The Brothers Karamazov (110 page)

It may be useful at this point to say a few words about Ivan’s own feelings for his brother Dmitry. Ivan had never liked him; even when he felt sorry for him, the feeling of pity was always mixed with a contempt which at times bordered on outright revulsion. Dmitry’s whole personality and even his appearance made Ivan cringe. Katerina’s love for Mitya had filled Ivan with disgust and indignation. On the day of his return to town, however, Ivan had gone to see his brother in jail and that meeting, instead of shaking his belief in Dmitry’s guilt, had, if anything, strengthened it. He found Dmitry in a strange state of agitation and nervous excitement: Dmitry spoke a great deal but seemed absentminded and distracted, kept skipping from one subject to another, was very cutting, accused Smerdyakov, and got entangled in his own sentences. And all the time he kept insisting on the three thousand that their late father was supposed to have “stolen” from him: “It was my money and, even if I had taken it, I’d have been in the right.” He never tried to challenge the evidence against him and when he tried to explain certain facts that might be favorable to him, his explanations were incoherent and sometimes absurd, so that he gave the impression that he was not even bothering to try to convince Ivan or anybody else of his innocence; instead, he kept losing his temper, ignoring the incriminating evidence, and swearing. He just laughed disdainfully at Gregory’s testimony that the door was open, repeated that it was the devil who had opened it, and was unable to suggest any sensible explanation of how it could have been open. During that first visit, he even managed to offend Ivan by telling him sharply that “people who believe that everything is permitted” were not really qualified to suspect and question him. In general, on that occasion, he behaved with considerable hostility toward Ivan.

It was right after that first visit to Dmitry in prison that Ivan went to see Smerdyakov. While in the train coming back from Moscow, Ivan had thought about Smerdyakov and their last conversation on the day before his departure. Much of it made him feel uneasy and aroused his suspicions. When he was questioned by the examining magistrate, however, Ivan decided not to mention that conversation for the time being. He thought he would postpone doing so until he had spoken to Smerdyakov, who was at that time at the city hospital. Both Dr. Herzenstube and Dr. Varvinsky, whom Ivan met at the hospital, agreed that there was no doubt about Smerdyakov’s being an epileptic and they were extremely surprised at Ivan’s insistent questioning as to whether it would not have been possible for Smerdyakov to have feigned an epileptic seizure on that occasion. They explained to him that this particular epileptic seizure was an exceptionally violent one; that, for several days afterward, it had kept recurring; that, indeed, the patient’s life had been in considerable danger at first; and that only now, after intense medical care, could it be said that the danger had passed and the patient would live, although, Dr. Herzenstube added, it was possible that he would suffer from a mental disorder that might last for a very long time, “perhaps all his life.” When Ivan had inquired impatiently whether that meant that Smerdyakov was insane now, he was told that he was “not yet insane in the actual, clinical sense” but that “certain symptoms of insanity had already been observed.” Ivan had then decided to have a look at Smerdyakov’s abnormalities for himself. At the hospital he was readily admitted. Smerdyakov was in a special ward. The bed next to his was occupied by a tradesman who was swollen with dropsy and was obviously not going to live more than two or three days, so he could hardly be a serious hindrance to their conversation.

When he saw Ivan, Smerdyakov grinned distrustfully, seeming at first rather taken aback. At least that was Ivan’s impression. But it only lasted for a few seconds; after that and for the rest of the time, Ivan was, if anything, struck by Smerdyakov’s composure. From the start, however, Ivan was completely convinced that the man was critically ill; he was extremely weak and spoke very slowly, moving his tongue with obvious difficulty; he had grown very thin and sallow and complained of headaches and pains throughout his whole body. His eunuch-like face seemed to have shrunk, the hair at his temples, brushed back so carefully before, was now tousled, and the wave that had formerly been plastered down on his forehead was now reduced to a thin tuft of hair sticking up on the top of his head. But the slightly narrowed left eye still seemed to be hinting at something and reminded Ivan of the old Smerdyakov who had once remarked to him that “it’s always rewarding to talk to a clever man.”

