 Section 56 of the Brothers Karamazov by Fyodor Dostoevsky, translated by Constance Garnet. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Bruce Peary. Book IX. Chapter III. The Sufferings of the Soul, the First Ordeal. And so Mitchess sat looking wildly at the people around him, not understanding what was said to him. Suddenly he got up, flung up his hands, and shouted aloud, I'm not guilty, I'm not guilty of that blood, I'm not guilty of my father's blood, I meant to kill him, but I'm not guilty, not I." But he had hardly said this before Grushanka rushed from behind the curtain and flung herself at the police captain's feet. It was my fault, mine, my wickedness! She cried in a heart-rending voice, bathed in tears, stretching out her clasped hands towards them. He did it through me. I tortured him and drove him to it. I tortured that poor old man that's dead too, in my wickedness, and brought him to this. It's my fault, mine first, mine most, my fault. Yes, it's your fault. You're the chief criminal, you fury, you harlot, you're the most to blame, shouted the police captain, threatening her with his hand. But he was quickly and resolutely suppressed. The prosecutor positively seized hold of him. "'This is absolutely irregular, Mihail Makarovitch,' he cried. "'You are positively hindering the inquiry. You're ruining the case,' he almost gasped. "'Follow the regular course, follow the regular course,' cried Nikolai Parfinovitch, fearfully excited too, "'otherwise it's absolutely impossible.'" "'Judge us together,' Grushanka cried frantically, still kneeling. "'Punish us together. I will go with him now, if it's to death.' "'Grusha, my life, my blood, my holy one!' Mitchell fell on his knees beside her and held her tight in his arms. "'Don't believe her,' he cried. "'She's not guilty of anything, of any blood, of anything.'" He remembered afterwards that he was forcibly dragged away from her by several men and that she was led out and that when he recovered himself he was sitting at the table. Beside him and behind him stood the men with metal plates. Facing him on the other side of the table sat Nikolai Parfinovitch, the investigating lawyer. He kept persuading him to drink a little water out of the glass that stood on the table. "'That will refresh you, that will calm you. Be calm. Don't be frightened,' he added extremely politely. Mitchell, he remembered it afterwards, became suddenly intensely interested in his big rings, one with an amethyst and another with a transparent bright yellow stone of great brilliance, and long afterwards he remembered with wonder how those rings had riveted his attention through all those terrible hours of interrogation, so that he was utterly unable to tear himself away from them and dismiss them as things that had nothing to do with his position. On Mitchell's left side, in the place where Maximov had been sitting at the beginning of the evening, the prosecutor was now seated, and on Mitchell's right hand, where Grushenko had been, was a rosy-cheeked young man in a sort of shabby hunting jacket with ink and paper before him. This was the secretary of the investigating lawyer who had brought him with him. The police captain was now standing by the window at the other end of the room, beside Kalganov, who was sitting there. "'Drink some water,' said the investigating lawyer softly, for the tenth time. "'I have drunk it, gentlemen. I have. But—come, gentlemen. Crush me. Punish me. Decide my fate!' Grushenko stared, staring with terribly fixed wide-open eyes at the investigating lawyer. "'So you positively declare that you are not guilty of the death of your father, Fyodor Pavlovich?' asked the investigating lawyer, softly but insistently. "'I am not guilty. I am guilty of the blood of another old man, but not of my father's, and I weep for it. I killed—I killed—the old man and knocked him down. But it's hard to have to answer for that murder with another, a terrible murder of which I am not guilty. It's a terrible accusation, gentlemen, a knock down below. But who has killed my father? Who has killed him? Who can have killed him if I didn't? It's marvellous, extraordinary, impossible.' "'Yes, who can have killed him?' the investigating lawyer was beginning. But Ipalit Kirilovich, the prosecutor, glancing at him, addressed Mitcher. "'You need not worry yourself about the old servant Grigory Vasilievich. He is alive. He has recovered, and in spite of the terrible blows inflicted, according to his own and your evidence, by you, there seems no doubt that he will live.' So the doctor says, at least. "'Alive? He's alive?' cried Mitcher, flinging up his hands, his face beamed. "'Lord, I thank thee for the miracle thou hast wrought for me, a sinner and evil doer. That's an answer to my prayer. I've been praying all night.' And he crossed himself three times. He was almost breathless. "'So from this Grigory we have received such important