 Book 11, Chapter 5 of the Brothers Karamazov. This is the LibriVox recording, all LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Ted Newton, the Brothers Karamazov by Fyodor Dostoyevsky translated by Konstant Skarnet, Book 11, Chapter 5, Not You, Not You. On the way to Ivan, he had to pass the house where Katerina Ivanovna was living. There was light in the windows. He suddenly stopped and resolved to go in. He had not seen Katerina Ivanovna for more than a week, but now it struck him that Ivan might be with her, especially on the eve of the terrible day. Ringing and mounting the staircase, which was dimly lighted by a Chinese lantern, he saw a man coming down, and as they met, he recognized him as his brother. So he was just coming from Katerina Ivanovna. Ah, it's only you, said Divan Dryly. Well, goodbye. Are you going to her? Yes. I don't advise you to. She's upset, and you upset her more. A door was instantly flung open above, and the voice cried suddenly. No, no. Alexei Fyodorovich. Have you come from him? Yes, I have been with him. Has he sent me any message? Come up, Alyosha, and do you, Ivan Fyodorovich, you must come back. You must. Do you hear? There was such a peremptory note in Katya's voice that Ivan, after a moment's hesitation, made up his mind to go back with Alyosha. She was listening. He murmured angrily to himself, but Alyosha heard it. Excuse my keeping my great coat on, said Divan, going into the drawing room. I want to sit down. I want to stay more than a minute. Sit down, Alexei Fyodorovich, said Katya Rina Ivanovna, though she remained standing. She had changed very little during this time, but there was such an ominous gleam in her dark eyes, Alyosha remembered afterwards that she had struck him as particularly handsome at that moment. What did he ask you to tell me? Only one thing, said Alyosha, looking her strapped in the face, that you would spare yourself and say nothing at the trial of what? He was a little confused, passed between you at the time of your first acquaintance in that town. Ah, that I bow down to the ground for that money? She broke into a bitter laugh. Why? Is he afraid for me or for himself? He asks me to spare whom, him or myself? Tell me, Alexei Fyodorovich. Alyosha watched her intently, trying to understand her. Both yourself and him, he answered softly, I'm glad to hear it. She snapped out maliciously, and she suddenly blushed. You don't know me yet, Alexei Fyodorovich, she said menacingly, and I don't know myself yet, perhaps you'll want to trample me under foot after my examination tomorrow. You'll give your evidence honorably, said Alyosha, that's all that's wanted. Women are often dishonorable, she snout. Only an hour ago, I was thinking, I felt afraid to touch that monster, as though he were a reptile. But no, he is still a human being to me, but did he do it? Is he the murderer? She cried, all of a sudden, hysterically, turning quickly to Ivan. Alyosha saw at once, that she had asked Ivan that question before, perhaps only a moment before he came in, and not for the first time, but for the hundredth, and that they had dented by quarreling. I've been to see Smeryakov. It was you, you, who persuaded me that he murdered his father, it's only you I believe. She continued, still addressing Ivan. He gave her a sort of strained smile, Alyosha staddled at her tone. He had not suspected such familiar intimacy between them. Well, that's enough anyway. Ivan cut short the conversation. I'm going, I'll come tomorrow. And turning at once, he walked out of the room and went straight downstairs. With an imperious gesture, Katerina Ivanovna seized Alyosha by both hands. Follow him, overtake him, don't leave him alone for a minute. He said in a hurried whisper, he's mad, don't you know that he's mad? He is in a fever, nervous fever, the doctor told me so, go, run after him. Alyosha jumped up and ran after Ivan, who was not fifty pesos ahead of him. What do you want? She turned quickly on Alyosha, seeing that he was running after him. She told him to catch me up because I'm mad, I know it all by heart. He added irritably. She's must taken a course, but she's right that you are ill, said Alyosha. I am looking at your face just now, you look very ill, Ivan. Ivan walked on without stopping, Alyosha followed him. And do you know, Alexey Fyodorovich, how do people go out of their minds? Ivan asked the Navoi suddenly quiet without a trace of irritation, with a note of the simplest curiosity. No, I don't. I suppose they are all kinds of insanity. It can one observe that one's going mad oneself? I imagine one can't see oneself clearly in such circumstances, Alyosha answered with surprise. Ivan paused for half a minute. If you want to talk to me, please change the subject, he said suddenly. Oh, what I think of it, I have a letter for you, said Alyosha timidly. And he took Alyosha's note from his pocket and handed it out to Ivan. They were just under a lamp post. Ivan recognized the handwriting at once. Ah, from that little demon, he laughed maliciously, and without opening the envelope, he tore it into bits and threw it in the air. The bits were scattered by the wind. She's not 16 yet, I believe, and already offering herself, he said contemptuously, striding along the street again. How do you mean offering herself? exclaimed Alyosha. Just wanton women offer themselves, to be sure. How can you, Ivan, how can you, Alyosha cried warmly in a grieved voice. She is a child, you are insulting a child. She is ill, she is very ill too. She is on the verge of insanity too, perhaps. I had hoped to hear something from you, that would serve her. You'll hear nothing from me. If she is a child, I am not her nurse. Be quiet, Alexei, don't go on about her, I am not even thinking about it. They were silent again for a moment. She'll be praying all night now, to the mother of God, to show her how to act moral at the trial. He said sharply and angrily again. You mean Katerina Ivanovna? Yes. Whether she is to serve Michiya or ruin him, she will pray for light from above. She can't make up her mind for herself, you see. She has not had time to decide it. She takes me for her nurse too. She wants me to sing lullabies to her. Katerina Ivanovna loves you, brother, said Daliusha sadly. Perhaps, but I am not very keen on her. She is suffering. Why do you sometimes say things to her, that give her hope? Daliusha went on, with timid reproach. I know that you've given her hope. Forgive me for speaking to you like this, he added. I can't behave to her as I ought. Break off altogether and tell her so straight out, said Divan irritably. I must wait till sentence is passed on the murder. If I break off with her now, she will avenge herself on me by ruining that scoundrel tomorrow at the trial. For she hates him and knows she hates him. It's all a lie, lie upon lie. As long as I don't break off with her, she goes on hoping. And she won't ruin that monster, knowing how I want to get him out of trouble. If only that damn verdict would come. The words, murder and monster echoed painfully in Daliusha's heart. But how can she ruin Mitya? He asked, pondering on Ivan's words. What evidence can she give that would ruin Mitya? You don't know that yet. She's got a document in her hands, in Mitya's own writing that proves conclusively that he did murder Fyodor Pavlovich. That's impossible, cried Daliusha. Why is it impossible? I've read it myself. There can't be such a document. Daliusha repeated warmly. There can't be, because he's not the murderer. It's not he, murdered father. Not he. Ivan suddenly stopped. Who is the murderer then? According to you, he asked, with the parent coldness, there was even a supercilious knot in his voice. You know who? Daliusha pronounced in a low, penetrating voice. Who? You mean the myth about that crazy idiot, the epileptics Madyakov? Daliusha suddenly felt himself troubling all over. You know who? Broke helplessly from him. He could scarly breath. Who? Who? Ivan cried almost fiercely. All his restraint, suddenly vanished. I only know one thing. Daliusha went on, still almost in a whisper. It wasn't you, killed father. Not you? What do you mean by not you? Ivan was thunderstruck. It was not you, killed father. Not you. Daliusha repeated firmly. The silence lasted for half a minute. I know I didn't. Are you raving? said Ivan, with a pale, distorted smile. His eyes were riveted on Daliusha. They were standing again under a lamp post. No, Ivan. You've told yourself several times that you are the murderer. When did I say so? I was in Moscow. When have I said so? Ivan found us helplessly. You've said so to yourself many times. When you had been alone during these two dreadful months, Daliusha went on softly and distinctly as before. Yet he was speaking now, as it were, not of himself, not of his own will, but obeying some irresistible command. You have accused yourself and have confessed to yourself that you are the murderer and no one else, but you didn't do it. You are mistaken. You're not the murderer. Do you hear? It was not you. God has sent me to tell you so. They were both silent. The silence lasted a whole long minute. They were both standing still, grazing into each other's eyes. They were both pale. Suddenly, Ivan began trembling all over and clutched Daliusha's shoulder. You've been in my room, he whispered hoarsely. You've been there at night when he came, confessed. Have you seen him? Have you seen him? Whom do you mean? Me, Tia? Daliusha asked, bewildered. Not him. Damn the monster. Ivan shouted in a frenzy. Do you know that he visits me? How did you find out? Speak. Who is he? I don't know whom you're talking about. Daliusha faltered, beginning to be alarmed. Yes, you do know. Or how could you? It's impossible that you don't know. Suddenly, he seemed to check himself. He stood still and seemed to reflect. A strange green contorted his lips. Brother, Daliusha began again in a shaking voice. I have said this to you because you'll believe my words. I know that. I tell you once and for all. It's not you. You hear, once for all. God has put it into my heart to say this to you, even though it may make you hate me from this hour. But by now, Ivan had apparently regained his self-control. Alexei Fyodorovich, he said, with a cold smile. I can't endure prophets and debilactics, messengers from God especially. And do you know that only too well? I break off all relations with you from this moment and probably forever. I beg you to leave me at this turning. It's the way to your lodgings, too. You'd better be particularly careful not to come to me today. Do you hear? He turned and walked on with a firm step, not looking back. Brother, Daliusha called after him. If anything happens to you today, turn to me before anyone. But Ivan made no reply. Aliyusha stood under the lamppost on the crossroads till Ivan had vanished into the darkness. Then he turned and walked slowly homewards. Both Aliyusha and Ivan were living in lodgings. Neither of them was willing to live in Fyodor Pavlovich's empty house. Aliyusha had a furnished room in the house of some working people. Ivan lived some distance from him. He had taken a roomy and fairly comfortable lodge attached to a fine house that belonged to a well-to-do lady, the widow of an officer. But his only attendant was a deaf and romantic old crone who went to bed at six o'clock every evening and got up at six in the morning. Ivan had become remarkably indifferent to his comforts of late and very fond of being alone. He did everything for himself in the one room he lived in and rarely entered any of the other rooms in his abode. He reached the gate of the house and had his hand on the bell. When he suddenly stopped, he felt that he was troubling all over with anger. Suddenly, he let go of the bell, turned back with a curse and walked with rapid steps in the opposite direction. He walked a mile and a half to a tiny, slanting wooden house, almost a hut, when Maria Kondratyevna, the neighbor, who used to come to Fyodor Pavlovich's kitchen for soup and to whom Smerdiakov had once sung his songs and played on the guitar, was now lodging. She had sold their little house and was now living here with her mother. Smerdiakov, who was ill, almost dying, had been with him ever since Fyodor Pavlovich's death. It was to him Ivan was going now, drawn by a sudden and derisitable prompting. End of Chapter 5 of Book 11. Book 11, Chapter 6 of the Brothers Karamazov. