Chapter 8:
He was only halfway there when a sharp, dry wind arose, the same as early that morning, and fine, thick, dry snow began pouring down. It fell on the earth without sticking to it, the wind whirled it about, and soon a perfect blizzard arose. We have almost no streetlamps in the part of town where Smerdyakov was living. Ivan Fyodorovich strode through the darkness without noticing the blizzard, finding his way instinctively. His head ached and there was a painful throbbing in his temples. His hands were cramped, he could feel it. Some distance from Maria Kondratievna’s house, Ivan Fyodorovich suddenly met with a solitary drunk little peasant in a patched coat, who was walking in zigzags, grumbling and cursing, and then would suddenly stop cursing and begin to sing in a hoarse, drunken voice:
Ah, Vanka’s gone to Petersburg And I’ll not wait for him![300]
But he stopped each time at the second line, again began cursing someone, and then struck up the same song again. Ivan Fyodorovich had long been feeling an intense hatred for him, before he even thought about him, and suddenly he became aware of him. He at once felt an irresistible desire to bring his fist down on the little peasant. Just at that moment they came abreast of each other, and the little peasant, staggering badly, suddenly lurched full force into Ivan. The latter furiously shoved him away. The little peasant flew back and crashed like a log against the frozen ground, let out just one painful groan: “O-oh!” and was still. Ivan stepped up to him. He lay flat on his back, quite motionless, unconscious. “He’ll freeze!” Ivan thought, and strode off again to Smerdyakov.
Still in the hallway, Maria Kondratievna, who ran out with a candle in her hand to open the door, began whispering to him that Pavel Fyodorovich (that is, Smerdyakov) was very, very sick, sir, not sick in bed, sir, but as if he’s not in his right mind, sir, and even told her to take the tea away, he didn’t want any.
“What, is he violent or something?” Ivan Fyodorovich asked rudely.
“Oh, no, it’s the opposite, he’s very quiet, sir, only don’t talk to him for too long ... ,” Maria Kondratievna begged.
Ivan Fyodorovich opened the door and stepped into the room.
It was as well heated as the last time, but some changes could be noticed in the room: one of the side benches had been taken out, and a big, old leather sofa of imitation mahogany had appeared in its place. A bed had been made up on it, with quite clean white pillows. On the bed sat Smerdyakov, wearing the same dressing gown. The table had been moved in front of the sofa, so that there was now very little space in the room. On the table lay a thick book covered in yellow paper, but Smerdyakov was not reading it, he seemed to be sitting and doing nothing. He met Ivan Fyodorovich with a long, silent look, and was apparently not at all surprised at his coming. His face was changed, he had become very thin and yellow. His eyes were sunken, his lower eyelids had turned blue.
“But you really are sick?” Ivan Fyodorovich stopped. “I won’t keep you long, I won’t even take my coat off. Is there anywhere to sit?”
He went around the table, moved a chair up to it, and sat down. “So you stare and say nothing? I’ve come with just one question, and I swear I won’t leave without an answer: did the lady Katerina Ivanovna come to see you?”
There was a long silence during which Smerdyakov kept looking calmly at Ivan, but suddenly he waved his hand and turned his face away from him.
“What is it?” Ivan exclaimed.
“Nothing.”
“What nothing?”
“So she came, so what do you care? Leave me alone, sir.”
“No, I won’t leave you alone! Tell me, when was it?”
“I even forgot to remember about her,” Smerdyakov grinned contemptuously, and suddenly turned his face to Ivan again, fixing him with a sort of wildly hateful look, the same look as he had at their meeting a month earlier.
“You seem to be sick yourself, your face is all pinched, you look awful,” he said to Ivan.
“Never mind my health, answer the question.”
“And why have your eyes become yellow? The whites are quite yellow. Are you suffering greatly or what?”
He grinned contemptuously, and suddenly laughed outright.
“Listen, I said I won’t leave here without an answer!” Ivan cried in terrible irritation.
“Why are you bothering me, sir? Why are you tormenting me?” Smerdyakov said with suffering.
“Eh, the devil! I don’t care about you. Answer the question and I’ll leave at once.”
“I have nothing to answer you!” Smerdyakov dropped his eyes again.
“I assure you I shall make you answer!”
“Why do you keep worrying?” Smerdyakov suddenly stared at him, not so much with contempt now as almost with a sort of repugnance. “Is it because the trial starts tomorrow? But nothing will happen to you, be assured of that, finally! Go home, sleep peacefully, don’t fear anything.”
