community-datasets/crime_and_punish · Datasets at Hugging Face

line stringlengths 2 76
which was entered by steps leading from the pavement to the basement.
At that instant two drunken men came out at the door, and abusing and
supporting one another, they mounted the steps. Without stopping to
think, Raskolnikov went down the steps at once. Till that moment he had
never been into a tavern, but now he felt giddy and was tormented by a
burning thirst. He longed for a drink of cold beer, and attributed his
sudden weakness to the want of food. He sat down at a sticky little
table in a dark and dirty corner; ordered some beer, and eagerly drank
off the first glassful. At once he felt easier; and his thoughts became
clear.

“All that’s nonsense,” he said hopefully, “and there is nothing in it
all to worry about! It’s simply physical derangement. Just a glass of
beer, a piece of dry bread--and in one moment the brain is stronger,
the mind is clearer and the will is firm! Phew, how utterly petty it all
is!”

But in spite of this scornful reflection, he was by now looking cheerful
as though he were suddenly set free from a terrible burden: and he gazed
round in a friendly way at the people in the room. But even at that
moment he had a dim foreboding that this happier frame of mind was also
not normal.

There were few people at the time in the tavern. Besides the two drunken
men he had met on the steps, a group consisting of about five men and
a girl with a concertina had gone out at the same time. Their departure
left the room quiet and rather empty. The persons still in the tavern
were a man who appeared to be an artisan, drunk, but not extremely so,
sitting before a pot of beer, and his companion, a huge, stout man with
a grey beard, in a short full-skirted coat. He was very drunk: and had
dropped asleep on the bench; every now and then, he began as though in
his sleep, cracking his fingers, with his arms wide apart and the upper
part of his body bounding about on the bench, while he hummed some
meaningless refrain, trying to recall some such lines as these:

“His wife a year he fondly loved
His wife a--a year he--fondly loved.”

Or suddenly waking up again:

“Walking along the crowded row
He met the one he used to know.”

But no one shared his enjoyment: his silent companion looked with
positive hostility and mistrust at all these manifestations. There was
another man in the room who looked somewhat like a retired government
clerk. He was sitting apart, now and then sipping from his pot and
looking round at the company. He, too, appeared to be in some agitation.



CHAPTER II

Raskolnikov was not used to crowds, and, as we said before, he avoided
society of every sort, more especially of late. But now all at once he
felt a desire to be with other people. Something new seemed to be taking
place within him, and with it he felt a sort of thirst for company. He
was so weary after a whole month of concentrated wretchedness and gloomy
excitement that he longed to rest, if only for a moment, in some other
world, whatever it might be; and, in spite of the filthiness of the
surroundings, he was glad now to stay in the tavern.

The master of the establishment was in another room, but he frequently
came down some steps into the main room, his jaunty, tarred boots with
red turn-over tops coming into view each time before the rest of his
person. He wore a full coat and a horribly greasy black satin waistcoat,
with no cravat, and his whole face seemed smeared with oil like an
iron lock. At the counter stood a boy of about fourteen, and there was
another boy somewhat younger who handed whatever was wanted. On the
counter lay some sliced cucumber, some pieces of dried black bread, and
some fish, chopped up small, all smelling very bad. It was insufferably
close, and so heavy with the fumes of spirits that five minutes in such
an atmosphere might well make a man drunk.

There are chance meetings with strangers that interest us from the
first moment, before a word is spoken. Such was the impression made on
Raskolnikov by the person sitting a little distance from him, who looked
like a retired clerk. The young man often recalled this impression
afterwards, and even ascribed it to presentiment. He looked repeatedly
at the clerk, partly no doubt because the latter was staring
persistently at him, obviously anxious to enter into conversation. At
the other persons in the room, including the tavern-keeper, the clerk
looked as though he were used to their company, and weary of it, showing
a shade of condescending contempt for them as persons of station and
culture inferior to his own, with whom it would be useless for him to
converse. He was a man over fifty, bald and grizzled, of medium height,
and stoutly built. His face, bloated from continual drinking, was of
a yellow, even greenish, tinge, with swollen eyelids out of which keen
reddish eyes gleamed like little chinks. But there was something very
strange in him; there was a light in his eyes as though of intense
feeling--perhaps there were even thought and intelligence, but at the
same time there was a gleam of something like madness. He was wearing an
old and hopelessly ragged black dress coat, with all its buttons missing
except one, and that one he had buttoned, evidently clinging to this
last trace of respectability. A crumpled shirt front, covered with spots
and stains, protruded from his canvas waistcoat. Like a clerk, he wore
no beard, nor moustache, but had been so long unshaven that his chin
looked like a stiff greyish brush. And there was something respectable
and like an official about his manner too. But he was restless; he
ruffled up his hair and from time to time let his head drop into his

which was entered by steps leading from the pavement to the basement.

