The Karamazov Brothers

by Fyodor Dostoevsky

  PPS I kiss your feet, farewell!

  PPPS Katya, pray to God that I can get the money from someone else. Then I won’t be stained with his blood, but if they don’t give it, I will. Kill me!

  Your slave and enemy,

  D. Karamazov

  When Ivan read the document, he was convinced. So, his brother was the murderer after all, not Smerdyakov. Not Smerdyakov, and so consequently not him, Ivan. In his eyes this letter suddenly acquired an unequivocal meaning. For him, there could never be any remaining doubt about Mitya’s guilt now. At the same time he never suspected that Mitya might have committed the murder together with Smerdyakov; it just did not fit the facts. Ivan was perfectly reassured. The next morning, when he remembered Smerdyakov and his gibes, he felt only scorn. After a few days he was even surprised that he could have been so tormented by his suspicions. He decided that Smerdyakov was beneath contempt and that he would forget him. A month passed in this way. He no longer asked anyone about Smerdyakov, but he heard in passing a couple of times that he was very ill and not in his right mind. ‘He’ll end up mad,’ the young doctor Varvinsky had said about him, and Ivan remembered that. The last week of that month Ivan himself began to feel very ill. He had already been to see the doctor that Katerina Ivanovna had engaged and who had arrived from Moscow before the beginning of the trial. And just at this time his relationship with Katerina Ivanovna came to a head. They were two enemies in love with each other. Katerina Ivanovna’s momentary but fervent, relapses, into her passion for Mitya drove Ivan frantic. Strangely enough, for a whole month, until that last scene at Katerina Ivanovna’s when, as I have already described, Alyosha came to her house at Mitya’s request, Ivan did not hear a word from her of Mitya’s guilt, in spite of all those ‘relapses’ that he hated so much. And it was also remarkable that though he felt that he hated Mitya more and more every day, at the same time he understood that he hated him not because of Katerina Ivanovna’s ‘relapses’, but precisely because he had killed their father! He himself was only too aware of this. Nevertheless, about ten days before the trial he had visited Mitya and had proposed the escape plan to him—a plan which, apparently, he had already been contemplating for some time. Over and above the main reason that drove him to take such a step, there was another—the festering sore in his heart resulting from Smerdyakov’s insinuation that it would be to his, Ivan’s, advantage if Mitya were found guilty, as then he and Alyosha would each stand to gain sixty thousand from their father’s estate instead of forty thousand. He had decided to sacrifice thirty thousand of his share to arrange Mitya’s escape. Returning from the prison on that occasion, he had been terribly sad and confused; he had suddenly begun to feel that he wanted Mitya to escape not only so that he could heal his wound by sacrificing thirty thousand to that end, but also for some other reason. ‘Is it because, at heart, I am the murderer just as much as he is?’ he wondered. Something inchoate ravaged his soul. Mostly over this last month his pride had suffered, but more of that later… When, on returning to his rooms after his conversation with Alyosha, his hand already about to ring his front-door bell, he suddenly decided to go and see Smerdyakov, Ivan Fyodorovich was responding to a single, specific revulsion which suddenly erupted in his heart. He had suddenly remembered Katerina Ivanovna snapping at him in front of Alyosha: ‘It was you, only you, who assured me that it was he, Mitya, who was the murderer!’ Remembering this, Ivan was quite dumbfounded; never for a moment had he assured her that Mitya was the murderer, on the contrary, he had cast suspicion on himself when speaking to her on his return from visiting Smerdyakov. Indeed, it was she who had presented him with that ‘document’ and accused his brother! And now she had suddenly announced: ‘I’ve been to see Smerdyakov myself!’ When was she there? Ivan had known nothing of that. That meant that she was by no means so convinced of Mitya’s guilt! And what could Smerdyakov have said to her? What, what exactly had he told her? A terrible anger flared up in his heart. He could not understand how he could have let those words pass without protest. He let go of the bell-pull and rushed off to see Smerdyakov. ‘This time, perhaps, I’ll kill him,’ he thought as he hurried on his way.

