 Section 74 of the Brothers Karamazov by Fyodor Dostoevsky. Translated by Constance Garnet. On the way to Iván 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 Iván 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 Iván Dryly. Well, good-bye. You are going to her? Yes. I don't advise you to. She's upset, and you'll 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 you, Iván Fyodorovich, you must come back. You must, do you hear? There was such a peremptory note in Katch's voice that Iván, 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 Iván going into the drawing-room. I won't sit down. I won't stay more than a minute. Sit down, Alexei Fyodorovich, said Katarina Ivanovna, though she remained standing. She had changed very little during this time, but there was 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 straight 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 bowed 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 am 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 underfoot after my examination to-morrow. You will give your evidence honourably, said Alyosha. That's all that's wanted. Women are often dishonourable, she snarled. 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 ended by quarrelling. I have been to see Smegikov. It was you, you who persuaded me that he murdered his father, it's only you I believed. She continued, still addressing Ivan. He gave her a sort of strained smile. Alyosha started at her tone. He had not suspected such familiar intimacy between them. Well, that's enough, anyway. Ivan cut short the conversation. I am going. I'll come to-morrow. And turning at once he walked out of the room and went straight downstairs. With an imperious gesture, Katerina Ivan of Nasis'd 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's 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 paces ahead of him. What do you want? He turned quickly on Alyosha, seeing that he was running after him. She told you to catch me up, because I'm mad, I know it all by heart. He added irritably. She is mistaken, of course, but she is right that you are ill, said Alyosha. I was looking at your face just now. You look very ill, Ivan. Ivan walked on without stopping. Alyosha followed him. And do you know, Alexei Fyodorovich, how people do go out of their mind? Ivan asked in a voice suddenly quiet, without a trace of irritation, with a note of the simplest curiosity. No, I don't. I suppose there are all kinds of insanity. And 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, while I think of it, I have a letter for you, said Alyosha timidly, and he took Liza's note from his pocket and held 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 sixteen yet, I believe, and already offering herself, he said contemptuously, striding along the street again. How do you mean offering herself? exclaimed Alyosha. As 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 save her. You'll hear nothing from me. If she is a child, I am not her nurse. Be quiet, Alexe. Don't go on about her. I'm not even thinking about it. They were silent again for a moment. She will be praying all night now to the mother of God to show her how to act tomorrow at the trial. She said sharply and angrily again. You mean Katarina Ivanovna? Yes. Whether she is to save Mitcha or ruin him, she'll pray for light from above. She can't make up her mind for herself, you see. She has not had time to decide yet. She takes me for her nurse, too. She wants me to sing lullabies to her. Katarina Ivanovna loves you, brother, said Alyosha, 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, Alyosha 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 Yvonne irritably. I must wait till sentence is passed on the murderer. If I break off with her now, she will avenge herself on me by ruining that scoundrel to-morrow 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 damned verdict would come. The words murderer and monster echoed painfully in Alyosha's heart. But how can she ruin Mitcha? he asked, pondering on Yvonne's words. What evidence can she give that would ruin Mitcha? You don't know that yet. She's got a document in her hands in Mitcha's own writing that proves conclusively that he did murder Fyodor Pavlovich. It's impossible, cried Alyosha. Why is it impossible? I've read it myself. There can't be such a document, Alyosha repeated warmly. There can't be because he's not the murderer. It's not he, murdered father, not he. Yvonne suddenly stopped. Who is the murderer then, according to you? He asked, with apparent coldness. There was even a supercilious note in his voice. You know who, Alyosha pronounced, in a low penetrating voice. Who? You mean the myth about that crazy idiot, the epileptic Smerjakov? Alyosha suddenly felt himself trembling all over. You know who? Broke helplessly from him. He could scarcely breathe. Who? Who? Yvonne cried almost fiercely. All his restraint suddenly vanished. I only know one thing, Alyosha went on, still almost in a whisper. It wasn't you, killed father. Not you? What do you mean by not you? Yvonne was thunderstruck. It was not you, killed father. Not you! Alyosha repeated firmly. The silence lasted for half a minute. I know I didn't. Are you raving? said Yvonne, with a pale distorted smile. His eyes were riveted on Alyosha, they were standing again under a lamp-post. No Yvonne, 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? Yvonne faltered helplessly. You said so to yourself many times, when you've been alone during these two dreadful months. Alyosha 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 are 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, gazing into each other's eyes. They were both pale. Suddenly Yvonne began trembling all over and clutched Alyosha's shoulder. You've been in my room, he whispered hoarsely. You've been there at night, when he came, confess. Have you seen him? Have you seen him? Whom do you mean, Mitcha? Alyosha asked, bewildered. Not him, damn the monster, Yvonne 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 were talking about. Alyosha 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 grin contorted his lips. Brother, Alyosha began again, in a shaking voice. I have said this to you because you'll believe my word. 