At that instant two drunken men came out at the door, and abusing and

supporting one another, they mounted the steps. Without stopping to

think, Raskolnikov went down the steps at once. Till that moment he had

never been into a tavern, but now he felt giddy and was tormented by a

burning thirst. He longed for a drink of cold beer, and attributed his

sudden weakness to the want of food. He sat down at a sticky little

table in a dark and dirty corner; ordered some beer, and eagerly drank

off the first glassful. At once he felt easier; and his thoughts became

clear.

“All that’s nonsense,” he said hopefully, “and there is nothing in it

all to worry about! It’s simply physical derangement. Just a glass of

beer, a piece of dry bread--and in one moment the brain is stronger,

the mind is clearer and the will is firm! Phew, how utterly petty it all

is!”

But in spite of this scornful reflection, he was by now looking cheerful

as though he were suddenly set free from a terrible burden: and he gazed

round in a friendly way at the people in the room. But even at that

moment he had a dim foreboding that this happier frame of mind was also

not normal.

There were few people at the time in the tavern. Besides the two drunken

men he had met on the steps, a group consisting of about five men and

a girl with a concertina had gone out at the same time. Their departure

left the room quiet and rather empty. The persons still in the tavern

were a man who appeared to be an artisan, drunk, but not extremely so,

sitting before a pot of beer, and his companion, a huge, stout man with

a grey beard, in a short full-skirted coat. He was very drunk: and had

dropped asleep on the bench; every now and then, he began as though in

his sleep, cracking his fingers, with his arms wide apart and the upper

part of his body bounding about on the bench, while he hummed some

meaningless refrain, trying to recall some such lines as these:

“His wife a year he fondly loved

His wife a--a year he--fondly loved.”

Or suddenly waking up again:

“Walking along the crowded row

He met the one he used to know.”

But no one shared his enjoyment: his silent companion looked with

positive hostility and mistrust at all these manifestations. There was

another man in the room who looked somewhat like a retired government

clerk. He was sitting apart, now and then sipping from his pot and

looking round at the company. He, too, appeared to be in some agitation.

CHAPTER II

Raskolnikov was not used to crowds, and, as we said before, he avoided

society of every sort, more especially of late. But now all at once he

felt a desire to be with other people. Something new seemed to be taking

place within him, and with it he felt a sort of thirst for company. He

was so weary after a whole month of concentrated wretchedness and gloomy

excitement that he longed to rest, if only for a moment, in some other

world, whatever it might be; and, in spite of the filthiness of the

surroundings, he was glad now to stay in the tavern.

The master of the establishment was in another room, but he frequently

came down some steps into the main room, his jaunty, tarred boots with

red turn-over tops coming into view each time before the rest of his

person. He wore a full coat and a horribly greasy black satin waistcoat,

with no cravat, and his whole face seemed smeared with oil like an

iron lock. At the counter stood a boy of about fourteen, and there was

another boy somewhat younger who handed whatever was wanted. On the

counter lay some sliced cucumber, some pieces of dried black bread, and

some fish, chopped up small, all smelling very bad. It was insufferably

close, and so heavy with the fumes of spirits that five minutes in such

an atmosphere might well make a man drunk.

There are chance meetings with strangers that interest us from the

first moment, before a word is spoken. Such was the impression made on

Raskolnikov by the person sitting a little distance from him, who looked

like a retired clerk. The young man often recalled this impression

afterwards, and even ascribed it to presentiment. He looked repeatedly

at the clerk, partly no doubt because the latter was staring

persistently at him, obviously anxious to enter into conversation. At

the other persons in the room, including the tavern-keeper, the clerk

looked as though he were used to their company, and weary of it, showing

a shade of condescending contempt for them as persons of station and

culture inferior to his own, with whom it would be useless for him to

converse. He was a man over fifty, bald and grizzled, of medium height,

and stoutly built. His face, bloated from continual drinking, was of

a yellow, even greenish, tinge, with swollen eyelids out of which keen

reddish eyes gleamed like little chinks. But there was something very

strange in him; there was a light in his eyes as though of intense

feeling--perhaps there were even thought and intelligence, but at the

same time there was a gleam of something like madness. He was wearing an

old and hopelessly ragged black dress coat, with all its buttons missing

except one, and that one he had buttoned, evidently clinging to this

last trace of respectability. A crumpled shirt front, covered with spots

and stains, protruded from his canvas waistcoat. Like a clerk, he wore

no beard, nor moustache, but had been so long unshaven that his chin

looked like a stiff greyish brush. And there was something respectable

and like an official about his manner too. But he was restless; he

ruffled up his hair and from time to time let his head drop into his