The Karamazov Brothers

by Fyodor Dostoevsky

  ‘How does he know about them? Did you tell him? What did you do that for?’

  ‘It was just because I was afraid, sir. How could I have dared to keep it from him, sir? Every day Dmitry Fyodorovich demanded, “You’re not deceiving me, are you? You’re not hiding anything from me? If you do, I’ll break both your legs!” So I told him about those secret signals to prove my loyalty and show him that I wasn’t deceiving him and would tell him everything.’

  ‘If you think he’ll try to use those signals to get in, you mustn’t let him.’

  ‘And if I’m lying unconscious with an attack, sir, how can I stop him, even supposing I would dare to refuse him, sir, knowing him to be so desperate.’

  ‘Oh, for heaven’s sake! Why the devil are you so sure you’re going to have an attack? Are you having me on, or something?’

  ‘How would I dare to make fun of you, even to laugh, when I’m so terrified? I feel that I’m going to have an attack, I do get such premonitions, fear alone can bring it on, sir.’

  ‘For heaven’s sake! If you’re going to be unconscious, Grigory will have to keep watch instead. Warn Grigory not to let him in, and make sure he doesn’t.’

  ‘I daren’t for the life of me tell Grigory about the signals, sir, without orders from the master. And as for Grigory Vasilyevich hearing him and not letting him in, he’s been ill since yesterday, and Marfa Ignatyevna is planning to give him his medicine tomorrow. That’s what’s been agreed. And this treatment of hers is really strange, sir: Marfa Ignatyevna knows how to prepare a concoction, something really strong, from some sort of herb, it’s a sort of secret she has, and she always keeps some by her. And she doses Grigory Vasilyevich about three times a year with this secret concoction, sir, when he gets his lumbago and he’s half paralysed, about three times a year, sir. And then she takes a towel, sir, dips it in this infusion, and rubs all his back with it for half an hour, till it’s dry, it even goes all red and swollen, sir, and then what’s left, what’s in the glass, she gives it to him to drink and says a sort of prayer, but he doesn’t get it all because she takes advantage of the situation and keeps a bit back and drinks it herself. And both of them, I tell you, like people who’re not used to drinking, are quite knocked out and sleep for ages, sound asleep, sir; and when Grigory Vasilyevich wakes up, sir, he’s nearly always cured, but Marfa Ignatyevna always wakes up with a headache. So if Marfa Ignatyevna carries out her plan tomorrow, it’s unlikely that they’ll hear Dmitry Fyodorovich either and not let him in, sir. They’ll be asleep.’

  ‘What nonsense!’ exclaimed Ivan Fyodorovich. ‘And all those coincidences as if on purpose: you having your fit and both of them stoned out of their minds!’ Suddenly he frowned menacingly. ‘And I suppose you haven’t thought of arranging for all this to coincide?’ he burst out.

  ‘How could I arrange it, sir… and why should I arrange it, when it all depends only on Dmitry Fyodorovich and what his plans are… If he wants to do something, he’ll do it, sir, and if not, I’m not going to go looking for him and force him to see his father.’

  ‘But why should he go to father, and in secret too, if, as you yourself say, Agrafena Aleksandrovna is certain not to come?’ continued Ivan Fyodorovich, blanching with anger. ‘You said it yourself and for the whole month I’ve been here I too was sure the old man was fantasizing and that that creature wouldn’t come to him. Why should Dmitry Fyodorovich burst in on the old man if she isn’t coming? Tell me: I want to know what you think.’

  ‘You know why he’ll come, what does it matter what I think? He’ll come just because he’s angry or because he suspects something—if for example I’m ill, he’ll have doubts and he’ll get impatient and come storming in like he did yesterday, to see if she hasn’t got in somehow without him knowing. He’s bound to know that Fyodor Pavlovich has put three thousand roubles in a large envelope sealed with three seals and tied with a ribbon, and that he wrote on it in his own hand, “For my angel, Grushenka, if she comes to me,” and that two or three days later he added, “my little chicky-bird”. That’s what’s interesting.’

