AND Ivan, on parting from Alyosha, went home to Fyodor

Pavlovitch's house. But, strange to say, he was overcome by

insufferable depression, which grew greater at every step he took

towards the house. There was nothing strange in his being depressed;

what was strange was that Ivan could not have said what was the

cause of it. He had often been depressed before, and there was nothing

surprising at his feeling so at such a moment, when he had broken

off with everything had brought him here, and was preparing that day

to make a new start and enter upon a new, unknown future. He would

again be as solitary as ever, and though he had great hopes, and

great- too great- expectations from life, he could not have given

any definite account of his hopes, his expectations, or even his

desires.

    Yet at that moment, though the apprehension of the new and unknown

certainly found place in his heart, what was worrying him was

something quite different. "Is it loathing for my father's house?"

he wondered. "Quite likely; I am so sick of it; and though it's the

last time I shall cross its hateful threshold, still I loathe it....

No, it's not that either. Is it the parting with Alyosha and the

conversation I had with him? For so many years I've been silent with

the whole world and not deigned to speak, and all of a sudden I reel

off a rigmarole like that." certainly might have been the youthful

vexation of youthful inexperience and vanity- vexation at having

failed to express himself, especially with such a being as Alyosha, on

whom his heart had certainly been reckoning. No doubt that came in,

that vexation, it must have done indeed; but yet that was not it, that

was not it either. "I feel sick with depression and yet I can't tell

what I want. Better not think, perhaps."

    Ivan tried "not to think," but that, too, was no use. What made

his depression so vexatious and irritating was that it had a kind of

casual, external character- he felt that. Some person or thing

seemed to be standing out somewhere, just as something will

sometimes obtrude itself upon the eye, and though one may be so busy

with work or conversation that for a long time one does not notice it,

yet it irritates and almost torments one till at last one realises,

and removes the offending object, often quite a trifling and

ridiculous one- some article left about in the wrong place, a

handkerchief on the floor, a book not replaced on the shelf, and so

on.

    At last, feeling very cross and ill-humoured, Ivan arrived home,

and suddenly, about fifteen paces from the garden gate, he guessed

what was fretting and worrying him.

    On a bench in the gateway the valet Smerdyakov was sitting

enjoying the coolness of the evening, and at the first glance at him

Ivan knew that the valet Smerdyakov was on his mind, and that it was

this man that his soul loathed. It all dawned upon him suddenly and

became clear. just before, when Alyosha had been telling him of his

meeting with Smerdyakov, he had felt a sudden twinge of gloom and

loathing, which had immediately stirred responsive anger in his heart.

Afterwards, as he talked, Smerdyakov had been forgotten for the

time; but still he had been in his mind, and as soon as Ivan parted

with Alyosha and was walking home, the forgotten sensation began to

obtrude itself again. "Is it possible that a miserable, contemptible

creature like that can worry me so much?" he wondered, with

insufferable irritation.

    It was true that Ivan had come of late to feel an intense

dislike for the man, especially during the last few days. He had

even begun to notice in himself a growing feeling that was almost of

hatred for the creature. Perhaps this hatred was accentuated by the

fact that when Ivan first came to the neighbourhood he had felt

quite differently. Then he had taken a marked interest in

Smerdyakov, and had even thought him very original. He had

encouraged him to talk to him, although he had always wondered at a

certain incoherence, or rather restlessness, in his mind, and could

not understand what it was that so continually and insistently

worked upon the brain of "the contemplative." They discussed

philosophical questions and even how there could have been light on

the first day when the sun, moon, and stars were only created on the

fourth day, and how that was to be understood. But Ivan soon saw that,

though the sun, moon, and stars might be an interesting subject, yet

that it was quite secondary to Smerdyakov, and that he was looking for

something altogether different. In one way and another, he began to

betray a boundless vanity, and a wounded vanity, too, and that Ivan

disliked. It had first given rise to his aversion. Later on, there had

been trouble in the house. Grushenka had come on the scene, and

there had been the scandals with his brother Dmitri- they discussed

that, too. But though Smerdyakov always talked of that with great

excitement, it was impossible to discover what he desired to come of

it. There was, in fact, something surprising in the illogicality and

incoherence of some of his desires, accidentally betrayed and always

vaguely expressed. Smerdyakov was always inquiring, putting certain

indirect but obviously premeditated questions, but what his object was

he did not explain, and usually at the most important moment he

would break off and relapse into silence or pass to another subject.

