‘So why aren’t you keeping it?’
‘I’ve had enough… it’s not worth it, sir!’ Smerdyakov waved his hand in resignation. ‘You always used to say that everything is permitted, so why are you so troubled now, sir? You even want to go and testify against yourself… Only it’s not going to happen! You’re not going to give evidence!’ Smerdyakov repeated firmly and with conviction.
‘You’ll see,’ said Ivan.
‘It’s impossible. You’re too intelligent, sir. You love money, I know that, sir, and you love honour, because you’re very proud, and you’re very susceptible to feminine charms, and above all you like a quiet, comfortable life and not to have to kowtow to anyone—that more than anything, sir. You don’t want to ruin your life for ever by shaming yourself in court like that. You’re the most like Fyodor Pavlovich, sir; of all the sons, you turned out most like him, you have the same soul.’
‘You’re no fool,’ said Ivan, as if it had just struck him; he flushed and turned crimson. ‘I used to think you were stupid. You’re serious now!’ he remarked, looking at Smerdyakov in something of a different light.
‘It was your pride that made you think I was stupid. Take the money, sir.’
Ivan took all three bundles of notes and stuffed them, unwrapped, into his pocket.
‘Tomorrow I shall show them to the court,’ he said.
‘No one will believe you, seeing that you have plenty of money yourself now—you could have taken it out of your cash box and brought it along, sir.’
Ivan stood up.
‘I repeat, the only reason I haven’t killed you is that I need you tomorrow; understand that and don’t forget it!’
‘Go on then, sir, kill me. Kill me now,’ said Smerdyakov suddenly in an odd tone, and looking strangely at Ivan. ‘You daren’t even do that, sir,’ he added, smiling bitterly, ‘you daren’t do anything, you who used to be so bold, sir!’
‘Till tomorrow!’ shouted Ivan, and moved to go.
‘Wait… show it to me once more.’
Ivan pulled out the banknotes and showed them to him. Smerdyakov looked at them for about ten seconds.
‘Well, off you go,’ he said waving him away. ‘Ivan Fyodorovich!’ he shouted after him suddenly.
‘What do you want?’ Ivan, already on his way out, turned round.
‘Goodbye, sir!’
‘See you tomorrow!’ Ivan shouted again, and walked out of the house.
It was still snowing heavily. He walked briskly for the first few steps, but then he suddenly began to sway. ‘It’s something physical,’ he thought, smiling. It was as if a kind of joy had entered his soul. He felt a kind of unbounded determination within himself; it was the end of the indecision that had been tormenting him constantly just lately! The decision was made, ‘and nothing can change it’, he thought happily. At that moment, he stumbled against something and almost fell. He stopped and, looking down at his feet, made out the shape of the little peasant whom he had knocked down earlier, still lying in the same spot, unconscious and not moving. The snow had nearly covered his face already. Ivan suddenly lifted him up and swung him over his shoulder. Seeing a light in a hut on his right, he walked over to it, knocked on the shutter, and requested the man who answered to help him carry the little peasant to the police station, promising to reward him with three roubles on the spot. The man got ready and came out. I shall not describe in detail how Ivan Fyodorovich managed to carry the peasant to the police station, where he demanded that he should be examined immediately by a doctor, for which he again paid generously ‘for expenses’. I shall say only that the matter took nearly a whole hour. But Ivan Fyodorovich was well pleased. His thoughts were racing. ‘If I hadn’t made up my mind so definitely about tomorrow,’ he thought suddenly with delight, ‘I wouldn’t have wasted a whole hour in helping the chap out, I’d have just walked past and not bothered about whether he froze to death… But I’m quite able to look at myself objectively,’ he thought, still with great satisfaction, ‘and they think I’m going out of my mind!’ Arriving at his lodgings, he stopped suddenly, struck by an idea: ‘Shouldn’t I go straight to the prosecutor now and tell him everything?’ Turning back to the house, he resolved the matter: ‘Tomorrow we’ll tell it all together!’ he whispered to himself, and, strange to say, all his joy, all his contentment, evaporated in a flash. When he stepped into his room, something icily cold brushed his heart, like the memory, or rather the reminder, of something painful and disgusting which was there in that very room now, as it had been in the past. He slumped exhausted on the divan. The old woman brought the samovar, he made the tea but did not touch it; he sent the old woman away till the morning. He sat on the divan, feeling dizzy. He felt ill and weak. He began to fall asleep but, feeling anxious, got up and walked up and down to try and keep awake. There were moments when he felt he was delirious. But it was not illness that concerned him most of all; sitting down again, he began to glance around from time to time, as if looking for something. This continued for some time. At last his gaze settled fixedly on one point. Ivan smiled, but an angry, flushed expression suffused his face. He sat for a long time, his head clasped firmly in his hands, gazing intently out of the corner of his eye at the same spot as before, at the divan standing against the opposite wall. Something there was evidently irritating him, some object was disturbing him, tormenting him.
