The Karamazov Brothers

by Fyodor Dostoevsky

  ‘Yes, probably… only perhaps I can avoid it till I’m thirty, and then…’

  ‘How? How can you avoid it? It’s impossible, thinking as you do.’

  ‘Once again, in the Karamazov way.’

  ‘You mean, “everything is permitted”? It’s all permitted; that’s it, is it?’

  Ivan frowned and suddenly went strangely pale.

  ‘Aha, you’ve seized on that expression which so offended Miusov… and which our brother Dmitry latched on to so naïvely,’ he said with a crooked smile. ‘Yes, all right, since it’s been said, “everything is permitted”. I won’t retract my words. Anyway, Mitya’s interpretation was quite good.’

  Alyosha regarded him in silence.

  ‘You know, Alyosha,’ said Ivan suddenly and with unaccustomed emotion, ‘I thought I was leaving with one friend in the world—you—but now I see that even in your heart, my dear recluse, there is no room for me. I will not reject the maxim that “everything is permitted”; so, well then, for that you will reject me, won’t you?’

  Alyosha stood up, went over to him and, without speaking, kissed him on the lips.

  ‘Plagiarism!’ cried Ivan, in a transport of delight. ‘You stole that from my tale! But thank you all the same. Come on, Alyosha, let’s go. It’s time for us to leave.’

  They went out, but on the steps of the inn they stopped.

  ‘I’ll tell you what, Alyosha,’ said Ivan in a firm voice, ‘if ever I bring myself to love those tiny, sticky leaf-buds, I’ll do so only in memory of you. It will be enough for me that you are somewhere here, and I shall not lose the desire to live. Are you satisfied with that? If you like, you can take that as a declaration of love. But for now, you’ll go to the right and I’ll go to the left—and enough, you hear me, enough. That’s to say, even if I don’t go tomorrow (though I think I probably shall go), and if we do meet again somehow, don’t raise any of these matters, not a word. I ask you this in all seriousness. And also, on the subject of Dmitry, I ask you especially,’ he added, suddenly angry, ‘don’t even mention him to me again; we’ve exhausted the subject, said all there is to say, haven’t we? And as for me, I’ll promise you one more thing: when I’m approaching thirty and I start to feel I want to “dash the cup to the ground”, then, wherever you are, even if you are in America, I’ll come to you once more and… talk it over, be sure of that. I’ll come especially to do that. Besides, it’ll be very interesting to have a look at you then, to see what you’ll be like. That’s quite a solemn promise. But we may well be saying goodbye for about seven or ten years. Well, off you go now to your Pater Seraphicus,* after all, he’s dying; if he dies without you, you might be angry with me for keeping you from him. Goodbye, kiss me once more, that’s right, now off you go…’

  Ivan turned suddenly and walked away, without looking back. It was how Dmitry had walked away from Alyosha the day before, although that had been very different. This strange observation flashed through Alyosha’s grief-stricken mind like an arrow. He waited a while, his gaze following his brother. For some reason, he suddenly noticed that Ivan was walking somewhat unsteadily and that his right shoulder, seen from behind, seemed lower than his left. He had never noticed this before. Now he too turned, and practically ran all the way to the monastery. It was already getting dark, and he was almost afraid. Something new that he could not define was welling up inside him. As he entered the little wood surrounding the monastery the wind began to rise, just as it had the day before, and the ancient pines groaned around him. He was almost running. ‘“Pater Seraphicus”—he had got that name from somewhere—but where?’ Alyosha thought suddenly. ‘Ivan, poor Ivan, when shall I see you again?… Here’s the hermitage. Lord! Yes, yes, Pater Seraphicus, he’ll save me… from him and for ever!’

  Several times later in his life he was to wonder perplexedly how, on leaving Ivan, he could so totally have forgotten about Dmitry, when only that very morning, just a few hours before, he had intended to seek him out immediately and not to rest without having done so, even if it meant that he could not return to the monastery that night.

  6

  STILL VERY UNCLEAR

  AFTER Ivan Fyodorovich left Alyosha he went straight home to Fyodor Pavlovich’s. It was strange, but he felt a sudden anguish that was unbearable and above all increased with every step as he neared the house. It was not the anguish itself that was strange, but the fact that Ivan Fyodorovich could in no way account for it. He had experienced anguish often before, and he was not surprised that it should afflict him at such a moment, when he was preparing to tear himself away tomorrow from all that had drawn him here, and to change course abruptly once more and set off on a new and unknown path, again completely alone as before, hoping for much, but for quite what he did not know, expecting a lot, too much, from life, but totally unable to define either his expectations or even his desires. Nevertheless, at this moment, although he was indeed disturbed by the thought of a new and unknown chapter in his life, it was not this that tormented him. ‘Could it be revulsion at the thought of my father’s house?’ he mused. ‘It could be, I am indeed revolted by it, and even today, crossing that hated threshold for the last time, I’m still revolted… But no, it’s not that either. Could it be my parting from Alyosha, and the conversation we had? I’ve kept my silence for so many years, declining to talk to anyone, and now suddenly I come out with such nonsense.’ In fact, it could have been the juvenile anger of immaturity, lack of experience and juvenile vanity, anger at his failure to express himself, especially to someone like Alyosha, from whom in his heart he had expected so much. Of course there was that too, that anger, there had to be, but that was not it either, it was inexplicable.

