feat_summary_path: finished_summaries/shmoop/The Brothers Karamazov/section_76_part_0.txt
feat_book_id: The Brothers Karamazov.book 11.chapter 8
feat_summary_id: book 11, chapter 8
feat_summary: {"name": "Book 11, Chapter 8", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20201023112808/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/brothers-karamazov/summary/book-11-chapter-8", "summary": "A blizzard starts up as Ivan heads over to Smerdyakov's. On the way he bumps into a peasant and shoves him violently out of the way. The peasant lies on the ground, unconscious, but Ivan doesn't help - nor does he seem to care that the peasant is dead. At Smerdyakov's, Maria informs Ivan that Smerdyakov is quite ill. When Ivan enters, Smerdyakov is laid up in bed, and Ivan notices that his eyes are yellow . Smerdyakov taunts Ivan with the suggestion that they killed Fyodor together. When Ivan calls him on it, Smerdyakov pulls out from his sock - bam! - a wad of 3,000 roubles. Ivan is flabbergasted by the sight of the incriminating evidence. Smerdyakov admits that he faked his epileptic fit on the day of the murder. And the money was never under Fyodor's mattress, as everyone, including Dmitri, thought; Smerdyakov had convinced Fyodor to hide it behind the icons. Smerdyakov slyly suggests that Ivan is actually the real murderer because he is just a simple servant, while Ivan is the mastermind. Ivan rejects this point and tells Smerdyakov that he's a lot smarter than people give him credit for. Smerdyakov had predicted that Dmitri would come out and try to steal the money that night, so when Dmitri finally left after hitting Grigory, Smerdyakov had gone up to Fyodor's window. Fyodor had been terrified by Dmitri's visit, so Smerdyakov tricked him into believing that Grushenka was outside, waiting to visit him. When Fyodor opened his window to look, Smerdyakov grabbed a cast-iron inkstand and clopped Fyodor over the head with it. Then he stole the money, leaving the envelope on the floor as if Dmitri had opened it up in a frenzy, and hid the money in the hollow of an apple tree in the yard. When Ivan asks Smerdyakov about the gate that Grigory had insisted was open, Smerdyakov smiles and confirms that it was closed; Grigory was simply confused. Ivan denounces Smerdyakov and tells him that the two of them are going to reveal everything at Dmitri's trial tomorrow. To Ivan's surprise, Smerdyakov offers him the 3,000 roubles. Ivan tells him this money doesn't change his mind and leaves. On the way back, Ivan comes across the unconscious peasant in the road. This time he picks him up and carries him on his back to get some help at a nearby cottage. Ivan thinks he might go directly to the commissioner to reveal everything, but then decides to wait until Dmitri's trial for the great revelation. Back in his own room, Ivan feels irritable and can't help staring at the empty sofa across from him.", "analysis": ""}
text: Chapter VIII. The Third And Last Interview With Smerdyakov
  
  
  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 realized 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
  won't 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? I've 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 he 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."
  
  "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 morning 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 Tchermashnya?
  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 look out!' 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 any one 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 Grigory Vassilyevitch's 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 some one 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 every one 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 any one 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 any one--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-by!"
  
  "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 self-satisfaction 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
  agonizing 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.
  
  
  
  
  
feat_summary_name: Book 11, Chapter 8
target: A blizzard starts up as Ivan heads over to Smerdyakov's. On the way he bumps into a peasant and shoves him violently out of the way. The peasant lies on the ground, unconscious, but Ivan doesn't help - nor does he seem to care that the peasant is dead. At Smerdyakov's, Maria informs Ivan that Smerdyakov is quite ill. When Ivan enters, Smerdyakov is laid up in bed, and Ivan notices that his eyes are yellow . Smerdyakov taunts Ivan with the suggestion that they killed Fyodor together. When Ivan calls him on it, Smerdyakov pulls out from his sock - bam! - a wad of 3,000 roubles. Ivan is flabbergasted by the sight of the incriminating evidence. Smerdyakov admits that he faked his epileptic fit on the day of the murder. And the money was never under Fyodor's mattress, as everyone, including Dmitri, thought; Smerdyakov had convinced Fyodor to hide it behind the icons. Smerdyakov slyly suggests that Ivan is actually the real murderer because he is just a simple servant, while Ivan is the mastermind. Ivan rejects this point and tells Smerdyakov that he's a lot smarter than people give him credit for. Smerdyakov had predicted that Dmitri would come out and try to steal the money that night, so when Dmitri finally left after hitting Grigory, Smerdyakov had gone up to Fyodor's window. Fyodor had been terrified by Dmitri's visit, so Smerdyakov tricked him into believing that Grushenka was outside, waiting to visit him. When Fyodor opened his window to look, Smerdyakov grabbed a cast-iron inkstand and clopped Fyodor over the head with it. Then he stole the money, leaving the envelope on the floor as if Dmitri had opened it up in a frenzy, and hid the money in the hollow of an apple tree in the yard. When Ivan asks Smerdyakov about the gate that Grigory had insisted was open, Smerdyakov smiles and confirms that it was closed; Grigory was simply confused. Ivan denounces Smerdyakov and tells him that the two of them are going to reveal everything at Dmitri's trial tomorrow. To Ivan's surprise, Smerdyakov offers him the 3,000 roubles. Ivan tells him this money doesn't change his mind and leaves. On the way back, Ivan comes across the unconscious peasant in the road. This time he picks him up and carries him on his back to get some help at a nearby cottage. Ivan thinks he might go directly to the commissioner to reveal everything, but then decides to wait until Dmitri's trial for the great revelation. Back in his own room, Ivan feels irritable and can't help staring at the empty sofa across from him.