evidence concerning you that—' The prosecutor would have continued, but Mitcher suddenly jumped up from his chair. One minute, gentlemen! For God's sake! One minute! I will run to her.' "'Excuse me! At this moment it's quite impossible.' Nikolai Perfenovich almost shrieked. He too leapt to his feet. Mitcher was seized by the men with the metal plates, but he sat down at his own accord. "'Gentlemen, what a pity! I wanted to see her for one minute only. I wanted to tell her that it has been washed away. It has gone, that blood that was weighing on my heart all night, and that I am not a murderer now. "'Gentlemen, she is my betrothed,' he said ecstatically and reverently, looking round at the maw. "'Oh, thank you, gentlemen. Oh, in one minute you have given me new life, new heart. That old man used to carry me in his arms, gentlemen. He used to wash me in the tub when I was a baby three years old, abandoned by everyone. He was like a father to me.' "'And so you,' the investigating lawyer, began, "'allow me, gentlemen, allow me one minute more,' interposed Mitcher, putting his elbows on the table and covering his face with his hands. "'Let me have a moment to think. Let me breathe, gentlemen. All this is horribly upsetting, horribly. A man is not a drum, gentlemen.' "'Drink a little more water,' murmured Nikolai Perfenevich. Mitcher took his hands from his face and laughed. His eyes were confident. He seemed completely transformed in a moment. His whole bearing was changed. He was once more the equal of these men, with all of whom he was acquainted, as though they had all met the day before, when nothing had happened at some social gathering. We may note in passing that on his first arrival Mitcher had been made very welcome at the police captains, but later, during the last month especially, Mitcher had hardly called at all, and when the police captain met him in the street, for instance, Mitcher noticed that he frowned and only bowed out of politeness. His acquaintance with the prosecutor was less intimate, though he sometimes paid his wife, a nervous and fanciful lady, visits of politeness, without quite knowing why, and she always received him graciously and had, for some reason, taken an interest in him up to the last. He had not had time to get to know the investigating lawyer, though he had met him and talked to him twice, each time about the fair sex. Your most skillful lawyer I see, Nikolai Parfenovich, quite Mitcher, laughing gaily, but I can help you now. Oh, gentlemen, I feel like a new man, and don't be offended at my addressing you so simply and directly. I'm rather drunk, too, I'll tell you that frankly. I believe I've had the honour and pleasure of meeting you, Nikolai Parfenovich, at my kinsman Musov's. Gentlemen, gentlemen, I don't pretend to be on equal terms with you. I understand, of course, in what character I am sitting before you. Oh, of course, there's a horrible suspicion hanging over me. If Grigori has given evidence, a horrible suspicion. It's awful, awful, I understand that. But to business, gentlemen, I am ready, and we will make an end of it in one moment, for listen, listen, gentlemen, since I know I'm innocent, we can put an end to it in a minute, can't we? Can't we? Mitcher spoke much, and quickly, nervously, and effusively, as though he positively took his listeners to be his best friends. So, for the present, we will write that you absolutely deny the charge brought against you, Nikolai Parfenovich, impressively, and bending down to the secretary, he dictated to him in an undertone what to write. Write it down. You want to write that down. Well, write it. I consent. I give my full consent, gentlemen, only do you see, stay, stay. Write this. Of disorderly conduct I am guilty. Of violence on a poor old man I am guilty, and there is something else at the bottom of my heart of which I am guilty, too. But that you need not write down. He turned suddenly to the secretary. That's my personal life, gentlemen, that doesn't concern you, the bottom of my heart, that's to say. But of the murder of my old father I'm not guilty. That's a wild idea. It's quite a wild idea. I will prove you that, and you'll be convinced directly. You will laugh, gentlemen. You'll laugh yourselves at your suspicion. Be calm, Dmitri Fyodorovich, said the investigating lawyer, evidently trying to allay Mitch's excitement by his own composure. Before we go on with our inquiry I should like, if you will consent to answer, to hear you confirm the statement that you disliked your father, Fyodor Pavlovich, that you were involved in continual disputes with him. Here at least a quarter of an hour ago you exclaimed that you wanted to kill him. I didn't kill him, you said, but I wanted to kill him. Did I exclaim that? Ah, that may be so, gentlemen. Yes, unhappily, I did want to kill him. Many times I wanted to, unhappily, unhappily. You wanted to. Would you consent to explain what