“By no means would I dare tell Grigory Vasilievich about the signals without the master’s orders, sir. And concerning Grigory Vasilievich hearing and not letting him in, he’s come down sick today, ever since yesterday, and Marfa Ignatievna is going to give him the treatment tomorrow. They just decided on it. This treatment of theirs is rather curious, sir: Marfa Ignatievna knows this infusion, and always keeps it on hand, a strong one, with some herb in it—it’s her secret, sir. And with this secret medicine she treats Grigory Vasilievich about three times a year, when his whole lower back goes out—he has something like a paralysis, sir, about three times a year. Then Marfa Ignatievna takes a towel, soaks it in this infusion, and rubs his whole back with it for half an hour, till it’s dry and even gets quite red and swollen, sir, and then she gives him what’s left in the bottle to drink, with some prayer, sir, not all of it, though, because on this rare occasion she leaves a small amount for herself as well, sir, and also drinks it. And neither of them, I can tell you, is used to drinking, and they drop down right there and fall fast asleep for a long time, sir; and when Grigory Vasilievich wakes up after that, he almost always feels good, and Marfa Ignatievna, she wakes up after that and always has a headache, sir. And so, if Marfa Ignatievna fulfills this same intention tomorrow, sir, it’s not likely they’ll be able to hear anything and not let Dmitri Fyodorovich in. They’ll be asleep, sir.”
“What drivel! And it will all come together just like that, as if on purpose: your falling fit, and the two of them unconscious!” cried Ivan Fyodorovich. “Or are you going to arrange it that way?” suddenly escaped him, and he frowned menacingly.
“How could I arrange it, sir ... ? And why would I arrange it, if everything here depends on Dmitri Fyodorovich alone, sir, and only on his thoughts ... ? If he wants to commit anything, he’ll commit it, sir, and if not, I won’t bring him on purpose and push him into his father’s room.”
“And why should he go to father, especially on the sly, if, as you say yourself, Agrafena Alexandrovna won’t come at all?” Ivan Fyodorovich continued, turning pale with anger. “You say yourself, and I, too, have felt sure all along, that the old man is just dreaming, and that that creature would never come to him. Why, then, should Dmitri burst in on the old man if she doesn’t come? Speak! I want to know what you think.”
“If you please, sir, you know yourself why he will come, you don’t need to know what I think. He’ll come just because he’s angry, or because he’s suspicious, on account of my sickness, for example, he’ll begin wondering, he’ll get impatient and come to have a look through the rooms like he did yesterday, to see if maybe she didn’t sneak by him and get in. He is also perfectly informed that Fyodor Pavlovich has a big envelope prepared, and there are three thousand roubles sealed up in it, with three seals, sir, tied round with a ribbon and addressed by his own hand: ‘To my angel Grushenka, if she wants to come,’ and after that, three days later, he added: ‘and to my chicky.’ So that’s what’s so dubious, sir.”
“Nonsense!” cried Ivan Fyodorovich, almost in a rage. “Dmitri won’t come to steal money and kill his father on top of it. He might have killed him yesterday over Grushenka, like a wild, angry fool, but he won’t go and steal!”
