WHEN he was half-way there, the keen dry wind that had been

blowing early that morning rose again, and a fine dry snow began

falling thickly. It did not lie on the ground, but was whirled about

by the wind, and soon there was a regular snowstorm. There were

scarcely any lamp-posts in the part of the town where Smerdyakov

lived. Ivan strode alone in the darkness, unconscious of the storm,

instinctively picking out his way. His head ached and there was a

painful throbbing in his temples. He felt that his hands were

twitching convulsively. Not far from Marya Kondratyevna's cottage,

Ivan suddenly came upon a solitary drunken little peasant. He was

wearing a coarse and patched coat, and was walking in zigzags,

grumbling and swearing to himself. Then suddenly he would begin

singing in a husky drunken voice:



                 Ach, Vanka's gone to Petersburg;

                   I won't wait till he comes back.



    But he broke off every time at the second line and began

swearing again; then he would begin the same song again. Ivan felt

an intense hatred for him before he had thought about him at all.

Suddenly he realised his presence and felt an irresistible impulse

to knock him down. At that moment they met, and the peasant with a

violent lurch fell full tilt against Ivan, who pushed him back

furiously. The peasant went flying backwards and fell like a log on

the frozen ground. He uttered one plaintive "O- oh!" and then was

silent. Ivan stepped up to him. He was lying on his back, without

movement or consciousness. "He will be frozen," thought Ivan, and he

went on his way to Smerdyakov's.

    In the passage, Marya Kondratyevna, who ran out to open the door

with a candle in her hand, whispered that Smerdyakov was very ill;

"It's not that he's laid up, but he seems not himself, and he even

told us to take the tea away; he wouldn't have any."

    "Why, does he make a row?" asked Ivan coarsely.

    "Oh dear no, quite the contrary, he's very quiet. Only please

don't talk to him too long," Marya Kondratyevna begged him. Ivan

opened the door and stepped into the room.

    It was over-heated as before, but there were changes in the

room. One of the benches at the side had been removed, and in its

place had been put a large old mahogany leather sofa, on which a bed

had been made up, with fairly clean white pillows. Smerdyakov was

sitting on the sofa, wearing the same dressing-gown. The table had

been brought out in front of the sofa, so that there was hardly room

to move. On the table lay a thick book in yellow cover, but Smerdyakov

was not reading it. He seemed to be sitting doing nothing. He met Ivan

with a slow silent gaze, and was apparently not at all surprised at

his coming. There was a great change in his face; he was much

thinner and sallower. His eyes were sunken and there were blue marks

under them.

    "Why, you really are ill?" Ivan stopped short. "I won't keep you

long, I wont even take off my coat. Where can one sit down?"

    He went to the other end of the table, moved up a chair and sat

down on it.

    "Why do you look at me without speaking? We only come with one

question, and I swear I won't go without an answer. Has the young

lady, Katerina Ivanovna, been with you?"

    Smerdyakov still remained silent, looking quietly at Ivan as

before. Suddenly, with a motion of his hand, he turned his face away.

    "What's the matter with you?" cried Ivan.

    "Nothing."

    "What do you mean by 'nothing'?"

    "Yes, she has. It's no matter to you. Let me alone."

    "No, I won't let you alone. Tell me, when was she here?"

    "Why, I'd quite forgotten about her," said Smerdyakov, with a

scornful smile, and turning his face to Ivan again, he stared at him

with a look of frenzied hatred, the same look that he had fixed on him

at their last interview, a month before.

    "You seem very ill yourself, your face is sunken; you don't look

like yourself," he said to Ivan.

    "Never mind my health, tell me what I ask you.,

    "But why are your eyes so yellow? The whites are quite yellow. Are

you so worried?" He smiled contemptuously and suddenly laughed

outright.

    "Listen; I've told you I won't go away without an answer!" Ivan

cried, intensely irritated.

    "Why do you keep pestering me? Why do you torment me?" said

Smerdyakov, with a look of suffering.