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Martin Giesen. The Brothers Karamazov by Fyodor Dostoevsky, translated by Constance Garnett. Book 11, Chapter 6, the first interview with Smerdiakov. This was the third time that Ivan had been to see Smerdiakov since his return from Moscow. The first time he had seen him and talked to him was on the first day of his arrival. Then he had visited him once more, a fortnight later, but his visits had ended with that second one so that it was now over a month since he had seen him and he had scarcely heard anything of him. Ivan had only returned five days after his father's death so that he was not present at the funeral which took place the day before he came back. The cause of his delay was that Alyosha, not knowing his Moscow address, had to apply to Katerina Ivanovna to telegraph to him. And she, not knowing his address either, telegraphed to her sister and aunt, reckoning on Ivan's going to see them as soon as he arrived in Moscow. But he did not go to them until four days after his arrival. When he got the telegram, he had of course set off post-haste to our town. The first to meet him was Alyosha and Ivan was greatly surprised to find that in opposition to the general opinion of the town, he refused to entertain a suspicion against Mitya and spoke openly of Smertiakov as the murderer. Later on, after seeing the police captain and the prosecutor and hearing the details of the charge and the arrest, he was still more surprised at Alyosha and described his opinion only to his exaggerated brotherly feeling and sympathy with Mitya, of whom Alyosha, as Ivan knew, was very fond. By the way, let us say a word or two of Ivan's feeling to his brother Dmitry. He positively disliked him. At most felt sometimes a compassion for him and even that was mixed with great contempt, almost repugnance. Mitya's whole personality, even his appearance, was extremely unattractive to him. Ivan looked with indignation on Katerina Ivan of his love for his brother. Yet he went to see Mitya on the first day of his arrival and that interview far from shaking Ivan's belief in his guilt positively strengthened it. He found his brother agitated, nervously excited. Mitya had been talkative, but very absent-minded and incoherent. He used violent language, accused Smertiakov and was fearfully muddled. He talked principally about the 3,000 rubles, which he said had been stolen from him by his father. The money was mine. It was my money, Mitya kept repeating. Even if I had stolen it, I should have had the right. He hardly contested the evidence against him and if he tried to turn a fact to his advantage, it was in an absurd and incoherent way. He hardly seemed to wish to defend himself to Ivan or to anyone else. Quite the contrary, he was angry and proudly scornful of the charges against him. He was continually firing up and abusing everyone. He only laughed contemptuously at Grigori's evidence about the open door and declared that it was the devil that opened it. But he could not bring forward any coherent explanation of the fact. He even succeeded in insulting Ivan during their first interview, telling him sharply that it was not for people who declared that everything was lawful to suspect and question him. All together, he was anything but friendly with Ivan on that occasion. Immediately after that interview with Mitya, Ivan went for the first time to see Smeridyakov. In the railway train on his way from Moscow, he kept thinking of Smeridyakov and of his last conversation with him on the evening before he went away. Many things seemed to him puzzling and suspicious. When he gave his evidence to the investigating lawyer, Ivan said nothing for the time of that conversation. He put that off till he had seen Smeridyakov, who was at that time in the hospital. Dr. Herzenstuber and Varvinsky, the doctor he met in the hospital, confidently asserted in reply to Ivan's persistent questions that Smeridyakov's epileptic attack was unmistakably genuine and were surprised indeed at Ivan, asking whether he might not have been shaming on the day of the catastrophe. They gave him to understand that the attack was an exceptional one, the fits persisting and recurring several times so that the patient's life was positively in danger. And it was only now after they had applied remedies that they could assert with confidence that the patient would survive. Though it might well be, added Dr. Herzenstuber, that his reason would be impaired for a considerable period, if not permanently. On Ivan's asking him patiently whether that meant that he was now mad, they told him that this was not yet the case in the full sense of the word, but that certain abnormalities were perceptible. Ivan decided to find out for himself what those abnormalities were. At the hospital, he was at once allowed to see the patient. Smeridyakov was lying on a chuckle bed in a separate ward. There was only one other bed in the room and in it lay a tradesman of the town, swollen with dropsy, who was obviously almost dying. He could be of no hindrance to their conversation. Smeridyakov grinned uncertainly on seeing Ivan and for the first instance seemed nervous, so at least Ivan fancied, but that was only momentary. For the rest of the time, he was struck on the contrary by Smeridyakov's composure. From the first glance, Ivan had no doubt that he was very ill. He was very weak. He spoke slowly, seeming to move his tongue with difficulty. He was much thinner and sallower. Throughout the interview which lasted 20 minutes, he kept complaining of headache and of pain in all his limbs. His thin, emasculate face seemed to have become so tiny. His hair was ruffled and his crest of curls in front stood up in a thin tuft. But in the left eye, which was screwed up and seemed to be insinuating something, Smeridyakov showed himself unchanged. It's always worthwhile speaking to a clever man. Ivan was reminded of that at once. He sat down on the stool at his feet. Smeridyakov with painful effort shifted his position in bed, but he was not the first to speak. He remained dumb and did not even look much interested. Can you talk to me? asked Ivan. I won't tire you much. Certainly I can, mumbled Smeridyakov in a faint voice. As your honour been back long, he added patronizingly as though encouraging and nervous visitor. I only arrived today to see the mess you are in here. Smeridyakov sighed. Why do you sigh? You knew of it all along. Ivan blurted out. Smeridyakov was stolidly silent for a while. How could I help knowing it was clear beforehand? But how could I tell it would turn out like that? What would turn out? Don't prevaricate. You foretold you'd have a fit on the way down to the cellar. You know, you mentioned the very spot. Have you said so at the examination yet? Smeridyakov queried with composure. Ivan felt suddenly angry. No, I haven't yet, but I certainly shall. You must explain a great deal to me, my man. And let me tell you, I'm not going to let you play with me. Why should I play with you when I put my whole trust in you as in God Almighty? Said Smeridyakov with the same composure only for a moment closing his eyes. In the first place began Ivan. I know that epileptic fits can't be told beforehand. I've inquired. Don't try and take me in. You can't foretell the day and the hour. How was it you told me the day and the hour beforehand and about the cellar too? How could you tell that you would fall down the cellar stairs in a fit if you didn't sham a fit on purpose? I had to go to the cellar anyway. Several times a day indeed. Smeridyakov drawled deliberately. I fell from the garret just in the same way a year ago. It's quite true you can't tell the day and hour of a fit beforehand, but you can always have a presentment of it. But you did foretell the day and the hour. In regard to my epilepsy, sir, you had much better inquire of the doctors here. You can ask them if it was a real fit or a sham. It's no use my saying any more about it. And the cellar, how could you know beforehand of the cellar? You don't seem able to get over that cellar. As I was going down to the cellar, I was in terrible dread and doubt. What frightened me most was losing you and being left without defense in all the world. So I went down into the cellar thinking, here it will come on directly. It'll strike me down directly. Shall I fall? And it was through this fear that I suddenly felt the spasm that always comes. And so I went flying. All that and all my previous conversation with you at the gate the evening before, when I told you how frightened I was and spoke of the cellar, I told all that to Dr. Helsenstuber, Nikolai Parfenovich, the investigating lawyer, and it's all been written down in the protocol. And the doctor here, Mr. Varvinsky, maintained to all of them that it was just the thought of it brought it on, the apprehension that I might fall. It was just then that the fit seized me. And so they've written it down that it's just how it must have happened simply from my fear. As he finished, Smirjakov drew a deep breath as though exhausted. Then have you said all that in your evidence? Said Ivan, somewhat taken aback. He had meant to frighten him with the threat of repeating their conversation. And it appeared