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-bye!" 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 anyone 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 paralysed 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

someone. 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

someone to knock. Ivan went out on 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 honour 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 humour 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 anyone 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;* 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 I'm in desperate need of money.

Only let me know it's serious, and I'll run over and fix it up. I'll

snatch the time somehow. But what's the good of my galloping over,

if it's all a notion of the priest's? Come, will you go?"



    * i.e. setter dog.



    "Oh, I can't spare the time. You must excuse me."

    "Come, you might oblige your father. I shan't forget it. You've no

heart, any of you that's what it is! What's a day or two to you? Where

are you going now- to Venice? Your Venice will keep another two

days. I would have sent Alyosha, but what use is Alyosha in a thing

like that? I send you just because you are a clever fellow. Do you

suppose I don't see that? You know nothing about timber, but you've

got an eye. All that is wanted is to see whether the man is in

earnest. I tell you, watch his beard- if his beard shakes you know

he is in earnest."

    "You force me to go to that damned Tchermashnya yourself, then?"

cried Ivan, with a malignant smile.

    Fyodor Pavlovitch did not catch, or would not catch, the

malignancy, but he caught the smile.

    "Then you'll go, you'll go? I'll scribble the note for you at

once."

    "I don't know whether I shall go. I don't know. I'll decide on the

way."

    "Nonsense! Decide at once. My dear fellow, decide! If you settle

the matter, write me a line; give it to the priest and he'll send it

on to me at once. And I won't delay you more than that. You can go

to Venice. The priest will give you horses back to Volovya station."

    The old man was quite delighted. He wrote the note, and sent for

the horses. A light lunch was brought in, with brandy. When Fyodor

Pavlovitch was pleased, he usually became expansive, but to-day he

seemed to restrain himself. Of Dmitri, for instance, he did not say

a word. He was quite unmoved by the parting, and seemed, in fact, at a

loss for something to say. Ivan noticed this particularly. "He must be

bored with me," he thought. Only when accompanying his son out on to

the steps, the old man began to fuss about. He would have kissed

him, but Ivan made haste to hold out his hand, obviously avoiding

the kiss. His father saw it at once, and instantly pulled himself up.

    "Well, good luck to you, good luck to you!" he repeated from the

steps. "You'll come again some time or other? Mind you do come. I

shall always be glad to see you. Well, Christ be with you!"

    Ivan got into the carriage.

    "Good-bye, Ivan! Don't be too hard on me!" the father called for

the last time.

    The whole household came out to take leave- Smerdyakov, Marfa

and Grigory. Ivan gave them ten roubles each. When he had seated

himself in the carriage, Smerdyakov jumped up to arrange the rug.

    "You see... I am going to Tchermashnya," broke suddenly from Ivan.

Again, as the day before, the words seemed to drop of themselves,

and he laughed, too, a peculiar, nervous laugh. He remembered it

long after.

    "It's a true saying then, that 'it's always worth while speaking

to a clever man,'" answered Smerdyakov firmly, looking significantly

at Ivan.

    The carriage rolled away. Nothing was clear in Ivan's soul, but he

looked eagerly around him at the fields, at the hills, at the trees,

at a flock of geese flying high overhead in the bright sky. And all of

a sudden he felt very happy. He tried to talk to the driver, and he

felt intensely interested in an answer the peasant made him; but a

minute later he realised that he was not catching anything, and that

he had not really even taken in the peasant's answer. He was silent,

and it was pleasant even so. The air was pure and cool, sky bright.

The images of Alyosha and Katerina Ivanovna floated into his mind. But

he softly smiled, blew softly on the friendly phantoms, and they

flew away. "There's plenty of time for them," he thought. They reached

the station quickly, changed horses, and galloped to Volovya "Why is

it worth while speaking to a clever man? What did he mean by that?"

The thought seemed suddenly to clutch at his breathing. "And why did I

tell him I was going to Tchermashnya?" They reached Volovya station.

Ivan got out of the carriage, and the drivers stood round him

bargaining over the journey of twelve versts to Tchermashnya. He

told them to harness the horses. He went into the station house,

looked round, glanced at the overseer's wife, and suddenly went back

to the entrance.

    "I won't go to Tchermashnya. Am I too late to reach the railway by

seven, brothers?"

    "We shall just do it. Shall we get the carriage out?"