    "Damn it! I've nothing to do with you. Just answer my question and

I'll go away."

    "I've no answer to give you," said Smerdyakov, looking down again.

    "You may be sure I'll make you answer!"

    "Why are you so uneasy?" Smerdyakov stared at him, not simply with

contempt, but almost with repulsion. "Is this because the trial begins

to-morrow? Nothing will happen to you; can't you believe that at last?

Go home, go to bed and sleep in peace, don't be afraid of anything."

    "I don't understand you.... What have I to be afraid of

to-morrow?" Ivan articulated in astonishment, and suddenly a chill

breath of fear did in fact pass over his soul. Smerdyakov measured him

with his eyes.

    "You don't understand?" he drawled reproachfully. "It's a

strange thing a sensible man should care to play such a farce!"

    Ivan looked at him speechless. The startling, incredibly

supercilious tone of this man who had once been his valet, was

extraordinary in itself. He had not taken such a tone even at their

last interview.

    "I tell you, you've nothing to be afraid of. I won't say

anything about you; there's no proof against you. I say, how your

hands are trembling! Why are your fingers moving like that? Go home,

you did not murder him."

    Ivan started. He remembered Alyosha.

    "I know it was not I," he faltered.

    "Do you?" Smerdyakov caught him up again.

    Ivan jumped up and seized him by the shoulder.

    "Tell me everything, you viper! Tell me everything!"

    Smerdyakov was not in the least scared. He only riveted his eyes

on Ivan with insane hatred.

    "Well, it was you who murdered him, if that's it," he whispered

furiously.

    Ivan sank back on his chair, as though pondering something. He

laughed malignantly.

    "You mean my going away. What you talked about last time?"

    "You stood before me last time and understood it all, and you

understand it now."

    "All I understand is that you are mad."

    "Aren't you tired of it? Here we are face to face; what's the

use of going on keeping up a farce to each other? Are you still trying

to throw it all on me, to my face? You murdered him; you are the

real murderer, I was only your instrument, your faithful servant,

and it was following your words I did it."

    "Did it? Why, did you murder him?" Ivan turned cold.

    Something seemed to give way in his brain, and he shuddered all

over with a cold shiver. Then Smerdyakov himself looked at him

wonderingly; probably the genuineness of Ivan's horror struck him.

    "You don't mean to say you really did not know?" he faltered

mistrustfully, looking with a forced smile into his eyes. Ivan still

gazed at him, and seemed unable to speak.



                 Ach, Vanka's gone to Petersburg;

                   I won't wait till he comes back,



suddenly echoed in his head.

    "Do you know, I am afraid that you are a dream, a phantom

sitting before me," he muttered.

    "There's no phantom here, but only us two and one other. No

doubt he is here, that third, between us."

    "Who is he? Who is here? What third person?" Ivan cried in

alarm, looking about him, his eyes hastily searching in every corner.

    "That third is God Himself- Providence. He is the third beside

us now. Only don't look for Him, you won't find him."

    "It's a lie that you killed him!" Ivan cried madly. "You are

mad, or teasing me again!"

    Smerdyakov, as before, watched him curiously, with no sign of

fear. He could still scarcely get over his incredulity; he still

fancied that Ivan knew everything and was trying to "throw it all on

him to his face."

    "Wait a minute," he said at last in a weak voice, and suddenly

bringing up his left leg from under the table, he began turning up his

trouser leg. He was wearing long white stockings and slippers.

Slowly he took off his garter and fumbled to the bottom of his

stocking. Ivan gazed at him, and suddenly shuddered in a paroxysm of

terror.

    "He's mad!" he cried, and rapidly jumping up, he drew back, so

that he knocked his back against the wall and stood up against it,

stiff and straight. He looked with insane terror at Smerdyakov, who,

entirely unaffected by his terror, continued fumbling in his stocking,

as though he were making an effort to get hold of something with his

fingers and pull it out. At last he got hold of it and began pulling

it out. Ivan saw that it was a piece of paper, or perhaps a roll of

papers. Smerdyakov pulled it out and laid it on the table.

