The Brothers Karamazov
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 carelessness
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. Any one 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.
Chapter VII.
“It’s Always Worth While Speaking To A Clever Man”
And in the same nervous frenzy, too, he spoke. Meeting Fyodor
Pavlovitch in the drawing-room directly he went in, he shouted to him,
waving his hands, “I am going upstairs to my room, not in to you.
Good-by!” and passed by, trying not even to look at his father. Very
possibly the old man was too hateful to him at that moment; but such an
unceremonious display of hostility was a surprise even to Fyodor
Pavlovitch. And the old man evidently wanted to tell him something at
once and had come to meet him in the drawing-room on purpose. Receiving
this amiable greeting, he stood still in silence and with an ironical
air watched his son going upstairs, till he passed out of sight.
“What’s the matter with him?” he promptly asked Smerdyakov, who had
followed Ivan.
“Angry about something. Who can tell?” the valet muttered evasively.
“Confound him! Let him be angry then. Bring in the samovar, and get
along with you. Look sharp! No news?”
Then followed a series of questions such as Smerdyakov had just
complained of to Ivan, all relating to his expected visitor, and these
questions we will omit. Half an hour later the house was locked, and
the crazy old man was wandering along through the rooms in excited
expectation of hearing every minute the five knocks agreed upon. Now
and then he peered out into the darkness, seeing nothing.
It was very late, but Ivan was still awake and reflecting. He sat up
late that night, till two o’clock. But we will not give an account of
his thoughts, and this is not the place to look into that soul—its turn
will come. And even if one tried, it would be very hard to give an
account of them, for there were no thoughts in his brain, but something
very vague, and, above all, intense excitement. He felt himself that he
had lost his bearings. He was fretted, too, by all sorts of strange and
almost surprising desires; for instance, after midnight he suddenly had
an intense irresistible inclination to go down, open the door, go to
the lodge and beat Smerdyakov. But if he had been asked why, he could
not have given any exact reason, except perhaps that he loathed the
valet as one who had insulted him more gravely than any one in the
world. On the other hand, he was more than once that night overcome by
a sort of inexplicable humiliating terror, which he felt positively
paralyzed his physical powers. His head ached and he was giddy. A
feeling of hatred was rankling in his heart, as though he meant to
avenge himself on some one. He even hated Alyosha, recalling the
conversation he had just had with him. At moments he hated himself
intensely. Of Katerina Ivanovna he almost forgot to think, and wondered
greatly at this afterwards, especially as he remembered perfectly that
when he had protested so valiantly to Katerina Ivanovna that he would
go away next day to Moscow, something had whispered in his heart,
“That’s nonsense, you are not going, and it won’t be so easy to tear
yourself away as you are boasting now.”
Remembering that night long afterwards, Ivan recalled with peculiar
repulsion how he had suddenly got up from the sofa and had stealthily,
as though he were afraid of being watched, opened the door, gone out on
the staircase and listened to Fyodor Pavlovitch stirring down below,
had listened a long while—some five minutes—with a sort of strange
curiosity, holding his breath while his heart throbbed. And why he had
done all this, why he was listening, he could not have said. That
“action” all his life afterwards he called “infamous,” and at the
bottom of his heart, he thought of it as the basest action of his life.
For Fyodor Pavlovitch himself he felt no hatred at that moment, but was
simply intensely curious to know how he was walking down there below
and what he must be doing now. He wondered and imagined how he must be
peeping out of the dark windows and stopping in the middle of the room,
listening, listening—for some one to knock. Ivan went out on to the
stairs twice to listen like this.
About two o’clock when everything was quiet, and even Fyodor Pavlovitch
had gone to bed, Ivan had got into bed, firmly resolved to fall asleep
at once, as he felt fearfully exhausted. And he did fall asleep at
once, and slept soundly without dreams, but waked early, at seven
o’clock, when it was broad daylight. Opening his eyes, he was surprised
to feel himself extraordinarily vigorous. He jumped up at once and
dressed quickly; then dragged out his trunk and began packing
immediately. His linen had come back from the laundress the previous
morning. Ivan positively smiled at the thought that everything was
helping his sudden departure. And his departure certainly was sudden.
