THIS was the third time that Ivan had been to see Smerdyakov since

his return from Moscow. The first time he had seen him and talked to

him was on the first day of his arrival, then he had visited him

once more, a fortnight later. But his visits had ended with that

second one, so that it was now over a month since he had seen him. And

he had scarcely heard anything of him.

    Ivan had only returned five days after his father's death, so that

he was not present at the funeral, which took place the day before

he came back. The cause of his delay was that Alyosha, not knowing his

Moscow address, had to apply to Katerina Ivanovna to telegraph to him,

and she, not knowing his address either, telegraphed to her sister and

aunt, reckoning on Ivan's going to see them as soon as he arrived in

Moscow. But he did not go to them 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 Ivan was greatly

surprised to find that, in opposition to the general opinion of the

town, he refused to entertain a suspicion against Mitya, and spoke

openly of Smerdyakov 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

ascribed his opinion only to his exaggerated brotherly feeling and

sympathy with Mitya, of whom Alyosha, as Ivan knew, was very fond.

    By the way, let us say a word or two of Ivan's feeling to his

brother Dmitri. He positively disliked him; at most, felt sometimes

a compassion for him, and even that was mixed with great contempt,

almost repugnance. Mitya's whole personality, even his appearance, was

extremely unattractive to him. Ivan looked with indignation on

Katerina Ivanovna's love for his brother. Yet he went to see Mitya

on the first day of his arrival, and that interview, far from

shaking Ivan's belief in his guilt, positively strengthened it. He

found his brother agitated, nervously excited. Mitya had been

talkative, but very absent-minded and incoherent. He used violent

language, accused Smerdyakov, and was fearfully muddled. He talked

principally about the three thousand roubles, which he said had been

"stolen" from him by his father.

    "The money was mine, it was my money," Mitya kept repeating. "Even

if I had stolen it, I should have had the right."

    He hardly contested the evidence against him, and if he tried to

turn a fact to his advantage, it was in an absurd and incoherent

way. He hardly seemed to wish to defend himself to Ivan or 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 Grigory's evidence about

the open door, and declared that it was "the devil that opened it."

But he could not bring forward any coherent explanation of the fact.

He even succeeded in insulting Ivan during their first interview,

telling him sharply that it was not for people who declared that

"everything was lawful," to suspect and question him. Altogether he

was anything but friendly with Ivan on that occasion. Immediately

after that interview with Mitya, Ivan went for the first time to see

Smerdyakov.

    In the railway train on his way from Moscow, he kept thinking of

Smerdyakov and of his last conversation with him on the evening before

he went away. Many things seemed to him puzzling and suspicious.

when he gave his evidence to the investigating lawyer Ivan said

nothing, for the time, of that conversation. He put that off till he

had seen Smerdyakov, who was at that time in the hospital.

    Doctor Herzenstube and Varvinsky, the doctor he met in the

hospital, confidently asserted in reply to Ivan's persistent

questions, that Smerdyakov's epileptic attack was unmistakably

genuine, and were surprised indeed at Ivan 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 Doctor Herzenstube, "that his

reason would be impaired for a considerable period, if not

permanently." On Ivan'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. Ivan decided to find out for himself what those

abnormalities were.

    At the hospital he was at once allowed to see the patient.

Smerdyakov was lying on a truckle-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. Smerdyakov grinned uncertainly on

seeing Ivan, and for the first instant seemed nervous. So at least

Ivan fancied. But that was only momentary. For the rest of the time he

was struck, on the contrary, by Smerdyakov's composure. From the first

glance Ivan had no doubt that he was very ill. He was very weak; he

spoke slowly, seeming to move his tongue with difficulty; he was

much thinner and sallower.Throughout the interview, which lasted

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, Smerdyakov showed himself unchanged. "It's

always worth while speaking to a clever man." Ivan was reminded of

that at once. He sat down on the stool at his feet. Smerdyakov, with

painful effort, shifted his position in bed, but he was not the

first to speak. He remained dumb, and did not even look much

interested.

    "Can you. talk to me?" asked Ivan. "I won't tire you much."

    "Certainly I can," mumbled Smerdyakov, in a faint voice. "Has your

honour been back long?" he added patronisingly, as though

encouraging a nervous visitor.

    "I only arrived to-day.... To see the mess you are in here."