Ivan sat on a stool at the foot of the bed. Smerdyakov, trying to turn his body, winced in pain. He did not speak. He did not seem particularly interested.

“Can you talk?” Ivan asked. “It won’t tire you too much?”

“Yes, I can. I’m all right . . .” Smerdyakov mumbled in a weak voice. “When did you arrive, Mr. Ivan?” he added somewhat condescendingly, as though to encourage his hesitant visitor.

“I just arrived today,” Ivan said, “to clear up your mess here.”

Smerdyakov sighed.

“Why do you sigh? You knew very well what was coming.”

Smerdyakov maintained a stolid silence for a few minutes. Then he said:

“How could I help knowing what was coming, Mr. Ivan? It was pretty clear, wasn’t it? What I didn’t know, though, was that it would happen the way it did.”

“What way? It’s no use trying to turn around in circles now! Why, you told me beforehand that you were going to have that epileptic fit of yours as soon as you got down into the cellar, didn’t you? You told me—the cellar.”

“Did you mention that in your deposition, Mr. Ivan?” Smerdyakov asked calmly.

Ivan all of a sudden became very angry.

“No, I haven’t mentioned it yet, but I certainly will. There are quite a few things you’ll have to explain to me, my good fellow, and you’d better get out of your head, once and for all, the notion that you can play games with me!”

“But why should I play games with you, Mr. Ivan, since I’ve placed all my hopes in you, just like in Almighty God?”

Smerdyakov’s voice was just as calm as before, but as he spoke he closed his eyes for a second or two.

“In the first place, I know it’s impossible to predict when an epileptic fit is going to come on. I have made thorough enough inquiries about it, so there’s no point in your insisting on it: no one can foretell the day and the hour. So how could you tell me in advance exactly when you would fall down those cellar stairs in an epileptic fit, unless you were planning to sham it?”

“I knew I’d have to go to the cellar that day—more than once even,” Smerdyakov drawled unhurriedly. “And last year I fell in exactly the same way down the attic stairs. And while it’s impossible to predict exactly the day and the time when the falling sickness will strike, one can still have a feeling when one is about to be hit by it.”

“But you told me the day and the time, remember?”

“Why don’t you ask the doctors about my sickness? They’ll tell you whether it was genuine or not. I can tell you nothing more on the subject.”

“And what about the cellar? How could you know that it would strike you just there?”

“The cellar, the cellar—why do you keep harping on the cellar, Mr. Ivan? When I went down into the cellar, I was frightened and worried about what might happen. And the reason I was so frightened was because, with you away, Mr. Ivan, there was no one left to come to my defense. And so, as I was going down those cellar stairs, I said to myself: ‘What if it comes on now and strikes me—will I fall down or won’t I?’ And just from all that worry, the spasm seized me by the throat and I went flying through the air. All this, as well as the talk we had the evening before it all happened, I’ve told Dr. Herzenstube and also the examining magistrate, Mr. Nelyudov, and they took it all down and they have it all in writing. And the hospital doctor, Dr. Varvinsky, he even explained to the others that it hit me just because I was thinking and worrying, thinking to myself, ‘What’ll happen if I fall now?’ And it was because of that that it seized me. And that’s exactly what they wrote down: it was bound to happen, seeing how worried and frightened I was.”

Having said this, Smerdyakov breathed deeply as if the effort had exhausted him.

“So you’ve told them about it already?” Ivan was caught by surprise. He had thought he would be able to put pressure on Smerdyakov by threatening to reveal their conversation, but suddenly it turned out that Smerdyakov had already reported it himself.

“I have nothing to fear,” Smerdyakov said firmly. “Let them write down the whole truth.”

“So you told them every word that we said during our talk by the gate?”

“No, I wouldn’t say I told them every word of it, Mr. Ivan.”

“Did you tell them that you knew how to sham an epileptic fit, as you boasted to me?”

“No, sir, I didn’t tell them that.”

“I want you to tell me now why you tried to send me off to Chermashnya.”

“I didn’t want you to go to Moscow, Mr. Ivan, because if you were in Chermashnya, you wouldn’t be so far away.”

