Little mother Sofya Semyonovna, you
are our dear, good little mother,” coarse branded criminals said to that
frail little creature. She would smile and bow to them and everyone was
delighted when she smiled. They even admired her gait and turned round
to watch her walking; they admired her too for being so little, and, in
fact, did not know what to admire her most for. They even came to her
for help in their illnesses.

He was in the hospital from the middle of Lent till after Easter. When
he was better, he remembered the dreams he had had while he was feverish
and delirious. He dreamt that the whole world was condemned to a
terrible new strange plague that had come to Europe from the depths of
Asia. All were to be destroyed except a very few chosen. Some new sorts
of microbes were attacking the bodies of men, but these microbes were
endowed with intelligence and will. Men attacked by them became at once
mad and furious. But never had men considered themselves so intellectual
and so completely in possession of the truth as these sufferers, never
had they considered their decisions, their scientific conclusions, their
moral convictions so infallible. Whole villages, whole towns and peoples
went mad from the infection. All were excited and did not understand
one another. Each thought that he alone had the truth and was wretched
looking at the others, beat himself on the breast, wept, and wrung
his hands. They did not know how to judge and could not agree what to
consider evil and what good; they did not know whom to blame, whom
to justify. Men killed each other in a sort of senseless spite. They
gathered together in armies against one another, but even on the march
the armies would begin attacking each other, the ranks would be broken
and the soldiers would fall on each other, stabbing and cutting, biting
and devouring each other. The alarm bell was ringing all day long in
the towns; men rushed together, but why they were summoned and who was
summoning them no one knew. The most ordinary trades were abandoned,
because everyone proposed his own ideas, his own improvements, and they
could not agree. The land too was abandoned. Men met in groups, agreed
on something, swore to keep together, but at once began on something
quite different from what they had proposed. They accused one another,
fought and killed each other. There were conflagrations and famine. All
men and all things were involved in destruction. The plague spread and
moved further and further. Only a few men could be saved in the whole
world. They were a pure chosen people, destined to found a new race and
a new life, to renew and purify the earth, but no one had seen these
men, no one had heard their words and their voices.

Raskolnikov was worried that this senseless dream haunted his memory so
miserably, the impression of this feverish delirium persisted so long.
The second week after Easter had come. There were warm bright spring
days; in the prison ward the grating windows under which the sentinel
paced were opened. Sonia had only been able to visit him twice during
his illness; each time she had to obtain permission, and it was
difficult. But she often used to come to the hospital yard, especially
in the evening, sometimes only to stand a minute and look up at the
windows of the ward.

One evening, when he was almost well again, Raskolnikov fell asleep. On
waking up he chanced to go to the window, and at once saw Sonia in the
distance at the hospital gate. She seemed to be waiting for someone.
Something stabbed him to the heart at that minute. He shuddered and
moved away from the window. Next day Sonia did not come, nor the day
after; he noticed that he was expecting her uneasily. At last he was
discharged. On reaching the prison he learnt from the convicts that
Sofya Semyonovna was lying ill at home and was unable to go out.

He was very uneasy and sent to inquire after her; he soon learnt that
her illness was not dangerous. Hearing that he was anxious about her,
Sonia sent him a pencilled note, telling him that she was much better,
that she had a slight cold and that she would soon, very soon come and
see him at his work. His heart throbbed painfully as he read it.

Again it was a warm bright day. Early in the morning, at six o’clock, he
went off to work on the river bank, where they used to pound alabaster
and where there was a kiln for baking it in a shed. There were only
three of them sent. One of the convicts went with the guard to the
fortress to fetch a tool; the other began getting the wood ready and
laying it in the kiln. Raskolnikov came out of the shed on to the river
bank, sat down on a heap of logs by the shed and began gazing at the
wide deserted river. From the high bank a broad landscape opened before
him, the sound of singing floated faintly audible from the other bank.
In the vast steppe, bathed in sunshine, he could just see, like black
specks, the nomads’ tents. There there was freedom, there other men were
living, utterly unlike those here; there time itself seemed to stand
still, as though the age of Abraham and his flocks had not passed.
Raskolnikov sat gazing, his thoughts passed into day-dreams, into
contemplation; he thought of nothing, but a vague restlessness excited
and troubled him. Suddenly he found Sonia beside him; she had come up
noiselessly and sat down at his side. It was still quite early; the
morning chill was still keen. She wore her poor old burnous and the
green shawl; her face still showed signs of illness, it was thinner and
paler. She gave him a joyful smile of welcome, but held out her hand
with her usual timidity. She was always timid of holding out her hand
to him and sometimes did not offer it at all, as though afraid he would
repel it. He always took her hand as though with repugnance, always
seemed vexed to meet her and was sometimes obstinately silent throughout
her visit. Sometimes she trembled before him and went away deeply
grieved. But now their hands did not part. He stole a rapid glance
at her and dropped his eyes on the ground without speaking. They were
alone, no one had seen them. The guard had turned away for the time.