But what finally irritated Ivan most and confirmed his dislike for him

was the peculiar, revolting familiarity which Smerdyakov began to show

more and more markedly. Not that he forgot himself and was rude; on

the contrary, he always spoke very respectfully, yet he had

obviously begun to consider- goodness knows why!- that there was

some sort of understanding between him and Ivan Fyodorovitch. He

always spoke in a tone that suggested that those two had some kind

of compact, some secret between them, that had at some time been

expressed on both sides, only known to them and beyond the

comprehension of those around them. But for a long while Ivan did

not recognise the real cause of his growing dislike and he had only

lately realised what was at the root of it.

    With a feeling of disgust and irritation he tried to pass in at

the gate without speaking or looking at Smerdyakov. But Smerdyakov

rose from the bench, and from that action alone, Ivan knew instantly

that he wanted particularly to talk to him. Ivan looked at him and

stopped, and the fact that he did stop, instead of passing by, as he

meant to the minute before, drove him to fury. With anger and

repulsion he looked at Smerdyakov's emasculate, sickly face, with

the little curls combed forward on his forehead. His left eye winked

and he grinned as if to say, "Where are you going? You won't pass

by; you see that we two clever people have something to say to each

other."

    Ivan shook. "Get away, miserable idiot. What have I to do with

you?" was on the tip of his tongue, but to his profound astonishment

he heard himself say, "Is my father still asleep, or has he waked?"

    He asked the question softly and meekly, to his own surprise,

and at once, again to his own surprise, sat down on the bench. For

an instant he felt almost frightened; he remembered it afterwards.

Smerdyakov stood facing him, his hands behind his back, looking at him

with assurance and almost severity.

    "His honour is still asleep," he articulated deliberately ("You

were the first to speak, not I," he seemed to say). "I am surprised at

you, sir," he added, after a pause, dropping his eyes affectedly,

setting his right foot forward, and playing with the tip of his

polished boot.

    "Why are you surprised at me?" Ivan asked abruptly and sullenly,

doing his utmost to restrain himself, and suddenly realising, with

disgust, that he was feeling intense curiosity and would not, on any

account, have gone away without satisfying it.

    "Why don't you go to Tchermashnya, sir?" Smerdyakov suddenly

raised his eyes and smiled familiarly. "Why I smile you must

understand of yourself, if you are a clever man," his screwed-up

left eye seemed to say.

    "Why should I go to Tchermashnya?" Ivan asked in surprise.

    Smerdyakov was silent again.

    "Fyodor Pavlovitch himself has so begged you to," he said at last,

slowly and apparently attaching no significance to his answer. "I

put you off with a secondary reason," he seemed to suggest, "simply to

say something."

    "Damn you! Speak out what you want!" Ivan cried angrily at last,

passing from meekness to violence.

    Smerdyakov drew his right foot up to his left, pulled himself

up, but still looked at him with the same serenity and the same little

smile.

    "Substantially nothing- but just by way of conversation."

    Another silence followed. They did not speak for nearly a

minute. Ivan knew that he ought to get up and show anger, and

Smerdyakov stood before him and seemed to be waiting as though to

see whether he would be angry or not. So at least it seemed to Ivan.

At last he moved to get up. Smerdyakov seemed to seize the moment.

    "I'm in an awful position, Ivan Fyodorovitch. I don't know how

to help myself," he said resolutely and distinctly, and at his last

word he sighed. Ivan Fyodorovitch sat down again.

    "They are both utterly crazy, they are no better than little

children," Smerdyakov went on. "I am speaking of your parent and

your brother Dmitri Fyodorovitch. Here Fyodor Pavlovitch will get up

directly and begin worrying me every minute, 'Has she come? Why hasn't

she come?' and so on up till midnight and even after midnight. And

if Agrafena Alexandrovna doesn't come (for very likely she does not

mean to come at all) then he will be at me again to-morrow morning,

'Why hasn't she come? When will she come?'- as though I were to

blame for it. On the other side it's no better. As soon as it gets

dark, or even before, your brother will appear with his gun in his

hands: 'Look out, you rogue, you soup-maker. If you miss her and don't

let me know she's been- I'll kill you before anyone.' When the night's

over, in the morning, he, too, like Fyodor Pavlovitch, begins worrying

me to death. 'Why hasn't she come? Will she come soon?' And he, too,

thinks me to blame because his lady hasn't come. And every day and

every hour they get angrier and angrier, so that I sometimes think I

shall kill myself in a fright. I can't depend them, sir."