  ‘Rubbish!’ exclaimed Ivan Fyodorovich, almost in a frenzy. ‘Dmitry won’t try to steal the money or kill Father while he’s about it. Yesterday he could easily have killed him in his stupid, frenzied anger over Grushenka, but he won’t come to rob him!’

  ‘Right now he needs money, he needs it desperately, Ivan Fyodorovich. You don’t know how desperately,’ Smerdyakov explained very calmly and painstakingly. ‘Those three thousand roubles—he regards them as his rightful share and said as much to me himself. “My father”, he said to me, “still owes me exactly three thousand roubles.” And besides, consider, Ivan Fyodorovich, sir, there’s a kind of poetic justice here; after all, it’s pretty certain, it must be said, that Agrafena Aleksandrovna, if she wanted to, could undoubtedly force him to marry her—my master, that is, Fyodor Pavlovich, if she wanted to—and perhaps she’ll start wanting to. I only mean, you know, that she won’t come—well, perhaps she’ll want more than that, perhaps she’ll want to become the real mistress of the house. I know that her merchant friend Samsonov used to tell her quite frankly that it wouldn’t be at all a bad thing, and he’d laugh about it. What’s more, she’s not stupid. She’s not going to marry a pauper like Dmitry Fyodorovich. So when you take that into account, Ivan Fyodorovich, you’ll see that in that case when your father dies nothing will be left for Dmitry Fyodorovich, nor, for that matter, for yourself or your brother Aleksei Fyodorovich, not a rouble, sir, because Agrafena Aleksandrovna will marry him precisely so that he’ll put everything in her name and assign any capital he may have to her. But if your father dies now, sir, before anything happens, then each of you is sure to get forty thousand roubles straight away, even Dmitry Fyodorovich, whom he hates so much, because he hasn’t made a will, has he?… Dmitry Fyodorovich knows this perfectly well…’

  Ivan Fyodorovich made a kind of shaky grimace. He flushed suddenly.

  ‘So why, after all that,’ he abruptly interrupted Smerdyakov, ‘are you advising me to go to Chermashnya? What are you up to? I’d go there, and look what would happen here.’ Ivan Fyodorovich was breathing heavily.

  ‘Quite so, sir,’ said Smerdyakov quietly and reasonably, but nevertheless watching Ivan Fyodorovich intently.

  ‘What do you mean, “quite so”?’ repeated Ivan Fyodorovich, controlling himself with difficulty, his eyes flashing angrily.

  ‘I said it for your own good. If I were in your shoes, if it was only me, I’d clear out of here… rather than get mixed up in such an affair…’, answered Smerdyakov, looking into Ivan Fyodorovich’s flashing eyes with an expression of utmost innocence. They were both silent for a moment.

  ‘You are, I think, a stupid fool and, of course… an out-and-out scoundrel!’ Ivan Fyodorovich got up abruptly from the bench. Then, just as he was on the point of going straight to the gate, he stopped suddenly and turned to Smerdyakov. Something strange occurred: Ivan Fyodorovich suddenly bit his lip as if in a spasm, clenched his fists, and the next moment would certainly have attacked Smerdyakov. The latter at least thought so, and immediately shuddered and gave a start. But the moment passed, Ivan Fyodorovich did not hit Smerdyakov, and without a word, apparently somewhat bewildered, he turned to the gate.

  ‘I’m leaving for Moscow tomorrow, if you must know, tomorrow morning, early—and that’s that!’ he said angrily, loudly, and clearly. Later he would be surprised that he felt the need to say this just then to Smerdyakov.

  ‘That’d be best, sir,’ said the latter, just as if he’d been expecting this response, ‘but of course they’ll reach you by telegraph in Moscow if anything of that sort happens.’

  Ivan Fyodorovich stopped again, and once more turned quickly towards Smerdyakov. But the latter was equally affected. All his familiarity and nonchalance had abruptly left him, his expression was totally attentive and expectant, and yet timid and obsequious. ‘Aren’t you going to say anything else, haven’t you got anything
to add?’ was the question in his gaze, directed so firmly, straight into Ivan Fyodorovich’s eyes.