    "Here," he said quietly.

    "What is it?" asked Ivan, trembling.

    "Kindly look at it," Smerdyakov answered, still in the same low

tone.

    Ivan stepped up to the table, took up the roll of paper and

began unfolding it, but suddenly drew back his fingers, as though from

contact with a loathsome reptile.

    "Your hands keep twitching," observed Smerdyakov, and he

deliberately unfolded the bundle himself. Under the wrapper were three

packets of hundred-rouble notes.

    "They are all here, all the three thousand roubles; you need not

count them. Take them," Smerdyakov suggested to Ivan, nodding at the

notes. Ivan sank back in his chair. He was as white as a handkerchief.

    "You frightened me... with your stocking," he said, with a strange

grin.

    "Can you really not have known till now?" Smerdyakov asked once

more.

    "No, I did not know. I kept thinking of Dmitri. Brother,

brother! Ach!" He suddenly clutched his head in both hands.

    "Listen. Did you kill him alone? With my brother's help or

without?"

    "It was only with you, with your help, I killed him, and Dmitri

Fyodorovitch is quite innocent."

    "All right, all right. Talk about me later. Why do I keep on

trembling? I can't speak properly."

    "You were bold enough then. You said 'everything was lawful,'

and how frightened you are now," Smerdyakov muttered in surprise.

"Won't you have some lemonade? I'll ask for some at once. It's very

refreshing. Only I must hide this first."

    And again he motioned at the notes. He was just going to get up

and call at the door to Marya Kondratyevna to make some lemonade and

bring it them, but, looking for something to cover up the notes that

she might not see them, he first took out his handkerchief, and as

it turned out to be very dirty, took up the big yellow book that

Ivan had noticed at first lying on the table, and put it over the

notes. The book was The Sayings of the Holy Father Isaac the Syrian.

Ivan read it mechanically.

    "I won't have any lemonade," he said. "Talk of me later. Sit

down and tell me how you did it. Tell me all about it."

    "You'd better take off your greatcoat, or you'll be too hot."

Ivan, as though he'd only just thought of it, took off his coat,

and, without getting up from his chair, threw it on the bench.

    "Speak, please, speak."

    He seemed calmer. He waited, feeling sure that Smerdyakov would

tell him all about it.

    "How it was done?" sighed Smerdyakov. "It was done in a most

natural way, following your very words."

    "Of my words later," Ivan broke in again, apparently with complete

self-possession, firmly uttering his words, and not shouting as

before. "Only tell me in detail how you did it. Everything, as it

happened. Don't forget anything. The details, above everything, the

details, I beg you."

    "You'd gone away, then I fell into the cellar."

    "In a fit or in a sham one?"

    "A sham one, naturally. I shammed it all. I went quietly down

the steps to the very bottom and lay down quietly, and as I lay down I

gave a scream, and struggled, till they carried me out."

    "Stay! And were you shamming all along, afterwards, and in the

hospital?"

    "No, not at all. Next day, in the morning, before they took me

to the hospital, I had a real attack and a more violent one than

I've had for years. For two days I was quite unconscious."

    "All right, all right. Go on."

    "They laid me on the bed. I knew I'd be the other side of the

partition, for whenever I was ill, Marfa Ignatyevna used to put me

there, near them. She's always been very kind to me, from my birth up.

At night I moaned, but quietly. I kept expecting Dmitri Fyodorovitch

to come."

    "Expecting him? To come to you?"

    "Not to me. I expected him to come into the house, for I'd no

doubt that he'd come that night, for being without me and getting no

news, he'd be sure to come and climb over the fence, as he used to,

and do something."

    "And if he hadn't come?"

    "Then nothing would have happened. I should never have brought

myself to it without him."

