The Brothers Karamazov (49 page)

Later in his life, Alyosha often wondered how he could have forgotten so completely about Dmitry after he left Ivan—Dmitry, whom that very morning he had been determined to find at all costs, even if it made it impossible for him to return to the monastery that night.

Chapter 6: Still Unclear

AS TO Ivan, a strange and violent anxiety descended upon him as he left Alyosha, setting out for his father’s house. And the closer he came to the house the more intense the anxiety became. It was not the anxiety in itself that was so strange but the fact that, hard though he tried, Ivan was quite unable to explain what it consisted of. He had often before known moments of anxiety and depression and there was nothing surprising in his feeling this way at a moment when he was about to break with everything that had brought him here and start on a completely new and unknown course—a course that he would follow all alone as before, full of hope without knowing what he actually hoped for, and expecting a great deal, perhaps too much, from life without being able to define what he expected or even what he wished for. But now, although he was worried about the unknown new life that lay ahead of him, that was not what filled him with this strange anxiety. “Can it be the revulsion I feel for father’s house?” he thought. “Perhaps, for although I know that this will be the last time I enter that revolting place, I cannot help feeling sick . . .” But no, it wasn’t that either. Could it possibly be his conversation with Alyosha and their parting just now? “After all these years of silence, when I wouldn’t talk to anyone about those things, I suddenly let myself go and rattled off all that stupid nonsense . . .” Perhaps it was his irritation at himself, at his callowness and immature vanity, his annoyance at having failed to express himself properly, especially to such a one as Alyosha, who certainly figured importantly in Ivan’s view of his future. Of course that was part of it—his annoyance with himself—but that still was not really 
it
. “This anguish makes me feel physically sick, but I’m entirely unable to say what I want. Perhaps I ought to try not to think about it at all . . .”

He tried not to think of it, but that did not help either. The most irritating thing about it was that the anxiety seemed completely accidental, external, as if it had nothing to do with him. Something was disturbing his conscience, just as some object may irritate a person, when he is absorbed in work or a heated argument, without his being aware of it. The irritation grows and grows and becomes really painful before he manages to remove the offending object, which often turns out to be some insignificant thing like a handkerchief that has fallen on the floor or a book that has not been replaced in the bookcase.

By the time Ivan reached his father’s house, he was really in the worst possible mood. Then suddenly, when he was only fifty feet or so from the gate, he finally succeeded in identifying the object that had caused him to feel such acute anxiety.

Smerdyakov sat on the bench by the garden gate, enjoying the cool evening air, and Ivan at once realized that it was this man who had been weighing on his mind, that he could not bear the very idea that this creature existed. He suddenly understood this with perfect clarity. When, in the restaurant, Alyosha had told him about his encounter with Smerdyakov, it had been as though something sinister and slimy had slipped into Ivan’s heart and he had immediately reacted angrily. Later, as they had talked on, he had forgotten Smerdyakov for the time being, but he had kept weighing on Ivan’s heart, and no sooner had he left Alyosha and started walking toward his father’s than the half-buried, unpleasant sensation started working up to the surface again. “Why on earth,” Ivan thought furiously, “should that miserable wretch weigh on me like this?”

