The Brothers Karamazov (51 page)

And he started peppering Smerdyakov with the kind of questions the man had just complained about to Ivan—all about the lady visitor he was waiting for—questions that we will omit here. Half an hour later the house was locked up and the obsessed old man was walking back and forth through the deserted rooms, quivering with anxiety, expecting to hear at any moment the five prearranged knocks, now and then looking out of the dark window, beyond which he could see nothing but the night.

It was very late, but Ivan had still not gone to bed. He was thinking. He went to sleep very late that night, at two o’clock or so. But we will not describe the train of his thoughts, especially as the time has not come yet for us to look into his soul—we shall do that in due course. Besides, even if we wanted to describe what was going on inside him, it would be very difficult, because it was not exactly thought but something hard to define, and something extremely troubled. Ivan felt he had lost his bearings. He was also tormented by all sorts of strange, almost unaccountable desires. When it was already well past midnight, for instance, he suddenly felt an almost irresistible urge to run downstairs, unlock the door, go over to the servants’ cottage, and give Smerdyakov a beating. But if he had been asked why, he would have been quite unable to give a single exact reason, except perhaps that Smerdyakov had become unbearably loathsome to him and he felt as if he had offended him more than anyone ever had before. On the other hand, during that night, he was submerged by waves of a peculiar and degrading fear which, he felt, drained him of his physical strength. His head ached and he felt dizzy. An inexplicable feeling of hatred seized him again and again, as though he were about to wreak a terrible revenge on someone. He even hated Alyosha, remembering their conversation that day, and at certain moments he hated himself. But he hardly, if at all, thought of Katerina. Later this fact surprised him, especially since he clearly remembered that when, the previous morning, he had so dramatically announced to her that he was leaving for Moscow the next day, an inner voice whispered: “You won’t go and you know it. It won’t be that easy to tear yourself away from her—you’re just showing off now!” Much later, when Ivan thought of that night, he remembered, with a particularly sickening feeling, getting up several times from his bed, tiptoeing very quietly to the door as if afraid to be caught, letting himself out onto the landing, and listening to his father moving about downstairs. Ivan would stand there for a long time, maybe five minutes, filled with a strange curiosity, holding his breath, his heart pounding wildly, but why he was doing this and what he was trying to overhear he had no idea himself. But throughout his later life he considered it loathsome that he had listened like that and, deep down in the mysterious recesses of his soul, he knew it was the most despicable thing he had ever done in his life. He felt no hatred for his father during those minutes; he was just somehow irresistibly curious about him, walking about down there, and, wondering what he was doing at that moment, imagined him staring out of the window into the night, pacing the floor again, stopping abruptly in the middle of the room, and listening to hear whether someone was knocking . . . Ivan went out onto the landing a couple of times to listen in that way. Only when his father went to bed at about two in the morning and everything became quiet did he, too, finally go to bed. He was completely exhausted and was determined to go to sleep right away. And he did fall asleep at once, slept deeply and dreamlessly, but he awoke early, at seven.

When he opened his eyes and saw that it was already light, Ivan, to his own surprise, felt an extraordinary surge of energy within him. He jumped out of bed, dressed quickly, pulled out his suitcase, and without wasting a minute hurriedly started packing. His laundry had been brought to him the day before and Ivan grinned at the thought of how everything was working out nicely so that there would be nothing to delay his sudden departure. And his departure was indeed sudden. For, despite the fact that he had announced it the previous day to Katerina and Alyosha, and later to Smerdyakov as well, he remembered clearly that when he had gone to bed he had not even thought of leaving the next day and it certainly had never occurred to him that the very first thing in the morning he would start packing. About nine, when his suitcase and his small bag were packed, Martha came in and asked him the usual question: Where would he like to have his tea, in his room or downstairs? Ivan said he’d have it downstairs that day and went down looking almost cheerful, although there was something hurried and absentminded in his gestures and the way he spoke. He greeted his father warmly, even inquired after his health, but then, without giving the old man a chance to finish answering him, Ivan blurted out that he was leaving for Moscow in an hour, that he was leaving for good, and that he would appreciate it if his father would order the carriage, to take him to the station. The old man heard the announcement without any visible surprise, forgetting quite unashamedly to show any chagrin over his son’s departure. Instead, he suddenly remembered something that concerned him directly and became quite agitated.

