The Brothers Karamazov - Fyodor Dostoyevsky (reading an ebook TXT) 📗

Chapter 9

The Devil. Ivan’s Nightmare

 

I AM NOT a doctor, but yet I feel that the moment has come when

I must inevitably give the reader some account of the nature of Ivan’s

illness. Anticipating events I can say at least one thing: he was at

that moment on the very eve of an attack of brain fever. Though his

health had long been affected, it had offered a stubborn resistance to

the fever which in the end gained complete mastery over it. Though I

know nothing of medicine, I venture to hazard the suggestion that he

really had perhaps, by a terrible effort of will, succeeded in

delaying the attack for a time, hoping, of course, to check it

completely. He knew that he was unwell, but he loathed the thought

of being ill at that fatal time, at the approaching crisis in his

life, when he needed to have all his wits about him, to say what he

had to say boldly and resolutely and “to justify himself to himself.”

 

He had, however, consulted the new doctor, who had been brought

from Moscow by a fantastic notion of Katerina Ivanovna’s to which I

have referred already. After listening to him and examining him the

doctor came to the conclusion that he was actually suffering from some

disorder of the brain, and was not at all surprised by an admission

which Ivan had reluctantly made him. “Hallucinations are quite

likely in your condition,” the doctor opined, ‘though it would be

better to verify them… you must take steps at once, without a

moment’s delay, or things will go badly with you.” But Ivan did not

follow this judicious advice and did not take to his bed to be nursed.

“I am walking about, so I am strong enough, if I drop, it’ll be

different then, anyone may nurse me who likes,” he decided, dismissing

the subject.

 

And so he was sitting almost conscious himself of his delirium

and, as I have said already, looking persistently at some object on

the sofa against the opposite wall. Someone appeared to be sitting

there, though goodness knows how he had come in, for he had not been

in the room when Ivan came into it, on his return from Smerdyakov.

This was a person or, more accurately speaking, a Russian gentleman of

a particular kind, no longer young, qui faisait la cinquantaine,* as

the French say, with rather long, still thick, dark hair, slightly

streaked with grey and a small pointed beard. He was wearing a

brownish reefer jacket, rather shabby, evidently made by a good tailor

though, and of a fashion at least three years old, that had been

discarded by smart and well-to-do people for the last two years. His

linen and his long scarf-like neck-tie were all such as are worn by

people who aim at being stylish, but on closer inspection his linen

was not overclean and his wide scarf was very threadbare. The

visitor’s check trousers were of excellent cut, but were too light

in colour and too tight for the present fashion. His soft fluffy white

hat was out of keeping with the season.

 

* Fiftyish.

 

In brief there was every appearance of gentility on straitened

means. It looked as though the gentleman belonged to that class of

idle landowners who used to flourish in the times of serfdom. He had

unmistakably been, at some time, in good and fashionable society,

had once had good connections, had possibly preserved them indeed,

but, after a gay youth, becoming gradually impoverished on the

abolition of serfdom, he had sunk into the position of a poor relation

of the best class, wandering from one good old friend to another and

received by them for his companionable and accommodating disposition

and as being, after all, a gentleman who could be asked to sit down

with anyone, though, of course, not in a place of honour. Such

gentlemen of accommodating temper and dependent position, who can tell

a story, take a hand at cards, and who have a distinct aversion for

any duties that may be forced upon them, are usually solitary

creatures, either bachelors or widowers. Sometimes they have children,

but if so, the children are always being brought up at a distance,

at some aunt’s, to whom these gentlemen never allude in good

society, seeming ashamed of the relationship. They gradually lose

sight of their children altogether, though at intervals they receive a

birthday or Christmas letter from them and sometimes even answer it.

 

The countenance of the unexpected visitor was not so much

good-natured, as accommodating and ready to assume any amiable

expression as occasion might arise. He had no watch, but he had a

tortoise-shell lorgnette on a black ribbon. On the middle finger of

his right hand was a massive gold ring with a cheap opal stone in it.

 

Ivan was angrily silent and would not begin the conversation.

The visitor waited and sat exactly like a poor relation who had come

down from his room to keep his host company at tea, and was discreetly

silent, seeing that his host was frowning and preoccupied. But he

was ready for any affable conversation as soon as his host should

begin it. All at once his face expressed a sudden solicitude.

 

“I say,” he began to Ivan, “excuse me, I only mention it to remind

you. You went to Smerdyakov’s to find out about Katerina Ivanovna, but

you came away without finding out anything about her, you probably

forgot-”

 

“Ah, yes.” broke from Ivan and his face grew gloomy with

uneasiness. “Yes, I’d forgotten… but it doesn’t matter now, never

mind, till to-morrow,” he muttered to himself, “and you,” he added,

addressing his visitor, “I should have remembered that myself in a

minute, for that was just what was tormenting me! Why do you

interfere, as if I should believe that you prompted me, and that I

didn’t remember it of myself?”

 

“Don’t believe it then,” said the gentleman, smiling amicably,

“what’s the good of believing against your will? Besides, proofs are

no help to believing, especially material proofs. Thomas believed, not

because he saw Christ risen, but because he wanted to believe,

before he saw. Look at the spiritualists, for instance…. I am very

fond of them… only fancy, they imagine that they are serving the

cause of religion, because the devils show them their horns from the

other world. That, they say, is a material proof, so to speak, of

the existence of another world. The other world and material proofs,

what next! And if you come to that, does proving there’s a devil prove

that there’s a God? I want to join an idealist society, I’ll lead

the opposition in it, I’ll say I am a realist, but not a

materialist, he he!”

 

“Listen,” Ivan suddenly got up from the table. “I seem to be

delirious… I am delirious, in fact, talk any nonsense you like, I

don’t care! You won’t drive me to fury, as you did last time. But I

feel somehow ashamed… I want to walk about the room…. I

sometimes don’t see you and don’t even hear your voice as I did last

time, but I always guess what you are prating, for it’s I, I myself

speaking, not you. Only I don’t know whether I was dreaming last

time or whether I really saw you. I’ll wet a towel and put it on my

head and perhaps you’ll vanish into air.”

 

Ivan went into the corner, took a towel, and did as he said, and

with a wet towel on his head began walking up and down the room.

 

“I am so glad you treat me so familiarly,” the visitor began.

 

“Fool,” laughed Ivan, “do you suppose I should stand on ceremony

with you? I am in good spirits now, though I’ve a pain in my

forehead… and in the top of my head… only please don’t talk

philosophy, as you did last time. If you can’t take yourself off, talk

of something amusing. Talk gossip, you are a poor relation, you

ought to talk