motives precisely led you to such a sentiment of hatred for your parent? What is there to explain, gentlemen? Mitche shrugged his shoulders sullenly, looking down. I have never concealed my feelings. All the town knows about it. Everyone knows in the tavern. Only lately I declared them in Father Zasima's cell. And the very same day in the evening I beat my father. I nearly killed him, and I swore I'd come again and kill him, or witnesses, oh, a thousand witnesses. I've been shouting it aloud for the last month. Anyone can tell you that. The fact stares you in the face. It speaks for itself. It cries aloud. But feelings, gentlemen, feelings are another matter. You see, gentlemen, Mitche frowned. It seems to me that about feelings you've no right to question me. I know that you are bound by your office. I quite understand that, but that's my affair, my private intimate affair. Yet, since I haven't concealed my feelings in the past, in the tavern, for instance, I've talked to everyone, so I won't make a secret of it now. You see, I understand, gentlemen, that there are terrible facts against me in this business. I told everyone that I'd kill him, and now all of a sudden he's been killed. Oh, it must have been me. Ha-ha! I can make allowances, for you gentlemen, I can quite make allowances. I'm struck all of a heap myself, for who can have murdered him, if not I? That's what it comes to, isn't it? If not I, who can it be? Who? Gentlemen, I want to know. I insist on knowing," he exclaimed suddenly. Where was he murdered? How was he murdered? How? And with what? Tell me?" Suddenly looking at the two lawyers. We found him in his study, lying on his back on the floor, with his head battered in, said the prosecutor. That's horrible," bitches shuddered, and putting his elbows on the table, hid his face in his right hand. We will continue, interposed Nikolai Parfenovich. So what was it that impelled you to this sentiment of hatred? You have asserted in public, I believe, that it was based upon jealousy? Well, yes, jealousy, and not only jealousy. Disputes about money? Yes, about money, too. There was a dispute about three thousand rubles, I think, which you claimed as part of your inheritance. Three thousand? More! More! cried Mitcha hotly. More than six thousand, more than ten, perhaps. I told if you and so shouted it at them. But I made up my mind to let it go at three thousand. I was desperately in need of that three thousand. So the bundle of notes for three thousand that I knew he kept under his pillow, ready for Grushenka, I considered as simply stolen from me. Yes, gentlemen, I looked upon it as mine, as my own property. The prosecutor looked significantly at the investigating lawyer, and had time to wink at him on the sly. We will return to that subject later, said the lawyer promptly. You will allow us to note that point and write it down, that you looked upon that money as your own property. Write it down, by all means. I know that's another fact that tells against me. But I'm not afraid of facts, and I tell them against myself. Do you hear? Do you know, gentlemen, you take me for a different sort of man from what I am. He added, suddenly gloomy and dejected. You have to deal with a man of honour, a man of the highest honour. Above all, don't lose sight of it, a man who's done a lot of nasty things, but has always been and still is honourable at bottom in his inner being. I don't know how to express it. That's just what's made me wretched all my life, that I yearned to be honourable, that I was, so to say, a martyr to a sense of honour, seeking for it with a lantern, with the lantern of diogenes, and yet all my life I've been doing filthy things, like all of us, gentlemen, that is, like me alone, that was a mistake, like me alone, me alone. Gentlemen, my head aches. His brows contracted with pain. You see, gentlemen, I couldn't bear the look of him. There was something in him ignoble, impudent, trampling on everything sacred, something sneering and irreverent, loathsome, loathsome. But now that he's dead I feel differently. How do you mean? I don't feel differently, but I wish I hadn't hated him so. You feel penitent? No, not penitent, don't write that. I'm not much good myself. I'm not very beautiful, so I had no right to consider him repulsive. That's what I mean. Write that down, if you like. Saying this, Mitchell became very mournful. He had grown more and more gloomy as the inquiry continued. At that moment another unexpected scene followed. Though Grushanka had been removed, she had not been taken far away, only into the room next but one from the blue room in which the examination was proceeding. It was a little room with one window, next beyond the large room in which they had danced and feasted so lavishly. She was sitting there with no one by her but Maximov, who was terribly depressed, terribly scared, and clung to her side as though for security. At their door