“He needs money very bad, sir, he’s in great extremities, Ivan Fyodorovich. You don’t even know how bad he needs it,” Smerdyakov explained with perfeet composure and remarkable distinctness. “Besides, he considers that same three thousand, sir, as if it was his own, and he told me so himself: ‘My father,’ he said, ‘still owes me exactly three thousand.’ And on top of all that, Ivan Fyodorovich, consider also a certain pure truth, sir: it’s almost a sure thing, one must say, sir, that Agrafena Alexandrovna, if only she wants to, could definitely get him to marry her, I mean the master himself, Fyodor Pavlovich, sir, if only she wants to—well, and maybe she’ll want to, sir. I’m just saying that she won’t come, but maybe she’ll want even more, sir, I mean to become the mistress right off. I know myself that her merchant Samsonov told her in all sincerity that it would even be quite a clever deal, and laughed as he said it. And she’s quite clever in her mind, sir. Why should she marry such a pauper as Dmitri Fyodorovich, sir? And so, taking that, now consider for yourself, Ivan Fyodorovich, that then there will be nothing at all left either for Dmitri Fyodorovich, or even for you, sir, along with your brother Alexei Fyodorovich, after your father’s death, not a rouble, sir, because Agrafena Alexandrovna will marry him in order to get it all down in her name and transfer whatever capital there is to herself, sir. But if your father was to die now, while none of that has happened, sir, then each one of you would get a sure forty thousand all at once, even Dmitri Fyodorovich, whom he hates so much, because he hasn’t made his will, sir ... All of that is known perfectly well to Dmitri Fyodorovich...”
Something became twisted, as it were, and twitched in Ivan Fyodorovich’s face. He suddenly blushed.
“And why, after all that,” he suddenly interrupted Smerdyakov, “do you advise me to go to Chermashnya? What do you mean to say by that? I’ll go, and that is what will happen here?” Ivan Fyodorovich was breathing with difficulty.
“Exactly right, sir,” Smerdyakov said quietly and reasonably, but keeping his eyes fixed on Ivan Fyodorovich.
“Exactly right?” Ivan Fyodorovich repeated, trying hard to restrain himself, and his eyes flashed menacingly.
“I said it because I felt bad for you. In your place, if it were me, I’d leave the whole thing right now ... rather than sit next to such business, sir ... ,” Smerdyakov replied, looking at Ivan Fyodorovich’s flashing eyes with an air of great candor. Both were silent for a time.
“It seems you’re a perfect idiot, and, no doubt ... a terrible scoundrel!” Ivan Fyodorovich suddenly got up from the bench. He was about to walk straight through the gate, but suddenly stopped and turned to Smerdyakov. Something strange happened: all of a sudden, as if in a convulsion, Ivan Fyodorovich bit his lip, clenched his fists, and in another moment would certainly have thrown himself on Smerdyakov. The latter, at any rate, noticed it at the same moment, gave a start, and shrank back with his whole body. But the moment passed favorably for Smerdyakov, and Ivan Fyodorovich silently but in some perplexity, as it were, turned towards the gate.
“I am leaving for Moscow tomorrow, if you want to know—early tomorrow morning—and that’s it!” he said suddenly, with malice, loudly and distinctly, wondering afterwards why he had felt any need to tell this to Smerdyakov.
“That’s for the best, sir,” the latter put in, as if it was just what he had been waiting for. “The only thing is that they might trouble you from here in Moscow, by telegraph, sir, in some such case.”
Ivan Fyodorovich stopped again and again turned quickly to Smerdyakov. But with the latter, too, something seemed to happen. All his familiarity and casualness instantly dropped away; his whole face expressed extreme attention and expectation, but timid and obsequious now: “Don’t you want to say something more? Don’t you want to add anything?” could be read in the intent look he fixed on Ivan Fyodorovich.
“And wouldn’t they also summon me from Chermashnya ... in some such case?” Ivan Fyodorovich suddenly yelled, raising his voice terribly for some unknown reason.
“Also from Chermashnya, sir ... they’ll trouble you there, sir ... ,” Smerdyakov muttered almost in a whisper, as if taken aback, but continuing to look intently, very intently, straight into Ivan Fyodorovich’s eyes.
“Only Moscow is further and Chermashnya is nearer—so are you worried about my travel expenses when you insist on Chermashnya, or about my having to make such a long detour?”
