The Brothers Karamazov

While still on the train, flying back from Moscow, he kept thinking about Smerdyakov and his last conversation with him the evening before his departure. There was much in it that perplexed him, much that seemed suspicious. But when he gave his evidence to the investigator, Ivan Fyodorovich kept silent about that conversation for the time being. He put everything off until he had seen Smerdyakov. The latter was then in the local hospital. In reply to Ivan Fyodorovich’s insistent questions, Dr. Herzenstube and Dr. Varvinsky, whom Ivan Fyodorovich met in the hospital, stated firmly that Smerdyakov’s falling sickness was indubitable, and were even surprised at the question: “Could he have been shamming on the day of the catastrophe?” They gave him to understand that the fit was even an exceptional one, that it had persisted and recurred over several days, so that the patient’s life was decidedly in danger, and that only now, after the measures taken, was it possible to say affirmatively that the patient would live, though it was very possible (Dr. Herzenstube added) that his reason would remain partially unsettled “if not for life, then for a rather long time.” To Ivan Fyodorovich’s impatient asking whether “that means he’s now mad?” the reply was “not in the full sense of the word, but some abnormalities can be noticed.” Ivan Fyodorovich decided to find out for himself what these abnormalities were. In the hospital he was admitted at once as a visitor. Smerdyakov was in a separate ward, lying on a cot. Just next to him was another cot taken up by a local tradesman, paralyzed and all swollen with dropsy, who was obviously going to die in a day or two; he would not interfere with the conversation. Smerdyakov grinned mistrustfully when he saw Ivan Fyodorovich, and in the first moment even seemed to become timorous. That at least is what flashed through Ivan Fyodorovich’s mind. But it was a momentary thing; for the rest of the time, on the contrary, Smerdyakov almost struck him by his composure. From the very first sight of him, Ivan Fyodorovich was convinced beyond doubt of his complete and extremely ill condition: he was very weak, spoke slowly, and seemed to have difficulty moving his tongue; he had become very thin and yellow. All through the twenty minutes of the visit, he complained of a headache and of pain in all his limbs. His dry eunuch’s face seemed to have become very small, his side-whiskers were disheveled, and instead of a tuft, only a thin little wisp of hair stuck up on his head. But his left eye, which squinted and seemed to be hinting at something, betrayed the former Smerdyakov. “It’s always interesting to talk with an intelligent man”—Ivan Fyodorovich immediately recalled. He sat down on a stool at his feet. Smerdyakov painfully shifted his whole body on the bed, but did not speak first; he kept silent, and looked now as if he were not even particularly interested.

“Can you talk to me?” Ivan Fyodorovich asked. “I won’t tire you too much.”

“I can, sir,” Smerdyakov murmured in a weak voice. “Did you come long ago, sir?” he added condescendingly, as though encouraging a shy visitor.

“Just today ... To deal with this mess here.”

Smerdyakov sighed.

“Why are you sighing? You knew, didn’t you?” Ivan Fyodorovich blurted right out. Smerdyakov remained sedately silent for a while.

“How could I not know, sir? It was clear beforehand. Only who could know it would turn out like this?”

“What would turn out? Don’t hedge! Didn’t you foretell that you’d have a falling fit just as you went to the cellar? You precisely indicated the cellar.”

“Did you testify to that at the interrogation?” Smerdyakov calmly inquired.

Ivan Fyodorovich suddenly became angry.

“No, I did not, but I certainly shall testify to it. You have a lot to explain to me right now, brother, and let me tell you, my dear, that I shall not let myself be toyed with!”

“And why should I want to toy like that, sir, when all my hope is in you alone, as if you were the Lord God, sir!” Smerdyakov said, still in the same calm way, and merely closing his eyes for a moment.

“First of all,” Ivan Fyodorovich began, “I know that a falling fit cannot be predicted beforehand. I’ve made inquiries, don’t try to hedge. It’s not possible to predict the day and the hour. How is it, then, that you predicted both the day and the hour to me, and the cellar on top of that? How could you know beforehand that you would fall in a fit precisely into that cellar, unless you shammed the fit on purpose?”

“I had to go to the cellar in any case, sir, even several times a day, sir,” Smerdyakov drawled unhurriedly. “Just the same as I fell out of the attic a year ago, sir. It’s certainly true, sir, that one can’t predict the day and the hour of a falling fit, but one can always have a presentiment.”

“But you did predict the day and the hour!”