stood one of the peasants with a metal plate on his breast. Grushanka was crying, and suddenly her grief was too much for her. She jumped up, flung up her arms, and with a loud wail of sorrow rushed out of the room to him, to her Mitchell, and so unexpectedly that they had not time to stop her. Mitchell, hearing her cry, trembled, jumped up, and with a yell rushed impetuously to meet her, not knowing what he was doing. But they were not allowed to come together, though they saw one another. He was seized by the arms. He struggled and tried to tear himself away. It took three or four men to hold him. She was seized, too, and he saw her stretching out her arms to him, crying aloud as they carried her away. When the scene was over, he came to himself again, sitting in the same place as before, opposite the investigating lawyer, and crying out to them, What do you want with her? Why do you torment her? She's done nothing, nothing! The lawyers tried to soothe him. About ten minutes passed like this. At last Mihail Makarevich, who had been absent, came hurriedly into the room and said in a loud and excited voice to the prosecutor. She's been removed. She's downstairs. Will you allow me to say one word to this unhappy man, gentlemen, in your presence, gentlemen, in your presence? By all means, Mihail Makarevich, answered the investigating lawyer. In the present case, we have nothing against it. Listen, Dmitry Fyodorovich, my dear fellow, began the police captain, and there was a look of warm, almost fatherly feeling for the luckless prisoner on his excited face. I took your agri-fena, Alexandra, of now downstairs myself, and confided her to the care of the landlord's daughters, and that old fellow Maximov is with her all the time. And I soothed her. Do you hear? I soothed and calmed her. I am pressed on her that you have to clear yourself, so she mustn't hinder you, must not depress you, or you may lose your head and say the wrong thing in your evidence. In fact, I talked to her, and she understood. She's a sensible girl, my boy, a good-hearted girl. She would have kissed my old hands, begging help for you. She sent me, herself, to tell you not to worry about her. And I must go, my dear fellow, I must go and tell her that you are calm and comforted about her. And so you must be calm, do you understand? I was unfair to her. She is a Christian soul, gentlemen. Yes, I tell you, she's a gentle soul, and not to blame for anything. So what am I to tell her, Dmitry Fyodorovich? Will you sit quiet or not? The good-natured police captain said a great deal that was irregular, but Grushinka's suffering, a fellow creature's suffering, touched his good-natured heart, and tears stood in his eyes. Mitch had jumped up and rushed towards him. Give me, gentlemen, oh, allow me, allow me, he cried. You've the heart of an angel, an angel, Mihail Makarevich, I thank you for her. I will, I will be calm, cheerful, in fact. Tell her, in the kindness of your heart, that I am cheerful, quite cheerful, that I shall be laughing in a minute, knowing that she has a guardian angel like you. I shall have done with all this directly, and as soon as I'm free I'll be with her. You'll see, let her wait. Gentlemen, he said, turning to the two lawyers, now I'll open my whole soul to you. I'll pour out everything. We'll finish this off directly, finish it off gaily. We shall laugh at it in the end, shan't we? But, gentlemen, that woman is the queen of my heart, oh, let me tell you that. That one thing I'll tell you now. I see I'm with honourable men. She is my light. She is my holy one, and if only you knew. Did you hear her cry, I'll go to death with you? And what have I, a penniless beggar, done for her? Why such love for me? How can a clumsy, ugly brute like me, with my ugly face, deserve such love, that she is ready to go to exile with me, and how she fell down at your feet for my sake just now, and yet she's proud and has done nothing? How can I help adoring her? How can I help crying out and rushing to her, as I did just now? Gentlemen, forgive me, but now, now, I am comforted. And he sank back in his chair, and covering his face with his hands, burst into tears, but they were happy tears. He recovered himself instantly. The old police captain seemed much pleased, and the lawyers also. They felt that the examination was passing into a new phase. When the police captain went out, Mitchell was positively gay. Now, gentlemen, I am at your disposal, entirely at your disposal, and if it were not for all these trivial details we should understand one another in a minute. I am at those details again. I am at your disposal, gentlemen, but I declare that we must have mutual confidence, you in me and I in you, or there'll be no end to it. I speak in your interests. To business, gentlemen, to business, and don't rummage in my soul. Don't tease me with trifles, but only ask me about facts and what matters, and I will