‘Oh, it’s only you,’ said Ivan Fyodorovich dryly. ‘Well, goodbye. You’re going to see her?’
‘Yes.’
‘I wouldn’t if I were you. She’s upset, and you’ll only make matters worse.’
‘Not at all!’ came a loud voice from upstairs, through a door which had been flung open just that moment. ‘Aleksei Fyodorovich, have you come from him?’
‘Yes, I’ve just been to see him.’
‘Did he send me any message? Come in, Alyosha, and you too, Ivan Fyodorovich, you must stay just for another second. Do you hear me?’
There was such an imperious note in her voice that Ivan Fyodorovich followed Alyosha up the stairs without a moment’s hesitation.
‘She was listening at the door!’ he muttered irritably under his breath, but Alyosha heard him.
‘If it’s all right with you, I’ll keep my coat on,’ said Ivan Fyodorovich, entering the room. ‘I’ll stand if you don’t mind. I’m only staying a minute, that’s all.’
‘Won’t you sit down, Aleksei Fyodorovich?’ said Katerina Ivanovna, but she herself remained standing. She had not changed much in the past few days, but there was a vicious glint in her dark eyes. Alyosha was to recall later that she struck him as being extraordinarily beautiful at that moment.
‘So what did he ask you to tell me?’
‘Only one thing,’ said Alyosha, looking her straight in the eye, ‘that you should not be too hard on yourself, and not mention anything in court about…’, he hesitated slightly, ‘what passed between the two of you… when you first met… in that town…’
‘Ah,’ she interrupted him with a bitter laugh, ‘he means when he gave me the money and I curtsied to him! I wonder if he’s worried about me or about himself? He asks me not to be too hard—on whom? On him or on myself? Say something, Aleksei Fyodorovich.’
‘Both on yourself and on him,’ he said softly.
‘Well, well,’ she pronounced each word with vicious deliberation, and suddenly flushed. ‘You don’t know me yet, Aleksei Fyodorovich,’ she said menacingly. ‘Come to that, I don’t know myself either… Perhaps you’ll want nothing more to do with me after tomorrow’s trial.’
‘You will tell the truth, won’t you?’ said Alyosha, ‘that’s all that matters.’
‘A woman often tells untruths,’ she said through clenched teeth. ‘Only an hour ago, I thought I’d never bring myself to have anything to do with that monster… that abomination… and yet, to me he’s still a human being! Did he really do it? Did he?’ she exclaimed hysterically, turning quickly towards Ivan Fyodorovich. In a flash Alyosha realized that she had asked Ivan Fyodorovich this very question perhaps only a minute before his arrival, and not just once, but a hundred times, and that they had ended up quarrelling.
‘I’ve been to see Smerdyakov… It was you Ivan, you persuaded me that he killed his father. I only believed it because you said it!’ she continued, still addressing Ivan Fyodorovich. The latter forced a smile.
Alyosha flinched at the familiar Ivan. He would never have suspected that they were on such intimate terms.
‘Well, I think that’s quite enough,’ Ivan cut her short. ‘I’m going. I’ll come back tomorrow.’ And, turning round, he immediately left the room and went straight out on to the landing. Katerina Ivanovna grabbed hold of both Alyosha’s hands.
‘Go after him!’ she whispered urgently. ‘Don’t let him run off! Don’t leave him on his own, even for a second. He’s mad. Don’t you know that he’s gone mad? He’s got a fever, a nervous fever, the doctor told me! Go on, run after him…’
Alyosha jumped up and rushed after Ivan Fyodorovich. The latter had not gone more than fifty paces from the house.
‘What do you want?’ Realizing that Alyosha was coming up behind him, Ivan threw him a backward glance. ‘She told you to run after me because I was mad. I know it all by heart,’ he added exasperatedly.
‘She’s mistaken about that, of course, but she’s right about you being sick,’ said Alyosha. ‘I was looking at your face just now, back at her place; you really do look ill, Ivan!’
Ivan continued walking. Alyosha followed.
‘And have you any idea, Aleksei Fyodorovich, how one becomes mad?’ Ivan suddenly enquired in a soft voice devoid of all the former exasperation and now expressing the frankest curiosity.
‘No, I don’t. I imagine there’s more than one kind of madness.’
‘But do you suppose one can observe oneself becoming mad?’
‘I don’t think one can really observe that sort of thing very clearly,’ Alyosha replied with surprise. Ivan fell silent for a moment or two.
‘If you’re going to talk to me,’ he said suddenly, ‘please change the subject.’