How it happened he did not know. But all at once something seemed to

instructions, left with Sonia presents and money for them. Their wives

and sweethearts knew her and used to visit her. And when she visited

Raskolnikov at work, or met a party of the prisoners on the road, they

all took off their hats to her. “Little mother Sofya Semyonovna, you

are our dear, good little mother,” coarse branded criminals said to that

frail little creature. She would smile and bow to them and everyone was

delighted when she smiled. They even admired her gait and turned round

to watch her walking; they admired her too for being so little, and, in

fact, did not know what to admire her most for. They even came to her

for help in their illnesses.

He was in the hospital from the middle of Lent till after Easter. When

he was better, he remembered the dreams he had had while he was feverish

and delirious. He dreamt that the whole world was condemned to a

terrible new strange plague that had come to Europe from the depths of

Asia. All were to be destroyed except a very few chosen. Some new sorts

of microbes were attacking the bodies of men, but these microbes were

endowed with intelligence and will. Men attacked by them became at once

mad and furious. But never had men considered themselves so intellectual

and so completely in possession of the truth as these sufferers, never

had they considered their decisions, their scientific conclusions, their

moral convictions so infallible. Whole villages, whole towns and peoples

went mad from the infection. All were excited and did not understand

one another. Each thought that he alone had the truth and was wretched

looking at the others, beat himself on the breast, wept, and wrung

his hands. They did not know how to judge and could not agree what to

consider evil and what good; they did not know whom to blame, whom

to justify. Men killed each other in a sort of senseless spite. They

gathered together in armies against one another, but even on the march

the armies would begin attacking each other, the ranks would be broken

and the soldiers would fall on each other, stabbing and cutting, biting

and devouring each other. The alarm bell was ringing all day long in

the towns; men rushed together, but why they were summoned and who was

summoning them no one knew. The most ordinary trades were abandoned,

because everyone proposed his own ideas, his own improvements, and they

could not agree. The land too was abandoned. Men met in groups, agreed

on something, swore to keep together, but at once began on something

quite different from what they had proposed. They accused one another,

fought and killed each other. There were conflagrations and famine. All

men and all things were involved in destruction. The plague spread and

moved further and further. Only a few men could be saved in the whole

world. They were a pure chosen people, destined to found a new race and

a new life, to renew and purify the earth, but no one had seen these

men, no one had heard their words and their voices.

Raskolnikov was worried that this senseless dream haunted his memory so

miserably, the impression of this feverish delirium persisted so long.

The second week after Easter had come. There were warm bright spring

days; in the prison ward the grating windows under which the sentinel

paced were opened. Sonia had only been able to visit him twice during

his illness; each time she had to obtain permission, and it was

difficult. But she often used to come to the hospital yard, especially

in the evening, sometimes only to stand a minute and look up at the

windows of the ward.

One evening, when he was almost well again, Raskolnikov fell asleep. On

waking up he chanced to go to the window, and at once saw Sonia in the

distance at the hospital gate. She seemed to be waiting for someone.

Something stabbed him to the heart at that minute. He shuddered and

moved away from the window. Next day Sonia did not come, nor the day

after; he noticed that he was expecting her uneasily. At last he was

discharged. On reaching the prison he learnt from the convicts that

Sofya Semyonovna was lying ill at home and was unable to go out.

He was very uneasy and sent to inquire after her; he soon learnt that

her illness was not dangerous. Hearing that he was anxious about her,

Sonia sent him a pencilled note, telling him that she was much better,

that she had a slight cold and that she would soon, very soon come and

see him at his work. His heart throbbed painfully as he read it.

Again it was a warm bright day. Early in the morning, at six o’clock, he

went off to work on the river bank, where they used to pound alabaster

and where there was a kiln for baking it in a shed. There were only

three of them sent. One of the convicts went with the guard to the

fortress to fetch a tool; the other began getting the wood ready and

laying it in the kiln. Raskolnikov came out of the shed on to the river

bank, sat down on a heap of logs by the shed and began gazing at the

wide deserted river. From the high bank a broad landscape opened before

him, the sound of singing floated faintly audible from the other bank.

In the vast steppe, bathed in sunshine, he could just see, like black

specks, the nomads’ tents. There there was freedom, there other men were

living, utterly unlike those here; there time itself seemed to stand

still, as though the age of Abraham and his flocks had not passed.

Raskolnikov sat gazing, his thoughts passed into day-dreams, into

contemplation; he thought of nothing, but a vague restlessness excited

and troubled him. Suddenly he found Sonia beside him; she had come up

noiselessly and sat down at his side. It was still quite early; the

morning chill was still keen. She wore her poor old burnous and the

green shawl; her face still showed signs of illness, it was thinner and

paler. She gave him a joyful smile of welcome, but held out her hand

with her usual timidity. She was always timid of holding out her hand

to him and sometimes did not offer it at all, as though afraid he would

repel it. He always took her hand as though with repugnance, always

seemed vexed to meet her and was sometimes obstinately silent throughout

her visit. Sometimes she trembled before him and went away deeply

grieved. But now their hands did not part. He stole a rapid glance

at her and dropped his eyes on the ground without speaking. They were

alone, no one had seen them. The guard had turned away for the time.

How it happened he did not know. But all at once something seemed to