satisfy you at once, and damn the details. So spoke Mitchell. The interrogation began again. CHAPTER IV The Second Ordeal You don't know how you encourage estimitry, Fyodorovich, by your readiness to answer, with an animated air and obvious satisfaction beaming in his very prominent, short-sighted, light grey eyes, from which he had removed his spectacles a moment before. And you have made a very just remark about the mutual confidence, without which it is sometimes positively impossible to get on in cases of such importance, if the suspected party really hopes and desires to defend himself and is in a position to do so. We on our side will do everything in our power, and you can see for yourself how we are conducting the case. You approve Ipolit Kirilovich?" He turned to the prosecutor. Oh, undoubtedly, replied the prosecutor. His tone was somewhat cold compared with Nikolai Parfenovich's impulsiveness. I will note once for all that Nikolai Parfenovich, who had but lately arrived among us, went from the first felt-marked respect for Ipolit Kirilovich, our prosecutor, and had become almost his bosom friend. He was almost the only person who put implicit faith in Ipolit Kirilovich's extraordinary talents as a psychologist and orator, and in the justice of his grievance. He had heard of him in Petersburg. On the other hand, young Nikolai Parfenovich was the only person in the whole world whom our unappreciated prosecutor genuinely liked. On their way to Makro they had time to come to an understanding about the present case. And now, as they sat at the table, the sharp-witted junior caught and interpreted every indication on his senior colleague's face, half a word, a glance, or a wink. Gentlemen, only let me tell my own story and don't interrupt me with trivial questions, and I'll tell you everything in a moment," said Mitcha excitedly. Excellent, thank you. But before we proceed to listen to your communication, will you allow me to inquire as to another little fact of great interest to us? I mean the ten rubles you borrowed yesterday at about five o'clock on the security of your pistols from your friend, Pyotr Ilyich Perhotin. I pledged them, gentlemen. I pledged them for ten rubles. What more? That's all about it. As soon as I got back to town I pledged them. You got back to town? Then you had been out of town. Yes, I went on a journey of forty-firsts into the country. Didn't you know? The prosecutor and Nikolai Parfenovich exchanged glances. Well, how would it be if you began your story with the systematic description of all you did yesterday from the morning onwards? Allow us, for instance, to inquire why you were absent from the town, and just when you left and when you came back, all those facts. You should have asked me like that from the beginning, cried Mitcha, laughing aloud. And if you like, we won't begin from yesterday but from the morning of the day before. Then you'll understand how, why, and where I went. I went the day before yesterday, gentlemen, to a merchant of the town called Samsonov to borrow three thousand rubles from him on safe security. It was a pressing matter, gentlemen. It was a sudden necessity. Allow me to interrupt you, the prosecutor put in politely. Why were you in such pressing need for just that sum, three thousand? Oh, gentlemen, you needn't go into details how, when, and why, and why just so much money, and not so much, and all that rigmarole, why, it'll run to three volumes, and then you'll want an epilogue. Mitcha said all this with the good-natured but impatient familiarity of a man who is anxious to tell the whole truth and is full of the best intentions. Gentlemen, he corrected himself hurriedly. Don't be vexed with me for my restiveness. I beg you again. Believe me, once more, I feel the greatest respect for you and understand the true position of affairs. Don't think I'm drunk. I'm quite sober now, and besides being drunk would be no hindrance. It's with me, you know, like the saying, when he is sober, he is a fool. When he is drunk, he is a wise man. But I see, gentlemen, it's not the proper thing to make jokes to you, till we've had our explanation, I mean. And I have my own dignity to keep up, too. I quite understand the difference for the moment. I am, after all, in the position of a criminal, and so, far from being on equal terms with you. And it's your business to watch me. I can't expect you to pat me on the head for what I did to Grigori. For one can't break old man's heads with impunity. I suppose you'll put me away for him, for six months, or a year, perhaps, in a house of correction. I don't know what the punishment is, but it will be without loss of the rights of my rank, without loss of my rank, won't it? So you see, gentlemen, I understand the distinction between us, but you must see that you could puzzle God himself with such questions. How did you step? Where did you step? When did you step? And on what did you