“We couldn't really shout for the whole house to hear what we were just talking about. I'm not jeering at all; I'm simply tired of speaking this language. Now, where are you going to go in such a state? Or do you want to betray him? You'll drive him into a rage, and he'll betray himself. I want you to know that he's being watched, they're already on his trail. You'll only give him away. Wait. I saw him and spoke with him just now; he can still be saved. Wait, sit down, let's think it over together. That's why I sent for you, to talk about it alone with you and think it over carefully. Do sit down!”

“How can you save him? Can he be saved?”

Dunya sat down. Svidrigailov sat beside her.

“It all depends on you, on you, on you alone,” he began, with flashing eyes, almost in a whisper, becoming confused, and even failing to articulate some words in his excitement.

Dunya drew further back from him in fear. He, too, was trembling all over.

“You...one word from you, and he is saved! I... I will save him. I have money, and friends. I'll send him away at once, and I'll get a passport, two passports. One for him, the other for me. I have friends; I have practical people...Do you want me to? I'll also get a passport for you...your mother...what do you need Razumikhin for? I, too, love you...I love you infinitely. Let me kiss the hem of your dress—let me, let me! I can't bear its rustling! Tell me: 'Do this,' and I'll do it! I'll do anything. I'll do the impossible. What you believe, I will believe. I'll do anything, anything! No, don't look at me like that! You know you're killing me . . .”

He was even beginning to rave. Something happened to him suddenly, as if it all suddenly went to his head. Dunya jumped up and rushed to the door.

“Open! Open!” she cried through the door, calling to someone and shaking the door with her hands. “Open, please! Is anyone there?”

Svidrigailov stood up and recovered himself. A spiteful and mocking smile was slowly forcing itself to his still trembling lips.

“No one is there,” he said softly and evenly, “the landlady has gone out, and shouting like that is a wasted effort; you're only upsetting yourself for nothing.”

“Where is the key? Open the door at once, at once, you vile man!”^[147]

“I've lost the key; I can't find it.”

“Ah! So it's force!” Dunya cried out, turned pale as death, and rushed to the corner, where she quickly shielded herself with a little table that happened to be there. She did not scream; but she fastened her eyes on her tormentor and closely followed his every movement. Svidrigailov did not move from where he was, and stood facing her at the other end of the room. He even regained his composure, at least externally. But his face was as pale as before, and the mocking smile had not left it.

“You just mentioned 'force,' Avdotya Romanovna. If it's to be force, you can judge for yourself that I've taken measures. Sofya Semyonovna is not at home; the Kapernaumovs are very far, five locked doors away. Finally, I am at least twice as strong as you are, and, besides, I have nothing to fear, because you cannot complain afterwards either: you really won't want to betray your brother, will you? Besides, no one will believe you: why on earth should a girl go alone to a single man's apartment? So that even if you sacrifice your brother, you still won't prove anything: force is very difficult to prove, Avdotya Romanovna.”

“Scoundrel!” Dunya whispered indignantly.

“As you please, but note that I was speaking only by way of suggestion. According to my own personal conviction, you are entirely right: force is an abomination. What I was getting at was that there would be exactly nothing on your conscience even if...even if you wished to save your brother voluntarily, in the way I have offered. It would mean you were simply submitting to circumstances—well, to force, finally, if it's impossible to do without the word. Think about it; the fates of your brother and your mother are in your hands. And I shall be your slave...all my life...I'll wait here . . .”

Svidrigailov sat down on the sofa, about eight steps away from Dunya. For her there was no longer the slightest doubt of his unshakeable determination. Besides, she knew him . . .

Suddenly she took a revolver from her pocket, cocked it, and lowered the hand holding the revolver to the little table. Svidrigailov jumped up from his seat.

“Aha! So that's how it is!” he cried out in surprise, but with a spiteful grin. “Well, that completely changes the course of things! You're making it much easier for me, Avdotya Romanovna! And where did you get the revolver? Can it be Mr. Razumikhin? Hah, but that's my revolver! An old acquaintance! And how I was hunting for it then! ... So those shooting lessons I had the honor of giving you in the country weren't wasted after all.”

“It's not your revolver, it's Marfa Petrovna's, whom you killed, villain!^[148] Nothing in her house was yours. I took it as soon as I began to suspect what you were capable of. If you dare take just one step, I swear I'll kill you!”

Dunya was in a frenzy. She held the revolver ready.

“Well, and your brother? I ask out of curiosity,” Svidrigailov said, still standing in the same place.

“Denounce him if you like! Don't move! Not a step! I'll shoot! You poisoned your wife, I know it; you're a murderer yourself! ... ”

“And are you firmly convinced that I poisoned Marfa Petrovna?”

“You did! You hinted it to me yourself; you spoke to me about poison...I know you went to get it...you had it ready...It was certainly you...scoundrel!”

“Even if that were true, it was because of you...you would still be the cause of it.”

“You're lying! I hated you always, always . . .”

“Aha, Avdotya Romanovna! You've obviously forgotten how in the heat of propaganda you were already inclining and melting...I saw it in your dear eyes; remember, in the evening, in the moonlight, and with a nightingale singing?”

“You're lying!” (Rage shone in Dunya's eyes.) “You're lying, slanderer!”

“Lying, am I? Well, maybe I am. So I lied. Women oughtn't to be reminded of these little things.” (He grinned.) “I know you'll shoot, you pretty little beast. Go on, shoot!”

Dunya raised the revolver and, deathly pale, her white lower lip trembling, her large black eyes flashing like fire, looked at him, having made up her mind, calculating, and waiting for the first movement from his side. He had never yet seen her so beautiful. The fire that flashed from her eyes as she raised the revolver seemed to burn him, and his heart was wrung with pain. He took a step, and a shot rang out. The bullet grazed his hair and struck the wall behind him. He stopped and laughed softly:

“The wasp has stung! She aims straight at the head...What's this? Blood?” He took out a handkerchief to wipe away the blood that was flowing in a thin trickle from his right temple; the bullet must have slightly touched his scalp. Dunya lowered the revolver and looked at Svidrigailov not really in fear but in some wild perplexity. It was as if she herself did not understand what she had done or what was happening.

“Well, so you missed! Shoot again, I'm waiting,” Svidrigailov said softly, still grinning, but somehow gloomily. “This way I'll have time to seize you before you cock it!”

Dunechka gave a start, quickly cocked the revolver, and raised it again.

“Let me be!” she said in despair. “I swear, I'll shoot again...I'll...kill you! . . .”

“Well, so...from three paces you could hardly fail to kill me. Well, but if you don't. . . then . . .” His eyes flashed, and he took two more steps.

Dunechka pulled the trigger—a misfire!

“You didn't load it properly. Never mind! You've got another cap left. Put it right; I'll wait.”^[149]