Recently Ivan had taken a strong dislike to Smerdyakov and this antipathy had increased considerably during the last few days. He had become aware that his growing dislike was actually turning into something akin to real hatred. It is quite possible that his hatred was growing so intensely now just because, when he had first arrived, Ivan had felt quite differently. Then, if anything, he had shown some sympathy for Smerdyakov and, indeed, had found him a rather original fellow. He had encouraged Smerdyakov to talk to him, although he was somewhat taken aback by the confusion, or rather the restlessness, of the lackey’s thoughts, and wondered what it was that so constantly and persistently disturbed that “contemplative mind.” They even touched upon philosophical matters and discussed such puzzles as how there could have been light on the first day of creation, when the sun, the moon, and the stars were created only on the fourth day. Soon enough, however, Ivan realized that, although Smerdyakov was curious about the sun, the moon, and the stars, they were only of secondary interest to him, that he was really after something quite different. In a variety of ways, Smerdyakov’s vanity became evident, and Ivan saw that it was an inordinate vanity and, what’s more, a vanity wounded by frustration. Ivan did not like what he discovered and, out of this discovery, his revulsion grew. Later, when trouble began in the house, when Grushenka appeared on the scene and the tension between his father and his brother Dmitry increased, Ivan and Smerdyakov discussed these matters too. But, although Smerdyakov was obviously very concerned about the matter, Ivan could not make out what he felt about it all or how he thought it ought to be resolved. Indeed, Ivan was very surprised at the inconsistency and confusion of Smerdyakov’s aspirations, aspirations that he would blurt out involuntarily and that were always rather obscure. Smerdyakov always seemed to be trying to ferret some information out of him, asking him indirect and obviously carefully thought out questions, but he never pursued them to the end and usually fell silent or changed the subject just when his questioning was at its most intense. But what irritated Ivan most about the man and gave him a strong feeling of revulsion for him was a certain unpleasant familiarity that Smerdyakov began to display toward him, which increased every time they talked. It was not that Smerdyakov let himself go or used improper language in his presence; on the contrary, he always addressed Ivan with the utmost respect. In their relations, however, it became apparent that Smerdyakov was beginning, God knew why, to behave as if there were some implicit understanding between them, and he spoke as though once upon a time they had agreed on something, something that only the two of them knew about and understood and that was quite beyond the grasp of the other mortals crawling in the dust around them. Ivan, however, still did not understand for a long time the true reason for the violence of his growing revulsion; it was only quite recently that he had realized what caused it.

Now, filled with disgust and irritation, he thought he would pass by Smerdyakov, ignoring him. But the man rose from the bench and, from the way he did so, Ivan understood that Smerdyakov had something special to say to him. Ivan stopped and faced him, and the fact that he had stopped instead of walking right by made him tremble with rage. He stood, looking with anger and revulsion at the eunuch-like, hollow-cheeked face, with the hair neatly combed back at the temples and flattened out and a curled strand of hair in the middle of the forehead carefully fluffed up. Smerdyakov’s left eye was slightly narrowed in a half wink and looked at Ivan slyly as if to say: “What are you trying to do? You can’t pass by me like that; you must know there’s something that we two clever people have to discuss.” Ivan, trembling violently, was about to shout: “Out of my way, you dog! There’s nothing in common between us, you idiot!” But instead, to his amazement, his lips started shaping completely different words.

“Is father still asleep or is he up?” he said quietly and resignedly, listening in surprise to his own voice, and then, completely unexpectedly, he sat down on the bench.

As he remembered it later, he sat there quite terrified during that first second, while Smerdyakov stood in front of him, his hands behind his back, looking at him with complete self-assurance, indeed with a certain sternness.

“Master is still resting,” he answered in an unhurried tone, as if pointing out to Ivan that it was he and not Smerdyakov who had spoken first. Then, after a short pause, he brought his right foot forward, wriggling his toes inside his patent leather boot, lowered his eyes demurely, and said: “I’m surprised at you, sir.”

“Why are you surprised at me?” Ivan asked gruffly in a stern voice, trying hard to keep himself under control and suddenly realizing with enormous self-disgust that he was immediately curious to know how he could have displeased this flunkey and that he would not move away before he had satisfied his curiosity.

“Why haven’t you left for Chermashnya, sir?” Smerdyakov said suddenly, lifting his little eyes from the ground and smiling familiarly at Ivan, while the narrowed left eye seemed to be saying: “An intelligent man like you must understand perfectly well why I’m smiling.”

“Why should I go to Chermashnya?” Ivan asked in surprise.

Smerdyakov remained silent for a moment.

“Why, your father himself begged you to go, sir,” he said indifferently, as if to convey to Ivan that he had answered so irrelevantly, giving a very insignificant reason why he should have gone to Chermashnya, just not to leave his question unanswered.

“Damn you, man, why don’t you say plainly what you want?” Ivan said rudely, dropping his restraint.

Smerdyakov pulled back his right foot until it was level with the left one and drew himself up. But he was still grinning and looked at Ivan with the same composure.

“I don’t want anything, sir, nothing important; we were just talking, sir . . .”