step? I shall get mixed up if you go on like this, and you will put it all down against me. And what will that lead to? To nothing. And even if it's nonsense I'm talking now, let me finish. And you gentlemen, being men of honour and refinement, will forgive me. I'll finish by asking you, gentlemen, to drop that conventional method of questioning. I mean, beginning from some miserable trifle, how I got up, what I had for breakfast, how I spat, and where I spat, and so distracting the attention of the criminal, suddenly stun him with an overwhelming question. Whom did you murder? Job. Ha! That's your regulation method, that's where all your cunning comes in. You can put peasants off their guard, like that. But not me. I know the tricks. I've been in the service, too. Ha! You're not angry, gentlemen. You forgive my impertinence? He cried, looking at them, with a good nature that was almost surprising. It's only Mitchekaramazov, you know, so you can overlook it. It would be inexcusable in a sensible man, but you can forgive it in Mitchekaramazov. Nikolai Parfenovich listened and laughed, too. Though the prosecutor did not laugh, he kept his eyes fixed keenly on Mitchekaramazov, as though anxious not to miss the least syllable, the slightest movement, the smallest twitch of any feature of his face. That's how we have treated you from the beginning, said Nikolai Parfenovich, still laughing. We haven't tried to put you out by asking how you got up in the morning and what you had for breakfast. We began, indeed, with questions of the greatest importance. I understand. I saw it and appreciated it, and I appreciate still more your present kindness to me, an unprecedented kindness worthy of your noble hearts. We three here are gentlemen, and let everything be on the footing of mutual confidence between educated, well-bred people who have the common bond of noble birth and honour. In any case, allow me to look upon you as my best friends at this moment of my life, at this moment when my honour is assailed. That's no offence to you, gentlemen, is it? On the contrary, you've expressed all that so well, Dmitry Fyodorovich. Nikolai Parfenovich answered with dignified approbation. And enough of those trivial questions, gentlemen, all those tricky questions, quite Mitchek enthusiastically, or there's simply no knowing where we shall get to, is there? I will follow your sensible advice entirely, the prosecutor interposed, addressing Mitchek. I don't withdraw my question, however. It is now vitally important for us to know exactly why you needed that sum, I mean precisely three thousand. Why, I needed it. Oh, for one thing and another. Well, it was to pay a debt. A debt to whom? That I absolutely refuse to answer, gentlemen, not because I couldn't, or because I shouldn't dare, or because it would be damaging, for it's all a paltry matter, and absolutely trifling, but I won't because it's a matter of principle. That's my private life, and I won't allow any intrusion into my private life. That's my principle. Your question has no bearing on the case, and whatever has nothing to do with the case is my private affair. I wanted to pay a debt. I wanted to pay a debt of honour, but to whom I won't say. Allow me to make a note of that, said the prosecutor. By all means, write down that I won't say that I won't. Write that I should think it dishonourable to say. You can write it, you've nothing else to do with your time. Allow me to caution you, sir, and to remind you once more, that you are unaware of it. The prosecutor began with the peculiar and stern impressiveness, that you have a perfect right not to answer the questions put to you now, and we on our side have no right to extort an answer from you if you decline to give it for one reason or another. That is entirely a matter for your personal decision. But it is our duty, on the other hand, in such cases as the present, to explain, and set before you, the degree of injury you will be doing yourself by refusing to give this or that piece of evidence, after which I will beg you to continue. Gentlemen, I'm not angry, I—Mitcha muttered in a rather disconcerted tone. Well, gentlemen, you see, that Samsonov, to whom I went then, we will of course not reproduce his account of what is known to the reader already. Mitcha was impatiently anxious not to omit the slightest detail. At the same time he was in a hurry to get it over. But as he gave his evidence it was written down, and therefore they had continually to pull him up. Mitcha disliked this, but submitted, got angry though still good humorately. He did, it is true, exclaim, from time to time, gentlemen, that's enough to make an angel out of patience. However, gentlemen, it's no good you're irritating me. But even though he exclaimed, he still preserved for a time his genially expansive mood. So he told them how Samsonov had made a fool of him two days before. He had completely realized by now