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 Yvonne had apparently regained his self-control. Alexei Fyodorovich, he said, with a cold smile. I can't endure prophets and epileptics, messengers from God especially, and 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 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, Alyosha called after him. If anything happens to you today, turn to me before anyone. But Yvonne made no reply. Alyosha stood under the lamp-post at the crossroads till Yvonne had vanished into the darkness. Then he turned and walked slowly homewards. Both Alyosha and Yvonne were living in lodgings. Neither of them was willing to live in Fyodor Pavlovich's empty house. Alyosha had a furnished room in the house of some working people. Yvonne 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 official. But his only attendant was a deaf and rheumatic old crone who went to bed at six o'clock every evening and got up at six in the morning. Yvonne 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 trembling 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, where Maria Kontrachevna, the neighbour who used to come to Fyodor Pavlovich's kitchen for soup, and to whom Smerjakov 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. Smerjakov, who was ill, almost dying, had been with them ever since Fyodor Pavlovich's death. It was, to him, Yvon was going now, drawn by a sudden and irresistible prompting. CHAPTER VI This was the third time that Yvon had been to see Smerjakov 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. Yvon 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 Yvon's going to see them as soon as he arrived in Moscow. But he did not go to them till 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 Yvon was greatly surprised to find that, in opposition to the general opinion of the town, he refused to entertain a suspicion against Mitcha, and spoke openly of Smirjakov 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 Mitcha, of whom Alyosha, as Yvon knew, was very fond. By the way, let us say a word or two of Yvon'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. Mitcha's whole personality, even his appearance, was extremely unattractive to him. Yvon looked with indignation on Katerina Yvonathna's love for his brother. Yet he went to see Mitcha on the first day of his arrival, and that interview, far from shaking Yvon's belief in his guilt, positively strengthened it. He found his brother agitated, nervously excited. Mitcha had been talkative, but very absent-minded and incoherent. He used violent language, accused Smirjikov, and was fearfully muddled. He talked principally about the three thousand rubles, which he said had been stolen from him by his father. The money was mine, it was my money, Mitcha 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 Yvon 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 Yvon during their first interview, telling him sharply that it was not for people who declared that everything was lawful to suspect and question him. Altogether he was anything but friendly with Yvon on that occasion. Only after that interview with Mitcha Yvon went for the first time to see Smirjikov. In the railway train on his way from Moscow he kept thinking of Smirjikov and of his last conversation with him on the evening before he went away. Many things seemed to him puzzling and suspicious, but when he gave his evidence to the investigating lawyer Yvon said nothing for the time of that conversation. He put that off till he had seen Smirjikov, who was at that time in the hospital. Dr. Herzenshtuba and Varvinsky, the doctor he met in the hospital, confidently asserted, in reply to Yvon's persistent questions, that Smirjikov's epileptic attack was unmistakably genuine, and were surprised, indeed, at Yvon asking whether he might not have been shamming 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. Herzenshtuba, that his reason would be impaired for a considerable period if not permanently. On Yvon's asking impatiently 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. Yvon decided to find out for himself what those abnormalities were. At the hospital he was at once allowed to see the patient. Smirjikov was lying on a truckled 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 no hindrance to their conversation. Smirjikov grinned, uncertainly, on seeing Yvon, and for the first instant seemed nervous, so at least Yvon fancied. But that was only momentary. For the rest of the time he was struck, on the contrary, by Smirjikov's composure. From the first glance Yvon 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 shallower. Throughout the interview, which lasted twenty 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, Smirjikov showed himself unchanged. It's always worth while speaking to a clever man. Yvon was reminded of that at once. He sat down on the stool at his feet. Smirjikov, 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 Yvon. I won't tire you much. Certainly I can, mumbled Smirjikov in a faint voice. As your honour been back long, he added patronizingly as though encouraging a nervous visitor. I only arrived to-day to see the mess you are in here. Smirjikov sighed. Why do you sigh? You knew of it all along, Yvon blurted out. Smirjikov 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've 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? Smirjikov queried with composure. Yvon 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 am 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 Smirjikov, with the same composure, only for a moment closing his eyes. In the first place began Yvon. 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, Smirjikov 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 pre-sentiment 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 whether it was a real fit or a sham. It's no use my saying any more about it. 