    "All right, all right. speak more intelligibly, don't hurry; above

all, don't leave anything out!"

    "I expected him to kill Fyodor Pavlovitch. I thought that was

certain, for I had prepared him for it... during the last few days....

He knew about the knocks, that was the chief thing. With his

suspiciousness and the fury which had been growing in him all those

days, he was bound to get into the house by means of those taps.

That was inevitable, so I was expecting him."

    "Stay," Ivan interrupted; "if he had killed him, he would have

taken the money and carried it away; you must have considered that.

What would you have got by it afterwards? I don't see."

0    "But he would never have found the money. That was only what I

told him, that the money was under the mattress. But that wasn't true.

It had been lying in a box. And afterwards I suggested to Fyodor

Pavlovitch, as I was the only person he trusted, to hide the

envelope with the notes in the corner behind the ikons, for no one

would have guessed that place, especially if they came in a hurry.

So that's where the envelope lay, in the corner behind the ikons. It

would have been absurd to keep it under the mattress; the box, anyway,

could be locked. But all believe it was under the mattress. A stupid

thing to believe. So if Dmitri Fyodorovitch had committed the

murder, finding nothing, he would either have run away in a hurry,

afraid of every sound, as always happens with murderers, or he would

have been arrested. So I could always have clambered up to the ikons

and have taken away the money next moming or even that night, and it

would have all been put down to Dmitri Fyodorovitch. I could reckon

upon that."

    "But what if he did not kill him, but only knocked him down?"

    "If he did not kill him, of course, I would not have ventured to

take the money, and nothing would have happened. But I calculated that

he would beat him senseless, and I should have time to take it then,

and then I'd make out to Fyodor Pavlovitch that it was no one but

Dmitri Fyodorovitch who had taken the money after beating him."

    "Stop... I am getting mixed. Then it was Dmitri after all who

killed him; you only took the money?"

    "No, he didn't kill him. Well, I might as well have told you now

that he was the murderer.... But I don't want to lie to you now

because... because if you really haven't understood till now, as I see

for myself, and are not pretending, so as to throw your guilt on me to

my very face, you are still responsible for it all, since you knew

of the murder and charged me to do it, and went away knowing all about

it. And so I want to prove to your face this evening that you are

the only real murderer in the whole affair, and I am not the real

murderer, though I did kill him. You are the rightful murderer."

    "Why, why, am I a murderer? Oh, God!" Ivan cried, unable to

restrain himself at last, and forgetting that he had put off

discussing himself till the end of the conversation. "You still mean

that Tchermashnya? Stay, tell me, why did you want my consent, if

you really took Tchermashnya for consent? How will you explain that

now?"

    "Assured of your consent, I should have known that you wouldn't

have made an outcry over those three thousand being lost, even if

I'd been suspected, instead of Dmitri Fyodorovitch, or as his

accomplice; on the contrary, you would have protected me from

others.... And when you got your inheritance you would have rewarded

me when you were able, all the rest of your life. For you'd have

received your inheritance through me, seeing that if he had married

Agrafena Alexandrovna, you wouldn't have had a farthing."

    "Ah! Then you intended to worry me all my life afterwards,"

snarled Ivan. "And what if I hadn't gone away then, but had informed

against you?"

    "What could you have informed? That I persuaded you to go to

Tcherinashnya? That's all nonsense. Besides, after our conversation

you would either have gone away or have stayed. If you had stayed,

nothing would have happened. I should have known that you didn't

want it done, and should have attempted nothing. As you went away,

it meant you assured me that you wouldn't dare to inform against me at

the trial, and that you'd overlook my having the three thousand.

And, indeed, you couldn't have prosecuted me afterwards, because

then I should have told it all in the court; that is, not that I had

stolen the money or killed him- I shouldn't have said that- but that

you'd put me up to the theft and the murder, though I didn't consent

to it. That's why I needed your consent, so that you couldn't have

cornered me afterwards, for what proof could you have had? I could

always have cornered you, revealing your eagerness for your father's

death, and I tell you the public would have believed it all, and you

would have been ashamed for the rest of your life."