  8

  THIRD AND LAST VISIT TO SMERDYAKOV

  BY the time he was half-way there, a keen, dry wind, like the wind that had been blowing early that morning, had got up, and it was snowing heavily, a fine, dry snow. It fell to the ground but did not settle, the wind whipped it up, and soon a veritable snowstorm set in. In the part of the town where Smerdyakov lived there were almost no street lights. Ivan Fyodorovich walked in the gloom, not noticing the snowstorm and finding his way by instinct. His head ached and there was a painful throbbing in his temples. He felt cramp in his wrists. As he drew near Marya Kondratyevna’s squalid little house, he encountered a solitary drunk, a peasant of small stature, wearing a patched homespun coat; he was walking with a lurching gait, muttering and swearing, then suddenly he stopped swearing and began to sing loudly and drunkenly:

  Shan’t stop to wait for Vanya,

  Vanya’s gone to town!

  But he repeatedly broke off at this second line, began cursing someone again, and then struck up the same refrain once more. Ivan Fyodorovich felt a mounting hatred towards him even before he was consciously aware of him, then he suddenly realized what it was. He felt a sudden urge to punch the peasant. Just at that moment they drew level, and the peasant, staggering drunkenly, collided violently with Ivan. The latter pushed him away furiously. The peasant staggered back and collapsed like a pack of cards in the mud, gave one moan, ‘O-oh!’ and was silent. Ivan strode up to him. He lay on his back, totally motionless, unconscious. ‘He’ll freeze to death,’ thought Ivan, and went on his way to Smerdyakov.

  Marya Kondratyevna, with a candle in her hand, ran out to meet him in the porch, and whispered that Pavel Fyodorovich (that is to say Smerdyakov) was ‘very ill, sir, not in bed, but not in his right mind, sir, even refuses tea, won’t drink anything’.

  ‘Being violent, is he?’ Ivan Fyodorovich asked brusquely.

  ‘Not a bit, on the contrary, he’s very quiet, only don’t talk to him for too long…’, Marya Kondratyevna requested.

  Ivan Fyodorovich opened the door and walked in. It was just as hot as it had been the first time, but he noticed several changes in the room; one of the benches along the side wall had been removed and in its place was an old, imitation-mahogany divan upholstered in leather. On it a bed had been made up, with passably clean white pillows. Smerdyakov, still wearing the same dressing-gown, was sitting on the divan. A table had been placed by the divan, so the room was very cramped. On the table lay a thick book with a yellow cover, but Smerdyakov was not reading it; he seemed to be just sitting there, doing nothing. He greeted Ivan Fyodorovich with a long silent stare, and apparently was not at all surprised by his arrival. There was a great change in him, he was much thinner and looked even more sallow. His eyes were sunken and there were blue rings under them.

  ‘So you really are ill?’ Ivan Fyodorovich stopped. ‘I shan’t keep you long and shan’t even take my coat off. Is there anywhere one can sit down here?’

  He walked to the other end of the table, pulled up a chair, and sat down.

  ‘Why do you just look at me, aren’t you going to say anything? I’ve got just one question, and I swear I won’t go without an answer. Has Miss Katerina Ivanovna been here?’

  Smerdyakov remained silent for a long time, staring at Ivan in the same way, then suddenly he made a dismissive gesture and averted his face.

  ‘What’s the matter with you?’ snapped Ivan.

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘What do you mean, “nothing”?’

  ‘Well, she was here, but it’s none of your business. Leave me alone, sir.’

  ‘No, I won’t! Tell me, when was she here?’

  ‘Can’t remember a thing about her,’ said Smerdyakov with a scornful smile, and, turning to face Ivan, glared at him with that same expression of frenzied rage with which
he had looked at him on the occasion of their last meeting a month ago.

  ‘It’s you who looks ill, you’re a pale shadow of your former self,’ he said to Ivan.

  ‘Never mind my health, just answer the question.’

  ‘Why have your eyes gone so yellow, the whites are all yellow. You’re tormenting yourself, aren’t you, you’re really tormenting yourself.’

  He smiled scornfully and then suddenly burst out laughing.

  ‘Listen, I told you, I won’t go without an answer!’ Ivan shouted, utterly incensed.

  ‘Why are you picking on me, sir? What are you tormenting me for?’ said Smerdyakov lugubriously.

  ‘Oh, to hell with it. I don’t give a damn about you. Just answer my question and I’ll go.’