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 defence in all the world, so I went down into the cellar thinking, Here it'll 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. Herzenstuba and Nikolai Parvenevich, 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 Smerdikov drew a deep breath as though exhausted. When you have 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 Smerdikov had already reported it all himself. What have I to be afraid of? Let them write down the whole truth, Smerdikov 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 boosted, 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're 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, foreseeing 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 harm's 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, Yvon 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 and 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 three thousand that lay under the master's mattress in the envelope, and you see, he's murdered him. 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 Yvon, pondering. You might have guessed from my sending you to Chermashnaya and not to Moscow. How could I guess it from that? Smerdyakov 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 Chermashnaya, that I wanted to have you nearer, for Moscow's a long way off, and Dmitry Fyodorovich, knowing you are not far off, would 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 he would be sure to do something, and so wouldn't go to Chermashnaya even, but would stay. He talks very coherently, thought Yvon, though he does mumble. What's the derangement of his faculties that Herzništuba talked of? You are cunning with me, damn you, he exclaimed, getting angry. But I thought at the time that you quite guessed, Smirjakov parried, with the simplest air. If I'd guessed, I should have stayed, cried Yvon. 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, Yvon said in agitation, and I did guess there was some mischief brewing on your part. Only you were lying, you were 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? Smirjakov sighed, again and again a trace of colour 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. Why, that foreseeing such a calamity, you deserted your own father, and would not protect us, for I might have been taken up in a time for stealing that three thousand. Damn you, Yvon swore, again, stay, did you tell the prosecutor and the investigating lawyer about those knocks? I told them everything just as it was. Yvon wondered inwardly again. If I thought of anything then, he began again, it was solely of some wickedness on your part. Dmitry 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 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 Smirjakov with a bitter grin, and who will believe him with all the proofs against him? Grigory Vasilievich 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 have told you beforehand that I could sham one if I really had had such a design against your father? If I had been planning such a murder, could I have been such a fool as to give 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 and Nikolai Parvenevich, 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 Yvon got up to cut short the conversation, struck by Smirjakov's last argument. I don't suspect you at all, and I think it's absurd indeed to suspect you. On the contrary, I am grateful to you for setting my mind at rest. Now I am going, but I'll come again. Meanwhile, good-bye. Get well. Is there anything you want? I am very thankful for everything. Marfa Ignatyevna does not forget me, and provides me anything I want, according to her kindness. Good people visit me every day. Good-bye, but I shan't say anything of your being able to sham a fit, and I don't advise you to either. Something made Yvon 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 Yvon went out, and only when he had gone a dozen steps along the corridor, he suddenly felt that there was an insulting significance in Smirjakov'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 Smirjakov but Mitcha 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 Mitcha's guilt as he got to know all the weight of evidence against him. There was evidence of people of no importance, Fenya and her mother, for instance, but the effect of it was almost overpowering. As to Perhotin, the people at the tavern and at Plotnikov's shop, as well as the witnesses at Makrow, their evidence seemed conclusive. It was the details that were so damning. The secret of the nocks impressed the lawyers almost as much as Grigori's evidence as to the open door. His wife, Marfa, in answer to Yvon's questions, declared that Smirjakov 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 Herzenstuba and giving it as his opinion that Smirjakov was not mad but only rather weak, Yvon 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 some one. Yvon 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 Smirjakov was. Yvon 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 Misha with Yvon, that he never began on the subject and only answered his questions. This too struck Yvon 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 Katarina Ivanovna. This is not the time to begin to speak of this new passion of Yvon'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 Yvon, on leaving Katarina Yvanovna 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 Misha she rushed on Yvon'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. 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 Misha, and in moments of discord and violent anger, and they were numerous, she told Yvon so plainly. This was what he had called, to Alyosha, lies upon lies. There was, of course, much that was false in it, and that angered Yvon more than anything. But of all this later. He did, in fact, for a time almost forget Smirjakov'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 Pavlovitch'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 Katarina Ivanovna so completely did they take possession of him again. It was just after fanciing this that he met Alyosha in the street. He stopped him at once, and put a question to him. Do you remember when Dmitry 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 Dmitry should kill father, and as soon as possible, and that I myself was even prepared to help to 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. With 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 a dislike 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 Smirjikov again. CHAPTER 7 THE SECOND VISIT TO SMIRJIKOV By that time Smirjikov had been discharged from the hospital. One knew his new lodging, the dilapidated little wooden house, divided in two by a passage, on one side of which lived Maria Kondrachevna and her mother, and on the other Smirjikov. No one knew on what terms he lived with them, whether as a friend or as a lodger. It was supposed, afterwards, that he had come to stay with them as Maria Kondrachevna'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 Kondrachevna's directions he went straight to the better room on the left, occupied by Smirjikov. 