    "Was I then so eager, was I?" Ivan snarled again.

    "To be sure you were, and by your consent you silently

sanctioned my doing it." Smerdyakov looked resolutely at Ivan. He

was very weak and spoke slowly and wearily, but some hidden inner

force urged him on. He evidently had some design. Ivan felt that.

    "Go on," he said. "Tell me what happened that night."

    "What more is there to tell! I lay there and I thought I heard the

master shout. And before that Grigory Vassilyevitch had suddenly got

up and came out, and he suddenly gave a scream, and then all was

silence and darkness. I lay there waiting, my heart beating; I

couldn't bear it. I got up at last, went out. I saw the window open on

the left into the garden, and I stepped to the left to listen

whether he was sitting there alive, and I heard the master moving

about, sighing, so I knew he was alive. 'Ech!' I thought. I went to

the window and shouted to the master, 'It's I.' And he shouted to

me, 'He's been, he's been; he's run away.' He meant Dmitri

Fyodorovitch had been. 'He's killed Grigory! "Where?' I whispered.

'There, in the corner,' he pointed. He was whispering, too. 'Wait a

bit," I said. I went to the corner of the garden to look, and there

I came upon Grigory Vassilyevitch lying by the wall, covered with

blood, senseless. So it's true that Dmitri Fyodorovitch has been here,

was the thought that came into my head, and I determined on the spot

to make an end of it, as Grigory Vassilyevitch, even if he were alive,

would see nothing of it, as he lay there senseless. The only risk

was that Marfa Ignatyevna might wake up. I felt that at the moment,

but the longing to get it done came over me, till I could scarcely

breathe. I went back to the window to the master and said, 'She's

here, she's come; Agrafena Alexandrovna has come, wants to be let in.'

And he started like a baby. 'Where is she?' he fairly gasped, but

couldn't believe it. 'She's standing there,' said I. 'Open.' He looked

out of the window at me, half believing and half distrustful, but

afraid to open. 'Why, he is afraid of me now,' I thought. And it was

funny. I bethought me to knock on the window-frame those taps we'd

agreed upon as a signal that Grushenka had come, in his presence,

before his eyes. He didn't seem to believe my word, but as soon as

he heard the taps, he ran at once to open the door. He opened it. I

would have gone in, but he stood in the way to prevent me passing.

'Where is she? Where is she?' He looked at me, all of a tremble.

'Well,' thought I, 'if he's so frightened of me as all that, it's a

bad lookout!' And my legs went weak with fright that he wouldn't let

me in or would call out, or Marfa Ignatyevna would run up, or

something else might happen. I don't remember now, but I must have

stood pale, facing him. I whispered to him, 'Why, she's there,

there, under the window; how is it you don't see her?' I said.

'Bring her then, bring her.' 'She's afraid,' said I; 'she was

frightened at the noise, she's hidden in the bushes; go and call to

her yourself from the study.' He ran to the window, put the candle

in the window. 'Grushenka,' he cried, 'Grushenka, are you here?'