    "And why have you meddled? Why did you begin to spy for Dmitri

Fyodorovitch?" said Ivan irritably.

    "How could I help meddling? Though, indeed, I haven't meddled at

all, if you want to know the truth of the matter. I kept quiet from

the very beginning, not daring to answer; but he pitched on me to be

his servant. He has had only one thing to say since: 'I'll kill you,

you scoundrel, if you miss her.' I feel certain, sir, that I shall

have a long fit to-morrow."

    "What do you mean by 'a long fit'?"

    "A long fit, lasting a long time- several hours, or perhaps a

day or two. Once it went on for three days. I fell from the garret

that time. The struggling ceased and then began again, and for three

days I couldn't come back to my senses. Fyodor Pavlovitch sent for

Herzenstube, the doctor here, and he put ice on my head and tried

another remedy, too.... I might have died."

    "But they say one can't tell with epilepsy when a fit is coming.

What makes you say you will have one to-morrow?" Ivan inquired, with a

peculiar, irritable curiosity.

    "That's just so. You can't tell beforehand."

    "Besides, you fell from the garret then."

    "I climb up to the garret every day. I might fall from the

garret again to-morrow. And, if not, I might fall down the cellar

steps. I have to go into the cellar every day, too."

    Ivan took a long look at him.

    "You are talking nonsense, I see, and I don't quite understand

you," he said softly, but with a sort of menace. "Do you mean to

pretend to be ill to-morrow for three days, eh?"

    Smerdyakov, who was looking at the ground again, and playing

with the toe of his right foot, set the foot down, moved the left

one forward, and, grinning, articulated:

    "If I were able to play such a trick, that is, pretend to have a

fit- and it would not be difficult for a man accustomed to them- I

should have a perfect right to use such a means to save myself from

death. For even if Agrafena Alexandrovna comes to see his father while

I am ill, his honour can't blame a sick man for not telling him.

He'd be ashamed to."

    "Hang it all!" Ivan cried, his face working with anger, "Why are

you always in such a funk for your life? All my brother Dmitri's

threats are only hasty words and mean nothing. He won't kill you; it's

not you he'll kill!"

    "He'd kill me first of all, like a fly. But even more than that, I

am afraid I shall be taken for an accomplice of his when he does

something crazy to his father."

    "Why should you be taken for an accomplice?"

    "They'll think I am an accomplice, because I let him know the

signals as a great secret."

    "What signals? Whom did you tell? Confound you, speak more

plainly."

    "I'm bound to admit the fact," Smerdyakov drawled with pedantic

composure, "that I have a secret with Fyodor Pavlovitch in this

business. As you know yourself (if only you do know it) he has for

several days past locked himself in as soon as night or even evening

comes on. Of late you've been going upstairs to your room early

every evening, and yesterday you did not come down at all, and so

perhaps you don't know how carefully he has begun to lock himself in

at night, and even if Grigory Vassilyevitch comes to the door he won't

open to him till he hears his voice. But Grigory Vassilyevitch does

not come, because I wait upon him alone in his room now. That's the

arrangement he made himself ever since this to-do with Agrafena

Alexandrovna began. But at night, by his orders, I go away to the

lodge so that I don't get to sleep till midnight, but am on the watch,

getting up and walking about the yard, waiting for Agrafena

Alexandrovna to come. For the last few days he's been perfectly

frantic expecting her. What he argues is, she is afraid of him, Dmitri

Fyodorovitch (Mitya, as he calls him), 'and so,' says he, 'she'll come

the back-way, late at night, to me. You look out for her,' says he,

'till midnight and later; and if she does come, you run up and knock

at my door or at the window from the garden. Knock at first twice,

rather gently, and then three times more quickly, then,' says he, 'I

shall understand at once that she has come, and will open the door

to you quietly.' Another signal he gave me in case anything unexpected

happens. At first, two knocks, and then, after an interval, another

much louder. Then he will understand that something has happened

suddenly and that I must see him, and he will open to me so that I can

go and speak to him. That's all in case Agrafena Alexandrovna can't

come herself, but sends a message. Besides, Dmitri Fyodorovitch

might come, too, so I must let him know he is near. His honour is

awfully afraid of Dmitri Fyodorovitch, so that even if Agrafena

Alexandrovna had come and were locked in with him, and Dmitri

Fyodorovitch were to turn up anywhere near at the time, I should be

bound to let him know at once, knocking three times. So that the first

signal of five knocks means Agrafena Alexandrovna has come, while

the second signal of three knocks means 'something important to tell

you.' His honour has shown me them several times and explained them.