that Smirjakov had already reported it all himself. What have I to be afraid of? Let them write down the whole truth. Smirjakov pronounced firmly. And have you told them every word of our conversation at the gate? No, not to say every word. And did you tell them that you can sham fits as you boasted then? No, I didn't tell them that either. Tell me now, why did you send me then to Chermashnya? I was afraid you'd go away to Moscow. Chermashnya is nearer anyway. You are lying. You suggested my going away yourself. You told me to get out of the way of trouble. That was simply out of affection and my sincere devotion to you for seeing trouble in the house to spare you. Only I wanted to spare myself even more. That's why I told you to get out of harmless way that you might understand that there would be trouble in the house and would remain at home to protect your father. You might have said it more directly, you blockhead, Ivan suddenly fired up. How could I have said it more directly then? It was simply my fear that made me speak and you might have been angry too. I might well have been apprehensive that Dmitry Fyodorovich would make a scene, carry away that money for he considered it as good as his own. But who could tell that it would end in a murder like this? I thought that he would only carry off the 3,000 that lay under the master's mattress in the envelope and you see he's murdered him. But how could you guess it either, sir? But if you say yourself that it couldn't be guessed, how could I have guessed and stayed at home? You contradict yourself, said Ivan, pondering. You might have guessed from my sending you to Chermashnir, not to Moscow. How could I guess it from that? Smiradyakov seemed much exhausted and again he was silent for a minute. You might have guessed from the fact of my asking you not to go to Moscow, but to Chermashnir that I wanted to have you nearer for Moscow's a long way off. And Dmitry Fyodorovich, knowing you were not far off could not be so bold. And if anything had happened, you might have come to protect me too, for I warned you of Grigory Vasilievich's illness and that I was afraid of having a fit. And when I explained those knocks to you by means of which one could go into the deceased and that Dmitry Fyodorovich knew them all through me, I thought that you would guess yourself that you would be sure to do something and so wouldn't go to Chermashnir even, but would stay. He talks very coherently, thought Ivan, though he does mumble. What's the derangement of his faculties that Herzenstuber talked of? You are cunning with me, damn you, he exclaimed, getting angry. But I thought at the time that you quite guessed, Smiradyakov parried with the simplest air. If I'd guessed, I should have stayed, cried Ivan. Why, I thought that it was because you guessed that you went away in such a hurry, only to get out of trouble, only to run away and save yourself in your fright. You think that everyone is as great a coward as yourself. Forgive me, I thought you were like me. Of course, I ought to have guessed, Ivan said in agitation. And I did guess that there was some mischief brewing on your part. Only you are lying, you are lying again, he cried, suddenly recollecting. Do you remember how you went up to the carriage and said to me, it's always worthwhile speaking to a clever man. So you were glad I went away, since you praised me. Smiradyakov sighed again and again. A trace of color came into his face. If I was pleased, he articulated rather breathlessly, it was simply because you agreed not to go to Moscow, but to Chermashnya, for it was nearer anyway. Only when I said these words to you, it was not by way of praise, but of reproach. You didn't understand it. What reproach? Why, that foreseeing such a calamity, you deserted your own father and would not protect us. For I might have been taken up at any time for stealing that 3,000. Damn you, Ivan swore again. Stay, did you tell the prosecutor and the investigating lawyer about those knocks? I told them everything, just as it was. Ivan wondered inwardly again. If I thought of anything then, he began again. It was solely of some wickedness on your part. Dimitri might kill him, but that he would steal. I did not believe that then, but I was prepared for any wickedness from you. You told me yourself, you could sham a fit. What did you say that for? It was just through my simplicity and I've never have shammed a fit on purpose in my life. And I only said so then to boast to you. It was just foolishness. I liked you so much then and was open-hearted with you. My brother directly accuses you of the murder and theft. What else is left for him to do? said Smyrdyakov with the bitter grin. And he will believe him with all the proofs against him. Grigori Vasilyevich saw the door open. What can he say after that? But never mind him, he is trembling to save himself. He slowly ceased speaking. Then suddenly as though on reflection added, and look here again, he wants to throw it on me and make out that it is the work of my hands. I've heard that already. But as to my being clever at shamming a fit. Should I've told you beforehand that I could sham one? If I really had had such a design against your father? If I've been planning such a murder, could I have been such a fool as to give such evidence against myself beforehand? And to his son too, upon my word, is that likely? As if that could be. Such a thing has never happened. No one hears this talk of ours now except Providence itself. And if you were to tell of it to the prosecutor, Nikolai Parfenievich, you might defend me completely by doing so, for who would be likely to be such a criminal if he is so open-hearted beforehand? Anyone can see that. Well, and Ivan got up to cut short the conversation, struck by Smiridyakov's last argument. I don't suspect you at all. And I think it's absurd indeed to suspect you. On the contrary, I'm grateful to you for setting my mind at rest. Now I'm going, but I'll come again. Meanwhile, goodbye gets well. Is there anything you want? I am very thankful for everything. Marfa Ignatievna does not forget me and provides me anything I want according to her kindness. Good people visit me every day. Goodbye, but I shan't say anything if you're being able to sham a fit. And I don't advise you to either. Something made Ivan say suddenly. I quite understand. And if you don't speak of that, I shall say nothing of that conversation of ours at the gate. Then it happened that Ivan went out. And only when he had gone a dozen steps along the corridor, he suddenly felt that there was an insulting significance in Smiridyakov's last words. He was almost on the point of turning back, but it was only a passing impulse and muttering nonsense. He went out of the hospital. His chief feeling was one of relief at the fact that it was not Smiridyakov, but Mitya who had committed the murder, though he might have been expected to feel the opposite. He did not want to analyze the reason for this feeling and even felt a positive repugnance at prying into his sensations. He felt as though he wanted to make haste to forget something. In the following days, he became convinced of Mitya's guilt as he got to know all the weight of evidence against him. There was evidence of people of no importance, Fenia and her mother, for instance, but the effect of it was almost overpowering. As to Perholtin, the people at the tavern and at Plotnikov's shop, as well as the witnesses at Makroya, their evidence seemed conclusive. It was the details that were so damning. The secret of the knocks impressed the lawyers almost as much as Grigori's evidence as to the open door. Grigori's wife, Marfia, in answer to Ivan's questions, declared that Smiridyakov had been lying all night the other side of the partition wall. He was not three paces from our bed, and that although she was a sound sleeper, she waked several times and heard him moaning. He was moaning the whole time, moaning continually, talking to Herzenstuber and giving it at his opinion that Smiridyakov was not mad, but only rather weak. Ivan only evoked from the old man a subtle smile. Do you know how he spends his time now? He asked, learning lists of French words by heart. He has an exercise book under his pillow with the French words written out in Russian letters for him by someone. Ivan ended by dismissing all doubts. He could not think of Dmitry without repulsion. Only one thing was strange, however. Alyosha persisted that Dmitry was not the murderer and that in all probability Smiridyakov was. Ivan always felt that Alyosha's opinion meant a great deal to him, and so he was astonished at it now. Another thing that was strange was that Alyosha did not make any attempt to talk about Mitya with Ivan, but he never began on the subject and only answered his questions. This too struck Ivan particularly, but he was very much preoccupied at that time with something quite apart from that. On his return from Moscow, he abandoned himself hopelessly to his mad and consuming passion for Katerina Ivanovna. This is not the time to begin to speak of this new passion of Ivan's which left its mark on all the rest of his life. This would furnish the subject for another novel which I may perhaps never write. But I cannot omit to mention here that when Ivan, on leaving Katerina Ivanovna with Alyosha, as I've related already, told him, I am not keen on her. It was an absolute lie. He loved her madly, though at times he hated her so that he might have murdered her. Many causes helped to bring about this feeling. Shattered by what had happened with Mitya, she rushed on Ivan's return to meet him as her one salvation. She was hurt, insulted and humiliated in her feelings. And here the man had come back to her who had loved her so ardently before. Oh, she knew that very well. And whose heart and intellect she considered so superior to her own. But the sternly virtuous girl did not abandon herself altogether to the man she loved in spite of the Karamazov violence of his passions and the great fascination he had for her. She was continually tormented at the same time by remorse for having deserted Mitya. And in moments of discord and violent anger and they were numerous, she told Ivan so plainly. This is what he had called to Alyosha lies upon lies. There was of course much that was false in it and that angered Ivan more than anything. But of all this later, he did in fact for a time almost forgets Muradyakov's existence. And yet a fortnight after his first visit to him, he began to be haunted by the same strange thoughts as before. It's enough to say that he was continually asking himself, why was it that on that last night in Fyodor Pavlovich's house, he had crept out onto the stairs like a thief and listened to hear what his father was doing below? Why had he recalled that afterwards with repulsion? Why