  ‘And wouldn’t they reach me in Chermashnya as well… if anything like that happened?’ exclaimed Ivan Fyodorovich, for some reason unknown to himself suddenly raising his voice alarmingly.

  ‘In Chermashnya as well, sir, yes… they’d reach you…’, muttered Smerdyakov almost in a whisper, as though groping for words, but continuing to stare straight into Ivan Fyodorovich’s eyes.

  ‘Moscow’s further away and Chermashnya’s closer, that’s all; are you suggesting Chermashnya because you’re worried about the cost of the round trip, or are you bothered that I’ve got to make a detour?’

  ‘Quite so, sir,’ muttered Smerdyakov, his voice breaking; he was leering at Ivan Fyodorovich, and ready to step back if need be. But to Smerdyakov’s amazement, Ivan Fyodorovich simply laughed and, still laughing, walked quickly through the gate. Anyone catching sight of his face would probably have concluded that his laughter was not prompted by joyfulness. And he himself would have been at a loss to explain what he felt at that moment. His movements as he walked were erratic.

  7

  ‘IT’S ALWAYS INTERESTING TO TALK TO AN INTELLIGENT PERSON’

  AND that was how he talked, too. Meeting Fyodor Pavlovich, who had just entered, in the hall, he waved his arms and shouted at him, ‘I’m going up to my room, I don’t want to see you, goodbye,’ and brushed past, trying to avoid looking at his father. Just at that moment he very probably hated the old devil, but even Fyodor Pavlovich did not expect such a blatant exhibition of hostile feeling. Apparently the old man had in fact wanted to tell him something urgently, and to that end had purposely come out into the hall to meet him, but on receiving such a greeting, he said nothing and stood gazing in amusement after his son as he went up the stairs to the mezzanine and disappeared from view.

  ‘What’s got into him?’ he asked Smerdyakov, who had followed Ivan Fyodorovich in.

  ‘Something’s annoyed him, you never know with him,’ muttered Smerdyakov evasively.

  ‘Well, to hell with him! So what if he’s angry! Bring the samovar and clear off, and be quick about it. Is there any news?’

  There now commenced the sort of interrogation about which Smerdyakov had complained to Ivan Fyodorovich, that is, about the expected visitor, but we shall omit those questions here. Half an hour later the house was locked up and the crazy old man was pacing alone from room to room, waiting in a fever of expectation for the prearranged five knocks, glancing from time to time through the dark windows, and seeing nothing there but the night.