  ‘I’m so unhappy that I feel ill, yet I can’t define what I want. Perhaps I’d better not think…’

  Ivan Fyodorovich tried ‘not to think’, but that too failed to assuage his grief. What was most infuriating about this grief, what angered him most, was that it had a sort of fortuitous quality quite external to himself; he could sense this. Someone or something was worrying him, getting in the way, in the way that something can intrude upon one’s vision sometimes, and, if one is busy or engrossed in conversation, may remain unnoticed for a long time; nevertheless one is certainly irritated, almost tormented, until finally one realizes and removes the intruding object, often something quite trivial and silly, something misplaced, perhaps a kerchief dropped on the floor or a book not replaced in the bookcase, and so on and so forth. At last Ivan Fyodorovich reached his father’s house in a thoroughly foul and irritable mood and suddenly, about fifteen paces from the gate, looked up and realized what it was that had been so tormenting and worrying him.

  The servant Smerdyakov was sitting on the bench by the gate, cooling himself in the evening breeze, and from the moment that Ivan Fyodorovich set eyes on him he understood that this same Smerdyakov was also occupying his thoughts and that it was precisely this man that he could not rid himself of. At once confusion was dispelled and everything became clear. When he had heard earlier from Alyosha about his meeting with Smerdyakov, a gloomy and unpleasant feeling had suddenly pierced his heart, eliciting in him a responding malice. Then afterwards, in the course of the conversation, he had forgotten about Smerdyakov for a while, but he still remained in his thoughts however, and no sooner had Ivan left Alyosha and returned alone to the house than the forgotten feeling suddenly resurfaced. ‘Surely,’ he thought with intolerable fury, ‘such a good-for-nothing scoundrel can’t upset me to this extent!’

  The fact was that Ivan Fyodorovich had recently come to dislike the man very much, especially in the last few days. He himself had even begun to notice this growing feeling of near-hatred for the creature. Perhaps the hatred was intensified precisely because at first, when Ivan Fyodorovich had just arrived among us, things had been quite different. Then Ivan Fyodorovich had started to take a particular interest in Smerdyakov, and even considered him a unique individual. He had encouraged him to enter into dis
cussion with him, although he was always surprised at a certain incoherence, or rather a certain uneasiness of mind, and wondered what it was that disturbed that ‘contemplative’ so constantly and incessantly. They talked about philosophical matters and even about why there had been light on the first day, since the sun, the moon, and the stars had been created only on the fourth day, and about how one should interpret this; but Ivan Fyodorovich had soon become convinced that it was not a question of the sun, the moon, and the stars, and that, however strange the subject of the sun, the moon, and the stars might be, it was nevertheless of altogether minor importance to Smerdyakov, and that he was concerned about something completely different. Whatever the truth of that, he had in any case begun to exhibit an overweening self-esteem and, what is more, an injured self-esteem. Ivan Fyodorovich took great exception to this. That was how his aversion had begun. After that, the squabbling had started in the house, Grushenka had appeared on the scene, the trouble with Dmitry had begun, the domestic routine had been disturbed—this too they had discussed, but although Smerdyakov talked about it most excitedly it had nevertheless been impossible to discover exactly what he himself wanted. There was even a surprising illogicality and confusion about some of his desires, which as a rule surfaced involuntarily and invariably remained vague. Smerdyakov was always enquiring, asking indirect, obviously spurious questions, though he never explained why, and usually at the culmination of his interrogation he would suddenly fall silent or change the subject entirely. But what had above all finally exasperated Ivan Fyodorovich, and given rise to such an aversion, was the loathsome and strange familiarity with which Smerdyakov increasingly treated him. Not that he ever allowed himself to be impolite, on the contrary, he always spoke with the utmost respect, but somehow, God knows why, he had begun to adopt an attitude of familiarity with Ivan Fyodorovich; he always spoke as if some secret complicity existed between them, something which had at some time been agreed by both sides, to which only they were privy and which was even incomprehensible to the other mortals bustling around them. Yet again, it was some time before Ivan Fyodorovich understood the real reason for his growing aversion, and it was only at this very last moment that it finally dawned upon him what it was all about. Now, disgusted and irritated, he was going to walk through the gate in silence, without looking at Smerdyakov, but the latter got up from the bench, and from that movement Ivan Fyodorovich guessed immediately that he wanted to talk to him about something in particular. Ivan Fyodorovich glanced at him and stopped, and the fact that he had stopped so suddenly, instead of walking past as he had intended a moment before, made him seethe with anger. With fury and revulsion he looked at Smerdyakov’s emaciated eunuch’s face, with his hair combed over his temples and fluffed up into a topknot. His left eye, slightly screwed up, winked and smiled as if to say, ‘Where are you going? You won’t fail to stop; you know that we, we the intelligent ones, have something to discuss.’ Ivan Fyodorovich began to shake.

