The Karamazov Brothers

by Fyodor Dostoevsky

  ‘Do you feel well enough to talk to me?’ asked Ivan Fyodorovich. ‘It won’t tire you too much?’

  ‘Not at all,’ mumbled Smerdyakov weakly. ‘Have you been back long, sir?’ he added condescendingly, as if encouraging an embarrassed visitor.

  ‘I came back just today… to sort out this mess here.’

  Smerdyakov sighed.

  ‘Why are you sighing, surely you knew about it?’ Ivan Fyodorovich asked bluntly.

  Smerdyakov paused deferentially.

  ‘How could I not know, sir? It was clear beforehand. Only how could I know, sir, how things would turn out?’

  ‘What do you mean “turn out”? Don’t try to avoid the issue! You even predicted you’d have a fit, didn’t you, and that it would happen just as you were going down to the cellar? You particularly mentioned the cellar.’

  ‘Have you told them that at the police station?’ Smerdyakov enquired with calm curiosity.

  Ivan Fyodorovich suddenly lost his temper.

  ‘No, I haven’t told them yet, but I most certainly shall. You’ve got a lot of explaining to do, and let me tell you, my friend, I have no intention of letting you play games with me!’

  ‘Why should I want to play games with you, when you are my only hope, you and the Lord God?’ said Smerdyakov with the same absolute calmness, only momentarily closing his eyes.

  ‘In the first place,’ began Ivan Fyodorovich, ‘I know that a fit cannot be predicted in advance. I’ve made enquiries, so don’t try to fool me. The day and the time can’t be predicted. So how come you told me both the day and the time, and even that it would happen on the cellar steps? How could you know in advance that you would have a fit precisely there, and fall down those steps, if you did not deliberately feign the fit?’

  ‘I go down to the cellar anyway, several times a day, sir,’ drawled Smerdyakov. ‘It was just like when I fell from the attic last year. Certainly one can’t predict the day and time of a fit, but one can have a premonition.’

  ‘But you predicted the day and the time!’

  ‘The doctors here will fill you in with all the details of my epilepsy, sir: ask them whether it’s genuine or not, and as for me, I have nothing more to say on the subject.’

  ‘And the cellar, how did you know that in advance?’

  ‘Oh, how you keep going on about that cellar! When I went down the cellar that time, I was frightened and had misgivings, I was frightened mostly because I’d lost your protection and had no one in the whole world to turn to. As I was going down into the cellar, I thought, “It’s going to happen now, I’m going to have a fit—will I fall down there or not?” And because of those very doubts, sir, I was seized by the fatal spasm… and down I went. I’ve told them everything, all about our conversation the night before, at the gate, sir, when I told you how frightened I was, and about the cellar, sir—I’ve told all this in detail to Dr Herzenstube and Nikolai Parfenovich, the magistrate, and they’ve written it all down in the case record. And the doctor here, Dr Varvinsky, told them he was convinced that that was what caused it—the fear, that is, the worry about whether I was going to fall or not. And that’s how it happened. That’s what they wrote down, that it was bound to happen just because of my fear, sir.’ Smerdyakov gasped, as if utterly exhausted.

  ‘So, you said all that in your deposition?’ asked Ivan Fyodorovich, slightly disconcerted. He had particularly wanted to frighten Smerdyakov by threatening to disclose their conversation, but it turned out that the latter had pre-empted him.

  ‘What have I got to fear? Let them write it all down, the absolute truth,’ said Smerdyakov uncompromisingly.

  ‘You told them about our conversation at the gate, too, word for word?’

  ‘No, sir, not quite word for word.’

  ‘And that you can feign an epileptic fit, as you boasted to me, did you tell them that, too?’

  ‘No, I didn’t say that either.’

  ‘Will you tell me now why you wanted me to go to Chermashnya?’

  ‘I was afraid you’d go to Moscow, sir, and, after all, Chermashnya’s nearer.’