    "At once. Will any one of you be going to the town to-morrow?"

    "To be sure. Mitri here will."

    "Can you do me a service, Mitri? Go to my father's, to Fyodor

Pavlovitch Karamazov, and tell him I haven't gone to Tchermashnya. Can

you?"

    "Of course I can. I've known Fyodor Pavlovitch a long time."

    "And here's something for you, for I dare say he won't give you

anything," said Ivan, laughing gaily.

    "You may depend on it he won't." Mitri laughed too. "Thank you,

sir. I'll be sure to do it."

    At seven o'clock Ivan got into the train and set off to Moscow.

"Away with the past. I've done with the old world for ever, and may

I have no news, no echo, from it. To a new life, new places, and no

looking back!" But instead of delight his soul was filled with such

gloom, and his heart ached with such anguish, as he had never known in

his life before. He was thinking all the night. The train flew on, and

only at daybreak, when he was approaching Moscow, he suddenly roused

himself from his meditation.

    "I am a scoundrel," he whispered to himself.

    Fyodor Pavlovitch remained well satisfied at having seen his son

off. For two hours afterwards he felt almost happy, and sat drinking

brandy. But suddenly something happened which was very annoying and

unpleasant for everyone in the house, and completely upset Fyodor

Pavlovitch's equanimity at once. Smerdyakov went to the cellar for

something and fell down from the top of the steps. Fortunately,

Marfa Ignatyevna was in the yard and heard him in time. She did not

see the fall, but heard his scream- the strange, peculiar scream, long

familiar to her- the scream of the epileptic falling in a fit. They

could not tell whether the fit had come on him at the moment he was

decending the steps, so that he must have fallen unconscious, or

whether it was the fall and the shock that had caused the fit in

Smerdyakov, who was known to be liable to them. They found him at

the bottom of the cellar steps, writhing in convulsions and foaming at

the mouth. It was thought at first that he must have broken something-

an arm or a leg- and hurt himself, but "God had preserved him," as

Marfa Ignatyevna expressed it- nothing of the kind had happened. But

it was difficult to get him out of the cellar. They asked the

neighbours to help and managed it somehow. Fyodor Pavlovitch himself

was present at the whole ceremony. He helped, evidently alarmed and

upset. The sick man did not regain consciousness; the convulsions

ceased for a time, but then began again, and everyone concluded that

the same thing would happen, as had happened a year before, when he

accidently fell from the garret. They remembered that ice been put

on his head then. There was still ice in the cellar, and Marfa

Ignatyevna had some brought up. In the evening, Fyodor Pavlovitch sent

for Doctor Herzenstube, who arrived at once. He was a most estimable

old man, and the most careful and conscientious doctor in the

province. After careful examination, he concluded that the fit was a

very violent one and might have serious consequences; that meanwhile

he, Herzenstube, did not fully understand it, but that by to-morrow

morning, if the present remedies were unavailing, he would venture

to try something else. The invalid was taken to the lodge, to a room

next to Grigory's and Marfa Ignatyevna's.

    Then Fyodor Pavlovitch had one misfortune after another to put

up with that day. Marfa Ignatyevna cooked the dinner, and the soup,

compared with Smerdyakov's, was "no better than dish-water," and the

fowl was so dried up that it was impossible to masticate it. To her

master's bitter, though deserved, reproaches, Marfa Ignatyevna replied

that the fowl was a very old one to begin with, and that she had never

been trained as a cook. In the evening there was another trouble in

store for Fyodor Pavlovitch; he was informed that Grigory, who had not

been well for the last three days, was completely laid up by his

lumbago. Fyodor Pavlovitch finished his tea as early as possible and

locked himself up alone in the house. He was in terrible excitement

and suspense. That evening he reckoned on Grushenka's coming almost as

a certainty. He had received from Smerdyakov that morning an assurance

"that she had promised to come without fail." The incorrigible old

man's heart throbbed with excitement; he paced up and down his empty

rooms listening. He had to be on the alert. Dmitri might be on the

watch for her somewhere, and when she knocked on the window

(Smerdyakov had informed him two days before that he had told her

where and how to knock) the door must be opened at once. She must

not be a second in the passage, for fear which God forbid!- that she

should be frightened and run away. Fyodor Pavlovitch had much to think

of, but never had his heart been steeped in such voluptuous hopes.

This time he could say almost certainly that she would come!