  ‘I’ve got no answer to give you,’ Smerdyakov looked down again.

  ‘I assure you I shall make you answer me!’

  ‘What are you getting so worked up about?’ Smerdyakov suddenly fixed his gaze on him, not so much with scorn this time as with almost a kind of disgust. ‘It’s because the trial starts tomorrow, isn’t it? Calm down, nothing’s going to happen to you! Go home, go to bed and have a good night’s sleep, don’t be afraid about anything.’

  ‘I don’t understand you… what have I got to fear tomorrow?’ said Ivan, astonished, and suddenly an icy fear gripped his soul. Smerdyakov fixed him with his gaze.

  ‘You don’t un-der-stand?’ he drawled reproachfully. ‘I wonder just what pleasure an intelligent man can get from carrying on with such a comedy?’

  Ivan looked at him in silence. Quite apart from anything else, it was the tone of voice that was unusual—that quite unprecedentedly arrogant tone in which the erstwhile flunkey was now addressing him. He had certainly not used that tone of voice with him the previous time.

  ‘I tell you, you’ve got nothing to be afraid of. I shan’t give you away, there’s no evidence. Why are your hands trembling? Why can’t you keep your fingers still? Go home, it wasn’t you who killed him.’

  Ivan shuddered, he remembered Alyosha.

  ‘I know it wasn’t me…’, he muttered.

  ‘You kno-ow, do you?’ Smerdyakov pounced on him again.

  Ivan leapt up and seized him by the shoulders.

  ‘Tell me everything, you swine! Tell me everything.’

  Smerdyakov was not in the least disconcerted. He just fixed him with a stare of insane hatred.

  ‘You asked for it—it was you who killed him,’ he whispered savagely.

  Ivan sank down on to his chair, as if he had just understood. He smiled maliciously.

  ‘You’re still on about the same thing, aren’t you? The same as last time?’

  ‘Yes, and the last time you understood perfectly, and you understand now, too.’

  ‘All I understand is that you’re mad.’

  ‘You don’t give up, do you! There’s only us here between these four walls, so why should we try to pull the wool over each other’s eyes and act out this comedy? Or do you still want to lay all the blame on me—and to my face, what’s more? You killed him, you’re the chief murderer, I was only your stooge, your faithful servant Lichard,* and I did it at your suggestion.’

  ‘You did it? So it was you who killed him?’ Ivan felt a chill strike his soul.

  Something seemed to explode in his brain, and he began to shake all over in a cold sweat. Smerdyakov looked at him in astonishment this time; probably he was convinced at last by the genuineness of Ivan’s fear.

  ‘Surely you must have known?’ he muttered incredulously with a wry grin.

  Ivan looked at him; it was as if his tongue had been torn out.

  Shan’t stop to wait for Vanya,

  Vanya’s gone to town—

  The words suddenly rang in his head.

  ‘You know what? I’m afraid that it’s all a dream, that you’re a ghost sitting there in front of me,’ he mumbled.

  ‘There’s no ghost here, sir, only us two, and a certain third person. No doubt about it, that third person’s right here between us.’

  ‘Who is that? Who’s here? Who’s this third person?’ Ivan, terrified, looked around and glanced quickly into every corner to see if anyone was there.

  ‘That third one is God, sir, providence itself, right here beside us, only it’s no good looking for it, you won’t find it.’

  ‘You’re lying when you say you’re the murderer,’ screamed Ivan frantically. ‘Either you’re mad or you’re tormenting me, like last time!’

  As before, Smerdyakov was not in the least disconcerted, but continued to observe him curiously. He still simply could not overcome his mistrust, he still thought that Ivan ‘knew everything’ and was only pretending in order to ‘blame him, and to his face’.

  ‘Wait, sir,’ he said at last, weakly, and suddenly he drew his left leg out from under the table and began to roll up his trousers. The leg was clothed in a long white stocking and a slipper. Taking his time, Smerdyakov undid the suspender and inserted his fingers right down inside the stocking. Ivan Fyodorovich stared at him and was suddenly shaken by a spasm of fear.