that he had been fooled. The sale of his watch for six rubles to obtain money for the journey was something new to the lawyers. They were at once greatly interested, and even to Mitcha's intense indignation thought it necessary to write the fact down as a secondary confirmation of the circumstance that he had hardly a farthing in his pocket at the time. Little by little Mitcha began to grow surly. Then after describing his journey to see Lyagavi, the night spent in the stifling hot tent so on, he came to his return to the town. Here he began, without being particularly urged, to give a minute account of the agonies of jealousy he endured on Gushenko's account. He was heard with silent attention. They inquired particularly into the circumstance of his having a place of ambush in Maria Kondrachevna's house at the back of Fyodor Pavlovitch's garden to keep watch on Gushenko, and of Smerjakov's bringing him information. He laid particular stress on this and noted it down. Of his jealousy he spoke warmly and at length, and though inwardly ashamed at exposing his most intimate feelings to public ignominy, so to speak, he evidently overcame his shame in order to tell the truth. The frigid severity with which the investigating lawyer, and still more the prosecutor, stared intently at him as he told his story, disconcerted him at last considerably. That boy Nikolai Parfenovich, to whom I was talking nonsense about women only a few days ago, and that sickly prosecutor, are not worth my telling this to, he reflected mournfully. It's ignominious. Be patient, humble, hold thy peace. He wound up his reflections with that line. But he pulled himself together to go on again. When he came to telling of his visit to Madame Holikov, he regained his spirits and even wished to tell a little anecdote of that lady which had nothing to do with the case. But the investigating lawyer stopped him, and civilly suggested that he should pass on to more essential matters. Had last, when he described his despair and told them how, when he left Madame Holikov's, he thought that he'd get three thousand if he had to murder someone to do it. They stopped him again and noted down that he had meant to murder someone. Mitchel let them write it without protest. At last he reached the point in his story when he learned that Grushanka had deceived him and had returned from Samsonovs as soon as he left her there, though she had said that she would stay there till midnight. If I didn't kill Fenya then, gentlemen, it was only because I hadn't time broke from him suddenly at that point in his story. That, too, was carefully written down. Mitchel waited gloomily and was beginning to tell how he ran into his father's garden when the investigating lawyer suddenly stopped him and, opening the big portfolio that lay on the sofa beside him, he brought out the brass pestle. Do you recognize this object? He asked, showing it to Mitchel. Oh, yes, he laughed gloomily. Of course I recognize it. Let me have a look at it. Damn it, never mind. You have forgotten to mention it, observed the investigating lawyer. Hang it all, I shouldn't have concealed it from you. Do you suppose I could have managed without it? It simply escaped my memory. Be so good as to tell us precisely how you came to arm yourself with it. Certainly I will be so good, gentlemen. And Mitchel described how he took the pestle and ran. But what object had you in view in arming yourself with such a weapon? What object? No object, I just picked it up and ran off. What for, if you had no object? Mitchel's wrath flared up. He looked intently at the boy and smiled gloomily and malignantly. He was feeling more and more ashamed at having told such people the story of his jealousy so sincerely and spontaneously. Bother the pestle broke from him suddenly. But still, oh, to keep off dogs, because it was dark, in case anything turned up. But have you ever on previous occasions taken a weapon with you when you went out since you're afraid of the dark? Ah, damn it, all, gentlemen. There's positively no talking to you, cried Mitchel, exasperated beyond endurance, and turning to the secretary crimson with anger he said quickly, with a note of fury in his voice. Write down at once, at once, that I snatched up the pestle to go and kill my father, Fyodor Pavlovich, by hitting him on the head with it. Well, now are you satisfied, gentlemen? Are your minds relieved? He said, glaring defiantly at the lawyers. We quite understand that you made that statement just now through exasperation with us and the questions we put to you, which you consider trivial, though they are in fact essential. The prosecutor remarked dryly in reply. Well, upon my word, gentlemen, yes, I took the pestle. What does one pick things up for at such moments? I don't know what for. I snatched it up and ran, that's all. For to me, gentlemen, pass on, or I declare I won't tell you any more. He sat with his