Though he cried that, he didn't want to lean out of the window, he

didn't want to move away from me, for he was panic-stricken; he was so

frightened he didn't dare to turn his back on me. 'Why, here she

is,' said I. I went up to the window and leaned right out of it. 'Here

she is; she's in the bush, laughing at you, don't you see her?' He

suddenly believed it; he was all of a shake- he was awfully crazy

about her- and he leaned right out of the window. I snatched up that

iron paper-weight from his table; do you remember, weighing about

three pounds? I swung it and hit him on the top of the skull with

the corner of it. He didn't even cry out. He only sank down

suddenly, and I hit him again and a third time. And the third time I

knew I'd broken his skull. He suddenly rolled on his back, face

upwards, covered with blood. I looked round. There was no blood on me,

not a spot. I wiped the paper-weight, put it back, went up to the

ikons, took the money out of the envelope, and flung the envelope on

the floor and the pink ribbon beside it. I went out into the garden

all of a tremble, straight to the apple-tree with a hollow in it-

you know that hollow. I'd marked it long before and put a rag and a

piece of paper ready in it. I wrapped all the notes in the rag and

stuffed it deep down in the hole. And there it stayed for over a

fortnight. I took it out later, when I came out of the hospital. I

went back to my bed, lay down and thought, 'If Grigory Vassilyevitch

has been killed outright it may be a bad job for me, but if he is

not killed and recovers, it will be first-rate, for then he'll bear

witness that Dmitri Fyodorovitch has been here, and so he must have

killed him and taken the money.' Then I began groaning with suspense

and impatience, so as to wake Marfa Ignatyevna as soon as possible. At

last she got up and she rushed to me, but when she saw Grigory

Vassilyevitch was not there, she ran out, and I heard her scream in

the garden. And that set it all going and set my mind at rest."

    He stopped. Ivan had listened all the time in dead silence without

stirring or taking his eyes off him. As he told his story Smerdyakov

glanced at him from time to time, but for the most part kept his

eyes averted. When he had finished he was evidently agitated and was

breathing hard. The perspiration stood out on his face. But it was

impossible to tell whether it was remorse he was feeling, or what.

    "Stay," cried Ivan pondering. "What about the door? If he only

opened the door to you, how could Grigory have seen it open before?

For Grigory saw it before you went."

    It was remarkable that Ivan spoke quite amicably, in a different

tone, not angry as before, so if anyone had opened the door at that

moment and peeped in at them, he would certainly have concluded that

they were talking peaceably about some ordinary, though interesting,

subject.

    "As for that door and having seen it open, that's only his fancy,"

said Smerdyakov, with a wry smile. "He is not a man, I assure you, but

an obstinate mule. He didn't see it, but fancied he had seen it, and

there's no shaking him. It's just our luck he took that notion into

his head, for they can't fail to convict Dmitri Fyodorovitch after

that."

    "Listen... " said Ivan, beginning to seem bewildered again and

making an effort to grasp something. "Listen. There are a lot of

questions I want to ask you, but I forget them... I keep forgetting

and getting mixed up. Yes. Tell me this at least, why did you open the

envelope and leave it there on the floor? Why didn't you simply

carry off the envelope?... When you were telling me, I thought you

spoke about it as though it were the right thing to do... but why, I

can't understand..."

    "I did that for a good reason. For if a man had known all about

it, as I did for instance, if he'd seen those notes before, and

perhaps had put them in that envelope himself, and had seen the

envelope sealed up and addressed, with his own eyes, if such a man had

done the murder, what should have made him tear open the envelope

afterwards, especially in such desperate haste, since he'd know for

certain the notes must be in the envelope? No, if the robber had

been someone like me, he'd simply have put the envelope straight in

his pocket and got away with it as fast as he could. But it'd be quite

different with Dmitri Fyodorovitch. He only knew about the envelope by

hearsay; he had never seen it, and if he'd found it, for instance,

under the mattress, he'd have torn it open as quickly as possible to

make sure the notes were in it. And he'd have thrown the envelope

down, without having time to think that it would be evidence against

him. Because he was not an habitual thief and had never directly

stolen anything before, for he is a gentleman born, and if he did

bring himself to steal, it would not be regular stealing, but simply

taking what was his own, for he'd told the whole town he meant to

before, and had even bragged aloud before everyone that he'd go and

take his property from Fyodor Pavlovitch. I didn't say that openly

to the prosecutor when I was being examined, but quite the contrary, I

brought him to it by a hint, as though I didn't see it myself, and

as though he'd thought of it himself and I hadn't prompted him; so

that Mr. Prosecutor's mouth positively watered at my suggestion."