next morning had he been suddenly so depressed on the journey? Why as he reached Moscow had he said to himself, I am a scoundrel. And now he almost fancied that these tormenting thoughts would make him even forget Katerina Ivanovna. So completely did they take possession of him again. It was just after fancying this that he met Alyosha in the street. He stopped him at once and put a question to him. Do you remember when Dimitri burst in after dinner and beat father? And afterwards I told you in the yard that I reserved the right to desire. Tell me, did you think then that I desired father's death or not? I did think so, answered Alyosha softly. It was so too, it was not a matter of guessing. But didn't you fancy then that what I wished was just that one reptile should devour another? That is just that Dimitri should kill father and as soon as possible. And that I myself was even prepared to help bring that about. Alyosha turned rather pale and looked silently into his brother's face. Speak, cried Yvonne. I want above everything to know what you thought then. I want the truth, the truth. He drew a deep breath looking angrily at Alyosha before his answer came. Forgive me, I did think that too at the time, whispered Alyosha and he did not add one softening phrase. Thanks, snapped Yvonne and leaving Alyosha, he went quickly on his way. From that time, Alyosha noticed that Yvonne began obviously to avoid him and seemed even to have taken this like to him, so much so that Alyosha gave up going to see him. Immediately after that meeting with him, Yvonne had not gone home but went straight to see Mardyakov again. End of chapter six of book 11. Recording by Martin Giesen in Hazelmere Surrey. Book 11, chapter seven of the Brothers Karamazov. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Martin Giesen. The Brothers Karamazov by Fyodor Dastayevsky, translated by Constance Garnet. Book 11, chapter seven, the second visit to Mardyakov. By that time, Mardyakov had been discharged from the hospital. Yvonne knew his new lodging, the dilapidated little wooden house divided in two by a passage on one side of which lived Maria Konradyevna and her mother and on the other, Mardyakov. No one knew on what terms he lived with them, whether it was a friend or as a lodger. It was supposed afterwards that he had come to stay with them as Maria Konradyevna's betrothed and was living there for a time without paying for board or lodging. Both mother and daughter had the greatest respect for him and looked upon him as greatly superior to themselves. Yvonne knocked and on the door being opened went straight into the passage. By Maria Konradyevna's directions, he went straight to the better room on the left, occupied by Mardyakov. There was a tiled stove in the room and it was extremely hot. The walls were gay with blue paper, which was a good deal used, however. And in the cracks under it, cockroaches swarmed in amazing numbers so that there was a continual rustling from them. The furniture was very scanty, two benches against each wall and two chairs by the table. The table of plain wood was covered with a cloth with pink patterns on it. There was a pot of geranium on each of the two little windows. In the corner, there was a case of icons. On the table stood a little copper samovar with many dents in it and a tray with two cups. But Mardyakov had finished tea and the samovar was out. He was sitting at the table on a bench. He was looking at an exercise book and slowly writing with a pen. There was a bottle of ink by him and a flat iron candlestick, but with a composite candle. Ivan saw it once from Mardyakov's faith that he had completely recovered from his illness. His face was fresher, fuller. His hair stood up jauntily in front and was plastered down at the sides. He was sitting in a party-coloured wadded dressing gown, rather dirty and frayed, however. He had spectacles on his nose, which Ivan had never seen him wearing before. This trifling circumstance suddenly redoubled Ivan's anger, a creature like that and wearing spectacles. Mardyakov slowly raised his head and looked intently at his visitor through his spectacles. Then he slowly took them off and rose from the bench, but by no means respectfully, almost lazily, doing the least possible required by common civility. All this struck Ivan instantly. He took it all in and noted it at once. Most of all, the look in Mardyakov's eyes, positively malicious, churlish and haughty. What do you want to intrude for, seemed to say. We settled everything then. Why have you come again? Ivan could scarcely control himself. It's hot here, he said, still standing and unbuttoned his overcoat. Take off your coat, Mardyakov conceded. Ivan took off his coat and threw it on a bench with trembling hands. He took a chair, moved it quickly to the table and sat down. Mardyakov managed to sit down on his bench before him. To begin with, are we alone? Ivan asked sternly and impulsively. Can they overhear us in there? No one can hear anything. You've seen for yourself, there's a passage. Listen, my good fellow, what was that you babbled as I was leaving the hospital? That if I said nothing about your faculty of shaming fits, you wouldn't tell the investigating lawyer or our conversation at the gate. What do you mean by all? What could you mean by it? Were you threatening me? Have I entered into some sort of compact with you? Do you suppose I'm afraid of you? Ivan said this in a perfect fury, giving him to understand with obvious intention that he's scorned any subterfuge or indirectness and meant to show his cards. Mardyakov's eyes gleamed resentfully, his left eye winked and he had once gave his answer with its habitual composure and deliberation. You want to have everything above board? Very well, you shall have it, he seemed to say. This is what I meant then and this is why I said that, that you knowing beforehand of this murder of your own parent left him to his fate and that people mightn't after that conclude any evil about your feelings and perhaps of something else too. That's what I promise not to tell the authorities. Those Mardyakov spoke without haste and obviously controlling himself, yet there was something in his voice determined and emphatic, resentful and insolently defiant. He stared impudently at Ivan, a mist passed before Ivan's eyes for the first moment. How, what, are you out of your mind? I'm perfectly in possession of all my faculties. Do you suppose I knew of the murder, Ivan cried out at last and he brought his fist violently on the table. What do you mean by something else too? Speak, scoundrel. Mardyakov was silent and still scanned Ivan with the same insolent stare. Speak, you stinking rogue, what is that something else too? The something else I meant was that you probably too were very desirous of your parents' death. Ivan jumped up and struck him with all his might on the shoulder so that he fell back against the wall. In an instant his face was bathed in tears, saying, it's a shame, sir, to strike a sick man. He dried his eyes with a very dirty blue-check handkerchief and sank into quiet weeping. A minute passed. That's enough, leave off, Ivan said, peremptorily, sitting down again. Don't put me out of all patience. Mardyakov took the rag from his eyes. Every line of his puckered face reflected the insult he had just received. So you thought then, you scoundrel, that together with Dimitri I meant to kill my father. I didn't know what thoughts were in your mind then, said Mardyakov resentfully. And so I stopped you then at the gate to sound you on that very point. To sound what? What? Why that very circumstance? Whether you wanted your father to be murdered or not? What infuriated Ivan more than anything was the aggressive, insolent tone to which Mardyakov persistently adhered. It was you murdered him, he cried suddenly. Mardyakov smiled contemptuously. You know of yourself for a fact that it wasn't I murdered him. And I should have thought that there was no need for a sensible man to speak of it again. But why? Why had you such a suspicion about me at the time? As you know already, it was simply from fear. But I was in such a position shaking with fear that I suspected everyone. I resolved to sound you too, for I thought if you wanted the same as your brother, then the business was as good as settled and I should be crushed like a fly too. Look here, you didn't say that a fortnight ago. I meant the same when I talked to you in the hospital. Only I thought you'd understand without wasting words and that being such a sensible man, you wouldn't care to talk of it openly. What next? Come answer, answer, I insist. What was it? What could I have done to put such a degrading suspicion into your mean soul? As for the murder, you couldn't have done that and didn't want to, but as for wanting someone else to do it, that was just what you did want. And how coolly, how coolly he speaks. But why should I have wanted it? What grounds had I for wanting it? What grounds had you? What about the inheritance? said Smradyakov sarcastically and as it were vindictively. Why, after your parents' death, there was at least 40,000 to come to each of you and very likely more. But if Yodor Pavlovich had got married then to that lady, Agrafeina Alexandrovna, she would have had all his capital made over to her directly after the wedding, for she's plenty of sense so that your parent would not have left you two rubles between the three of you. And were they far from a wedding either? Not a hair's breadth. That lady had only to lift her little finger and he would have run after her to church with his tongue out. Ivan restrained himself with painful effort. Very good, he commented at last. You see, I haven't jumped up, I haven't knocked you down, I haven't killed you. Speak on, so according to you, I had fixed on Dmitry to do it. I was reckoning on him. How could you help reckoning on him? If he killed him then he would lose all the rights of a nobleman, his rank and property and would go off to exile. So his share of the inheritance would come to you and your brother, Alexei Fyodorovich, in equal parts. So you'd each have not 40 but 60,000 each. There's not a doubt you did reckon on Dmitry Fyodorovich. What I put up with from you, listen scoundrel, if I had reckoned on anyone then it would have been on you, not on Dmitry. And I swear I did expect some wickedness from you at the time. I remember my impression. I thought too for a minute at the time that you were reckoning on me as well, said Smertiakov with a sarcastic grin. So that it was just by that more than anything you showed me what was in your mind. For if you had a foreboding about me and yet went away, you as good as said to me, you can murder my parent, I won't hinder you. You scoundrel, so that's how you understood it. It was all that going to Chermashnya. Why