  ‘You’re mad!’ he yelled, and, jumping to his feet, he staggered backwards, hitting his back against the wall with such force that he seemed suspended there like a plumb-line. Transfixed with fear, he looked at Smerdyakov. The latter, quite oblivious to Ivan’s terror, went on digging in his stocking, still apparently struggling to get hold of something and pull it out. At last he got hold of it and started to pull. Ivan Fyodorovich saw that it was some papers or a small bundle of papers. Smerdyakov pulled it out and placed it on the table.

  ‘There you are, sir,’ he said quietly.

  ‘What?’ asked Ivan, trembling.

  ‘Be so good as to take a look, sir,’ said Smerdyakov in the same quiet voice.

  Ivan went up to the table, picked up the bundle and started to unwrap it, but suddenly he snatched his fingers away as if he had touched some disgusting, frightful reptile.

  ‘Your fingers are still shaking, sir, must be nerves,’ remarked Smerdyakov, and he slowly unwrapped the bundle himself. Inside the wrapping there were three wads of hundred-rouble notes.

  ‘It’s all here, sir, the whole three thousand, you don’t need to count it. Take it,’ he said to Ivan, motioning towards the money. Ivan sank down on his chair. He was as white as a sheet.

  ‘You scared me… with that stocking…’, he said with a strange smile.

  ‘Surely, surely you must have realized by now, didn’t you?’ Smerdyakov asked again.

  ‘No, I didn’t. All this time I thought it was Dmitry. Dmitry! Dmitry! Oh!’ he suddenly buried his head in his hands. ‘Listen: did you kill him on your own? Without my brother, or with him?’

  ‘Just with you, sir, I killed him with you, sir; Dmitry Fyodorovich is completely innocent, sir.’

  ‘All right, all right… We’ll talk about me later. Why can’t I stop shaking?.. I can’t get a word out.’

  ‘You used to be so brave, sir, “everything is permitted”, you used to say, and now look how frightened you are,’ Smerdyakov muttered, astonished. ‘Would you like some lemonade, sir? I’ll send for some. It can be very refreshing. Only we’d better hide that first, sir.’

  And he motioned again in the direction of the wads of money. He made a move to get up and go to the doorway to call Marya Kondratyevna and ask her to make them some lemonade, but, looking for something to cover the money so that she should not see it, he first took his handkerchief, but then, seeing that it was quite filthy, he picked up the book with the yellow cover that was lying on the table and which Ivan had noticed when he came in, and placed it over the money. The book was called The Sermons of St Isaac the Syrian.* Ivan Fyodorovich had read the title casually, in passing.

  ‘I don’t want any lemonade,’ he said. ‘We’ll talk about me later. Sit down and tell me how you did it. Tell me everything…’

  ‘At least, won’t you take off your coat, sir, or you’ll be too hot.’

>   As if he had just become aware of it, Ivan Fyodorovich pulled off his coat and, without leaving his seat, threw it on the bench.

  ‘Tell me, then, please, tell me!’

  He seemed calm. He felt really sure that Smerdyakov was going to tell him everything now.

  ‘About how it was done, sir?’ sighed Smerdyakov. ‘It was done in the most natural way, sir, just as you said…’

  ‘We’ll talk about what I said later,’ Ivan Fyodorovich interrupted again, not shouting as before, but enunciating his words clearly, and apparently having fully regained control over himself. ‘Just tell me exactly how you did it. Start at the beginning. Don’t leave anything out. Tell me the details, that’s the important thing—the details. I beg you.’

  ‘You went away and I fell down the cellar steps, sir…’

  ‘In a fit or pretending?’

  ‘Pretending, of course, sir. I was pretending all the time. I went calmly down the steps, sir, right to the bottom, and lay down calmly, and as I lay down, I started to shriek. And I went on shrieking until they carried me out.’

  ‘Just a minute! And all the time, even afterwards and at the hospital, you were still pretending?’

  ‘Not at all, sir. The next morning, even before they took me to the hospital, I had a real fit, terrible, worse than I’ve had for years. I was really unconscious for two days.’

  ‘All right, all right. Go on.’

  ‘They laid me on that bed, sir, behind the partition, like I knew they would, because whenever I was ill Marfa Ignatyevna used to put me in their room, behind the partition, for the night. They’ve always been ever so kind to me, sir, ever since I was born. I groaned in the night, but softly. I was still expecting Dmitry Fyodorovich.’