  ‘You’re lying. You yourself suggested that I should go away. “Go away,” you said, “don’t get mixed up in any trouble!”’

  ‘I only said that out of friendship for you, out of my sincere devotion, because I had a premonition of a disaster in the house, sir, and I was concerned for you. Only, I was even more concerned for myself than I was for you, sir. That’s why I said, “Don’t get mixed up in any trouble,” so that you’d understand that there was going to be an accident at the house, and you’d stay and protect your father.’

  ‘Well, you could have been more explicit, you fool!’ Ivan Fyodorovich flared up suddenly.

  ‘How could I have been more explicit at the time, sir? I only spoke out of fear, and, what’s more, you might have got angry. I was afraid that Dmitry Fyodorovich might cause some kind of rumpus, of course, and that he might come and take the money since he considered it to be his in any case, but who could have known that it would end in such a murder? I thought he’d just sneak off with the three thousand that the master had hidden under his mattress, in the envelope, but he went and killed him, sir. How could you even have guessed that, sir?’

  ‘Well then, if you yourself say that it was impossible to guess, how do you expect me to have guessed? Why are you trying to confuse the issue?’ said Ivan Fyodorovich thoughtfully.

  ‘You could have guessed, because I was asking you to go to Chermashnya instead of Moscow, sir.’

  ‘How on earth could I have guessed from that?’

  Smerdyakov seemed exhausted, and remained silent again for a minute or so.

  ‘You could have guessed from the simple fact that I was trying to get you to go to Chermashnya and not Moscow, which meant I didn’t want you to go too far, because Moscow’s a long way away and if Dmitry Fyodorovich knew you were near, it’d deter him. And if need be you could have returned quicker to protect me too, because quite apart from anything else I’d told you about Grigory Vasilyevich’s illness and that I was afraid I was going to have a fit. Having told you about the signal to get the master to open the door, and that Dmitry Fyodorovich knew about it from me, I thought you’d guess he was sure to do something, and you’d stay here and not even go to Chermashnya.’

  ‘He’s talking very coherently,’ thought Ivan Fyodorovich, ‘even though he does make you sick; so why was Dr Herzenstube talking about him being “disturbed”?’

  ‘You’re trying to make a fool of me, damn you!’ he exclaimed angrily.

  ‘I must say, I thought at the time that you had guessed everything,’ parried Smerdyakov with an air of utter ingenuousness.

  ‘If I’d guessed, I’d have stayed!’ shouted Ivan Fyodorovich, flaring up again.

  ‘Well, sir, I…er… I thought that you’d guessed and you were going away just to get away from any trouble, that you were afraid and were running away to save your own skin.’

  ‘So you think everyone is a coward like you, do you?’

  ‘With respect, sir, yes, I thought you were the same as me.’

  ‘I should have guessed, of course,’ said Ivan uneasily. ‘I did have an idea that you were up to no good… Only you’re lying, you’re lying again,’ he shouted with sudden realization. ‘You remember, you came up to the tarantass and said to me, “It’s always interesting to talk to an intelligent person.” That means you were glad I was going, seeing that you gave me credit for that, doesn’t it?’

  Smerdyakov sighed several times. Some colour seemed to come to his face.

  ‘If I was glad,’ he said, wheezing, ‘it was only because you’d agreed to go to Chermashnya and not to Moscow. Because at least it’s not so far; only I didn’t say those words in approval, sir, I said them as a reproach. But you didn’t understand.’

  ‘Reproach for what?’

  ‘For leaving your father when you knew he could be in danger, and for refusing to stay and protect us, because, sir,
they could always drag me into it and accuse me of stealing those three thousand roubles.’

  ‘Go to hell!’ swore Ivan again. ‘One second: did you tell the magistrate and the prosecutor about the signal and the taps?’

  ‘I told them everything, just as it was, sir.’

  Ivan Fyodorovich was surprised once more, but he did not show it this time.