you were meaning to go to Moscow and refused all your father's entreaties to go to Chermashnya and simply at a foolish word from me you consented at once. What reason had you to consent to Chermashnya? Since you went to Chermashnya with no reason, simply at my word, it shows that you must have expected something from me. No, I swear I didn't, shouted Yvonne, grinding his teeth. You didn't. Then you ought, as your father's son, to have had me taken to the lock-up and thrashed at once for my words then, or at least to have given me a punch in the face on the spot that you were not a bit angry, if you please, and at once in a friendly way acted on my foolish word and went away, which is utterly absurd, for you ought to have stayed to save your parents' life. How could I help draw in my conclusions? Yvonne sat scowling, both his fists convulsively pressed on his knees. Yes, I am sorry I didn't punch you in the face, he said with a bitter smile. I could have taken you to the lock-up just then. It would have believed me and on what charge could I bring against you? But the punch in the face, oh, I'm sorry I didn't think of it. Though blows are forbidden, I should have pounded your ugly face to a jelly. Smertiakov looked at him almost with relish. In the ordinary occasions of life, he said in the same complacent and sententious tone in which he had taunted Grigori and argued with him about religion at Fyodor Pavlovich's table. In the ordinary occasions of life, blows on the face are forbidden nowadays by law, and people have given them up. But in exceptional occasions of life, people still fly to blows, not only among us, but all over the world, be it even the fullest Republic of France, just as in the time of Adam and Eve. And they never will leave off that you even in an exceptional case did not dare. What are you learning French words for? Yvonne nodded towards the exercise book lying on the table. Why shouldn't I learn them so as to improve my education? Supposing that I may myself chance to go someday to those happy parts of Europe. Listen, monster, Yvonne's eyes flashed and he trembled all over. I am not afraid of your accusations. You can say what you like about me, and if I don't beat you to death, it's simply because I suspect you of that crime and I'll drag you to justice. I'll unmask you. To my thinking, you'd better keep quiet. But what can you accuse me of considering my absolute innocence? And who would believe you? Only if you begin, I shall tell everything too, for I must defend myself. Do you think I am afraid of you now? If the court doesn't believe all I've said to you just now, the public will, and you will be ashamed. That's as much as to say, it's always worthwhile speaking to a sensible man. Hey, snald Yvonne. You hit the mark, indeed, and you better be sensible. Yvonne got up shaking all over with indignation, put on his coat and without replying further to Smerdiakov without even looking at him and walked quickly out of the cottage. The cool evening air refreshed him. There was a bright moon in the sky. A nightmare of ideas and sensations filled his soul. Shall I go at once and give information against Smerdiakov? But what information can I give? He is not guilty anyway. On the contrary, he'll accuse me. And in fact, why did I set off for Chermashnir then? What for? What for? Yvonne asked himself. Yes, of course, I was expecting something and he is right. And he remembered for the hundredth time how on the last night in his father's house he had listened on the stairs. But he remembered it now with such anguish that he stood still on the spot as though he had been stabbed. Yes, I expected it then, that's true. I wanted the murder. I did want the murder. Did I want the murder? Did I want it? I must kill Smerdiakov. If I don't dare kill Smerdiakov now, life is not worth living. Yvonne did not go home but went straight to Katerina Ivanovna and alarmed her by his appearance. He was like a madman. He repeated all his conversation with Smerdiakov, every syllable of it. He couldn't be calmed, however much he tried to soothe him. He kept walking about the room, speaking strangely, disconnectedly. At last he sat down, put his elbows on the table, leaned his head on his hands and pronounced this strange sentence. If it's not Dmitri, but Smerdiakov who's the murderer, I share his guilt, for I put him up to it. Whether I did, I don't know yet. But if he is the murderer and not Dmitri, then of course I am the murderer too. When Katerina Ivanovna heard that, she got up from her seat without a word, went to her writing table, opened a box, standing on it, took out a sheet of paper and laid it before Yvonne. This was the document of which Yvonne spoke to Alyosha later on as a conclusive proof that Dmitri had killed his father. It was the letter written by Mitya to Katerina Ivanovna when he was drunk. On the very evening he met Alyosha at the crossroads on the way to the monastery. After the scene at Katerina Ivanovna's when Grushenko had insulted her. Then, parting from Alyosha, Mitya had rushed to Grushenko. I don't know whether he saw her, but in the evening he was at the metropolis where he got thoroughly drunk. Then he asked for pen and paper and wrote a document of weighty consequences to himself. It was a wordy, disconnected, frantic letter, a drunken letter in fact. It was like the talk of a drunken man who on his return home begins with extraordinary heat telling his wife or one of his household how he has just been insulted. What a rascal has just insulted him. What a fine fellow he is on the other hand and how he will pay that scoundrel out. And all that at great length with great excitement and incoherence with drunken tears and blows on the table. The letter was written on a dirty piece of ordinary paper of the cheapest kind. It had been provided by the tavern and there were figures scrawled on the back of it. There was evidently not enough space for his drunken verbosity and Meteor not only filled the margins but had written the last line right across the rest. The letter ran as follows, fatal kathya. Tomorrow I will get the money and repay your 3,000 and farewell, woman of great wrath. But farewell to my love. Let us make an end. Tomorrow I shall try and get it from everyone and if I can't borrow it, I give you my word of honor. I shall go to my father and break his skull and take the money from under the pillow if only Yavanna's gone. If I have to go to Siberia for it, I will give you back your 3,000. And farewell, I bow down to the ground before you for I've been a scoundrel to you. Forgive me. No, better not forgive me. You'll be happier in social eye. Better Siberia than your love for I love another woman and you've got to know her too well today. So how can you forgive? I will murder the man who's robbed me. I'll leave you all and go to the east so as to see no one again. Not her either, for you are not my only tormentress. She is too. Farewell. P.S. I write my curse, but I adore you. I hear it in my heart. One string is left and it vibrates. Better tear my heart in two. I shall kill myself, but first of all, that curve. I shall tear 3,000 from him and fling it to you. Though I've been a scoundrel to you, I am not a thief. You can expect 3,000. The curve keeps it under his mattress in pink ribbon. I'm not a thief, but I'll murder my thief. Katya, don't look disdainful. Dmitry is not a thief, but a murderer. He has murdered his father and ruined himself to hold his ground rather than endure your pride. And he doesn't love you. P.P.S. I kiss your feet, farewell. P.P.P.S. Katya, pray to God that someone will give me the money. Then I shall not be steeped in gore. And if no one does, I shall. Kill me, your slave and enemy, D. Karamazov. When Ivan read this document, he was convinced. So then it was his brother, Natsmerdiakov. And if Natsmerdiakov, then not he, Ivan. This letter, it once assumed in his eyes the aspect of a logical proof. There could no longer be the slightest doubt of Mitya's guilt. The suspicion never occurred to Ivan, by the way, that Mitya might have committed the murder in conjunction with Smerdiakov. And indeed, such a theory did not fit in with the facts. Ivan was completely reassured. The next morning, he only thought of Smerdiakov and his jibes with contempt. A few days later, he positively wondered how he could have been so horribly distressed at his suspicions. He resolved to dismiss him with contempt and forget him. So passed a month. He made no further inquiry about Smerdiakov, but twice he happened to hear that he was very ill and out of his mind. He'll end in madness. The young Dr. Varvinsky observed about him. And Ivan remembered this. During the last week of that month, Ivan himself began to feel very ill. He went to consult the Moscow doctor who had been sent for by Katerina Ivanovna just before the trial. And just at that time, his relations with Katerina Ivanovna became acutely strained. They were like two enemies in love with one another. Katerina Ivanovna's returns to Metia, that is her brief but violent revulsions of feeling in his favor, drove Ivan to perfect frenzy. Strange to say, until that last scene described above, when Alyosha came from Metia to Katerina Ivanovna, Ivan had never once during that month heard her expressed a doubt of Metia's guilt in spite of those returns that was so hateful to him. It is remarkable too that while he felt that he hated Metia more and more every day, he realized that it was not on account of Katia's returns that he hated him, but just because he was the murderer of his father. He was conscious of this and fully recognized it to himself. Nevertheless, he went to see Metia 10 days before the trial and proposed to him a plan of escape, a plan he had obviously thought over a long time. He was partly impelled to do this by a sore place still left in his heart from the phrase of Smrtyakov, that it was to his, Ivan's advantage that his brother should be convicted as that would increase his inheritance and Alyosha's from 40 to 60,000 rubles. He determined to sacrifice 30,000 on arranging Metia's escape. On his return from seeing him, he was very mournful and dispirited. He suddenly began to feel that he was anxious for Metia's escape, not only to heal that sore place by sacrificing 30,000, but for another reason. Is it because I am as much a murderer at heart? He asked himself, something very deep down and seemed burning and rankling in his soul. His pride above all suffered cruelly all that month, but of that later. When after his conversation with Alyosha, Ivan suddenly decided with his hand on the bell of his lodging to go to Smrtyakov. He obeyed a sudden and peculiar impulse of indignation. He suddenly remembered how Katerina Ivanovna had only just cried out to him in Alyosha's presence. It was you, you persuaded me of his, that is Metia's guilt. Ivan was thunderstruck when he recalled it. He had never once tried to persuade her that Metia was the murderer. On the contrary, he had suspected himself in her presence, that time when he came back from Smrtyakov. It was she, she who had produced that document and proved his brother's guilt. And now she suddenly exclaimed, I've been at Smrtyakov's myself. When had she been there? Ivan had known nothing of it. So she was not at all so sure of Metia's guilt. And what could Smrtyakov have told her? What, what? And he said to her, his heart burned with violent anger. He could not understand how he could half an hour before have let those words pass and not have cried out at the moment. He let go of the bell and rushed off to Smrtyakov. I shall kill him perhaps this time. He thought on the way, end of chapter seven of book 11, recording by Martin Giesen in Hazelmere Surrey. Book 11, chapter eight of the brother's Karamazov. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Martin Giesen. The brother's Karamazov by Fyodor Dostoevsky, translated by Constance Garnett. Book 11, chapter eight, the third and last interview with Smrtyakov. When he was halfway there, the keen dry wind that had been blowing early that morning rose again and a fine dry snow began falling thickly. It did not lie on the ground, but it was whirled about by the wind and soon there was a regular snowstorm. There were scarcely any lampposts in the part of the town where Smrtyakov lived. Ivan strode alone in the darkness, unconscious of the storm, instinctively picking out his way. His head ached and there was a painful throbbing in his temples. He felt that his hands were twitching convulsively. Not far from Maria Condratievna's cottage, Ivan suddenly came upon a solitary drunken little peasant. He was wearing a coarse and patched coat and was walking in zig-zags, grumbling and swearing to himself. Then suddenly he would begin singing in a husky drunken voice. Oh, Ivanka's gone to Petersburg. I won't woe till he comes back. But he broke off every time at the second line and began swearing again. Then he would begin the same song again. Ivan felt an intense hatred for him before he had thought about him at all. Suddenly he realized his presence and felt an irresistible impulse to knock him down. At that moment they met and the peasant with a violent lurch fell full tilt against Ivan, who pushed him back furiously. The peasant went flying backwards and fell like a log on the frozen ground. He uttered one plaintive, oh, oh. And then was silent. Ivan stepped up to him. He was lying on his back without movement or consciousness. He will be frozen, thought Ivan, and he went on his way to Smerdiakov's. In the passage, Maria Kondrativna, who ran out to open the door with a candle in her hand, whispered that Smerdiakov was very ill. It's not that he's laid up, but he seems not himself. And he even told us to take the tea away. He wouldn't have any. Why, does he make a row? Ask Ivan coarsely. Oh, dear, no, quite the contrary. He's very quiet. And he please don't talk to him too long. Maria Kondrativna begged him. Ivan opened the door and stepped into the room. It was overheated as before, but there were changes in the room. One of the benches at the side had been removed and in its place had been put a large old mahogany leather sofa on which a bed had been made up with fairly clean white pillows. Smerdiakov was sitting on the sofa wearing the same dressing gown. The table had been brought out in front of the sofa so that there was hardly room to move. On the table lay a thick book in a yellow cover, but Smerdiakov was not reading it. He seemed to be sitting doing nothing. He met Ivan with a slow, silent gaze and was apparently not at all surprised at his coming. There was a great change in his face. He was much thinner and saluer. His eyes were sunken and there were blue marks under them. Why, you really are ill, Ivan stopped short. I won't keep you long, I won't even take off my coat. Where can one sit down? He went to the other end of the table, moved up a chair and sat down on it. Why do you look at me without speaking? We only come with one question and I swear I won't go without an answer. Has the young lady, Katerina Ivan, have not been with you? Smerdiakov still remained silent, looking quietly at Ivan as before. Suddenly, with the motion of his hand, he turned his face away. What's the matter with you, cried Ivan? Nothing. What do you mean by nothing? Yes, she has. It's no matter to you, let me alone. No, I won't let you alone. Tell me, when was she here? Why, I'd quite forgotten about her, said Smerdiakov with a scornful smile and turning his face to Ivan again. He stared at him with a look of frenzied hatred, the same look he had fixed on him at their last interview a month before. You seem very ill yourself, your face is sunken. You don't look like yourself, he said to Ivan. Never mind my health, tell me what I ask you. But why, your eyes so yellow, the whites are quite yellow. Are you so worried? He smiled contemptuously and suddenly laughed outright. Listen, I've told you I won't go away without an answer, Ivan cried, intensely irritated. Why do you keep pestering me? Why do you torment me? said Smerdiakov with a look of suffering. Damn it, I've nothing to do with you, just answer my question and I'll go away. I've no answer to give you, said Smerdiakov looking down again. You may be sure I'll make you answer. Why are you so uneasy? Smerdiakov stared at him, not simply with contempt, but almost with repulsion. Is this because the trial begins tomorrow? Nothing will happen to you, can't you believe that at last? Go home, go to bed and sleep in peace. Don't be afraid of anything. I don't understand you, what have I to be afraid of tomorrow? Ivan articulated in astonishment when suddenly a chill breath of fear did in fact pass over his soul. Smerdiakov measured him with his eyes. You don't understand, he drawled reproachfully, it's a strange thing a sensible man should care to play such a farce. Ivan looked at him speechless. The startling, incredibly supercilious tone of this man who had once been his valet was extraordinary in itself. He had not taken such a tone even at their last interview. I tell you, you've nothing to be afraid of. I won't say anything about you, there's no proof against you. I say how your hands are trembling. Why your fingers moving like that? Go home, you did not murder him. Ivan started, he remembered Alyosha. I know it was not I, he faltered. Do you, Smerdiakov caught him up again. Ivan jumped up and seized him by the shoulder. Tell me everything, you viper, tell me everything. Smerdiakov was not in the least scared, he only riveted his eyes on Ivan with insane hatred. Well, it was you who murdered him, if that's it. He whispered furiously. Ivan sank back on his chair as though pondering something. He laughed malignantly. You mean my going away, what you talked about last time. You stood before me last time and understood it all and you understand it now. All I understand is that you are mad. Aren't you tired of it? Here we are face to face. What's the use of going on keeping up a fast to each other? Are you still trying to throw it all on me to my face? You murdered him, you are the real murderer. I was only your instrument. Your faithful servant and it was following your words, I did it. Did it? Why did you murder him? Ivan turned cold. Something seemed to give way in his brain and he shuddered all over with a cold shiver. Then Smerdiakov himself looked at him wonderingly. Probably the genuineness of Ivan's horror struck him. You don't mean to say, you really did not know. He faltered mistrustfully, looking with a forced smile into his eyes. Ivan still gazed at him and seemed unable to speak. Our Frank has gone to Petersburg. I won't wait till he comes back. Suddenly echoed in his head. Do you know, I'm afraid that you were a dream, a phantom sitting before me, he muttered. There's no phantom here but only us two and one other. No doubt he is here, that third between us. Who is he? Who is here? What third person? Ivan cried in alarm, looking about him, his eyes hastily searching in every corner. That third is God himself, providence. He is the third beside us now. Only don't look for him, you won't find him. It's a lie that you killed him, Ivan cried madly. You were mad or teasing me again. Smerdjakov as before watched him curiously with no sign of fear. He could still scarcely get over his incredulity. He still fancied that Ivan knew everything and was trying to throw it all on him to his face. Wait a minute, he said at last in a weak voice and suddenly bringing up his left leg from under the table, he began turning up his trouser leg. He was wearing long white stockings and slippers. Slowly he took off his garter and fumbled to the bottom of his stocking. Ivan gazed at him and suddenly shuddered in a paroxysm of terror. He's mad, he cried, and rapidly jumping up he drew back so that he knocked his back against the wall and stood up against it, stiff and straight. He looked with insane terror at Smerdjakov, who entirely unaffected by his terror continued fumbling in his stocking as though he were making an effort to get hold of something with his fingers and pull it out. At last he got hold of it and began pulling it out. Ivan saw that it was a piece of paper or perhaps a roll of papers. Smerdjakov pulled it out and laid it on the table. Here, he said quietly. What is it? asked Ivan trembling. Kindly look at it, Smerdjakov answered still in the same low tone. Ivan stepped up to the table, took up the roll of paper and began unfolding it, but suddenly drew back his fingers as though from contact with a loathsome reptile. Your hands keep twitching, observed Smerdjakov, and he deliberately unfolded the bundle himself. Under the wrapper were three packets of hundred ruble notes. They're all here, all the 3,000 rubles. You need not count them, take them, Smerdjakov suggested to Ivan nodding at the notes. Ivan sank back in his chair. He was as white as a handkerchief. You've frightened me with your stocking, he said with a strange grin. Can you really not have known till now? Smerdjakov asked once more. No, I did not know. I kept thinking of Dmitry. Brother, brother. He suddenly clutched his head in both hands. Listen, did you kill him alone, with my brother's help or without? It was only with you, with your help I killed him, and Dmitry Fyodorovich is quite innocent. All right, all right, talk about me later. Why do I keep on trembling? I can't speak properly. You were bold enough then. You said everything was lawful, and how frightened you are now. Smerdjakov muttered in surprise. Won't you have some lemonade? I'll ask for some at once. It's very refreshing. Only I must hide this first. And again, he motioned at the notes. He