“Ah, you! What a way to do things! You might have told me yesterday at least. Well, never mind, let’s settle it now. Do me this favor, my boy, stop at Chermashnya on your way. It’s only about nine miles from the Volovya railroad station—the road turns to the left there, and you can be in Chermashnya in no time.”

“But I can’t, father: you know it’s about fifty miles from here to the railroad station and the Moscow train leaves at seven p.m. I can barely make it as is.”

“You’ll make it tomorrow then. And if you don’t make it tomorrow, you’ll make it the day after tomorrow. But today you’ll just have to take that little side trip to Chermashnya. If I weren’t tied down here with all this business, I would dash off there myself, because it’s really important, very urgent. But with the way things are here . . . well, you know, I can’t leave now . . . You know, I have that wood there on two lots—one in Begichev and the other in Dyachkina . . . It’s wasteland. Now the Maslovs—father and son—they’re offering me eight thousand rubles for the lumber, while last year a fellow offered me twelve thousand for it. But then, he didn’t come from around here. No local merchant can sell anything in the district. You see, with those Maslovs, who are worth more than a hundred thousand—it’s as if they had a monopoly on selling lumber: whatever price they name, people just have to take it, for no one dares to compete with them. But here the Ilyinskoye priest wrote me last Thursday that a merchant called Gorstkin had come to town. I know the fellow and there’s nothing so wonderful about him, except that he comes from Pogrebov and therefore is not a local man and is not afraid of the Maslovs. He said he’d pay eleven thousand for the lumber, hear me? But the priest tells me he’ll only be here for a week. So I’d like you to go there and close the deal with him.”

“You could write the priest and ask him to close the deal for you.”

“He couldn’t do it—that’s just it. He doesn’t even know what to look out for. Aside from that, he’s worth his weight in gold and I wouldn’t hesitate to trust him with twenty thousand rubles without a receipt, but he doesn’t know a thing about business. It’s as if he’d never grown up, in that respect; a crow could trick him, although he’s a very learned man otherwise. As to Gorstkin, he looks like a peasant, goes around dressed in a peasant’s blue coat, but really he’s a downright fraud and that’s where we’re bound to have a lot of trouble, especially with his lies. Sometimes he’ll tell such lies that you wonder why he’s doing it. A couple of years ago he told me a whole story about his wife dying and him remarrying another woman, but there wasn’t a word of truth in it; his wife had never thought of dying. She’s still alive to this day, and she gives him a beating every third day. So now we must first find out if he really means to buy the lumber and pay eleven thousand rubles for it or if it’s just one of his lies . . .”

“But I wouldn’t be of any use; I have no eye for business either, you know.”

“Wait, listen to me: you’ll manage, because I’ll explain all his tricks to you beforehand. I’ve been dealing with Gorstkin for a long time, you know. You have to keep watching his beard. It’s a miserable, thin, reddish beard. Now if that beard quivers as he talks and he himself gets angry—then he’s telling the truth and he’s really serious about the deal. But if he strokes his beard with his left hand and grins as he does it, then he’s just trying to take you in. Never look into his eyes, you won’t learn anything from them—it’s like looking into a murky pond. He’s too crooked to let you see anything in his eyes. No, just look at his beard. I’ll give you a note for him that you’ll show him. His name is Gorstkin, but that’s not what they call him: he’s known as ‘the Hound’ in the district. But you mustn’t call him that; he may resent it. If you have a talk with him and see that all’s well, write me at once, something like: ‘He’s not lying this time.’ And wait, if you must, you may reduce the price from eleven thousand to ten, but no lower than that. Just bear in mind that the difference between eight and eleven thousand is three thousand. It would be just like finding three thousand. And how soon could I get another buyer, for I need the money badly, right away! As soon as I get word from you, I’ll somehow snatch a moment and dash over there to close the deal. But as it is, why should I go rushing off when the whole thing may be just in the fellow’s imagination? So will you do it for me or not?”

