community-datasets/crime_and_punish · Datasets at Hugging Face

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“But your brother? I ask from curiosity,” said Svidrigaïlov, still
standing where he was.

“Inform, if you want to! Don’t stir! Don’t come nearer! I’ll shoot! You
poisoned your wife, I know; you are a murderer yourself!” She held the
revolver ready.

“Are you so positive I poisoned Marfa Petrovna?”

“You did! You hinted it yourself; you talked to me of poison.... I know
you went to get it... you had it in readiness.... It was your doing....
It must have been your doing.... Scoundrel!”

“Even if that were true, it would have been for your sake... you would
have been the cause.”

“You are lying! I hated you always, always....”

“Oho, Avdotya Romanovna! You seem to have forgotten how you softened
to me in the heat of propaganda. I saw it in your eyes. Do you remember
that moonlight night, when the nightingale was singing?”

“That’s a lie,” there was a flash of fury in Dounia’s eyes, “that’s a
lie and a libel!”

“A lie? Well, if you like, it’s a lie. I made it up. Women ought not
to be reminded of such things,” he smiled. “I know you will shoot, you
pretty wild creature. Well, shoot away!”

Dounia raised the revolver, and deadly pale, gazed at him, measuring the
distance and awaiting the first movement on his part. Her lower lip was
white and quivering and her big black eyes flashed like fire. He had
never seen her so handsome. The fire glowing in her eyes at the moment
she raised the revolver seemed to kindle him and there was a pang of
anguish in his heart. He took a step forward and a shot rang out. The
bullet grazed his hair and flew into the wall behind. He stood still and
laughed softly.

“The wasp has stung me. She aimed straight at my head. What’s this?
Blood?” he pulled out his handkerchief to wipe the blood, which flowed
in a thin stream down his right temple. The bullet seemed to have just
grazed the skin.

Dounia lowered the revolver and looked at Svidrigaïlov not so much in
terror as in a sort of wild amazement. She seemed not to understand what
she was doing and what was going on.

“Well, you missed! Fire again, I’ll wait,” said Svidrigaïlov softly,
still smiling, but gloomily. “If you go on like that, I shall have time
to seize you before you cock again.”

Dounia started, quickly cocked the pistol and again raised it.

“Let me be,” she cried in despair. “I swear I’ll shoot again. I... I’ll
kill you.”

“Well... at three paces you can hardly help it. But if you don’t...
then.” His eyes flashed and he took two steps forward. Dounia shot
again: it missed fire.

“You haven’t loaded it properly. Never mind, you have another charge
there. Get it ready, I’ll wait.”

He stood facing her, two paces away, waiting and gazing at her with wild
determination, with feverishly passionate, stubborn, set eyes. Dounia
saw that he would sooner die than let her go. “And... now, of course she
would kill him, at two paces!” Suddenly she flung away the revolver.

“She’s dropped it!” said Svidrigaïlov with surprise, and he drew a deep
breath. A weight seemed to have rolled from his heart--perhaps not only
the fear of death; indeed he may scarcely have felt it at that moment.
It was the deliverance from another feeling, darker and more bitter,
which he could not himself have defined.

He went to Dounia and gently put his arm round her waist. She did not
resist, but, trembling like a leaf, looked at him with suppliant eyes.
He tried to say something, but his lips moved without being able to
utter a sound.

“Let me go,” Dounia implored. Svidrigaïlov shuddered. Her voice now was
quite different.

“Then you don’t love me?” he asked softly. Dounia shook her head.

“And... and you can’t? Never?” he whispered in despair.

“Never!”

There followed a moment of terrible, dumb struggle in the heart of
Svidrigaïlov. He looked at her with an indescribable gaze. Suddenly
he withdrew his arm, turned quickly to the window and stood facing it.
Another moment passed.

“Here’s the key.”

He took it out of the left pocket of his coat and laid it on the table
behind him, without turning or looking at Dounia.

