And it all seems to happen at once, as though it were planned. You'll have a fit and they'll both be unconscious," cried Ivan. "But aren't you trying to arrange it so?" broke from him suddenly, and he frowned threateningly.
"How could I?... And why should I, when it all depends on Dmitri Fyodorovitch and his plans?... If he means to do anything, he'll do it; but if not, I shan't be thrusting him upon his father."
"And why should he go to father, especially on the sly, if, as you say yourself, Agrafena Alexandrovna won't come at all?" Ivan went on, turning white with anger. "You say that yourself, and all the while I've been here, I've felt sure it was all the old man's fancy, and the creature won't come to him.
Why should Dmitri break in on him if she doesn't come?
Speak, I want to know what you are thinking!"
"You know yourself why he'll come. What's the use of what I think?
His honour will come simply because he is in a rage or suspicious on account of my illness perhaps, and he'll dash in, as he did yesterday through impatience to search the rooms, to see whether she hasn't escaped him on the sly.
He is perfectly well aware, too, that Fyodor Pavlovitch has a big envelope with three thousand roubles in it, tied up with ribbon and sealed with three seals. On it is written in his own hand
'To my angel Grushenka, if she will come,' to which he added three days later, 'for my little chicken.'
There's no knowing what that might do."
"Nonsense!" cried Ivan, almost beside himself. "Dmitri won't come to steal money and kill my father to do it.
He might have killed him yesterday on account of Grushenka, like the frantic, savage fool he is, but he won't steal."
"He is in very great need of money now- the greatest need, Ivan Fyodorovitch.
You don't know in what need he is," Smerdyakov explained, with perfect composure and remarkable distinctness. "He looks on that three thousand as his own, too. He said so to me himself.
'My father still owes me just three thousand,' he said.
And besides that, consider, Ivan Fyodorovitch, there is something else perfectly true. It's as good as certain, so to say, that Agrafena Alexandrovna will force him, if only she cares to, to marry her- the master himself, I mean, Fyodor Pavlovitch- if only she cares to, and of course she may care to.
All I've said is that she won't come, but maybe she's looking for more than that- I mean to be mistress here.
I know myself that Samsonov, her merchant, was laughing with her about it, telling her quite openly that it would not be at all a stupid thing to do.
And she's got plenty of sense.
She wouldn't marry a beggar like Dmitri Fyodorovitch.
So, taking that into consideration, Ivan Fyodorovitch, reflect that then neither Dmitri Fyodorovitch nor yourself and your brother, Alexey Fyodorovitch, would have anything after the master's death, not a rouble, for Agrafena Alexandrovna would marry him simply to get hold of the whole, all the money there is.
But if your father were to die now, there'd be some forty thousand for sure, even for Dmitri Fyodorovitch whom he hates so, for he's made no will.... Dmitri Fyodorovitch knows all that very well."
A sort of shudder passed over Ivan's face.
He suddenly flushed.
"Then why on earth," he suddenly interrupted Smerdyakov, "do you advise me to go to Tchermashnya?
What did you mean by that?
If I go away, you see what will happen here." Ivan drew his breath with difficulty.
"Precisely so," said Smerdyakov, softly and reasonably, watching Ivan intently, however.
"What do you mean by 'precisely so'?" Ivan questioned him, with a menacing light in his eyes, restraining himself with difficulty.
"I spoke because I felt sorry for you.
If I were in your place I should simply throw it all up... rather than stay on in such a position," answered Smerdyakov, with the most candid air looking at Ivan's flashing eyes.
They were both silent.
"You seem to be a perfect idiot, and what's more... an awful scoundrel, too." Ivan rose suddenly from the bench.
He was about to pass straight through the gate, but he stopped short and turned to Smerdyakov.
Something strange followed. Ivan, in a sudden paroxysm, bit his lip, clenched his fists, and, in another minute, would have flung himself on Smerdyakov.
The latter, anyway, noticed it at the same moment, started, and shrank back.
But the moment passed without mischief to Smerdyakov, and Ivan turned in silence, as it seemed in perplexity, to the gate.
"I am going away to Moscow to-morrow, if you care to know- early to-morrow morning. That's all!" he suddenly said aloud angrily, and wondered himself afterwards what need there was to say this then to Smerdyakov.
"That's the best thing you can do," he responded, as though he had expected to hear it; "except that you can always be telegraphed for from Moscow, if anything should happen here."
Ivan stopped again, and again turned quickly to Smerdyakov.
But a change had passed over him, too.
All his familiarity and carelessnes had completely disappeared. His face expressed attention and expectation, intent but timid and cringing.
"Haven't you something more to say- something to add?" could be read in the intent gaze he fixed on Ivan.
"And couldn't I be sent for from Tchermashnya, too- in case anything happened?" Ivan shouted suddenly, for some unknown reason raising his voice.
"From Tchermashnya, too... you could be sent for," Smerdyakov muttered, almost in a whisper, looking disconcerted, but gazing intently into Ivan's eyes.
"Only Moscow is farther and Tchermashnya is nearer. Is it to save my spending money on the fare, or to save my going so far out of my way, that you insist on Tchermashnya?"
"Precisely so..." muttered Smerdyakov, with a breaking voice. He looked at Ivan with a revolting smile, and again made ready to draw back.
But to his astonishment Ivan broke into a laugh, and went through the gate still laughing.
Anyone who had seen his face at that moment would have known that he was not laughing from lightness of heart, and he could not have explained himself what he was feeling at that instant.
He moved and walked as though in a nervous frenzy.