was just going to get up and call at the door to Maria Kondrativna to make some lemonade and bring it them. But looking for something to cover up the notes that she might not see them, he first took out his handkerchief, and as it turned out to be very dirty, took up the big yellow book that Ivan had noticed at first lying on the table and put it over the notes. The book was The Sayings of the Holy Father Isaac the Syrian. Ivan read it mechanically. I won't have any lemonade, he said. Talk of me later. Sit down and tell me how you did it. Tell me all about it. You'd better take off your great coat or you'll be too hot. Ivan, as though he'd only just thought of it, took off his coat and without getting up from his chair threw it on the bench. Speak, please, speak. He seemed calmer. He waited, feeling sure that Smirotyakov would tell him all about it. How was it done? Said Smirotyakov. It was done in a most natural way following your very words. Of my words later, Ivan broke in again, apparently with complete self-possession, firmly uttering his words and not shouting as before. Only tell me in detail how you did it. Everything, as it happened, don't forget anything, the details above everything, the details, I beg you. You'd gone away, then I fell into the cellar in a fit or in a sham one. A sham one, naturally. I shamed it all. I went quietly down the steps to the very bottom and lay down quietly. And as I lay down, I gave a scream and struggled till they carried me out. Stay, and were you shaming all along afterwards and in the hospital? No, not at all. Next day in the morning, before they took me to the hospital, I had a real attack and a more violent one than I've had for years. For two days, I was quite unconscious. All right, all right, go on. They laid me on the bed. I knew I'd be the other side of the partition, for whenever I was ill, Marfa Ignatyevna used to put me there near them. She's always been very kind to me from my birth up. That night I moaned, but quietly, I kept expecting Dmitri Fyodorovich to come, expecting him to come to you. Not to me, I expected him to come into the house, for I had no doubt he'd come that night for being without me and getting no news. He'd be sure to come and climb over the fence as he used to and do something. And if he hadn't come, then nothing would have happened. I should never have brought myself to it without him. All right, all right, speak more intelligibly, don't hurry, above all, don't leave anything out. I expected him to kill Fyodor Pavlovich. I thought that was certain, for I prepared him for it during the last few days. He knew about the knocks, that was the chief thing. With his suspiciousness and the fury which had been growing in him all those days, he was bound to get into the house by means of those taps. That was inevitable, so I was expecting him. Stay, Ivan interrupted. If he had killed him, he would have taken the money and carried it away. You must have considered that. What would you have got by it afterwards? I don't see. But he would never have found the money, that was only what I told him that the money was under the mattress, but that wasn't true. It had been lying in a box. And afterwards I suggested to Fyodor Pavlovich, as I was the only person he trusted, to hide the envelope with the notes in the corner behind the icons, for no one would have guessed that place, especially if they came in a hurry. So that's where the envelope lay in the corner behind the icons. It would have been absurd to keep it under the mattress. The box anyway could be locked, but all believe it was under the mattress, a stupid thing to believe. So if Dmitry Fyodorovich had committed the murder, finding nothing, he would have either run away in a hurry, afraid of every sound as always happens with murderers, or he would have been arrested. So I could always have clambered up to the icons and have taken the money next morning or even that night. And it would have all been put down to Dmitry Fyodorovich. I could reckon upon that. But what if he did not kill him, but only knocked him down? If he did not kill him, of course, I would not have ventured to take the money and nothing would have happened. But I calculated that he would beat him senseless and I should have time to take it then. And then I'd make out to Fyodor Pavlovich that it was no one, but Dmitry Fyodorovich had taken the money after beating him. Stop, I'm getting mixed. And it was Dmitry after all who killed him. You only took the money. No, he didn't kill him. Well, I might as well have told you now that he was the murderer, but I don't want to lie to you now because if you really haven't understood till now, as I see for myself and are not pretending, so as to throw your guilt on me to my belly face, you are still responsible for it all since you knew of the murder and charged me to do it and went away knowing all about it. And so I want to prove to your face this evening that you are the only real murderer in the whole affair and I am not the real murderer, though I did kill him. You are the rightful murderer. Why? Why am I a murderer? Oh, God! Ivan cried unable to restrain himself at last and forgetting that he had put off discussing himself till the end of the conversation. You still mean that cermashnia. Stay, tell me, why did you want my consent if you really took cermashnia for consent? How will you explain that now? Assured of your consent, I should have known that you wouldn't have made an outcry over those 3000 being lost, even if I'd been suspected instead of Mitri Fyodorovich or as his accomplice. On the contrary, you would have protected me from others and when you got your inheritance, you would have rewarded me when you were able, all the rest of your life, for you'd have received your inheritance through me, seeing that if he had married Agrafeina Alexandrovna, you wouldn't have had a fathering. Ah, then you intended to worry me all my life afterwards, now, Divan, and what if I hadn't gone away then but had informed against you? What could you have informed that I persuaded you to go to cermashnia? That's all nonsense. Besides, after our conversation, you would either have gone away or have stayed. If you had stayed, nothing would have happened. I should have known that you didn't want it done and should have attempted nothing. As you went away, it meant you assured me that you wouldn't dare to inform against me at the trial and that you'd overlooked my having the 3000. And indeed, you couldn't have prosecuted me afterwards because then I should have told it all in the court. That is not that I'd stolen the money or killed him. I shouldn't have said that, but that you'd put me up to the theft and the murder though I didn't consent to it. That's why I needed your consent so that you couldn't have cornered me afterwards for what proof could you have had? I could always have cornered you, revealing your eagerness for your father's death. And I tell you, the public would have believed it all and you would have been ashamed for the rest of your life. Was I then so eager? Was I, Divan snarled again? To be sure you were and by your consent, you silently sanctioned my doing it. Smettyakov looked resolutely at Ivan. He was very weak and spoke slowly and wearyly, but some hidden inner force urged him on. He evidently had some design, Ivan felt that. Go on, he said, tell me what happened that night. What more is there to tell? I lay there and I thought I heard the master shout. And before that, Grigori Vasiliyevich had suddenly got up and came out and he suddenly gave a scream and then all was silence and darkness. I lay there waiting, my heart beating, I couldn't bear it. I got up at last, went out. I saw the window open on the left into the garden and I stepped to the left to listen whether he was sitting there alive and I heard the master moving about sighing so I knew he was alive. Ah, I thought. I went to the window and shouted to the master, it's I, and he shouted to me, he's been, he's been, he's run away. He meant Dmitri Fyodorovich has been. He's killed Grigori. Where, I whispered. There in the corner, he pointed. He was whispering too. Wait a bit, I said. I went to the corner of the garden to look and there I came upon Grigori Vasiliyevich lying by the wall covered with blood, senseless. So it's true that Dmitri Fyodorovich has been here was the thought that came into my head and I determined on the spot to make an end of it as Grigori Vasiliyevich, even if he were alive would see nothing of it as he lay there senseless. The only risk was that Marfa Ignacevna might wake up. I felt that at the moment but the longing to get it done came over me till I could scarcely breathe. I went back to the window to the master and said, she's here, she's come. Agrafena Alexandrovna has come, wants to be let in. And he started like a baby. Where is she? He fairly gaffed but couldn't believe it. She's standing there, said I, open. He looked out of the window at me, half believing and half distrustful but afraid to open. Why, he's afraid of me now, I thought. And it was funny. I bethought me to knock on the window frame. Those taps we'd agreed upon as a signal that Grushenko had come in his presence before his eyes. He didn't seem to believe my word but as soon as he had the taps he ran at once to open the door. He opened it. I would have gone in but he stood in the way to prevent me passing. Where is she? Where is she? He looked at me all of a tremble. Well thought I, if he's so frightened of me as all that it's a bad look out. My legs went weak with fright that he wouldn't let me in or would call out or Marfa Ignatievna would run up or something else might happen. I don't remember now but I must have stood pale facing him. I whispered to him, why she's there under the window. How is it you don't see her? I said. Bring her then, bring her. She's afraid, said I. She was frightened at the noise. She's hidden in the bushes. Go and call to her yourself from the study. He ran to the window, put the candle in the window. Grushenko, he cried. Grushenko, are you here? No, he cried that. He didn't want to lean out of the window. He didn't want to move away from me for he was panic-stricken. He was so frightened he didn't dare to turn his back on me. Why, here she is, said I. I went up to the window and leaned right out of it. Here she is. She's in the bush, laughing at you. Don't you see her? He suddenly believed it. He was all of a shake. He was awfully crazy about her. And he leaned right out of the window. I snatched up that iron paper weight from his table. Do you remember weighing about three pounds? I swung it and hit him on the top of the skull with the corner of it. He didn't even cry out. He only sank down suddenly and I hit him again and a third time. And the third time I knew I'd broken his skull. He suddenly rolled on