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 the 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 Smirjikov 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. Yvon saw at once from Smirjikov's face 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 Yvon had never seen him wearing before. This trifling circumstance suddenly redoubled Yvon's anger, a creature like that and wearing spectacles. Smirjikov 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 Yvon instantly. He took it all in and noted it at once. Most of all, the look in Smirjikov's eyes, positively malicious, churlish and haughty. What do you want to intrude for, it seemed to say. We settled everything then. Why have you come again? Yvon could scarcely control himself. It's hot here, he said, still standing, and unbuttoned his overcoat. Take off your coat, Smirjikov conceded. Yvon 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. Smirjikov managed to sit down on his bench before him. To begin with, are we alone? Yvon 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 shamming fits, you wouldn't tell the investigating lawyer all 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? Are you suppose I am afraid of you? Yvon said this in a perfect fury, giving him to understand with obvious intention that he scorned any subterfuge or indirectness and meant to show his cards. Smirjikov's eyes gleamed resentfully, his left eye winked, and he had once gave his answer with his 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 promised not to tell the authorities. Smirjikov 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 Yvon, a mist passed before Yvon's eyes for the first moment. Oh! What! Are you out of your mind? I'm perfectly in possession of all my faculties. Do you suppose I knew of the murder? Yvon cried at last, and he brought his fist violently on the table. What do you mean by something else too? Speak scoundrel! Smirjikov was silent and still scanned Yvon with the same insolent stare. Speak you stinking rogue! What is that something else too? What is something else I meant was that you, probably too, were very desirous of your parents' death. Yvon 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, Yvon said peremptorily, sitting down again. Don't put me out of all patience. Smirjikov 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 Dmitri I meant to kill my father? I didn't know what thoughts were in your mind then, said Smirjikov 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 Yvon more than anything was the aggressive, insolent tone to which Smirjikov persistently adhered. It was you murdered him? He cried suddenly. Smirjikov 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, for I was in such a position shaking with fear, that I suspected every one. 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! Why should I have wanted it? What grounds had I for wanting it? What grounds had you? What about the inheritance? Sits Merjikov sarcastically, and as it were, vindictively. Why after your parents' death there was at least forty thousand to come to each of you, and very likely more, but if Yoder Pavlovich got married then to that lady, Ibryfena 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. Henry strained 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 Dmitri 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 that you'd each have not forty, but sixty thousand each. There's not a doubt you did reckon on Dmitri Fyodorovich. What I put up with from you, listen scoundrel, if I had reckoned on any one then it would have been on you, not on Dmitri, and I swear I did expect some wickedness from you at the time, I remember my impression. I thought so, too, for a minute at the time that you were reckoning on me as well, said Smirjakov 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 fathers and treaties 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 Yvon, 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. But 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 was utterly absurd, for you ought to have stayed to save your parents' life. How could I help drawing my conclusions? Yvon 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 couldn't have taken you to the lock-up just then. Who would have believed me and 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. Smerdyakov 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 Pavlovitch'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. But you, even in an exceptional case, did not dare. What are you learning French words for? Yvon 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 some day to those happy parts of Europe? Listen, monster! Yvon'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 meet 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, for 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, eh? snarled Yvon. You hit the mark indeed, and you'd better be sensible. Yvon got up, shaking all over with indignation, put on his coat and without replying further to Smierjikov, without even looking at him, 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 Smierjikov? But what information can I give? He's not guilty anyway. On the contrary, he'll accuse me. And in fact, why did I set off for Charmashnaya then? What for? What for? Yvon 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 Smierjikov. If I don't dare kill Smierjikov now, life is not worth living. Yvon did not go home, but went straight to Katarina Yvonovna and alarmed her by his appearance. He was like a madman. He repeated all his conversation with Smierjikov, every syllable of it. He couldn't be calmed however much she 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 Smierjikov 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 Katarina Yvonovna 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 Yvon. This was the document of which Yvon spoke to Alyosha later on as a conclusive proof that Dmitri had killed his father. It was the letter written by Mitcha to Katarina Yvonovna when he was drunk. On the very evening he met Alyosha at the crossroads on the way to the monastery, after the scene at Katarina Yvonovna's when Grushanka had insulted her. Then, parting from Alyosha, Mitcha had rushed to Grushanka. 