There was a long silence lasting almost a whole minute. Ivan knew that he ought to get up and tell the man off; he had the impression that Smerdyakov, who was standing in front of him, was waiting and thinking: “Let’s see whether he’ll dare to tell me off, dare to lose his temper, or not.” Finally Ivan stirred, ready to get up. Smerdyakov noticed the movement.

“I’m in a terrible position, sir, and I don’t even know what to do about it,” he said, this time very clearly and distinctly, and sighed.

Ivan remained seated, listening.

“They are completely mad, sir. They’re behaving like little boys,” Smerdyakov went on. “I mean Mr. Karamazov, your father, sir, and your brother, Mr. Dmitry. As soon as he gets up now, the master will start asking me every minute, over and over again: ‘Has she come? Why hasn’t she come?’ On and on like that until after midnight. And if Miss Grushenka doesn’t come—and I don’t think she even intends to, ever—he’ll be after me again tomorrow, first thing in the morning. ‘Why didn’t she come? When is she coming?’—as if it was my fault or something. On the other hand, sir, as soon as it gets dark, and even before, your brother comes in from the yard next door, armed and all, and says to me, ‘You’d better remember, you lousy cook, if you miss her and don’t let me know at once when she comes, you’ll be the first I kill.’ And when the night is over, Mr. Dmitry starts pestering me, just like the master: ‘She didn’t come, ha? You sure? When will she show up?’ And it’s as if I’d wronged him too somehow, because I haven’t seen his lady love. And with every day and every hour each of them gets more and more furious about it. Why, I’m so frightened I’ve even thought of taking my life. I can’t trust what either of them will do, Mr. Ivan.”

“Well, why did you get mixed up in it? Why did you have to spy for Dmitry in the first place?” Ivan asked irritatedly.

“I couldn’t help it, sir; in fact, I tried very hard to stay out of it, if you want to know the truth. I kept my mouth shut at first. But I didn’t dare argue with Mr. Dmitry, who decided for some reason to make me his watchdog, so to speak. And since then all he says to me is, ‘I’ll kill you, you dog, if she comes and you don’t let me know.’ It’s got to the point where I’m sure I’ll have a long fit of the falling sickness tomorrow.”

“What’s a long fit of the falling sickness?”

“A long fit is a fit that lasts for a very, very long time. It may last several hours, sometimes a whole day, or even longer. Once I had a fit that went on for three days. That was the time I fell from the attic. I’ll stop shaking for a while and then it’ll start again. I never regained my senses during those three days. That time the master sent for Dr. Herzenstube, the doctor here, and he put some ice on my head and tried some other remedy too. It almost killed me that time.”

“But I understand that an epileptic can never predict when he’ll have a fit, so how can you tell in advance that you’ll have one tomorrow?” Ivan asked, exasperated but at the same time full of a strange curiosity.

“That’s right. It’s impossible to tell in advance when one is going to have a fit.”

“Besides, as you said, you fell from the attic that time.”

“But since I climb up to the attic every day, why shouldn’t I fall from the attic again tomorrow? And if I don’t fall from the attic, I could very well slip and fall down into the cellar, where I also go every day.”

Ivan gave him a long, long look.

“Now you’re just talking nonsense and I don’t know what you mean by it,” he said quietly but threateningly. “Are you trying perhaps to tell me that you’re planning to simulate a fit tomorrow, a fit that’ll go on for three days, is that it?”

Smerdyakov, who had been looking at the toe of his right foot, which he had thrust out in front of him, pulled it back, put the left foot in front instead, raised his head, smiled, and said:

“Even if I was able to do what you say, sir—and it isn’t very difficult for an experienced man to pretend—I’d have every right to do it, if it would save my life from the danger that’s threatening me. For if I was laid out with a fit and Miss Grushenka did come to Mr. Karamazov, even Mr. Dmitry couldn’t possibly demand of a sick man who was unconscious why he hadn’t come and reported it to him. Even he would be ashamed to do that.”

“Ah, to hell with you!” Ivan said, his face contorted with anger. “Why must you worry about your damned safety all the time? Dmitry’s threats are just words he lets out when he gets carried away. He won’t kill you. If he does kill someone, it won’t be you.”