  ‘If I did suspect anything,’ he began again, ‘it was only that you were up to no good. Dmitry might commit murder, but that he would steal—that I didn’t believe at the time… But I was quite prepared for any deviousness from you. You told me yourself you could fake a fit… why did you say that?’

  ‘I suppose it was silly of me. Never in my life have I deliberately faked an attack, I only said it to show off in front of you… It was just stupidity, sir. I’d really taken a liking to you at that time, and I was being absolutely honest with you.’

  ‘My brother’s accusing you outright of the murder and the theft.’

  ‘He would, wouldn’t he?’ Smerdyakov smiled bitterly. ‘And who’s going to believe him, in the face of all the evidence? Grigory Vasilyevich saw the open door, sir, so how can they believe him? Well, anyway, may God forgive him! He’s trying to save his own skin…’

  He fell silent, and then, as if suddenly realizing something, he added:

  ‘Look, sir, it’s the same old story: they want to pin the blame on me, lay the crime at my door—I’ve heard it all before, sir—for example, take that business of my being able to fake an epileptic fit; well, would I have told you beforehand that I could fake it if I really had intended to do something to your father? If I’d been planning to murder him, would I have been so stupid as to reveal information like that, and to his own son of all people—I ask you, sir? Does that seem at all likely? Absolutely not, sir, quite the contrary, it’s completely out of the question. Now, nobody can overhear this conversation we’re having, nobody except providence, but if you were to go and report it to the prosecutor and Nikolai Parfenovich, you could actually use it to protect me, sir, for what sort of criminal would be so stupid as to disclose such information? Anyone can see that.’

  ‘Listen,’ interrupted Ivan Fyodorovich, struck by Smerdyakov’s last point, and standing up, ‘I don’t suspect you in the least, and in fact I find it ludicrous to accuse you… on the contrary, I’m grateful to you for setting my mind at rest. I’m going now, but I shall come again. Goodbye for now, get better quickly. Do you need anything?’

  ‘Thank you for the offer, sir. Marfa Ignatyevna hasn’t forgotten me, sir, and with her usual kindness sees to everything I need. Kind people visit me every day.’

  ‘Well, goodbye. By the way, I shan’t say anything about you being able to fake it… and I’d advise you not to mention it,’ said Ivan suddenly, for some reason.

  ‘I quite understand, sir. And if you’re not going to tell them about that, I shan’t say anything about our conversation at the gate that time…’

