Ah, Vanka’s gone to Petersburg And I’ll not wait for him![300]
But he stopped each time at the second line, again began cursing someone, and then struck up the same song again. Ivan Fyodorovich had long been feeling an intense hatred for him, before he even thought about him, and suddenly he became aware of him. He at once felt an irresistible desire to bring his fist down on the little peasant. Just at that moment they came abreast of each other, and the little peasant, staggering badly, suddenly lurched full force into Ivan. The latter furiously shoved him away. The little peasant flew back and crashed like a log against the frozen ground, let out just one painful groan: “O-oh!” and was still. Ivan stepped up to him. He lay flat on his back, quite motionless, unconscious. “He’ll freeze!” Ivan thought, and strode off again to Smerdyakov.
Still in the hallway, Maria Kondratievna, who ran out with a candle in her hand to open the door, began whispering to him that Pavel Fyodorovich (that is, Smerdyakov) was very, very sick, sir, not sick in bed, sir, but as if he’s not in his right mind, sir, and even told her to take the tea away, he didn’t want any.
“What, is he violent or something?” Ivan Fyodorovich asked rudely.
“Oh, no, it’s the opposite, he’s very quiet, sir, only don’t talk to him for too long ... ,” Maria Kondratievna begged.
Ivan Fyodorovich opened the door and stepped into the room.
It was as well heated as the last time, but some changes could be noticed in the room: one of the side benches had been taken out, and a big, old leather sofa of imitation mahogany had appeared in its place. A bed had been made up on it, with quite clean white pillows. On the bed sat Smerdyakov, wearing the same dressing gown. The table had been moved in front of the sofa, so that there was now very little space in the room. On the table lay a thick book covered in yellow paper, but Smerdyakov was not reading it, he seemed to be sitting and doing nothing. He met Ivan Fyodorovich with a long, silent look, and was apparently not at all surprised at his coming. His face was changed, he had become very thin and yellow. His eyes were sunken, his lower eyelids had turned blue.
“But you really are sick?” Ivan Fyodorovich stopped. “I won’t keep you long, I won’t even take my coat off. Is there anywhere to sit?”
He went around the table, moved a chair up to it, and sat down. “So you stare and say nothing? I’ve come with just one question, and I swear I won’t leave without an answer: did the lady Katerina Ivanovna come to see you?”
There was a long silence during which Smerdyakov kept looking calmly at Ivan, but suddenly he waved his hand and turned his face away from him.
“What is it?” Ivan exclaimed.
“Nothing.”
“What nothing?”
“So she came, so what do you care? Leave me alone, sir.”
“No, I won’t leave you alone! Tell me, when was it?”
“I even forgot to remember about her,” Smerdyakov grinned contemptuously, and suddenly turned his face to Ivan again, fixing him with a sort of wildly hateful look, the same look as he had at their meeting a month earlier.
“You seem to be sick yourself, your face is all pinched, you look awful,” he said to Ivan.
“Never mind my health, answer the question.”
“And why have your eyes become yellow? The whites are quite yellow. Are you suffering greatly or what?”
He grinned contemptuously, and suddenly laughed outright.
“Listen, I said I won’t leave here without an answer!” Ivan cried in terrible irritation.
“Why are you bothering me, sir? Why are you tormenting me?” Smerdyakov said with suffering.
“Eh, the devil! I don’t care about you. Answer the question and I’ll leave at once.”
“I have nothing to answer you!” Smerdyakov dropped his eyes again.
“I assure you I shall make you answer!”
“Why do you keep worrying?” Smerdyakov suddenly stared at him, not so much with contempt now as almost with a sort of repugnance. “Is it because the trial starts tomorrow? But nothing will happen to you, be assured of that, finally! Go home, sleep peacefully, don’t fear anything.”
“I don’t understand you ... what could I have to fear tomorrow?” Ivan spoke in surprise, and suddenly some sort of fear indeed blew cold on his soul. Smerdyakov measured him with his eyes.
“You don’t un-der-stand?” he drawled reproachfully. “Why would an intelligent man want to put on such an act?”
Ivan gazed at him silently. The unexpected tone in which his former lackey now addressed him, full of quite unheard-of arrogance, was unusual in itself. There had been no such tone even at their last meeting.
“I’m telling you, you have nothing to fear. I won’t say anything against you, there’s no evidence. Look, his hands are trembling. Why are your fingers moving like that? Go home, it was not you that killed him.”
Ivan gave a start; he remembered Alyosha.
“I know it was not me ... ,” he began to murmur.
“You know?” Smerdyakov picked up again.
Ivan jumped up and seized him by the shoulder.
“Tell all, viper! Tell all!”
Smerdyakov was not in the least frightened. He merely fastened his eyes on him with insane hatred.
“Well, it was you who killed him in that case,” he whispered furiously.
Ivan sank onto his chair as if he had just figured something out. He grinned maliciously.
“You’re still talking about that? The same as last time?”
“But last time, too, you stood there and understood everything, and you understand it now.”
“I understand only that you are crazy.”
“Doesn’t a man get tired of it? Here we are, just the two of us, so what’s the use of putting on such an act, trying to fool each other? Or do you still want to shift it all onto me, right to my face? You killed him, you are the main killer, and I was just your minion, your faithful servant Licharda,[301] and I performed the deed according to your word.”
“Performed? Was it you that killed him?” Ivan went cold.
Something shook, as it were, in his brain, and he began shivering all over with cold little shivers. Now Smerdyakov in turn looked at him in surprise: he probably was struck, at last, by the genuineness of Ivan’s fear.
“You mean you really didn’t know anything? “ he murmured mistrustfully, looking him in the eye with a crooked grin.
Ivan kept staring at him; he seemed to have lost his tongue.
Ah, Vanka’s gone to Petersburg And I’ll not wait for him—
suddenly rang in his head.
“You know what: I’m afraid you’re a dream, a ghost sitting there in front of me,” he murmured.
“There’s no ghost, sir, besides the two of us, sir, and some third one. No doubt he’s here now, that third one, between the two of us.”
“Who is it? Who is here? What third one?” Ivan Fyodorovich said fearfully, looking around, his eyes hastily searching for someone in all the corners.
“That third one is God, sir, Providence itself, sir, it’s right here with us now, sir, only don’t look for it, you won’t find it.” “It’s a lie that you killed him!” Ivan shouted in a rage. “You’re either crazy, or you’re taunting me like the last time!”
Smerdyakov kept watching him inquisitively, as before, with no trace of fear. He still could not manage to get over his mistrust, he still thought Ivan “knew everything” and was merely pretending in order to “shift it all onto him, right to his face.”
“Just a moment, sir,” he finally said in a weak voice, and suddenly pulled his left leg from under the table and began rolling up his trouser. The leg turned out to have a long white stocking on it, and a slipper. Unhurriedly, Smerdyakov removed the garter and thrust his hand far down into the stocking. Ivan Fyodorovich stared at him and suddenly began shaking with convulsive fear.