“But I really have no time. Spare me that, please.”

“Couldn’t you do it for your father? I’ll see that you don’t regret it! What difference can a day or two make to you? Where are you off to now, anyway? To Venice? Well, it won’t fall apart in two days, your Venice, I promise you! I’d send Alyosha, but what good would he be in this kind of business? The only reason I’m asking you to do it is that you’re a clever man, and I’m very well aware of it, too. I know you’re not a lumber merchant, but I’m sure you have a good eye for business. All you have to do is see whether he really means what he says. As I said, just keep your eye on his beard: if it trembles, the beard, it means he’s in earnest.”

“So you’re pushing me out of the house yourself, to go to your damned Chermashnya, right?” Ivan said, grinning wickedly.

Mr. Karamazov either did not see or did not want to see the wickedness, but responded in kind, grinning back.

“So you’ll go, won’t you? Wait, I’ll write you the note.”

“I don’t know yet whether I’ll go. I’ll decide on the way.”

“Why must you decide on the way? Decide right now. Come, decide, my dear fellow! Talk to him, scribble me a couple of lines, give the note to the priest, and he’ll see to it that I get your message in no time. After that, I won’t detain you—you can be off to your Venice. The priest will have you driven in his own carriage to the Volovya station.”

The old man was absolutely delighted now. He quickly wrote his note, ordered the horses, and had some brandy and a snack served. When he was pleased about something, Mr. Karamazov almost always became exuberant, but this time he seemed to be restraining himself. For one thing, he never even mentioned Dmitry’s name. The prospect of parting with Ivan did not seem to move him in the least; indeed, he did not have much to say to Ivan now. Ivan was acutely aware of this and thought: “He must have grown pretty tired of my company.” Only when he came to the door to see his son off did the old man become a little agitated and even make a gesture to embrace him. But, to stave off any further effusions, Ivan quickly offered him his hand. The old man at once took the hint and stopped in his tracks.

“Well, God speed, God speed to you,” he repeated from the doorway. “I suppose you’ll turn up again some time. Come, I’ll always be glad to see you. May Christ bless you!”

Ivan climbed into the carriage.

“Good-by, Ivan, and don’t curse me too much when you think of me,” his father shouted after him for the last time.

All the members of the household came out to see him off—Smerdyakov, Martha, and Gregory—and Ivan gave them ten rubles each. When he was already sitting in the carriage, Smerdyakov hurried over to arrange the rug on Ivan’s knees.

“So you see, I’m going to Chermashnya . . .”

Again, as on the day before, the words seemed to have escaped from Ivan’s lips by themselves and, what is more, they were accompanied by a nervous little chuckle. He remembered it long afterward.

“So it’s true then, as they say, that it’s always rewarding to talk to a clever man,” Smerdyakov said with deliberation, looking meaningfully at Ivan.

The carriage drove off, gradually gaining speed. Ivan felt as if there were a sort of thick fog inside him, but he looked eagerly at the fields stretched out around him, at the hilly countryside, at the trees, at a flock of geese flying high overhead across the clear sky. And suddenly he felt fine. He tried to start a conversation with the driver and became extremely curious about something the man said in answer to him, but the next moment he realized he was not taking in what the other said and that he had not really understood his answer in the first place. So he lapsed into silence, which he also enjoyed: the air was clean, fresh, and cool, and the sky was clear. The images of Alyosha and Katerina flashed across his mind; he smiled quietly, blowing gently on these sweet ghosts, and they flew away. “Their time will come,” he thought.

They reached the first post station, changed horses, then drove on to Volovya. “What did he mean when he said it’s always rewarding to talk to a clever man?” he thought, suddenly feeling breathless. “And why did I have to announce to him that I was going to Chermashnya?”

When they reached the Volovya station, Ivan stepped out of the carriage and was at once surrounded by coachmen vying with one another to take him to Chermashnya—a nine-mile ride by a small country road. He ordered one of them to harness the horses. He stepped into the station house, glanced around, looked at the station master’s wife, and suddenly walked out again and said:

“I don’t think I’ll go to Chermashnya, after all. Is there still time for me to make the seven o’clock train?”