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 at his household how he has just been insulted, what a rascal had just insulted him, what a fine fellow he is, on the other hand, and how he will pay that scoundrel out, and all that had 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 space enough for his drunken verbosity, and Mitcha not only filled the margins but had written the last line right across the rest. The letter ran as follows. FATAL CATCHA Tomorrow I will get the money and repay your three thousand 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 honour, I shall go to my father and break his skull and take the money from under the pillow, if only Yvonne has gone. If I have to go to Siberia for it, I'll give you back your three thousand, 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 and so shall I. Better Siberia than your love, for I love another woman, and you got to know her too well to-day, 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 cur. I shall tear three thousand from him and fling it to you. Though I've been a scoundrel to you, I am not a thief. You can expect three thousand. That cur keeps it under his mattress in pink ribbon. I am not a thief, but I'll murder my thief. Catcher, don't look disdainful. Dmitri 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. Catcher, 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 Yvon read this document he was convinced, so then it was his brother Natsmerjikov, and if Natsmerjikov, then not he, Yvon. This letter at once assumed in his eyes the aspect of a logical proof. There could be no longer the slightest doubt of Mitch's guilt. The suspicion never occurred to Yvon, by the way, that Mitch might have committed the murder in conjunction with Smerjikov, and indeed such a theory did not fit in with the facts. Yvon was completely reassured. The next morning he only thought of Smerjikov 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, past a month, he made no further inquiry about Smerjikov, 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 Yvon remembered this. During the last week of that month Yvon himself began to feel very ill. He went to consult the Moscow doctor who had been sent for by Katarina Yvanovna just before the trial, and just at that time his relations with Katarina Yvanovna became acutely strained. They were like two enemies in love with one another. Katarina Yvanovna's returns to Mitcha, that is, her brief but violent revulsions of feeling in his favour, drove Yvon to perfect frenzy. Strange to say, until that last scene described above when Alyosha came from Mitcha to Katarina Yvanovna, Yvon had never once, during that month, heard her express a doubt of Mitch's guilt, in spite of those returns that were so hateful to him. It is remarkable, too, that while he felt that he hated Mitcha more and more every day, he realised that it was not on account of Katya's returns that he hated him, but just because he was the murderer of his father. He was conscious of this, and fully recognised it to himself. Nevertheless he went to see Mitcha ten 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 a phrase of Smirjakov's that it was to his, Yvon's, advantage that his brother should be convicted, as that would increase his inheritance and Alyosha's from forty to sixty thousand rubles. He determined to sacrifice thirty thousand on arranging Mitcha's escape. On his return from seeing him he was very mournful and dispirited. He suddenly began to feel that he was anxious for Mitcha's escape, not only to heal that sore place by sacrificing thirty thousand, but for another reason. Is it because I am as much a murderer at heart? he asked himself. Something very deep down 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, Yvon suddenly decided with his hand on the bell of his lodging to go to Smirjakov, he obeyed a sudden and peculiar impulse of indignation. He suddenly remembered how Katarina Yvanovna had only just cried out to him in Alyosha's presence, it was you, you persuaded me of his, that is, Mitcha's, guilt. Yvon was thunderstruck when he recalled it. He had never once tried to persuade her that Mitcha was the murderer. On the contrary, he had suspected himself in her presence, that time when he came back from Smirjakov. It was she, she who had produced that document and proved his brother's guilt. And now she suddenly exclaimed, I've been at Smirjakov's myself. When had she been there? Yvon had known nothing of it. So she was not at all so sure of Mitcha's guilt. And what could Smirjakov have told her? What, what had 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 Smirjakov. I shall kill him, perhaps, this time, he thought on the way. And last interview with Smirjakov. When he was half way 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 was whirled about by the wind, and soon there was a regular snowstorm. There were scarcely any lamp posts in the part of the town where Smirjakov lived. Yvon 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 Kondrachevna's cottage, Yvon 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. Ah, Vanka's gone to Petersburg. I won't wait till he comes back. But he broke off every time at the second line and began swearing again, and he would begin the same song again. Yvon 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 the violent lurch fell full tilt against Yvon, who pushed him back furiously. The peasant went flying backwards and fell like a log on the frozen ground. He uttered one plaintiff, oh, and then was silent. Yvon stepped up to him. He was lying on his back without movement or consciousness. He will be frozen, thought Yvon. And he went on his way to Smerchikov's. In the passage, Maria Kontrachevna, who ran out to open the door with a candle in her hand, whispered that Smerchikov 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? asked Yvon coarsely. Oh, dear, no, quite the contrary. He's very quiet. Only please don't talk to him too long, Maria Kontrachevna begged him. Yvon 