“He is in very great need of money now—the greatest need, Ivan Fyodorovitch. You don’t know in what need he is,” Smerdyakov explained, with perfect composure and remarkable distinctness. “He looks on that three thousand as his own, too. He said so to me himself. ‘My father still owes me just three thousand,’ he said. And besides that, consider, Ivan Fyodorovitch, there is something else perfectly true. It’s as good as certain, so to say, that Agrafena Alexandrovna will force him, if only she cares to, to marry her—the master himself, I mean, Fyodor Pavlovitch—if only she cares to, and of course she may care to. All I’ve said is that she won’t come, but maybe she’s looking for more than that—I mean to be mistress here. I know myself that Samsonov, her merchant, was laughing with her about it, telling her quite openly that it would not be at all a stupid thing to do. And she’s got plenty of sense. She wouldn’t marry a beggar like Dmitri Fyodorovitch. So, taking that into consideration, Ivan Fyodorovitch, reflect that then neither Dmitri Fyodorovitch nor yourself and your brother, Alexey Fyodorovitch, would have anything after the master’s death, not a rouble, for Agrafena Alexandrovna would marry him simply to get hold of the whole, all the money there is. But if your father were to die now, there’d be some forty thousand for sure, even for Dmitri Fyodorovitch whom he hates so, for he’s made no will.... Dmitri Fyodorovitch knows all that very well.” A sort of shudder passed over Ivan’s face. He suddenly flushed. “Then why on earth,” he suddenly interrupted Smerdyakov, “do you advise me to go to Tchermashnya? What did you mean by that? If I go away, you see what will happen here.” Ivan drew his breath with difficulty. “Precisely so,” said Smerdyakov, softly and reasonably, watching Ivan intently, however. “What do you mean by ‘precisely so’?” Ivan questioned him, with a menacing light in his eyes, restraining himself with difficulty. “I spoke because I felt sorry for you. If I were in your place I should simply throw it all up ... rather than stay on in such a position,” answered Smerdyakov, with the most candid air looking at Ivan’s flashing eyes. They were both silent. “You seem to be a perfect idiot, and what’s more ... an awful scoundrel, too.” Ivan rose suddenly from the bench. He was about to pass straight through the gate, but he stopped short and turned to Smerdyakov. Something strange followed. Ivan, in a sudden paroxysm, bit his lip, clenched his fists, and, in another minute, would have flung himself on Smerdyakov. The latter, anyway, noticed it at the same moment, started, and shrank back. But the moment passed without mischief to Smerdyakov, and Ivan turned in silence, as it seemed in perplexity, to the gate. “I am going away to Moscow to-morrow, if you care to know—early to-morrow morning. That’s all!” he suddenly said aloud angrily, and wondered himself afterwards what need there was to say this then to Smerdyakov.