“I only know one thing,” Alyosha went on, still almost in a whisper, “it wasn’t you killed father.”
“ ‘Not you’! What do you mean by ‘not you’?” Ivan was thunderstruck.
“It was not you killed father, not you!” Alyosha repeated firmly.
The silence lasted for half a minute.
“I know I didn’t. Are you raving?” said Ivan, with a pale, distorted smile. His eyes were riveted on Alyosha. They were standing again under a lamp‐post.
“No, Ivan. You’ve told yourself several times that you are the murderer.”
“When did I say so? I was in Moscow.... When have I said so?” Ivan faltered helplessly.
“You’ve said so to yourself many times, when you’ve been alone during these two dreadful months,” Alyosha went on softly and distinctly as before. Yet he was speaking now, as it were, not of himself, not of his own will, but obeying some irresistible command. “You have accused yourself and have confessed to yourself that you are the murderer and no one else. But you didn’t do it: you are mistaken: you are not the murderer. Do you hear? It was not you! God has sent me to tell you so.”
They were both silent. The silence lasted a whole long minute. They were both standing still, gazing into each other’s eyes. They were both pale. Suddenly Ivan began trembling all over, and clutched Alyosha’s shoulder.
“You’ve been in my room!” he whispered hoarsely. “You’ve been there at night, when he came.... Confess ... have you seen him, have you seen him?”