The Brothers Karamazov
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 upon 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 honor 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
honor 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 honor 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
honor, 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 humor 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
paralyzed 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
honor 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