‘Oh, before I forget, here’s a letter for you,’ Alyosha said apologetically and, taking Lise’s letter from his pocket, he handed it to Ivan. They had just reached a street lamp. Ivan recognized the handwriting immediately.
‘Oh, it’s from that little she-devil!’ he laughed venomously and, without opening the envelope, he suddenly tore it into several pieces and threw them into the wind. The pieces scattered.
‘Hasn’t turned sixteen yet and is already offering herself!’ he said contemptuously and walked on.
‘What do you mean “offering herself”?’ exclaimed Alyosha.
‘Everyone knows how a loose woman offers herself.’
‘You don’t mean it, Ivan, you can’t mean it!’ Alyosha, horrified, leapt passionately to Lise’s defence. ‘She’s just a child, you’re maligning a child! She’s sick, she too is sick, perhaps she’s also going out of her mind… I couldn’t not give you her letter… Actually, I expected you to say something… something that would save her.’
‘I’ve got nothing to say to you. If she’s a child, I’m not her nanny. Shut up, Aleksei. Don’t go on. I’m not even thinking about it.’
They fell silent again for a while.
‘Now she’ll pray all night to the Mother of God’, he began again suddenly, in a sharp and angry voice, ‘for guidance, what she should say tomorrow in court.’
‘You… you mean Katerina Ivanovna?’
‘Yes. Whether to come to Mitenka’s rescue or to help convict him. She’ll be praying for enlightenment. She’s undecided, you see, she’s not had time to prepare her thoughts yet. She wants me to be her nanny too, and tuck her in!’
‘Katerina Ivanovna loves you, Ivan,’ Alyosha observed sadly.
‘Perhaps. But the trouble is, I’m not interested.’
‘She’s suffering. So why did you say… sometimes… things that have given her cause for hope?’ Alyosha continued with gentle reproach. ‘Look, I hope you’ll forgive me for saying so, but I know you’ve been building up her hopes,’ he added.
‘I just couldn’t force myself to do what had to be done, I just couldn’t break it off and tell her to her face!’ Ivan said, irritated. ‘It’ll have to wait till the murder trial’s over. If I break it off now, she’ll go and incriminate that scoundrel in court tomorrow just to spite me, because she hates him, and she knows she does. It’s all a tissue of lies, lies, nothing but lies! You see, for the moment, while I still haven’t finished with her, she’ll go on hoping and she won’t destroy that monster, because she knows how badly I want to get him out of the mess he’s in. When the hell is this damned trial going to be over!’
The words ‘murder’ and ‘monster’ echoed painfully in Alyosha’s heart.
‘But what can she do to ruin Dmitry?’ he asked, weighing up Ivan’s words. ‘What precisely could she say that would incriminate Mitya?’
‘You don’t know the whole story. She’s got a certain document in her possession, in Mitya’s own handwriting, which proves beyond all shadow of doubt that he killed father.’
‘That’s impossible!’ exclaimed Alyosha.
‘What do you mean “impossible”? I’ve read it myself.’
‘No such document exists!’ Alyosha repeated vigorously.
‘It can’t exist, because he’s not the murderer. He didn’t kill father, it wasn’t him!’
Ivan Fyodorovich suddenly stood still.
‘Who then in your opinion is the murderer?’ he asked unemotionally and with a touch of aloofness in his voice.
‘You know who,’ said Alyosha gently and firmly.
‘Who? Are you referring to that cock-and-bull story about that lunatic of an epileptic? You mean Smerdyakov?’
Alyosha suddenly felt that he was shaking all over.
‘You know who,’ he mouthed feebly. He felt he was choking.
‘Who then, who?’ cried Ivan, almost in a frenzy. All his composure had suddenly vanished.
‘All I know is,’ Alyosha continued, still almost whispering, ‘it was not you who killed father.’
‘Not me! What do you mean “not me”?’ Ivan was thunderstruck.
‘It was not you who killed father, not you!’ repeated Alyosha firmly.
There was a long pause.
‘I know perfectly well it wasn’t me! Are you raving mad?’ Ivan said with a faint, pale smile. His eyes were riveted on Alyosha. They were both standing under a street lamp again.
‘No, I’m not, Ivan; you know, you’ve told me yourself several times that you’re the murderer.’
‘When did I say that?…’ Ivan mumbled uncomprehendingly. ‘I was in Moscow… When did I say it?’
‘You’ve said it to yourself many times when you were alone during these past two terrible months,’ Alyosha went on in the same calm, measured tone of voice. But now he spoke as though in a trance, or in thrall to some invincible force. ‘You’ve been accusing yourself and admitting to yourself that no one but you is the murderer. But it was not you who killed him, you’re wrong, you are not the murderer, do you hear me, you are not! God sent me to tell you this.’