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. Smerchikov 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 yellow cover, but Smerchikov was not reading it. He seemed to be sitting doing nothing. He met Yvon 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 shallower. His eyes were sunken and there were blue marks under them. Why, you really are ill? Yvon 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? I've only come with one question and I swear I won't go without an answer. Has the young lady, Katarina Yvonovna, been with you? Smerchikov still remained silent, looking quietly at Yvon as before. Suddenly, with a motion of his hand, he turned his face away. What's the matter with you? cried Yvon. Nothing. But 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 Smerchikov with a scornful smile, and turning his face to Yvon 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 Yvon. Never mind my health. Tell me what I ask you. But why are 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, Yvon cried, intensely irritated. Why do you keep pestering me? Why do you torment me, said Smerchikov, with a look of suffering? Damn it, I have nothing to do with you. Just answer my question, and I'll go away. I have no answer to give you, said Smerchikov, looking down again. You may be sure I'll make you answer. Why are you so uneasy? Smerchikov stared at him, not simply with contempt, but almost with repulsion. Is this because the trial begins tomorrow? The thing 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? Yvon articulated in astonishment, and suddenly a chill breath of fear did in fact pass over his soul. Smerchikov 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. Yvon 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 are your fingers moving like that? Go home. You did not murder him. Yvon started, he remembered Ayasha. I know it was not I, he faltered. Do you? Smerchikov caught him up again. Yvon jumped up and seized him by the shoulder. Tell me everything, you viper. Tell me everything. Smerchikov was not in the least scared. He only riveted his eyes on Yvon with insane hatred. Well, it was you who murdered him, if that's it, he whispered furiously. Yvon 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 farce 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? Yvon turned cold. Something seemed to give way in his brain, and he shuddered all over with a cold shiver. Then Smerchikov himself looked at him wonderingly. Probably the genuineness of Yvon's horror struck him. You don't mean to say you really did not, no? He faltered mistrustfully, looking with a forced smile into his eyes. Yvon still gazed at him and seemed unable to speak. Hark! Vank has gone to Petersburg. I won't wait till he comes back, suddenly echoed in his head. Do you know I am afraid that you are 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? Yvon 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, Yvon cried madly. You are mad, or teasing me again. Smirjakov as before watched him curiously, with no sign of fear. He could still scarcely get over his incredulity. He still fancied that Yvon 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. Yvon 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 Smirjakov, 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. Yvon saw that it was a piece of paper, or perhaps a roll of papers. Smirjakov pulled it out and laid it on the table. Here, he said quietly. What is it? asked Yvon, trembling. Kindly look at it, Smirjakov answered, still in the same low tone. Yvon stepped up to the table, took up the roll of paper, and began unfolding it, but suddenly he drew back his fingers as though from contact with a loathsome reptile. Your hands keep twitching, observed Smirjakov, and he deliberately unfolded the bundle himself. Under the wrapper were three packets of hundred ruble notes. They're all here, all the three thousand rubles you need not count them. Take them, Smirjakov suggested to Yvon, nodding at the notes. Yvon sank back in his chair. He was as white as a handkerchief. You frightened me with your stalking, he said with a strange grin. Can you really not have known till now? Smirjakov asked once more. No, I did not know. I kept thinking of Dmitri. 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 Dmitri 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, Smirjakov 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 Kondratyevna to make some lemonade and bring at 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 Yvon 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. Yvon 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. Yvon, 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 Smerjikov would tell him all about it. How was it done? sighed Smerjikov. It was done in a most natural way, following your very words. Of my words later, Yvon 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 shammed 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 shamming 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. At 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'd no doubt that 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 had prepared him for it, during the last few days. He knew about the Knox. 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. He must have considered that. What could 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 Dmitri Fyodorovich had committed the murder, finding nothing, he would either have 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 away the money next morning, or even that night, and it would have all been put down to Dmitri 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 Dmitri Fyodorovich who had taken the money after beating him. Stop! I'm getting mixed. Then it was Dmitri 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 very 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, hey, why am I a murderer? Oh, God! Yvonne 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 chairmachnia? Stay, tell me, why did you want my consent if you really took chairmachnia 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 three thousand being lost, even if I'd been suspected instead of Dimitri Fionerovich, 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 Agriphana Alexandrovna you wouldn't have had a farthing. Ah, then you intended to worry me all my life afterwards, snarled Yvonne, 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 chairmachnia? 