  It was already very late, but Ivan Fyodorovich still could not sleep and kept turning things over in his mind. He had gone to bed late that night, at about two o’clock. But we shall not stop to retrace the whole train of his thoughts, nor is it time yet for us to consider his soul; that will come in due course. And even if we were to try to reproduce his thoughts it would be a very complicated task, for they were not thoughts but something inchoate and, above all, very disturbed. He felt that he had lost all his points of reference. He was also tortured by various strange and almost totally unexpected desires: for instance, just after midnight he suddenly felt a persistent and unbearable urge to go downstairs, unlock the door, go into the outhouse, and beat up Smerdyakov, but had anyone asked him why, he certainly could not have advanced a single specific reason, except perhaps that he had come to hate that servant as deeply as one might hate the most detested of enemies one could possibly encounter in this world. On the other hand, more than once that night his soul was seized by an inexplicable and humiliating timidity, which he felt even deprived him of his physical strength. His head ached and was spinning. Something hateful oppressed his heart, as if he were about to exact vengeance on someone. Every time he recalled their earlier conversation he hated even Alyosha, and there were moments when he hated himself greatly, too. He even almost forgot all about Katerina Ivanovna, which later surprised him greatly, especially as he remembered quite clearly that yesterday morning, at her place, boasting with bravado that he would leave for Moscow the next morning, he had whispered to himself in his heart: ‘Rubbish, you won’t go, and you won’t get out of this as easily as you’re bragging now.’ Much later, remembering this night, Ivan Fyodorovich would recall with particular disgust how he had suddenly got up from the divan several times, and quietly, as if very frightened that someone might be watching him, opened the door, gone out on to the landing, and listened to Fyodor Pavlovich moving about and pacing up and down in his rooms downstairs—he listened for a long time, about five minutes each time, with a sort of strange curiosity; why he did this, what he was listening for, of course he did not know. For the rest of his life he thought of this act as ‘disgusting’, and for the rest of his life, in his innermost depths, in his most secret soul, he considered it to be the basest act he had ever committed. He felt not the slightest hatred for Fyodor Pavlovich at these moments, only a lively curiosity for some reason. He wondered what he must be doing down there now, imagined him pacing about, peering out of the dark windows, and suddenly stopping in the middle of the room to wait, wait—in case someone knocked. Ivan Fyodorovich went out on to the stairs a few times to indulge his curiosity. When, at about two o’clock, Fyodor Pavlovich went to bed and all grew quiet, Ivan Fyodorovich also went to bed with the firm intention of going straight to sleep, as he felt thoroughly exhausted. And indeed he fell at once into a deep and dreamless sleep, but he awoke early, about seven o’clock. Dawn had already broken. Opening his eyes, he felt to his amazement a sudden inrush of unusual energy; he jumped up and dressed quickly, then pulled out his suitcase and, without wasting any time, began hurriedly to pack it. The laundress had sent back all his linen just the previous morning. Ivan Fyodorovich smiled at the thought that everything had transpired in such a way that there was nothing to prevent him from making a sudden departure. And his departure was indeed sudden. Although he had said the day before (to Katerina Ivanovna, to Alyosha, and then to Smerdyakov) that he would leave today, still, he remembered perfectly well that when he went to bed he had not at that moment been thinking about his departure, at least he certainly had not dreamt that, on waking in the morning, he would immediately rush to pack his case. At last his case and bag were ready: it was already nine o’clock when Marfa Ignatyevna came into his room with her usual daily question, ‘Where would you like your tea: here, or are you coming down?’ Ivan Fyodorovich went downstairs; his expression was almost cheerful, although there was a hint of impulsiveness and of haste in his words and gestures. Having greeted his father amiably and even asked particularly after his health, he informed him abruptly, without incidentally waiting for his father to finish answering his question, that he was leaving for Moscow for good in an hour, and asked him to send for the horses. The old man listened to this news without the least surprise and pointedly failed to exhibit any sign of chagrin at the departure of his ‘dear’ son; instead, he suddenly became extremely agitated as he remembered at that precise moment a matter of great urgency and personal importance.

  ‘Oh, if that isn’t just like you! You didn’t say anything about it yesterday… but never mind, we’ll sort something out somehow. Do me a great favour, my dear boy, go by way of Chermashnya, you only need to turn left at Volovya staging post, just twelve little versts and there it is, Chermashnya.’

  ‘I’m sorry, I can’t: it’s eighty versts to the railway, and the Moscow train leaves at seven in the evening—I’ll only just have time to catch it.’

  ‘You’ll get there tomorrow or the day after, but pop over to Chermashnya today. What would it cost you to set your old father’s mind at rest! If I didn’t have business to attend to, I’d go myself, because the matter there is urgent and important, but I can’t, because here, just now… Look, I’ve got two lots of standing timber there, in Begichevo and Dyachkino, on some uncultivated land. The merchants Maslov senior and his son will give me eight thousand for the timber, but on
ly last year a buyer turned up who was more than willing to pay me twelve, but the snag was he wasn’t a local. The locals aren’t interested in buying timber at the present time; old Maslov and his son are taking advantage of this situation, they’re loaded with money: they can afford to drive a hard bargain. None of the locals dares to take them on. But last Thursday, out of the blue, I got a letter from the priest at Ilyinskoye telling me that Gorstkin had arrived—he’s also a merchant of sorts, I know him, only the good thing about him is that he’s not from around here, but from Pogrebovo, that means he’s not afraid of the Maslovs because he’s not local. He says he’ll give me eleven thousand for the timber, do you hear that? And the priest writes that he’ll only be there for one more week. So couldn’t you go over there and fix it with him?…’