And as in the whole universe no one knows of these signals but

myself and his honour, so he'd open the door without the slightest

hesitation and without calling out (he is awfully afraid of calling

out aloud). Well, those signals are known to Dmitri Fyodorovitch

too, now."

    "How are they known? Did you tell him? How dared you tell him?"

    "It was through fright I did it. How could I dare to keep it

back from him? Dmitri Fyodorovitch kept persisting every day, 'You are

deceiving me, you are hiding something from me! I'll break both your

legs for you.' So I told him those secret signals that he might see my

slavish devotion, and might be satisfied that I was not deceiving him,

but was telling him all I could."

    "If you think that he'll make use of those signals and try to

get in, don't let him in."

    "But if I should be laid up with a fit, how can I prevent him

coming in then, even if I dared prevent him, knowing how desperate

he is?"

    "Hang it! How can you be so sure you are going to have a fit,

confound you? Are you laughing at me?"

    "How could I dare laugh at you? I am in no laughing humour with

this fear on me. I feel I am going to have a fit. I have a

presentiment. Fright alone will bring it on."

    "Confound it! If you are laid up, Grigory will be on the watch.

Let Grigory know beforehand; he will be sure not to let him in."

    "I should never dare to tell Grigory Vassilyevitch about the

signals without orders from my master. And as for Grigory

Vassilyevitch hearing him and not admitting him, he has been ill

ever since yesterday, and Marfa Ignatyevna intends to give him

medicine to-morrow. They've just arranged it. It's a very strange

remedy of hers. Marfa Ignatyevna knows of a preparation and always

keeps it. It's a strong thing made from some herb. She has the

secret of it, and she always gives it to Grigory Vassilyevitch three

times a year when his lumbago's so bad he is almost paralysed by it.

Then she takes a towel, wets it with the stuff, and rubs his whole

back for half an hour till it's quite red and swollen, and what's left

in the bottle she gives him to drink with a special prayer; but not

quite all, for on such occasions she leaves some for herself, and

drinks it herself. And as they never take strong drink, I assure you

they both drop asleep at once and sleep sound a very long time. And

when Grigory Vassilyevitch wakes up he is perfectly well after it, but

Marfa Ignatyevna always has a headache from it. So, if Marfa

Ignatyevna carries out her intention to-morrow, they won't hear

anything and hinder Dmitri Fyodorovitch. They'll be asleep."

    "What a rigmarole! And it all seems to happen at once, as though

it were planned. You'll have a fit and they'll both be unconscious,"

cried Ivan. "But aren't you trying to arrange it so?" broke from him

suddenly, and he frowned threateningly.

    "How could I?... And why should I, when it all depends on Dmitri

Fyodorovitch and his plans?... If he means to do anything, he'll do

it; but if not, I shan't be thrusting him upon his father."

    "And why should he go to father, especially on the sly, if, as you

say yourself, Agrafena Alexandrovna won't come at all?" Ivan went

on, turning white with anger. "You say that yourself, and all the

while I've been here, I've felt sure it was all the old man's fancy,

and the creature won't come to him. Why should Dmitri break in on

him if she doesn't come? Speak, I want to know what you are thinking!"

    "You know yourself why he'll come. What's the use of what I think?

His honour will come simply because he is in a rage or suspicious on

account of my illness perhaps, and he'll dash in, as he did

yesterday through impatience to search the rooms, to see whether she

hasn't escaped him on the sly. He is perfectly well aware, too, that

Fyodor Pavlovitch has a big envelope with three thousand roubles in

it, tied up with ribbon and sealed with three seals. On it is

written in his own hand 'To my angel Grushenka, if she will come,'

to which he added three days later, 'for my little chicken.' There's

no knowing what that might do."