Though Ivan had said the day before (to Katerina Ivanovna, Alyosha, and
Smerdyakov) that he was leaving next day, yet he remembered that he had
no thought of departure when he went to bed, or, at least, had not
dreamed that his first act in the morning would be to pack his trunk.
At last his trunk and bag were ready. It was about nine o’clock when
Marfa Ignatyevna came in with her usual inquiry, “Where will your honor
take your tea, in your own room or downstairs?” He looked almost
cheerful, but there was about him, about his words and gestures,
something hurried and scattered. Greeting his father affably, and even
inquiring specially after his health, though he did not wait to hear
his answer to the end, he announced that he was starting off in an hour
to return to Moscow for good, and begged him to send for the horses.
His father heard this announcement with no sign of surprise, and forgot
in an unmannerly way to show regret at losing him. Instead of doing so,
he flew into a great flutter at the recollection of some important
business of his own.
“What a fellow you are! Not to tell me yesterday! Never mind; we’ll
manage it all the same. Do me a great service, my dear boy. Go to
Tchermashnya on the way. It’s only to turn to the left from the station
at Volovya, only another twelve versts and you come to Tchermashnya.”
“I’m sorry, I can’t. It’s eighty versts to the railway and the train
starts for Moscow at seven o’clock to-night. I can only just catch it.”
“You’ll catch it to-morrow or the day after, but to-day turn off to
Tchermashnya. It won’t put you out much to humor your father! If I
hadn’t had something to keep me here, I would have run over myself long
ago, for I’ve some business there in a hurry. But here I ... it’s not
the time for me to go now.... You see, I’ve two pieces of copse land
there. The Maslovs, an old merchant and his son, will give eight
thousand for the timber. But last year I just missed a purchaser who
would have given twelve. There’s no getting any one about here to buy
it. The Maslovs have it all their own way. One has to take what they’ll
give, for no one here dare bid against them. The priest at Ilyinskoe
wrote to me last Thursday that a merchant called Gorstkin, a man I
know, had turned up. What makes him valuable is that he is not from
these parts, so he is not afraid of the Maslovs. He says he will give
me eleven thousand for the copse. Do you hear? But he’ll only be here,
the priest writes, for a week altogether, so you must go at once and
make a bargain with him.”
“Well, you write to the priest; he’ll make the bargain.”
“He can’t do it. He has no eye for business. He is a perfect treasure,
I’d give him twenty thousand to take care of for me without a receipt;
but he has no eye for business, he is a perfect child, a crow could
deceive him. And yet he is a learned man, would you believe it? This
Gorstkin looks like a peasant, he wears a blue kaftan, but he is a
regular rogue. That’s the common complaint. He is a liar. Sometimes he
tells such lies that you wonder why he is doing it. He told me the year
before last that his wife was dead and that he had married another, and
would you believe it, there was not a word of truth in it? His wife has
never died at all, she is alive to this day and gives him a beating
twice a week. So what you have to find out is whether he is lying or
speaking the truth, when he says he wants to buy it and would give
eleven thousand.”
“I shall be no use in such a business. I have no eye either.”
“Stay, wait a bit! You will be of use, for I will tell you the signs by
which you can judge about Gorstkin. I’ve done business with him a long
time. You see, you must watch his beard; he has a nasty, thin, red
beard. If his beard shakes when he talks and he gets cross, it’s all
right, he is saying what he means, he wants to do business. But if he
strokes his beard with his left hand and grins—he is trying to cheat
you. Don’t watch his eyes, you won’t find out anything from his eyes,
he is a deep one, a rogue—but watch his beard! I’ll give you a note and
you show it to him. He’s called Gorstkin, though his real name is
Lyagavy;[4] but don’t call him so, he will be offended. If you come to
an understanding with him, and see it’s all right, write here at once.
You need only write: ‘He’s not lying.’ Stand out for eleven thousand;
one thousand you can knock off, but not more. Just think! there’s a
difference between eight thousand and eleven thousand. It’s as good as
picking up three thousand; it’s not so easy to find a purchaser, and