“You’re lying. It was you who suggested I should leave; you said I would be farther out of harm’s way.”

“I advised you to only because of my affection for you and my loyalty to you, Mr. Ivan. I felt there would be trouble in the house and I was concerned for you. Only I was even more concerned about myself, so while I was advising you to go farther away from trouble, I hoped you’d understand how dangerous things were in the house and that you’d stay with us to protect your father.”

“Why couldn’t you have said that plainly, you idiot?” Ivan said, suddenly flaring up.

“But how could I say it plainly? You knew I was being terrorized then, Mr. Ivan, and, besides, I was afraid to make you angry too. And, of course, I was afraid that Mr. Dmitry might come at any time to make trouble, because he looked on that money like it was his own. But how could I suspect that it would end up in murder? I thought Mr. Dmitry would just take the three thousand rubles in the envelope that your father kept under his mattress, but then he came and killed him too. You certainly wouldn’t have guessed that either, Mr. Ivan, would you?”

“But since you say it was impossible to guess, why did you say before that you hoped I’d guess and decide to stay?” Ivan asked thoughtfully.

“You could have guessed because I was pleading with you to go to Chermashnya instead of Moscow, that’s how.”

“Who the hell could possibly guess from that?”

Smerdyakov seemed extremely tired and said nothing for a whole minute.

“You could have guessed because my begging you not to go all the way to Moscow but only to Chermashnya showed that I wanted you to be closer to us, and thought that, knowing that you weren’t too far away, your brother, Mr. Dmitry, wouldn’t dare be so bold. And, in case of need, you’d have been here sooner to protect me too, for I told you myself about Gregory being ill and also that I was afraid of an attack of falling sickness. When I explained to you about all those signals which, if you knocked them out on the door, would make your late father let you in, warning you that Mr. Dmitry knew them from me, I thought you wouldn’t leave for Moscow, or even for Chermashnya for that matter, but stay here with us.”

“He’s damned coherent,” Ivan thought, “and even if he mumbles a bit, I can’t see how Herzenstube could find signs of impairment to his mental faculties . . .”

“You’re putting on a whole act for my benefit, damn you!” Ivan cried angrily.

“But I must admit, Mr. Ivan, that I thought you’d guessed everything,” Smerdyakov said in a completely innocent tone.

“If I had guessed, I’d have stayed, of course!” Ivan cried, flaring up again.

“But I thought it was just because you had guessed that you left in such a rush, that you wanted to be as far away as possible from trouble when it came, that you didn’t really mind where you went since you were much too scared to stay.”

“You imagine that everybody is a coward like you, don’t you?”

“Forgive me, Mr. Ivan—I did think you were like me.”

“Of course, I should have guessed,” Ivan said worriedly, “and, in fact, it did occur to me that you were concocting some villainy or other . . . But, no, you’re lying, you’re lying again! I remember your coming up to the carriage when I was already in it and saying, ‘It’s always rewarding to talk to a clever man.’ That shows you were pleased I was leaving, doesn’t it, for why else would you’ve praised me like that?”

Smerdyakov sighed again and something like color appeared in his face.

“If I was pleased, it was only because you’d agreed to go to Chermashnya instead of to Moscow,” he said somewhat haltingly. “After all, it was not so far. But when I said that to you about a clever man, I didn’t mean it as praise—I meant it as a reproach.”

“Why a reproach?”

“Because, although you sensed the danger, you were deserting your own father and refused to stay and protect us. And if anything happened, I could always be accused of having stolen that three thousand rubles.”

“God damn you!” Ivan growled angrily. “But wait, did you tell the prosecutor about those signals, those knocks?”

“Yes, I told them all about the signals.”

Ivan was puzzled again.

“If I imagined anything at that time,” he started again, “it was that you, and you alone, were up to some villainy or other. I knew that Dmitry was capable of killing, but I never thought that he’d steal, while from you I could expect anything. Besides, you told me yourself then that you could always sham an epileptic fit. So why else would you have told me that?”

