“Damn it! I’ve nothing to do with you. Just answer my question and I’ll go away.”
“I’ve no answer to give you,” said Smerdyakov, looking down again.
“You may be sure I’ll make you answer!”
“Why are you so uneasy?” Smerdyakov stared at him, not simply with contempt, but almost with repulsion. “Is this because the trial begins tomorrow? Nothing will happen to you; can’t you believe that at last? Go home, go to bed and sleep in peace, don’t be afraid of anything.”
“I don’t understand you. … What have I to be afraid of tomorrow?” Ivan articulated in astonishment, and suddenly a chill breath of fear did in fact pass over his soul. Smerdyakov measured him with his eyes.
“You don’t understand?” he drawled reproachfully. “It’s a strange thing a sensible man should care to play such a farce!”
Ivan looked at him speechless. The startling, incredibly supercilious tone of this man who had once been his valet, was extraordinary in itself. He had not taken such a tone even at their last interview.
“I tell you, you’ve nothing to be afraid of. I won’t say anything about you; there’s no proof against you. I say, how your hands are trembling! Why are your fingers moving like that? Go home, you did not murder him.”
Ivan started. He remembered Alyosha.
“I know it was not I,” he faltered.
“Do you?” Smerdyakov caught him up again.
Ivan jumped up and seized him by the shoulder.
“Tell me everything, you viper! Tell me everything!”