    "But can you possibly have thought of all that on the spot?" cried

Ivan, overcome with astonishment. He looked at Smerdyakov again with

alarm.

    "Mercy on us! Could anyone think of it all in such a desperate

hurry? It was all thought out beforehand."

    "Well... well, it was the devil helped you!" Ivan cried again.

"No, you are not a fool, you are far cleverer than I thought..."

    He got up, obviously intending to walk across the room. He was

in terrible distress. But as the table blocked his way, and there

was hardly room to pass between the table and the wall, he only turned

round where he stood and sat down again. Perhaps the impossibility

of moving irritated him, as he suddenly cried out almost as

furiously as before.

    "Listen, you miserable, contemptible creature! Don't you

understand that if I haven't killed you, it's simply because I am

keeping you to answer to-morrow at the trial. God sees," Ivan raised

his hand, "perhaps I, too, was guilty; perhaps I really had a secret

desire for my father's... death, but I swear I was not as guilty as

you think, and perhaps I didn't urge you on at all. No, no, I didn't

urge you on! But no matter, I will give evidence against myself

to-morrow at the trial. I'm determined to! I shall tell everything,

everything. But we'll make our appearance together. And whatever you

may say against me at the trial, whatever evidence you give, I'll face

it; I am not afraid of you. I'll confirm it all myself! But you must

confess, too! You must, you must; we'll go together. That's how it

shall be!"

    Ivan said this solemnly and resolutely and from his flashing

eyes alone it could be seen that it would be so.

    "You are ill, I see; you are quite ill. Your eyes are yellow,"

Smerdyakov commented, without the least irony, with apparent

sympathy in fact.

    "We'll go together," Ivan repeated. "And if you won't go, no

matter, I'll go alone."

    Smerdyakov paused as though pondering.

    "There'll be nothing of the sort, and you won't go," he

concluded at last positively.

    "You don't understand me," Ivan exclaimed reproachfully.

    "You'll be too much ashamed, if you confess it all. And, what's

more, it will be no use at all, for I shall say straight out that I

never said anything of the sort to you, and that you are either ill

(and it looks like it, too), or that you're so sorry for your

brother that you are sacrificing yourself to save him and have

invented it all against me, for you've always thought no more of me

than if I'd been a fly. And who will believe you, and what single

proof have you got?"

    "Listen, you showed me those notes just now to convince me."

    Smerdyakov lifted the book off the notes and laid it on one side.

    "Take that money away with you," Smerdyakov sighed.

    "Of course, I shall take it. But why do you give it to me, if

you committed the murder for the sake of it?" Ivan looked at him

with great surprise.

    "I don't want it," Smerdyakov articulated in a shaking voice, with

a gesture of refusal. "I did have an idea of beginning a new life with

that money in Moscow or, better still, abroad. I did dream of it,

chiefly because 'all things are lawful.' That was quite right what you

taught me, for you talked a lot to me about that. For if there's no

everlasting God, there's no such thing as virtue, and there's no

need of it. You were right there. So that's how I looked at it."

    "Did you come to that of yourself?" asked Ivan, with a wry smile.

    "With your guidance."

    "And now, I suppose, you believe in God, since you are giving back

the money?"

    "No, I don't believe," whispered Smerdyakov.

    "Then why are you giving it back?"

    "Leave off... that's enough!" Smerdyakov waved his hand again.

"You used to say yourself that everything was lawful, so now why are

you so upset, too? You even want to go and give evidence against

yourself.... Only there'll be nothing of the sort! You won't go to

give evidence," Smerdyakov decided with conviction.

    "You'll see," said Ivan.

    "It isn't possible. You are very clever. You are fond of money,

I know that. You like to be respected, too, for you're very proud; you

are far too fond of female charms, too, and you mind most of all about

living in undisturbed comfort, without having to depend on anyone-

that's what you care most about. You won't want to spoil your life for

ever by taking such a disgrace on yourself. You are like Fyodor

Pavlovitch, you are more like him than any of his children; you've the

same soul as he had."