“Out of the trusting sincerity of my heart. But even so, I never shammed a fit either before or after that time, and I told you that just because I wanted to show you how clever I was. I admit, it was stupid of me. I’d become very attached to you, Mr. Ivan, and I had complete faith in you.”

“Well, Dmitry accuses you openly: he says you killed our father and stole the money.”

“But what else can he do now?” Smerdyakov grinned bitterly. “And who will believe him with all the evidence against him? Gregory even saw the door open after he’d done it. Well, I don’t blame him really—he’s afraid now and is trying to save his neck.”

He remained quiet for a while, and then went on as if he’d just thought of something.

“You see, Mr. Ivan, it’s like this. I’ve heard that Mr. Dmitry is trying to put the blame on me. Now, do you really imagine that if I had actually had any plans concerning your father before, I’d have boasted to you beforehand that I was good at shamming epileptic fits? If I was really preparing to murder him, would I be so stupid as to say something that would implicate me right away, and what’s more, to say it to my victim’s own son? Do you think that’s likely, Mr. Ivan? I say, no one would ever do things that way. Now no one can hear me saying these things to you, except for what they call Providence. But suppose you went and repeated what I have just told you to the prosecutor or to Mr. Nelyudov, you know you’d clear me once and for all of any suspicion, because they’d say, ‘How could a murderer be so simple-minded as to say such things beforehand?’ Anybody can see that.”

Ivan was impressed by Smerdyakov’s last argument and he got up, putting an end to his visit.

“Listen,” he said, “I don’t really suspect you. In fact, I consider it absurd to suspect you and I’m grateful to you for having reassured me. I must be going now but I’ll come to see you again. I hope you get better soon. Is there anything I can do for you in the meantime?”

“I thank you very kindly, Mr. Ivan, but Martha is so very kind, she takes good care of me and sees to it that I get everything I need. And kind people come to see me every day.”

“Good-by then. And, you know, I don’t think I’ll tell them about your ability to sham epileptic fits. And I wouldn’t advise you to tell them of it either,” Ivan added unexpectedly.

“I understand very well, Mr. Ivan, sir. And since you’ve decided not to report it, I won’t report all the rest of our talk by the gate either.”

After Ivan had left Smerdyakov and had gone ten steps or so, it suddenly occurred to him that Smerdyakov’s last sentence contained a hint that was insulting to him. He was about to turn back but instead mumbled, “Nonsense!” and walked quickly away from the hospital. He actually felt reassured now that he was reasonably convinced that the murderer was his brother Dmitry rather than Smerdyakov, although it would seem more reasonable for him to have been more upset. Why he felt that way, he did not wish to analyze at the time. In fact, he felt an infinite reluctance to start digging into his own feelings. He was just anxious to forget about the whole business. In the next few days, after studying the depositions of the witnesses and the available evidence, Ivan became entirely convinced of Dmitry’s guilt. Some of the evidence from secondary witnesses, such as Fenya and her mother, seemed to him quite sufficient, and as to Perkhotin, Dmitry’s drinking companions, and the employees of the Plotnikov store, they seemed to make the case against Dmitry quite overwhelming. Both the prosecutor and the examining magistrate considered the information about the secret knocking signals almost as incriminating as Gregory’s testimony about the open door. And Martha, too, told Ivan that Smerdyakov had spent that whole night in his bed, separated from hers and Gregory’s by a mere partition, “no more than three steps away from us,” she emphasized, and she said that, although she had slept rather deeply that night, she had woken up several times and each time had heard Smerdyakov moan: “He moaned and moaned, never stopped moaning,” Martha said. And when Ivan told Dr. Herzenstube that Smerdyakov did not strike him as insane at all, the old doctor smiled ever so subtly.

“Just try and guess what the fellow spends his time on,” he replied. “He’s learning French words by heart. He has a notebook under his pillow in which someone has written French words down for him in Russian letters, and he’s learning them by heart,” the doctor concluded with a chuckle.