9
THE DEVIL. IVAN FYODOROVICH’S NIGHTMARE
I AM not a doctor, but nevertheless I feel that the time has come when I must, of necessity, explain something of the nature of Ivan Fyodorovich’s illness. To start with, I shall say just one thing: he was at that moment, that evening, on the verge of the raging fever that was later to overwhelm his whole system, which had long been fighting a losing battle against illness. Knowing nothing of medicine, I shall nevertheless take the risk of suggesting that by exerting his tremendous will-power, he maybe really had managed to delay the onset of the illness, hoping, it goes without saying, to overcome it altogether. He knew he was not well, but he desperately wanted to avoid being ill now, during those fateful moments of his life when he had to be alert, had to speak out boldly and firmly, and ‘justify himself in his own mind’. Anyway, he had been to the Moscow doctor that Katerina Ivanovna, acting on one of her whims, had engaged, as I have mentioned above. The doctor, having listened to his symptoms and examined him, had concluded that he was suffering from some sort of mental disorder, and had not been in the least surprised when Ivan, albeit reluctantly, admitted certain facts. ‘Hallucinations are quite normal in your condition,’ the doctor had pronounced, ‘although we should examine you… in general, it’s absolutely essential to begin treatment straight away; there’s not a moment to lose, otherwise the prognosis could be unfavourable.’ However, Ivan Fyodorovich, after consulting the doctor, had not followed the latter’s sensible advice to go to the hospital. ‘I’m still on my feet, I feel strong enough for now, and if I collapse, that’s another matter, time enough then for treatment,’ he had decided, dismissing the problem. And so now he was sitting on the divan, almost conscious himself of his delirium, and, as I have already described, staring fixedly at something on the divan against the opposite wall. Someone was sitting there, having suddenly appeared from God knows where, since he was not already in the room when Ivan Fyodorovich entered on his return from visiting Smerdyakov. He was some sort of gentleman of a typically Russian type, no longer young, ‘qui frisait la cinquantaine’,* as the French say, with a good head of fairly long hair, dark but greying, and with a neat, wedge-shaped beard. He was wearing a sort of brown jacket, obviously from a good tailor, but threadbare after two or three years’ wear and already completely out of fashion, the sort of thing that smart, well-to-do men had given up wearing two years ago. His collar and cuffs, his long, scarf-like cravat, everything was what a smart gentleman would wear, but on closer inspection the collar and cuffs were grubby and the thick cravat was badly frayed. The visitor’s check trousers were an excellent fit, but again th
ese were of too light a colour and too narrow, and no longer in fashion, and the soft, white felt hat was quite inappropriate for the time of year. In short, he was a picture of impecunious respectability. The gentleman seemed to belong to that class of erstwhile indolent landowners who had flourished under serfdom; he had evidently moved in the beau monde and high society, had at some time had connections, which he still cultivated perhaps, but, little by little, with the impoverishment brought about by youthful excesses and the recent abolition of serfdom, he had degenerated into a kind of hanger-on comme il faut, flitting from one old acquaintance to another, accepted because of his easy, amenable nature and also because he was, after all, a respectable man who could be invited to dine in whatever the company, although of course seated below the salt. Such hangers-on, gentlemen of amenable nature who can recount a good tale, make up a hand at cards, and are loath to undertake any commission one might entrust them with, are usually unattached—either bachelors or widowers, perhaps with children, though their children are invariably raised elsewhere by some aunt or other, the latter never, but never, being mentioned in polite society by the gentlemen, who affect to be somewhat embarrassed by such kinship. They gradually become distanced from their children, receiving the occasional letter from them on their name-day or at Christmas, and even replying sometimes. The face of this unexpected visitor was not exactly friendly, but it was amenable nevertheless, and, depending on the circumstances, capable of assuming an amiable expression. The visitor was not wearing a watch, but had a tortoiseshell lorgnette on a black ribbon. The middle finger of his right hand was adorned with a massive gold signet-ring with an inexpensive opal. Ivan Fyodorovich maintained an angry silence and refused to engage in conversation. The visitor waited, sitting there exactly like a hanger-on who had come down from his room to take tea with his host, and was meekly maintaining his silence since his host was preoccupied and frowning thoughtfully; he was, however, prepared to engage in any friendly conversation so long as his host began it. Suddenly his face took on a worried expression.