    "Nonsense!" cried Ivan, almost beside himself. "Dmitri won't

come to steal money and kill my father to do it. He might have

killed him yesterday on account of Grushenka, like the frantic, savage

fool he is, but he won't steal."

    "He is in very great need of money now- the greatest need, Ivan

Fyodorovitch. You don't know in what need he is," Smerdyakov

explained, with perfect composure and remarkable distinctness. "He

looks on that three thousand as his own, too. He said so to me

himself. 'My father still owes me just three thousand,' he said. And

besides that, consider, Ivan Fyodorovitch, there is something else

perfectly true. It's as good as certain, so to say, that Agrafena

Alexandrovna will force him, if only she cares to, to marry her- the

master himself, I mean, Fyodor Pavlovitch- if only she cares to, and

of course she may care to. All I've said is that she won't come, but

maybe she's looking for more than that- I mean to be mistress here.

I know myself that Samsonov, her merchant, was laughing with her about

it, telling her quite openly that it would not be at all a stupid

thing to do. And she's got plenty of sense. She wouldn't marry a

beggar like Dmitri Fyodorovitch. So, taking that into consideration,

Ivan Fyodorovitch, reflect that then neither Dmitri Fyodorovitch nor

yourself and your brother, Alexey Fyodorovitch, would have anything

after the master's death, not a rouble, for Agrafena Alexandrovna

would marry him simply to get hold of the whole, all the money there

is. But if your father were to die now, there'd be some forty thousand

for sure, even for Dmitri Fyodorovitch whom he hates so, for he's made

no will.... Dmitri Fyodorovitch knows all that very well."

    A sort of shudder passed over Ivan's face. He suddenly flushed.

    "Then why on earth," he suddenly interrupted Smerdyakov, "do you

advise me to go to Tchermashnya? What did you mean by that? If I go

away, you see what will happen here." Ivan drew his breath with

difficulty.

    "Precisely so," said Smerdyakov, softly and reasonably, watching

Ivan intently, however.

    "What do you mean by 'precisely so'?" Ivan questioned him, with

a menacing light in his eyes, restraining himself with difficulty.

    "I spoke because I felt sorry for you. If I were in your place I

should simply throw it all up... rather than stay on in such a

position," answered Smerdyakov, with the most candid air looking at

Ivan's flashing eyes. They were both silent.

    "You seem to be a perfect idiot, and what's more... an awful

scoundrel, too." Ivan rose suddenly from the bench. He was about to

pass straight through the gate, but he stopped short and turned to

Smerdyakov. Something strange followed. Ivan, in a sudden paroxysm,

bit his lip, clenched his fists, and, in another minute, would have

flung himself on Smerdyakov. The latter, anyway, noticed it at the

same moment, started, and shrank back. But the moment passed without

mischief to Smerdyakov, and Ivan turned in silence, as it seemed in

perplexity, to the gate.

    "I am going away to Moscow to-morrow, if you care to know- early

to-morrow morning. That's all!" he suddenly said aloud angrily, and

wondered himself afterwards what need there was to say this then to

Smerdyakov.

    "That's the best thing you can do," he responded, as though he had

expected to hear it; "except that you can always be telegraphed for

from Moscow, if anything should happen here."

    Ivan stopped again, and again turned quickly to Smerdyakov. But

a change had passed over him, too. All his familiarity and carelessnes

had completely disappeared. His face expressed attention and

expectation, intent but timid and cringing.

    "Haven't you something more to say- something to add?" could be

read in the intent gaze he fixed on Ivan.

    "And couldn't I be sent for from Tchermashnya, too- in case

anything happened?" Ivan shouted suddenly, for some unknown reason

raising his voice.

    "From Tchermashnya, too... you could be sent for," Smerdyakov

muttered, almost in a whisper, looking disconcerted, but gazing

intently into Ivan's eyes.

    "Only Moscow is farther and Tchermashnya is nearer. Is it to

save my spending money on the fare, or to save my going so far out

of my way, that you insist on Tchermashnya?"

    "Precisely so..." muttered Smerdyakov, with a breaking voice. He

looked at Ivan with a revolting smile, and again made ready to draw

back. But to his astonishment Ivan broke into a laugh, and went

through the gate still laughing. Anyone who had seen his face at

that moment would have known that he was not laughing from lightness

of heart, and he could not have explained himself what he was

feeling at that instant. He moved and walked as though in a nervous

frenzy.