  ‘Go away, you scoundrel, I’ve nothing in common with you, you fool!’ he meant to say, but to his great surprise the words that escaped his lips were quite different.

  ‘Is my father sleeping or is he awake?’ he asked softly and meekly, surprising even himself, and suddenly, also quite unexpectedly, he sat down on the bench. For a moment, as he recalled later, he was almost afraid. Smerdyakov stood facing him with his hands behind his back, and looked at him confidently, almost severely.

  ‘Still sleeping, sir,’ he replied without hurry. (‘You were the first to speak, not me.’) ‘I’m surprised at you, sir,’ he added after a pause, lowering his eyes in a kind of affectation, extending his right foot and wriggling the toe of his patent leather boot.

  ‘Why are you surprised at me?’ asked Ivan Fyodorovich abruptly and drily, desperately repressing his feelings and suddenly realizing with revulsion that he was intensely curious and that not for anything would he leave without satisfying his curiosity.

  ‘Why don’t you go to Chermashnya, sir?’ Smerdyakov suddenly raised his eyes and smiled familiarly. ‘And the reason I’m smiling,’ his winking left eye seemed to say, ‘he can work out for himself if he’s at all clever.’

  ‘Why would I go to Chermashnya?’ asked Ivan Fyodorovich, astonished.

  Smerdyakov again remained silent a while.

  ‘Fyodor Pavlovich himself implored you to go, sir,’ he said at last, unhurriedly, as if implying that his reply was of no consequence, an insignificant remark, just for something to say.

  ‘Oh, damn you, come straight out with it, what do you want?’ shouted Ivan Fyodorovich at last, furiously, his meekness turning to rudeness.

  Smerdyakov pulled his right foot back until it was level with his left and straightened up, but he seemed just as calm, and still had that same little smile.

  ‘Nothing important, sir… it’s nothing, sir… just by the way…’

  Silence fell again. They said nothing for nearly a minute. Ivan Fyodorovich knew that he must stand up now and show his anger, but there was Smerdyakov standing in front of him as if waiting. ‘Well, I’m watching, are you going to get angry or not?’ At least, that is how it seemed to Ivan Fyodorovich. Finally he made a move to rise. Smerdyakov seized upon the moment.

  ‘My situation is dreadful, Ivan Fyodorovich, sir; I simply don’t know what to do about it,’ he said suddenly, in a resolute and measured tone, and on the last word he sighed. Ivan Fyodorovich sat down again.

  ‘Both of them are so odd, sir, and they’re both behaving just like children, sir,’ Smerdyakov continued. ‘I’m talking about your father, sir, and your brother Dmitry Fyodorovich. He’ll get up soon, Fyodor Pavlovich will, and straight away he’ll be nagging me every minute. “Hasn’t she come? Why hasn’t she come?” and so on, right up to midnight or even later. And if Agrafena Aleksandrovna doesn’t come (because, sir, perhaps she’s no intention of coming), he’ll pounce on me again in the morning, “Why didn’t she come? Why not? When is she coming?” just as if I’m somehow to blame. And then on the other hand, sir, it’s the same story; as soon as it begins to get dark, or even earlier, your brother will turn up in the neighbourhood with some weapon in his hand. “Look here, you scoundrel, you soup-stirrer, if you miss her and don’t let me know she’s here—I’ll kill you if it’s the last thing I do.” The night will pass, and in the morning he too, like Fyodor Pavlovich, will start to torment me, “Why didn’t she come? Will she turn up soon?” just as if it’s my fault again that his fancy lady hasn’t appeared. All the time, sir, day after day, hour after hour, they get so angry with me that sometimes I think I’ll kill myself from fear. I can’t trust them, sir.’

  ‘So why did you get involved? Why did you start telling Dmitry Fyodorovich about everything?’ asked Ivan Fyodorovich, irritated.

  ‘How could I help getting involved, sir? If you really want to know the truth, sir, I didn’t involve myself at all. Right from the start I kept quiet all the time, not daring to answer, it was he who made me into his servant Lichard to do his bidding.* Since then he’s only had one thing in mind: “I’ll kill you, you scoundrel, if you miss her!” I think, sir, that tomorrow I’m probably going to have a bad attack.’