    Smerdyakov sighed.

    "Why do you sigh? You knew of it all along," Ivan blurted out.

    Smerdyakov 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?" Smerdyakov queried with

composure.

    Ivan felt suddenly angry.

    "No, I haven't yet, but I certainly shall. You must explain a

great deal to me, my man; and let me tell you, I 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 Smerdyakov, with the same composure, only

for a moment closing his eyes.

    "In the first place," began Ivan, "I know that epileptic fits

can't be told beforehand. I've inquired; don't try and take me in. You

can't foretell the day and the hour. How was it you told me the day

and the hour beforehand, and about the cellar, too? How could you tell

that you would fall down the cellar stairs in a fit, if you didn't

sham a fit on purpose?"

    "I had to go to the cellar anyway, several times a day, indeed,"

Smerdyakov 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 presentiment 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."

    "And the cellar? How could you know beforehand of the cellar?"

    "You don't seem able to get over that cellar! As I was going

down to the cellar, I was in terrible dread and doubt. What frightened

me most was losing you and being left without 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

Doctor Herzenstube and Nikolay Parfenovitch, 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, Smerdyakov. drew a deep breath, as though

exhausted.

    "Then 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 Smerdyakov had

already reported it all himself.

    "What have I to be afraid of? Let them write down the whole

truth," Smerdyakov pronounced firmly.

    "And have you told them every word of our conversation at the

gate?"

    "No, not to say every word."

    "And did you tell them that you can sham fits, as you boasted

then?"

    "No, I didn't tell them that either."

    "Tell me now, why did you send me then to Tchermashnya?"

    "I was afraid you'd go away to Moscow; Tchermashnya is nearer,

anyway."

    "You are lying; you suggested my going away yourself; you told

me to get out of the way of trouble."

    "That was simply out of affection and my sincere devotion to

you, 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!" Ivan

suddenly fired up.

    "How could I have said it more directly then? It was simply my

fear that made me speak, and you might have been angry, too. I might

well have been apprehensive that Dmitri Fyodorovitch 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

Ivan, pondering.

    "You might have guessed from my sending you to Tchermashnya 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 Tchermashnya, that I wanted to have you nearer,

for Moscow's a long way off, and Dmitri Fyodorovitch, 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

Vassilyevitch'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

in to the deceased, and that Dmitri Fyodorovitch 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 Tchermashnya even, but would

stay."

    "He talks very coherently," thought Ivan, "though he does

mumble; what's the derangement of his faculties that Herzenstube

talked of?"

    "You are cunning with me, damn you!" he exclaimed, getting angry.

    "But I thought at the time that you quite guessed," Smerdyakov

parried with the simplest air.

    "If I'd guessed, I should have stayed," cried Ivan.

    "Why, I thought that it was because you guessed, that you went

away in such a hurry, only to get out of trouble, only to run away and

save yourself in your fright."

    "You think that everyone is as great a coward as yourself?"

    "Forgive me, I thought you were like me."

    "Of course, I ought to have guessed," Ivan said in agitation; "and

I did guess there was some mischief brewing on your part... only you

are lying, you are lying again," he cried, suddenly recollecting.

"Do you remember how you went up to the carriage and said to me, 'It's

always worth while speaking to a clever man'? So you were glad I

went away, since you praised me?"

    Smerdyakov 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 Tchermashnya.

For it was nearer, anyway. Only when I said these words to you, it was

not by way of praise, but of reproach. You didn't understand it."

    "What reproach?"

    "Why, that foreseeing such a calamity you deserted your own

father, and would not protect us, for I might have been taken up any

time for stealing that three thousand."

    "Damn you!" Ivan swore again. "Stay, did you tell the prosecutor

and the investigating lawyer about those knocks?"

    "I told them everything just as it was."

    Ivan wondered inwardly again.

    "If I thought of anything then," he began again, "it was solely of

some wickedness on your part. Dmitri 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 Smerdyakov, with a

bitter grin. "And who will believe him with all the proofs against

him? Grigory Vassilyevitch 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 such evidence against myself beforehand? And to

his son, too! Upon my word! Is that likely? As if that could be;

such a thing has never happened. No one hears this talk of ours now,

except Providence itself, and if you were to tell of it to the

prosecutor and Nikolay Parfenovitch you might defend me completely

by doing so, for who would be likely to be such a criminal, if he is

so open-hearted beforehand? Anyone can see that."

