«Did you come to that of yourself?» asked Ivan, with a wry smile. «With your guidance.»
«And now, I suppose, you believe in God, since you are giving back the money?» «No, I don’t believe,» whispered Smerdyakov.
«Then why are you giving it back?»
«Leave off… that’s enough!» Smerdyakov waved his hand again. «You used to say yourself that everything was lawful, so now why are you so upset, too? You even want to go and give evidence against yourself…. Only there’ll be nothing of the sort! You won’t go to give evid-ence,» Smerdyakov decided with conviction.
«You’ll see,» said Ivan.
«It isn’t possible. You are very clever. You are fond of money, I know that. You like to be respected, too, for you’re very proud; you are far too fond of female charms, too, and you mind most of all about living in undisturbed comfort, without having to depend on anyone-that’s what you care most about. You won’t want to spoil your life for ever by taking such a disgrace on yourself. You are like Fyodor Pavlovitch, you are more like him than any of his children; you’ve the same soul as he had.»
«You are not a fool,» said Ivan, seeming struck. The blood rushed to his face. «You are serious now!» he observed, looking suddenly at Smerdyakov with a different expression.
«It was your pride made you think I was a fool. Take the money.»
Ivan took the three rolls of notes and put them in his pocket without wrapping them in anything.
«I shall show them at the court to-morrow,» he said.
«Nobody will believe you, as you’ve plenty of money of your own; you may simply have taken it out of your cash-box and brought it to the court.»
Ivan rose from his seat.
«I repeat,» he said, «the only reason I haven’t killed you is that I need you for to-morrow, remember that, don’t forget it!»
«Well, kill me. Kill me now,» Smerdyakov said, all at once looking strangely at Ivan. «You won’t dare do that even!» he added, with a bitter smile. «You won’t dare to do anything, you, who used to be so bold!»
«Till to-morrow,» cried Ivan, and moved to go out. «Stay a moment…. Show me those notes again.»
560 book page, Chapter 8 — The Third and Last Interview with Smerdyakov
Ivan took out the notes and showed them to him. Smerdyakov looked at them for ten seconds.
«Well, you can go,» he said, with a wave of his hand. «Ivan Fyodorovitch!» he called after him again.
«What do you want?» Ivan turned without stopping. «Good-bye!»
«Till to-morrow!» Ivan cried again, and he walked out of the cottage.
The snowstorm was still raging. He walked the first few steps boldly, but suddenly began staggering. «It’s something physical,» he thought with a grin. Something like joy was springing up in his heart. He was conscious of unbounded resolution; he would make an end of the wavering that had so tortured him of late. His determination was taken, «and now it will not be changed,» he thought with relief. At that moment he stumbled against something and almost fell down. Stopping short, he made out at his feet the peasant he had knocked down, still lying senseless and motionless. The snow had almost covered his face. Ivan seized him and lifted him in his arms. Seeing a light in the little house to the right he went up, knocked at the shutters, and asked the man to whom the house belonged to help him carry the peasant to the police station, promising him three roubles. The man got ready and came out. I won’t describe in detail how Ivan succeeded in his object, bringing the peasant to the police-station and arranging for a doctor to see him at once, providing with a liberal hand for the expenses. I will only say that this business took a whole hour, but Ivan was well content with it. His mind wandered and worked incessantly.
«If I had not taken my decision so firmly for to-morrow,» he reflected with satisfaction, «I should not have stayed a whole hour to look after the peasant, but should have passed by, without caring about his being frozen. I am quite capable of watching myself, by the way,» he thought at the same instant, with still greater satisfaction, «although they have decided that I am going out of my mind!»
Just as he reached his own house he stopped short, asking himself suddenly hadn’t he better go at once to the prosecutor and tell him everything. He decided the question by turning back to the house. «Everything together to-morrow!» he whispered to himself, and, strange to say, almost all his gladness and selfsatisfaction passed in one instant.
As he entered his own room he felt something like a touch of ice on his heart, like a re-collection or, more exactly, a reminder, of something agonising and revolting that was in that room now, at that moment, and had been there before. He sank wearily on his sofa. The old woman brought him a samovar; he made tea, but did not touch it. He sat on the sofa and felt giddy. He felt that he was ill and helpless. He was beginning to drop asleep, but got up uneasily and walked across the room to shake off his drowsiness. At moments he fancied he was delirious, but it was not illness that he thought of most. Sitting down again, he began looking round, as though searching for something. This happened several times.
561 book page, Chapter 8 — The Third and Last Interview with Smerdyakov
At last his eyes were fastened intently on one point. Ivan smiled, but an angry flush suffused his face. He sat a long time in his place, his head propped on both arms, though he looked sideways at the same point, at the sofa that stood against the opposite wall. There was evid-ently something, some object, that irritated him there, worried him and tormented him.
562 book page, Chapter 9 — The Devil. Ivan’s Nightmare
I AM NOT a doctor, but yet I feel that the moment has come when I must inevitably give the reader some account of the nature of Ivan’s illness. Anticipating events I can say at least one thing: he was at that moment on the very eve of an attack of brain fever. Though his health had long been affected, it had offered a stubborn resistance to the fever which in the end gained complete mastery over it. Though I know nothing of medicine, I venture to hazard the suggestion that he really had perhaps, by a terrible effort of will, succeeded in delaying the attack for a time, hoping, of course, to check it completely. He knew that he was unwell, but he loathed the thought of being ill at that fatal time, at the approaching crisis in his life, when he needed to have all his wits about him, to say what he had to say boldly and resolutely and «to justify himself to himself.»
He had, however, consulted the new doctor, who had been brought from Moscow by a fantastic notion of Katerina Ivanovna’s to which I have referred already. After listening to him and examining him the doctor came to the conclusion that he was actually suffering from some disorder of the brain, and was not at all surprised by an admission which Ivan had reluctantly made him. «Hallucinations are quite likely in your condition,» the doctor opined, ‘though it would be better to verify them… you must take steps at once, without a moment’s delay, or things will go badly with you.» But Ivan did not follow this judicious advice and did not take to his bed to be nursed. «I am walking about, so I am strong enough, if I drop, it’ll be different then, anyone may nurse me who likes,» he decided, dismissing the subject.
And so he was sitting almost conscious himself of his delirium and, as I have said already, looking persistently at some object on the sofa against the opposite wall. Someone appeared to be sitting there, though goodness knows how he had come in, for he had not been in the room when Ivan came into it, on his return from Smerdyakov. This was a person or, more accurately speaking, a Russian gentleman of a particular kind, no longer young, qui faisait la cinquantaine,* as the French say, with rather long, still thick, dark hair, slightly streaked with grey and a small pointed beard. He was wearing a brownish reefer jacket, rather shabby, evidently made by a good tailor though, and of a fashion at least three years old, that had been discarded by smart and well-to-do people for the last two years. His linen and his long scarf-like neck-tie were all such as are worn by people who aim at being stylish, but on closer inspection his linen was not overclean and his wide scarf was very threadbare. The visitor’s check trousers were of excellent cut, but were too light in colour and too tight for the present fashion. His soft fluffy white hat was out of keeping with the season.
- Fiftyish.
In brief there was every appearance of gentility on straitened means. It looked as though the gentleman belonged to that class of idle landowners who used to flourish in the times of serfdom. He had unmistakably been, at some time, in good and fashionable society, had once had good connections, had possibly preserved them indeed, but, after a gay youth,
563 book page, Chapter 9 — The Devil. Ivan’s Nightmare
becoming gradually impoverished on the abolition