his back, face upwards, covered with blood. I looked round. There was no blood on me, not a spot. I wiped the paper weight, put it back, went up to the icons, took the money out of the envelope and flung the envelope on the floor and the pink ribbon beside it. I went out into the garden, all of a tremble, straight to the apple tree with a hollow in it. You know that hollow. I'd marked it long before and put a rag and a piece of paper ready in it. I wrapped all the notes in the rag and stuffed it deep down in the hole. And there it stayed for over a fortnight. I took it out later when I came out to the hospital. I went back to my bed, laid down and thought, if Grigory Vasilyevich has been killed outright, it may be a bad job for me. But if he is not killed and recovers, it will be first rate, for then he'll bear witness that Dmitry Fyodorovich has been here. And so he must have killed him and taken the money. Then I began groaning with suspense and impatience, so as to wake Marefe Gnadyovna as soon as possible. At last she got up and she rushed to me. But when she saw Grigory Vasilyevich was not there, she ran out and I heard her scream in the garden. And that set it all going and set my mind at rest. He stopped. Ivan had listened all the time in dead silence without stirring or taking his eyes off him. As he told his stories, Marefe Gnadyovna glanced at him from time to time, but for the most part kept his eyes averted. When he had finished, he was evidently agitated and was breathing hard. The perspiration stood out on his face, but it was impossible to tell whether it was remorse he was feeling or what. Stay, cried Ivan, pondering, what about the door? If he only opened the door to you, how could Grigory have seen it open before? For Grigory saw it before you went. It was remarkable that Ivan spoke quite amicably in a different tone, not angry as before. So if anyone had opened the door at that moment and peeped in at them, he would certainly have concluded that they were talking peaceably about some ordinary, though interesting subject. As for that door and having seen it open, that's only his fancy, said Smettyarkov with a wry smile. It's not a man, I assure you, but an obstinate mule. He didn't see it, but fancied he'd seen it, and there's no shaking him. It's just our luck that he took that notion into his head, for they can't fail to convict and mead three for your daughter, which after that. Listen, said Ivan, beginning to seem bewildered again and making an effort to grasp something. Listen, there are a lot of questions I want to ask you, but I forget them. I keep forgetting and getting mixed up. Yes, tell me this at least. Why did you open the envelope and leave it there on the floor? Why didn't you simply carry off the envelope? When you were telling me, I thought you spoke about it so it was the right thing to do. But why? I can't understand. I did that for a good reason. For if a man had known all about it, as I did, for instance, if he'd seen those notes before and perhaps had put them in that envelope himself and had seen the envelope sealed up and addressed with his own eyes, if such a man had done the murder, what should have made him tear open the envelope afterwards, especially in such desperate haste? Since he'd known for certain, the notes must be in the envelope. No, if the robber had been someone like me, he'd simply have put the envelope straight in his pocket and got away with it as fast as he could. But it'd be quite different with Dmitri Fyodorovich. He only knew about the envelope by hearsay. He'd never seen it. And if he'd found it, for instance, under the mattress, he'd have torn it open as quickly as possible to make sure the notes were in it. And he'd have thrown the envelope down without having time to think that it would be evidence against him because he was not an habitual thief and had never directly stolen anything before, for he is a gentleman born. And if he did bring himself to steal, it would not be a regular stealing, but simply taking what was his own. For he'd told the whole town he meant to before and had even bragged aloud before everyone that he'd go and take his property from Fyodor Pavlovich. I didn't say that openly to the prosecutor when I was being examined, but quite the contrary, I brought him to it by a hint as though I didn't see it myself and as though he'd thought of it himself and I hadn't prompted him so that Mr. Prosecutor's mouth positively watered at my suggestion. But can you possibly have thought of all that on the spot? Krydi Van overcame with astonishment. He looked at Smyrdiakov again with alarm. Mercy, honest, could anyone think of it all in such a desperate hurry? It was all thought out beforehand. Well, well, it was the devil helped you, Yvonne cried again. No, you are not a fool. You are far cleverer than I thought. He got up, obviously intending to walk across the room. He was in terrible distress, but as the table blocked his way and there was hardly a room to pass between the table and the wall, he only turned round where he stood and sat down again. Perhaps the impossibility of moving irritated him as he suddenly cried out almost as furiously as before. Listen, you miserable, contemptible creature. Don't you understand that if I haven't killed you, it's simply because I'm keeping you to answer tomorrow at the trial. God sees Yvonne raised his hand. Perhaps I too was guilty. Perhaps I really had a secret desire for my father's death, but I swear I was not as guilty as you think. And perhaps I didn't urge you on at all. No, no, I didn't urge you on. But no matter, I will give evidence against myself tomorrow at the trial. I'm determined to. I shall tell everything, everything, but we'll make our appearance together. Whatever you may say against me at the trial, whatever evidence you give, I'll face it. I'm not afraid of you. I'll confirm it all myself. But you must confess too. You must, you must. We'll go together. That's how it shall be. Yvonne said this solemnly and resolutely. And from his flashing eyes alone, it could be seen that it would be so. You are ill, I see. You are quite ill. Your eyes are yellow. Smyrdiakov commented without the least irony, with apparent sympathy, in fact. We'll go together, Yvonne repeated. And if you won't go, no matter. I'll go alone. Smyrdiakov paused as though pondering. There'll be nothing of the sort and you won't go. He concluded at last positively. You don't understand me, Yvonne exclaimed reproachfully. You'll be much too ashamed if you confess it all. And what's more, it will be no use at all for I shall say straight out that I never said anything of the sort to you. And that you're either ill and it looks like it too. Or that you're so sorry for your brother that you're sacrificing yourself to save him and have invented it all against me. For you've always thought no more of me than if I'd been a fly. And it will believe you. And what single proof have you got? Listen, you showed me those notes just now to convince me. Smyrdiakov lifted the book off the notes and laid it on one side. Take that money away with you, Smyrdiakov's side. Of course I shall take it, but why do you give it to me if you committed the murder for the sake of it? Yvonne looked at him with great surprise. I don't want it, Smyrdiakov articulated in a shaking voice with a gesture of refusal. I did have an idea of beginning a new life with that money in Moscow, or better still abroad. I did dream of it, cheaply because all things are lawful. That was quite right what you taught me, for you talked a lot to me about that. For if there's no everlasting God, there's no such thing as virtue and there's no need of it. You were right there, that's how I looked at it. Did you come to that of yourself? I asked Yvonne with a wry smile. With your guidance. And now I suppose you believe in God since you are giving me back the money. No, I don't believe, whispered Smyrdiakov. Then why are you giving it back? Leave off, that's enough. Smyrdiakov 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 evidence. Smyrdiakov decided with conviction. You will see, said Yvonne, it isn't possible. You're very clever. You're fond of money, I know that. You like to be respected too for you're very proud. You're 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 forever by taking such a disgrace on yourself. You're like Fyodor Pavlovich. You're more like him than any of his children. You've the same soul as he had. You're not a fool, said Yvonne, seeming struck, the blood rushed to his face. You are serious now. He observed looking suddenly at Smyrdiakov for the different expression. It was your pride that made you think I was a fool. Take the money. Yvonne took the three rolls of notes and put them in his pocket without wrapping them in anything. I shall show them at the court tomorrow, 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. Yvonne rose from his seat. I repeat, he said, the only reason I haven't killed you is that I need you for tomorrow. Remember that, don't forget it. Well, kill me, kill me now, Smyrdiakov said, all at once looking strangely at Yvonne. 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 tomorrow cried Yvonne and moved to go out. Stay a moment, show me those notes again. Yvonne took out the notes and showed them to him. Smyrdiakov looked at them for 10 seconds. Well, you can go, he said with a wave of his hand. Ivan Fyodorovich, he called after him again. What do you want, Yvonne turned without stopping. Goodbye. Till tomorrow, Yvonne 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. Yvonne seized him and lifted him in his arms. Seeing a light in the little house to the right, he went up and 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 rubles. The man got ready and came out. I won't describe in detail how Yvonne 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 would only say that the business took a whole hour, but Yvonne was well content with it. His mind wandered and worked incessantly. If I had not taken my decision so firmly for tomorrow, 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 there's still greater satisfaction, although they have decided that I'm 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 tomorrow, he whispered to himself, and strange to say, almost all his gladness and self-satisfaction passed in one instant. As he entered his own room, he felt something like a touch of ice on his heart, like a recollection 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. At last, his eyes were fastened intently on one point. He even smiled, but an angry flushed effused 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 evidently something, some object that irritated him there, worried him and tormented him. End of chapter eight of book 11. Recording by Martin Giesen in Hazelmeer Surrey.