‘Listen,’ he began, ‘excuse me, I only wanted to remind you; you went to Smerdyakov to ask about Katerina Ivanovna, and then left without finding out anything, so I suppose you forgot…’
‘Ah, yes!’ Ivan burst out suddenly, and his face clouded over, ‘yes, I forgot… Anyway, it doesn’t matter now, it can wait till tomorrow,’ he muttered under his breath. ‘And as for you’, he addressed the visitor irritably, ‘I didn’t need reminding, because that’s precisely what was bothering me! Your butting in like that made me think you’d jolted my memory, but I’d have remembered it myself, wouldn’t I?’
‘So don’t take any notice of what I said,’ the gentleman smiled amiably. ‘What’s the good of believing against your will? Anyway, when it comes to believing, no proof is any use, least of all material proof. Thomas believed not because he saw the risen Christ, but because he already wanted to believe. Take spiritualists, for example… I’ve got nothing against them… they think they’re doing a service to religion just because devils show their horns to them from the next world. “That”, they say, “is proof, material proof, so to speak, that that world exists.” The next world and material proof, oh really! And in the final analysis, even if the existence of the devil can be proved, does that prove the existence of God? I want to become a member of a society of idealists; I shall be the opposition: “I’m a realist,” I’ll say, “not a materialist,” he-he-he!’
‘Listen,’ Ivan Fyodorovich got up suddenly. ‘I seem to be quite delirious now… yes, of course, that’s it, I’m delirious… say what you like, it’s all the same to me! You won’t get me worked up, like you did last time. Only I feel ashamed of something somehow… I want to walk about the room… Sometimes I can’t see you and I can’t even hear your voice, just like last time, but I can always guess what you’re rambling on about, because it’s me that’s talking, I myself, not you! Only I can’t remember whether I was asleep last time or whether I really saw you. I shall soak a towel in cold water and wrap it round my head, in the vain hope that you’ll disappear.’
Ivan Fyodorovich went into the corner, took a towel, and carried out his intention, and then, with the wet towel round his head, began to pace up and down the room.
‘I’m glad we’ve managed to get on friendly terms straight away,’ remarked the visitor.
‘Idiot,’ laughed Ivan, ‘Why on earth should I stand on ceremony with you? I feel fine now, except that I’ve got a headache… only please, don’t start philosophizing like last time. If you won’t clear off, say something cheerful. Tell me some scandal—after all, you’re just a parasite, so tell me the latest gossip. This awful nightmare is all I need! But I’m not afraid of you. I shan’t let you browbeat me. They’re not going to cart me off to the asylum!’
‘I say, “parasite”, c’est charmant.* Yes, you couldn’t have put it better. What am I on this earth, if not a parasite? Incidentally, I’ve been listening to you, and I’m a bit surprised: goodness gracious, it seems you’re beginning, little by little, to take me for something real instead of a figment of your own imagination, as you insisted last time…’
‘Not for a moment do I accept that you really exist,’ cried Ivan furiously. ‘You’re a lie, you’re my illness, you’re a ghost. Only I don’t know how to get rid of you, so I can see I’ll have to put up with you for a while. You’re a hallucination. You’re the embodiment of myself, but only a part of myself… only the stupidest and nastiest of my thoughts and feelings. As such, I might even find you interesting if I could afford to waste time on you…’
‘With respect, allow me to point out your mistake: earlier, under the street light, when you got angry with Alyosha you shouted at him: “You found out from him! How could you know he comes to me?” It was me you meant, wasn’t it? It means therefore that for a little tiny moment you really believed, you believed in my existence,’ the gentleman laughed softly.