  Ivan Fyodorovich went out quickly, and it was not until he had gone about ten paces down the corridor that he realized there was something insulting in Smerdyakov’s last remark. He thought of going back there and then, but only for a moment, and, saying to himself ‘that’s stupid’, he walked briskly out of the hospital. The fact was that he really did feel reassured—and precisely because it was his brother Mitya and not Smerdyakov who was guilty, although he should have felt quite the opposite. Why this was so, he did not wish to ascertain at that moment, being loath, in fact, to start analysing his own emotions. It was as if he wanted quickly to forget something or other. After that, over the course of the next few days as he got to know more about the evidence against Mitya, he totally convinced himself of the latter’s guilt. The evidence, albeit from witnesses who were in themselves totally insignificant—Fenya and her mother, for example—was overwhelming, not to mention Perkhotin and all that business about the inn, about the Plotnikovs’ shop, about the witnesses in Mokroye!… The details were particularly incriminating. The investigative magistrate and the prosecutor found the story of the secret ‘signal’ as significant as Grigory’s statement about the door being open. In answer to Ivan Fyodorovich’s enquiry, Grigory’s wife, Marfa Ignatyevna, told him outright that Smerdyakov had lain all night in their room, behind the partition, ‘he wasn’t three paces from our bed’, and that even though she personally had slept soundly, she had nevertheless woken several times and heard him groaning. ‘He groaned all the time, didn’t stop groaning.’ Ivan had a talk with Herzenstube and told him of his doubts, namely, that Smerdyakov did not really seem mad, but only ill. The old man smiled faintly. ‘And do you know what he’s doing now?’ he asked Ivan Fyodorovich. ‘Learning French vocabulary by heart. He’s got a notebook under his pillow in which someone has written out French words in Russian charades!’ he laughed. In the end, Ivan Fyodorovich abandoned all his doubts. He could not even think about his brother Dmitry without disgust. But what was strange was that Alyosha continued to insist stubbornly that the murderer was ‘in all probability’ not Dmitry but Smerdyakov. Ivan had always had a high regard for Alyosha’s opinion, and he was therefore very puzzled by his attitude. What was also strange was that Alyosha did not seem to want to discuss Mitya with him and never broached the subject, but confined himself to answering Ivan’s questions. Ivan noticed this particularly. Incidentally, he was greatly distracted at that time by a quite unconnected matter: from the very first days after his return from Moscow, he had been totally and irresistibly consumed by a burning, irrational passion for Katerina Ivanovna. This is not the place to begin describing this new passion, which was to influence the rest of Ivan Fyodorovich’s life; that may serve as the basis for a different story, another novel, which I am not sure that I shall ever undertake. But all the same, I cannot refrain from saying now that when Ivan Fyodorovich, as I have recorded, said on the way to Katerina Ivanovna’s with Alyosha, ‘I’m not interested,’ he was lying through his teeth at that moment; he was madly in love with her, although it was true that at times he also hated her enough even to kill her. There were many reasons for this: thoroughly shaken by what had happened with Mitya, Katerina Ivanovna had thrown herself into the arms of Ivan Fyodorovich on his return, as if he were some kind of saviour. She had been insulted, hurt, and humiliated. And lo, there appeared again the man who had been so madly in love with her once—oh, she had known that only too well—and whom she had always looked up to for his qualities of heart and mind. But being a young lady of unbending nature, she did not, in spite of her admirer’s unrestrained, typically Karamazovian passion and all his charm, yield to him entirely. At the time, she was continually tormented by remorse for having betrayed Mitya, and at moments of stormy dispute with Ivan (of which there were many), she would tell him this straight out. This was what he had referred to during his conversation with Alyosha as ‘a tissue of lies’. Some people were seriously lying of course, and this irritated Ivan Fyodorovich all the more… but all that can wait. Suffice it to say that, for the time being, he almost forgot about Smerdyakov. Two weeks after that first visit, however, he began to be plagued by the same strange thoughts as before. He constantly wondered why, at Fyodor Pavlovich’s house that last night before his departure, he had kept creeping out like a thief on to the landing, eavesdropping on what his father was doing below. Why had he recalled this with revulsion later, why, on the road the next day, had he suddenly felt so remorseful, and why, as he arrived in Moscow, had he said to himself, ‘I’m a scoundrel’? And it occurred to him now that, perhaps, because of all these tormenting thoughts and the way in which they were taking control over his mind, he was even ready to forget about Katerina Ivanovna. And just then he met Alyosha in the street. He promptly stopped him and asked him:

  ‘Do you remember that time after dinner when Dmitry burst in and attacked father, and afterwards, outside, I told you I reserved “the right to wish”? Tell me, did you think then that I wished father’s death, or not?’

 
‘Yes, I did,’ Alyosha replied softly.

  ‘Well, you were right, you didn’t have to be a genius to guess that. But didn’t it also occur to you that what I actually meant was let “dog eat dog”, that is, to be precise, for Dmitry to kill father, and as soon as possible… and that I was even willing to aid and abet this myself?’

  Alyosha blanched slightly and gazed in silence into his brother’s eyes.

  ‘Tell me, for heaven’s sake!’ Ivan exclaimed. ‘I have to know what you thought at the time. I must have the truth, tell me the truth!’ He was breathing heavily, looking at Alyosha with a sort of anticipatory hostility.

  ‘Forgive me, yes, I thought that too,’ whispered Alyosha, and fell silent, adding not a single ‘mitigating circumstance’.