    "You are not a fool," said Ivan, seeming struck. The blood

rushed to his face. "You are serious now!" he observed, looking

suddenly at Smerdyakov with a different expression.

    "It was your pride made you think I was a fool. Take the money."

    Ivan took the three rolls of notes and put them in his pocket

without wrapping them in anything.

    "I shall show them at the court to-morrow," he said.

    "Nobody will believe you, as you've plenty of money of your own;

you may simply have taken it out of your cash-box and brought it to

the court."

    Ivan rose from his seat.

    "I repeat," he said, "the only reason I haven't killed you is that

I need you for to-morrow, remember that, don't forget it!"

    "Well, kill me. Kill me now," Smerdyakov said, all at once looking

strangely at Ivan. "You won't dare do that even!" he added, with a

bitter smile. "You won't dare to do anything, you, who used to be so

bold!"

    "Till to-morrow," cried Ivan, and moved to go out.

    "Stay a moment.... Show me those notes again."

    Ivan took out the notes and showed them to him. Smerdyakov

looked at them for ten seconds.

    "Well, you can go," he said, with a wave of his hand. "Ivan

Fyodorovitch!" he called after him again.

    "What do you want?" Ivan turned without stopping.

    "Good-bye!"

    "Till to-morrow!" Ivan cried again, and he walked out of the

cottage.

    The snowstorm was still raging. He walked the first few steps

boldly, but suddenly began staggering. "It's something physical," he

thought with a grin. Something like joy was springing up in his heart.

He was conscious of unbounded resolution; he would make an end of

the wavering that had so tortured him of late. His determination was

taken, "and now it will not be changed," he thought with relief. At

that moment he stumbled against something and almost fell down.

Stopping short, he made out at his feet the peasant he had knocked

down, still lying senseless and motionless. The snow had almost

covered his face. Ivan seized him and lifted him in his arms. Seeing a

light in the little house to the right he went up, knocked at the

shutters, and asked the man to whom the house belonged to help him

carry the peasant to the police station, promising him three

roubles. The man got ready and came out. I won't describe in detail

how Ivan succeeded in his object, bringing the peasant to the

police-station and arranging for a doctor to see him at once,

providing with a liberal hand for the expenses. I will only say that

this business took a whole hour, but Ivan was well content with it.

His mind wandered and worked incessantly.

    "If I had not taken my decision so firmly for to-morrow," he

reflected with satisfaction, "I should not have stayed a whole hour to

look after the peasant, but should have passed by, without caring

about his being frozen. I am quite capable of watching myself, by

the way," he thought at the same instant, with still greater

satisfaction, "although they have decided that I am going out of my

mind!"

    Just as he reached his own house he stopped short, asking

himself suddenly hadn't he better go at once to the prosecutor and

tell him everything. He decided the question by turning back to the

house. "Everything together to-morrow!" he whispered to himself,

and, strange to say, almost all his gladness and selfsatisfaction

passed in one instant.

    As he entered his own room he felt something like a touch of ice

on his heart, like a recollection or, more exactly, a reminder, of

something agonising and revolting that was in that room now, at that

moment, and had been there before. He sank wearily on his sofa. The

old woman brought him a samovar; he made tea, but did not touch it. He

sat on the sofa and felt giddy. He felt that he was ill and

helpless. He was beginning to drop asleep, but got up uneasily and

walked across the room to shake off his drowsiness. At moments he

fancied he was delirious, but it was not illness that he thought of

most. Sitting down again, he began looking round, as though

searching for something. This happened several times. At last his eyes

were fastened intently on one point. Ivan smiled, but an angry flush

suffused his face. He sat a long time in his place, his head propped

on both arms, though he looked sideways at the same point, at the sofa

that stood against the opposite wall. There was evidently something,

some object, that irritated him there, worried him and tormented him.