    "Well," and Ivan got up to cut short the conversation, struck by

Smerdyakov'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 Ivan say

suddenly.

    "I quite understand. And if you don't speak of that, I shall say

nothing of that conversation of ours at the gate."

    Then it happened that Ivan went out, and only when he had gone a

dozen steps along the corridor, he suddenly felt that there was an

insulting significance in Smerdyakov'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

Smerdyakov, but Mitya, who had committed the murder, though he might

have been expected to feel the opposite. He did not want to analyse

the reason for this feeling, and even felt a positive repugnance at

prying into his sensations. He felt as though he wanted to make

haste to forget something. In the following days he became convinced

of Mitya's guilt, as he got to know all the weight of evidence against

him. There was evidence of people of no importance, 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 Mokroe, their evidence seemed conclusive.

It was the details that were so damning. The secret of the knocks

impressed the lawyers almost as much as Grigory's evidence as to the

open door. Grigory's wife, Marfa, in answer to Ivan's questions,

declared that Smerdyakov 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 Herzenstube, and giving it as his opinion that

Smerdyakov was not mad, but only rather weak, Ivan only evoked from

the old man a subtle smile.

    "Do you know how he spends his time now?" he asked; "learning

lists of French words by heart. He has an exercise-book under his

pillow with the French words written out in Russian letters for him by

someone, he he he!"

    Ivan ended by dismissing all doubts. He could not think of

Dmitri without repulsion. Only one thing was strange, however. Alyosha

persisted that Dmitri was not the murderer, and that "in all

probability" Smerdyakov was. Ivan always felt that Alyosha's opinion

meant a great deal to him, and so he was astonished at it now. Another

thing that was strange was that Alyosha did not make any attempt to

talk about Mitya with Ivan, that he never began on the subject and

only answered his questions. This, too, struck Ivan particularly.

    But he was very much preoccupied at that time with something quite

apart from that. On his return from Moscow, he abandoned himself

hopelessly to his mad and consuming passion for Katerina Ivanovna.

This is not the time to begin to speak of this new passion of

Ivan's, which left its mark on all the rest of his life: this would

furnish the subject for another novel, which I may perhaps never

write. But I cannot omit to mention here that when Ivan, on leaving

Katerina Ivanovna with Alyosha, as I've related already, told him,

"I am not keen on her," it was an absolute lie: he loved her madly,

though at times he hated her so that he might have murdered her.

Many causes helped to bring about this feeling. Shattered by what

had happened with Mitya, she rushed on Ivan's return to meet him as

her one salvation. She was hurt, insulted and humiliated in her

feelings. And here the man had come back to her, who had loved her

so ardently before (oh! she knew that very well), and whose heart

and intellect she considered so superior to her own. But the sternly

virtuous girl did not abandon herself altogether to the man she loved,

in spite of the Karamazov violence of his passions and the great

fascination he had for her. She was continually tormented at the

same time by remorse for having deserted Mitya, and in moments of

discord and violent anger (and they were numerous) she told Ivan so

plainly. This was what he had called to Alyosha "lies upon lies."

There was, of course, much that was false in it, and that angered Ivan

more than anything.... But of all this later.

    He did, in fact, for a time almost forget Smerdyakov'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 on to the

stairs like a thief and listened to hear what his father was doing

below? Why had he recalled that afterwards with repulsion? Why next

morning, had he been suddenly so depressed on the journey? Why, as

he reached Moscow, had he said to himself, "I am a scoundrel"? And now

he almost fancied that these tormenting thoughts would make him even

forget Katerina Ivanovna, so completely did they take possession of

him again. It was just after fancying this, that he met Alyosha in the

street. He stopped him at once, and put a question to him:

    "Do you remember when Dmitri 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 Dmitri 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 Ivan, "I want above everything to know what you

thought then. I want the truth, the truth!"

    He drew a deep breath, looking angrily at Alyosha before his

answer came.

    "Forgive me, I did think that, too, at the time," whispered

Alyosha, and he did not add one softening phrase.

    "Thanks," snapped Ivan, and, leaving Alyosha, he went quickly on

his way. From that time Alyosha noticed that Ivan 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, Ivan had not gone home, but went straight to

Smerdyakov again.