  ‘What do you mean, “a bad attack”?’

  ‘A bad attack, sir, a very bad attack. Several hours perhaps; could last for a day or so, sir. Once I had an attack that lasted for about three days; I fell from the attic that time. The shaking stopped and then started again, and for three whole days I didn’t come round. Fyodor Pavlovich sent for Herzenstube, the local doctor, he applied ice to my forehead and used some remedy or other… I could have died, sir.’

  ‘Yes, but they say it’s impossible to predict an epileptic fit, that it will occur at such and such a time. So how can you say you’ll have one tomorrow?’ Ivan Fyodorovich enquired with a certain irritated curiosity.

  ‘It’s true enough that one can’t predict it, sir.’

  ‘Besides, that time you fell from the attic.’

  ‘I c
limb up to the attic every day, sir, I could fall from it tomorrow. And if I don’t fall from the attic, sir, I shall fall down the cellar; I also go into the cellar every day in the course of my duties.’

  Ivan Fyodorovich looked at him long and hard.

  ‘You’re inventing things, I can tell, and there’s something I don’t quite understand,’ he said quietly and somehow threateningly. ‘You’re intending to fake an attack tomorrow for three days, aren’t you, eh?’

  Smerdyakov, looking at the ground and again wriggling the end of his right boot, brought his right foot back and stretched out the left one instead, raised his head, and said with a smirk:

  ‘Even if I could pull off such a trick, sir, that is, if I could fake it, and it wouldn’t be too difficult for someone experienced like me, I’d be quite within my rights to save my life; after all, if Agrafena Aleksandrovna came to his father while I was lying ill, he couldn’t ask a sick man, “Why didn’t you tell me?” Even he’d be ashamed to do that.’

  ‘Oh damn!’ exploded Ivan Fyodorovich with an angry grimace. ‘Why do you have to make such a fuss about your life being endangered! All those threats of Dmitry’s are nothing but empty words, that’s all. He won’t kill you; he’ll kill somebody, but not you!’

  ‘He’ll kill me like swatting a fly, sir, me first of all. But I’m more afraid of something else: that I’ll be implicated if he does something really dreadful to your father.’

  ‘Why should you be implicated?’

  ‘I’ll be implicated because I told him in the utmost confidence about the signals.’

  ‘What signals? Told whom? Say what you mean, damn you!’

  ‘I have to confess’, Smerdyakov drawled calmly and pedantically, ‘that Fyodor Pavlovich and I share a certain secret. As you well know (and I’m sure you do), for several days now, as soon as it’s night or even evening, he locks himself in. You’ve taken to going up to your own room early, and yesterday, sir, you went up and didn’t come down at all, so perhaps you don’t know how religiously he’s begun to lock himself in at night. And even if Grigory Vasilyevich himself came, he wouldn’t open the door—unless, perhaps, he recognized his voice, sir. But Grigory Vasilyevich doesn’t come any more, because it’s only me that serves him in his rooms now, sir—he arranged that himself as soon as he got involved with that Agrafena Aleksandrovna—and at night I have to go back to the outhouse, but I mustn’t go to sleep till midnight, I have to keep watch, get up and do a round of the yard and watch for Agrafena Aleksandrovna, because he’s been waiting for her like a maniac for several days already. He reckons like this, sir: she’s afraid, he reckons, of Dmitry Fyodorovich (“Mitka” he calls him), “so she’ll come to me at night by the back ways; and you”, he says, “keep a look out for her till midnight or later. And if she comes, you come and knock on my door, or go to the garden and knock on the window twice, at first softly, like this, one, two, and then three times quickly, tap-tap-tap. Then”, he says, “I’ll know at once that she’s come, and I’ll open the door quietly.” The other signal was if something unusual cropped up: first, two quick raps, tap-tap, and then, after a pause, again two raps, but much louder. Then he’d understand that something unexpected had happened and that I really needed to see him, and he’d open up and I’d go in and let him know. That was if Agrafena Aleksandrovna couldn’t come herself but sent a message about something or other; besides, Dmitry Fyodorovich might come too, and I’d have to tell the master that he was around. He’s very afraid of Dmitry Fyodorovich, so much so that even if Agrafena Aleksandrovna has already come and he’s locked himself in with her and then Dmitry Fyodorovich turns up, I have to let him know without fail by giving three knocks; so, the first signal of five knocks means “Agrafena Aleksandrovna has come”, the second signal of three knocks means “I must speak to you, it’s urgent”—that’s how he explained it, and he even showed me himself several times. And so, sir, since only he and I in the whole universe know about these signals, he’ll open up without hesitation and without asking who it is (he’s too frightened to ask out loud). Well, Dmitry Fyodorovich has found out about these signals.’