They both fell silent. That silence continued for a whole long minute. They stood eyeball to eyeball. They were both as white as a sheet. Suddenly Ivan began to shake all over, and he grabbed Alyosha tightly by the shoulder.
‘You were there, weren’t you?’ he hissed through clenched teeth. ‘You were in my room that night, when he came… Admit it… you saw him, you did, didn’t you?’
‘Who are you talking about?… Mitya?’ asked Alyosha, bewildered.
‘No, not him, to hell with that monster!’ Ivan wailed frenziedly. ‘How did you know he’s been coming to see me? How did you find out? Tell me!’
‘Who is he? I don’t know who you’re talking about,’ mumbled Alyosha, who was quite frightened by now.
‘Yes you do, you know… otherwise, how else could you…? You couldn’t not know…’
But suddenly he seemed to check himself. He stood there, apparently thinking something over. His lips twisted in a strange smile.
‘Ivan,’ Alyosha resumed in a trembling voice, ‘I said that because I know you will believe what I say. I meant those words for the rest of your life—not you! Do you hear me—for the rest of your life. It was God who ordained that I should say that to you, even if it meant you’d hate me for ever from now on…’
But Ivan Fyodorovich already seemed to have regained his composure completely.
‘Aleksei Fyodorovich,’ he said with a cold smile, ‘I can’t stand prophets and epileptics; God’s messengers least of all, you know that better than anyone. From now on, I want nothing more to do with you, and I think that had better be for good. Be so kind as to leave me here at this crossroads—at once. Besides, you go that way anyway. Mind you stay away from my place tonight, whatever happens! Do I make myself clear?’
He turned round and, with firm steps, walked away without looking back.
‘Ivan,’ Alyosha called after him, ‘if anything should happen to you tonight, remember me before you do anything!…’
But Ivan did not reply. Alyosha stood at the crossroads, under the street lamp, until Ivan had vanished completely in the gloom. Then he turned round and set off slowly down the lane towards his lodgings. He and Ivan were living in separate accommodation: neither of them had wanted to stay in Fyodor Pavlovich’s empty house. Alyosha had rented a furnished room from a family in the town; Ivan Fyodorovich lived some distance away, in spacious and rather comfortable rooms in a wing of a nice house belonging to the widow of a well-to-do civil servant. To look after the whole of his part of the house he had only one aged, totally deaf woman, who was crippled by rheumatism and who went to bed at six in the evening and rose at six the next morning. Ivan Fyodorovich had become remarkably self-reliant in the past two months, and very much liked to be left completely alone. He even tidied up after himself in the one room that he now occupied, and he had almost stopped using his other rooms. On reaching the front gate of the house, and with his hand already on the bell, he stopped. He felt that he was still shaking with fury. He suddenly withdrew his hand from the bell, spat, wheeled round, and set off quickly for the opposite end of the town, heading for the tiny, ramshackle log cabin, situated about two versts from his house, in which lived Marya Kondratyevna, Fyodor Pavlovich’s former neighbour, who used to come to Fyodor Pavlovich’s kitchen for soup, and to whom Smerdyakov, at the time, used to sing songs and play his guitar. She had sold her former house and was now living with her mother in a house which was virtually nothing but a hut, where they had been joined by the sick, slowly failing Smerdyakov, who had settled with them ever since Fyodor Pavlovich’s death. It was to him that Ivan Fyodorovich, drawn by a sudden and overpowering compulsion, was now heading.