“Take it! Make haste!”

“But your brother? I ask from curiosity,” said Svidrigaïlov, still

standing where he was.

“Inform, if you want to! Don’t stir! Don’t come nearer! I’ll shoot! You

poisoned your wife, I know; you are a murderer yourself!” She held the

revolver ready.

“Are you so positive I poisoned Marfa Petrovna?”

“You did! You hinted it yourself; you talked to me of poison.... I know

you went to get it... you had it in readiness.... It was your doing....

It must have been your doing.... Scoundrel!”

“Even if that were true, it would have been for your sake... you would

have been the cause.”

“You are lying! I hated you always, always....”

“Oho, Avdotya Romanovna! You seem to have forgotten how you softened

to me in the heat of propaganda. I saw it in your eyes. Do you remember

that moonlight night, when the nightingale was singing?”

“That’s a lie,” there was a flash of fury in Dounia’s eyes, “that’s a

lie and a libel!”

“A lie? Well, if you like, it’s a lie. I made it up. Women ought not

to be reminded of such things,” he smiled. “I know you will shoot, you

pretty wild creature. Well, shoot away!”

Dounia raised the revolver, and deadly pale, gazed at him, measuring the

distance and awaiting the first movement on his part. Her lower lip was

white and quivering and her big black eyes flashed like fire. He had

never seen her so handsome. The fire glowing in her eyes at the moment

she raised the revolver seemed to kindle him and there was a pang of

anguish in his heart. He took a step forward and a shot rang out. The

bullet grazed his hair and flew into the wall behind. He stood still and

laughed softly.

“The wasp has stung me. She aimed straight at my head. What’s this?

Blood?” he pulled out his handkerchief to wipe the blood, which flowed

in a thin stream down his right temple. The bullet seemed to have just

grazed the skin.

Dounia lowered the revolver and looked at Svidrigaïlov not so much in

terror as in a sort of wild amazement. She seemed not to understand what

she was doing and what was going on.

“Well, you missed! Fire again, I’ll wait,” said Svidrigaïlov softly,

still smiling, but gloomily. “If you go on like that, I shall have time

to seize you before you cock again.”

Dounia started, quickly cocked the pistol and again raised it.

“Let me be,” she cried in despair. “I swear I’ll shoot again. I... I’ll

kill you.”

“Well... at three paces you can hardly help it. But if you don’t...

then.” His eyes flashed and he took two steps forward. Dounia shot

again: it missed fire.

“You haven’t loaded it properly. Never mind, you have another charge

there. Get it ready, I’ll wait.”

He stood facing her, two paces away, waiting and gazing at her with wild

determination, with feverishly passionate, stubborn, set eyes. Dounia

saw that he would sooner die than let her go. “And... now, of course she

would kill him, at two paces!” Suddenly she flung away the revolver.

“She’s dropped it!” said Svidrigaïlov with surprise, and he drew a deep

breath. A weight seemed to have rolled from his heart--perhaps not only

the fear of death; indeed he may scarcely have felt it at that moment.

It was the deliverance from another feeling, darker and more bitter,

which he could not himself have defined.

He went to Dounia and gently put his arm round her waist. She did not

resist, but, trembling like a leaf, looked at him with suppliant eyes.

He tried to say something, but his lips moved without being able to

utter a sound.

“Let me go,” Dounia implored. Svidrigaïlov shuddered. Her voice now was

quite different.

“Then you don’t love me?” he asked softly. Dounia shook her head.

“And... and you can’t? Never?” he whispered in despair.

“Never!”

There followed a moment of terrible, dumb struggle in the heart of

Svidrigaïlov. He looked at her with an indescribable gaze. Suddenly

he withdrew his arm, turned quickly to the window and stood facing it.

Another moment passed.

“Here’s the key.”

He took it out of the left pocket of his coat and laid it on the table

behind him, without turning or looking at Dounia.

“Take it! Make haste!”