Smerdyakov was not in the least scared. He only riveted his eyes on Ivan with insane hatred.
“Well, it was you who murdered him, if that’s it,” he whispered furiously.
Ivan sank back on his chair, as though pondering something. He laughed malignantly.
“You mean my going away. What you talked about last time?”
“You stood before me last time and understood it all, and you understand it now.”
“All I understand is that you are mad.”
“Aren’t you tired of it? Here we are face to face; what’s the use of going on keeping up a farce to each other? Are you still trying to throw it all on me, to my face? You murdered him; you are the real murderer, I was only your instrument, your faithful servant, and it was following your words I did it.”
“ Did it? Why, did you murder him?” Ivan turned cold.
Something seemed to give way in his brain, and he shuddered all over with a cold shiver. Then Smerdyakov himself looked at him wonderingly; probably the genuineness of Ivan’s horror struck him.
“You don’t mean to say you really did not know?” he faltered mistrustfully, looking with a forced smile into his eyes. Ivan still gazed at him, and seemed unable to speak.
Ach, Vanka’s gone to Petersburg; I won’t wait till he comes back,
suddenly echoed in his head.