6
FIRST VISIT TO SMERDYAKOV
FOR the third time since his return from Moscow Ivan Fyodorovich was going to talk to Smerdyakov. The first time that he had seen him and spoken to him after the murder was on the very first day after his return, following which he visited him again two weeks later. But he had stopped visiting him after this second time, so it was more than a month now since he had seen him, and he had hardly heard anything of him in the meantime. Ivan Fyodorovich had not returned from Moscow until five days after his father’s death, and so had not even seen his coffin: the funeral had taken place just the day before his return. The reason why Ivan Fyodorovich had not returned sooner was that Alyosha, wishing to send him a telegram but not knowing his exact address in Moscow, had approached Katerina Ivanovna and she, also not knowing the exact address, had sent a telegram to her sister and her aunt, reckoning that Ivan Fyodorovich would call on them while he was in Moscow. But he had not called there until the fourth day after his arrival; having read the telegram, he returned with all due haste of course. The first person he met on his return was Alyosha, and he was astonished to discover on talking to him that he refused even to suspect Mitya and was accusing Smerdyakov of the murder, which was quite contrary to general public opinion in our town. Having seen the chief of police and the prosecutor and having found out the details of the evidence and the arrest, he was even more astonished at Alyosha’s opinion, and attributed it to excessive brotherly solicitude and to compassion for Mitya, whom Alyosha loved dearly, as Ivan well knew. Incidentally, let us say just a few words here, once and for all, about Ivan Fyodorovich’s feelings towards his brother Dmitry Fyodorovich: he certainly did not love him and, much as he pitied him at times, his pity was compounded by a tremendous disdain amounting almost to disgust. He found Mitya and everything about him altogether unsympathetic. Ivan regarded Katerina Ivanovna’s love for Mitya with contempt. Nevertheless, the first day after his return he had gone to see Mitya in prison, and this meeting, far from lessening his conviction of the latter’s guilt, had reinforced it. He had found his brother upset and extremely agitated. Mitya was voluble but abstracted and inconsistent, speaking abruptly, accusing Smerdyakov, and getting terribly confused. He talked most of all about the three thousand roubles that the deceased had ‘stolen’ from him. ‘It’s my money, it was mine,’ Mitya had insisted, ‘even if I had stolen it, I’d have been entitled to do so.’ He hardly contested the charges brought against him, and if he construed f
acts to his own benefit, he did so ineptly and contradicted himself, as if he did not want to justify himself to Ivan or to anyone else; on the contrary, he lost his temper, poured scorn on the accusations, cursed and fulminated. As regards Grigory’s evidence about the open door, he just laughed scornfully and said that it was ‘the devil who opened it’. But he could not produce any coherent explanation of this fact. He had even managed to offend Ivan Fyodorovich at this first meeting, telling him flatly that it was not for those who maintained that ‘everything is permitted’ to suspect and interrogate him. On the whole, he had been very unfriendly to Ivan Fyodorovich on that occasion. It was straight after that meeting with Mitya that Ivan Fyodorovich had gone to see Smerdyakov.
While rushing back from Moscow on the train, he had already been thinking about Smerdyakov and about his last conversation with him, the night before his departure. There were many things that troubled him, many things that appeared suspicious. But, while making his deposition before the investigative magistrate, Ivan Fyodorovich had for the time being kept quiet about that conversation. He had decided to wait until he had seen Smerdyakov. The latter was now in the town hospital. In answer to Ivan Fyodorovich’s insistent questioning, Dr Herzenstube and Dr Varvinsky, whom he met at the hospital, replied that there was no doubt about Smerdyakov’s epileptic fit, and they were quite astonished when he asked: ‘Couldn’t he have been pretending on the day of the murder?’ They gave him to understand that the attack had been unusual and had continued, with recurrent relapses, for several days, so much so that the patient’s life had been in real danger and only now, after treatment, could it definitely be said that the patient would live, although it was very likely (added Dr Herzenstube) that his mind would remain somewhat disturbed, ‘if not for the rest of his life, then for a considerable time’. To Ivan Fyodorovich’s peremptory question: ‘So he’s mad now, is he?’ they replied that he was ‘not exactly mad’, but that ‘there were certain signs of abnormality’. Ivan Fyodorovich decided to find out for himself what these abnormalities were. At the hospital he was immediately given permission to visit Smerdyakov, who was lying in a bed in a side-ward. Next to him was another bed, occupied by a local tradesman who was very weak, bloated by dropsy, and obviously going to die in the next day or so: he was in no state to disturb their conversation. On seeing Ivan Fyodorovich, Smerdyakov flinched and grinned mistrustfully. This, at least, was Ivan Fyodorovich’s first impression. But it was only for a second, and during the rest of the conversation, on the contrary, he was struck by Smerdyakov’s composure. From the moment he saw him Ivan Fyodorovich was totally convinced of the extreme seriousness of his condition; he was very weak, spoke slowly, and seemed to have difficulty moving his tongue; he had grown very thin and looked jaundiced. Throughout the whole twenty minutes or so of the visit he complained of a headache and pains in all his limbs. His dry, eunuch’s face seemed to have shrunk, his hair was tousled over his temples, and instead of his quiff, there was only a thin wisp of hair sticking up. But the half-shut left eye, with that insinuating air, betrayed the presence of the old Smerdyakov. ‘It’s always interesting to talk to an intelligent person,’ Ivan Fyodorovich recalled at once. He sat down on a stool at the foot of the bed. Smerdyakov rearranged himself with difficulty in the bed, but he did not speak first, maintaining his silence and not even betraying any curiosity.
The Karamazov Brothers Page 91