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 overlook my having the three thousand. 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 had 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? Yvonne snarled again. To be sure you were, and by your consent you silently sanctioned my doing it. Smerdykov looked resolutely at Yvonne. He was very weak and spoke slowly and wearily, but some hidden inner force urged him on. He evidently had some design. Yvonne 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 Grigory Vasilievich 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. 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 Dmitry Fyodorovich had been. He's killed Grigory. 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 Grigory Vasilievich lying by the wall, covered with blood, senseless. So it's true that Dmitry 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 Grigory Vasilievich, even if he were alive, would see nothing of it as he lay there senseless. The only risk was that Marfa Ignatyevna 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, Agrifenna Alexandrovna has come, wants to be let in. And he started like a baby. Where is she, he fairly gasped, 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 is afraid of me now, I thought. And it was funny. I befought 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 heard 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. And my legs went weak with fright that he wouldn't let me in or would call out, or Marfa Ignachivna 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, 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? Though 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 paperweight 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 a 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 paperweight, 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 of the hospital. I went back to my bed, lay down, and thought, if Grigory Vasilievich 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 Marfa Ignatyevna as soon as possible. At last she got up and she rushed to me, but when she saw Grigory Vasilievich 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. Yvonne had listened all the time in dead silence without stirring or taking his eyes off him. As he told his stories, Mirjakov 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 Yvonne, 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 Yvonne 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 Grigory Vasilievich's having seen it open, that's only his fancy, said Mirjakov with a rye smile. He is not a man, I assure you, but an obstinate mule. He didn't see it, but fancied he had seen it, and there's no shaking him. It's just our luck he took that notion into his head, for they can't fail to convict Dmitry Fyodorovich after that. Listen, said Yvonne, 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 as though it were 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 that 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 know, 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 had 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 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? Cried Yvonne overcome with astonishment. He looked at Smerdikov again with alarm. Mercy on us! Could any one think of it all in such a desperate hurry? It was all thought out beforehand. Well, while 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 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 am 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 am 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. Smerdikov 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. Smerdikov 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 too much 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 are either ill, and it looks like it too, or that you're so sorry for your brother, that you are 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 who will believe you? And what single proof have you got? Listen, you showed me those notes just now to convince me. Smerdikov lifted the book off the notes and laid it on one side. Take that money away with you, Smerdikov'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, Smerdikov 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, chiefly 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. So that's how I looked at it. Did you come to that of yourself? asked Yvonne with a rye 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 Smerdikov. Then why are you giving it back? Leave off, that's enough. Smerdikov 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, Smerdikov decided with conviction. You'll see, said Yvonne. 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 forever by taking such a disgrace on yourself. You are like Fyodor Pavlovich. You are more like him than any of his children. You've the same soul as he had. You are not a fool, said Yvonne, seeming struck. The blood rushed to his face. You are serious now, he observed, looking suddenly at Smerdikov with a different expression. It was your pride 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 to-morrow, he said. Nobody will believe you, as you have 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 to-morrow. Remember that, don't forget it. Well, kill me, kill me now, Smerdikov 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 to-morrow, 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. Smerdikov looked at them for ten seconds. Well, you can go, he said, with the wave of his hand. Yvonne Fyodorovich, he called after him again. What do you want? Yvonne turned without stopping. Goodbye. Till to-morrow, 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, 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 will only say that this 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, 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, 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 agonizing 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. Yvon 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 evidently something, some object that irritated him there, worried him and tormented him.