That was the end of Ivan’s misgivings and the mere thought of his brother Dmitry became loathsome to him. There was only one thing that bothered him now, namely, that his other brother, Alexei, still stubbornly maintained that Dmitry had not killed their father and that “most probably it was Smerdyakov” who had done it. Ivan had always respected Alyosha’s opinion and that was why he was so bewildered by it now. Ivan also felt it was rather strange that Alyosha never made any attempt to discuss their brother’s trial, nor did he even mention Dmitry to him of his own accord, although he would answer any questions that Ivan asked about him. Ivan was very well aware of this, despite the fact that there was something quite unrelated weighing on him just then.

After he returned from Moscow, Ivan had given himself up entirely to his crazed passion for Katerina. This is not the proper place or time to speak of this passion of Ivan’s, which marked him for life. It could make the subject of another novel, which I am not sure that I will ever embark upon. However, I will have to explain here that when Ivan had told Alyosha, after leaving Katerina’s, that he didn’t “feel any inclination toward her,” he was lying, for at that moment he was terribly in love with her, although there were other moments when he hated her so much that he could have killed her. There were many reasons for this. Horribly shocked by Dmitry’s arrest, she had thrown herself at Ivan as if he were her savior. She felt she had been insulted, hurt, and humiliated, but now the man who had loved her once (oh, she was well aware of it!) and whose intelligence and character she had always considered superior had reappeared on the scene. But this stern young woman never yielded to him completely, despite his unrestrained physical passion, so typical of a Karamazov, and despite the fact that she was very much under his spell. At the same time, she constantly suffered pangs of guilt for being disloyal to Dmitry and she told Ivan so during their innumerable violent squabbles. And it was this that Ivan had referred to as “lies on top of more lies” when he had spoken to Alyosha. Of course, there was much that was false in the whole business and it irritated Ivan terribly. But we shall come to that later. What matters here is that, because of his passion for Katerina, he forgot almost completely about Smerdyakov.

But a couple of weeks after his first visit to Smerdyakov, strange thoughts started to torment him again. Suffice it to say that he kept asking himself why, during his last night in his father’s house, he had crept stealthily out of his room and listened like a thief, trying to hear what his father was doing downstairs. Why had he remembered this later with disgust? Why had he felt so despondent when he had left for Moscow the next morning and why, as the train was entering the outskirts of the capital, had he muttered under his breath, “I’m a low scoundrel!” He even imagined that all these painful thoughts might make him forget Katerina, so strong a hold did they have on him. It was soon after this had occurred to him that he met Alyosha in the street. He stopped and asked him:

“Do you remember, on the day when Dmitry broke into the house and beat up father, I said that I reserved to myself the 
right to wish
. Tell me, did you think then that I was wishing father’s death?”

“Yes, I did,” Alyosha answered quietly.

“You were right. It wasn’t so difficult to guess. But didn’t you also think I wished that 
one beast would devour the other
, that is, that Dmitry would kill father, and do so as soon as possible and . . . Well, and that I wouldn’t mind making it easier for him?”

Alyosha turned very pale, staring without a word into his brother’s eyes.

“Speak up, man! I absolutely must know what you were thinking then. I must know the truth!” Ivan was breathing noisily, glaring angrily at Alyosha as if anticipating what he would say.

“Forgive me, I did think that too,” Alyosha whispered and fell silent, adding no “mitigating circumstances.”

“Thanks,” Ivan said and, leaving Alyosha, walked away.

Since that time, Alyosha noticed that Ivan had become more and more distant toward him and that he even seemed to have taken a violent dislike to him.

Actually, after he had left Alyosha that time, Ivan, who had been on his way home, went straight off, instead, to pay a second visit to Smerdyakov.

Chapter 7: The Second Meeting With Smerdyakov

BY THAT time Smerdyakov had been discharged from the hospital. Ivan knew his new lodgings. They were in that sagging little wooden house that looked like two wooden shacks joined together and separated by a narrow covered passage. One of these shacks was occupied by Maria Kondratiev and her mother, the other by Smerdyakov. No one knew whether Smerdyakov lived there as a paying lodger or as a guest. Later, people assumed that he had gone to live there as Maria Kondratiev’s fiancé and that she had not charged him rent. Both mother and daughter treated him with the respect due a superior person.