‘That was just human frailty… but I can’t believe in you. I don’t know if I was asleep or awake last time. Perhaps it was only a dream that time, not reality…’
‘And why were you so hard on him, on Alyosha? He’s a nice lad; I owe him an apology about Starets Zosima.’
‘Shut up, you filthy lackey! Leave Alyosha out of it!’ Ivan laughed again.
‘Being abusive and laughing at the same time—that’s a good sign. Incidentally, you’re much more friendly towards me now than last time, and I know why: that great decision…’
‘Shut up about the decision,’ shouted Ivan fiercely.
‘I understand, I understand perfectly, c’est noble, c’est charmant,* you’re going to protect your brother tomorrow and offer yourself up in sacrifice, c’est chevaleresque.’*
‘Shut up, or I’ll kick you!’
‘In one sense I’d be glad, because I’d have achieved my goal: if you start kicking me it means you believe in my reality, because one doesn’t kick a ghost, does one? But joking apart, it’s all the same to me; be abusive if you want to, but a little bit of politeness wouldn’t come amiss, even to me. “Idiot”, “filthy lackey”—I ask you, really, fancy using language like that!’
‘When I malign you, I malign myself!’ Ivan laughed again. ‘You are me, only with a different face. You say precisely what I’m already thinking… and you can’t possibly tell me anything that’s new!’
‘If our thoughts coincide, that simply does me credit,’ said the gentleman graciously and with dignity.
‘You only choose my nasty thoughts and, what’s more, the stupid ones. You are stupid and vulgar. You’re terribly stupid. No, I will not put up with you! What on earth can I do?’ Ivan groaned through clenched teeth.
‘All the same, my friend, I want to be a gentleman and to be regarded as such,’ began the visitor, with that air of self-importance typical of the true parasite, eager to be obliging and conciliatory from the start. ‘I’m poor, and… I don’t claim to be particularly honest, but… it’s generally
accepted by the public at large that I’m a fallen angel. I can’t for the life of me imagine how I could ever have been an angel. And if I ever was one, then it was so long ago I could be forgiven for having forgotten. Now I value only my reputation as a respectable man, and I live as best I can and try to be pleasant. I sincerely love people—oh, I’ve been much maligned! And when from time to time I live among you here, my life takes on a semblance of actuality and that’s what I like most of all. After all, just like you, I suffer from the illusory, and that’s why I love your terrestrial reality. Here everything is delineated, formulae and geometry exist, whereas there we have only indeterminate equations! Here I can walk about and dream. I love dreaming. Incidentally, I become superstitious here on earth. Don’t laugh, please; that’s precisely what I enjoy most of all—the chance to become superstitious. Here I get into all the same habits as you: I’ve started to enjoy going to the public baths, can you imagine, and I love sitting in the steam with merchants and priests. My dream is to be reincarnated immutably once and for all as the fat, eighteenstone wife of a merchant, and to believe everything she believes. Honest to goodness, my ideal is to walk into a church and light a candle in all sincerity. Then all my tribulations would be over. Also, I’ve come to enjoy your therapies; in the spring, there was an outbreak of chickenpox, and I went along to the children’s hospital and got myself vaccinated—you can’t imagine how happy I was that day: I donated ten roubles towards our Slav brethren!…* You’re not listening. You know, you’re really not at all yourself today.’ The gentleman fell silent for a while. ‘I know you went to see that doctor yesterday… so how are you? What did the doctor tell you?’
‘Idiot,’ snapped Ivan.
‘You, on the other hand, are so intelligent. Are you maligning me again? I was enquiring not so much out of sympathy, as just to make conversation. You don’t have to answer. My rheumatism’s come on again…’
The Karamazov Brothers Page 96