elbows on the table and his head in his hand. He sat sideways to them and gazed at the wall, struggling against the feeling of nausea. He had, in fact, an awful inclination to get up and declare that he wouldn't say another word, not if you hang me for it. You see, gentlemen, he said at last, with difficulty controlling himself, you see, I listen to you and am haunted by a dream. It's a dream I have sometimes, you know, I often dream it. It's always the same, that someone is hunting me, someone I'm awfully afraid of, that he's hunting me in the dark, in the night, tracking me, and I hide somewhere from him, behind a door or cupboard, hide in a degrading way, and the worst of it is he always knows where I am, but he pretends not to know where I am on purpose to prolong my agony, to enjoy my terror. That's just what you're doing now, it's just like that. Is that the sort of thing you dream about? inquired the prosecutor. Yes, it is, don't you want to write it down? said Mitcha, with a distorted smile. No, no need to write it down. But still you do have curious dreams. It's not a question of dreams now, gentlemen. This is realism, this is real life. I'm a wolf, and you're the hunters. Well, hunt him down. You are wrong to make such comparisons, began Nikolai Parfenovich, with extraordinary softness. No, I'm not wrong, not at all. Mitcha flared up again, though his outburst of wrath had obviously relieved his heart. He grew more good-humoured at every word. You may not trust a criminal or a man on trial tortured by your questions, but an honourable man, the honourable impulses of the heart, I say that boldly, no, that you must believe you have no rights indeed, but be silent, heart, be patient, humble, hold thy peace. Well, shall I go on? He broke off gloomily. If you'll be so kind, answered Nikolai Parfenovich. End of Section 57 Section 58 of the Brothers Karamazov by Fyodor Dostoevsky, translated by Constance Garnet. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Bruce Peary. Book 9, Chapter 5, The Third Ordeal Though Mitcha spoke sullenly, it was evident that he was trying more than ever not to forget or miss a single detail of his story. He told them how he had leapt over the fence into his father's garden, how he had gone up to the window, told them all that had passed under the window. Clearly, precisely, distinctly, he described the feelings that troubled him during those moments in the garden when he longed so terribly to know whether Grushinka was with his father or not. But strange to say, both the lawyers listened now with the sort of awful reserve, looked coldly at him, asked few questions. Mitcha could gather nothing from their faces. Fair angry and offended, he thought, well, bother them. When he described how he made up his mind at last to make the signal to his father that Grushinka had come so that he should open the window, the lawyers paid no attention to the word signal, as though they entirely failed to grasp the meaning of the word in this connection, so much so that Mitcha noticed it. Coming at last to the moment when, seeing his father peering out of the window, his hatred flared up and he pulled the pestle out of his pocket, he suddenly, as though of design, stopped short. He sat gazing at the wall and was aware that their eyes were fixed upon him. Well, said the investigating lawyer, you pulled out the weapon and what happened then? Then, why then, I murdered him, hit him on the head and cracked his skull. I suppose that's your story, that's it. His eyes suddenly flashed, all his smothered wrath suddenly flamed up with extraordinary violence in his soul. Your story, repeated Nikolai Perfenovich, well, and yours? Mitcha dropped his eyes and was a long time silent. My story, gentlemen, well, it was like this. He began softly. Whether it was someone's tears or my mother prayed to God or a good angel kissed me at that instant, I don't know, but the devil was conquered. I rushed from the window and ran to the fence. My father was alarmed and for the first time he saw me then, cried out and sprang back from the window. I remember that very well. I ran across the garden to the fence and there Grigori caught me when I was sitting on the fence. At that point he raised his eyes at last and looked at his listeners. They seemed to be staring at him with perfectly unruffled attention, a sort of paroxysm of indignation seized on Mitcha's soul. Why, you're laughing at me at this moment, gentlemen, he broke off suddenly. What makes you think that, observed Nikolai Perfenovich? You don't believe one word, that's why. I understand, of course, that I have come to the vital point, the old man's lying there now with his skull broken, while I, after dramatically describing how I wanted to kill him and how I snatched up the pestle, I suddenly ran away from the window, a romance, poetry, as though one could believe a fellow on his word. Ha! You are scoffers, gentlemen! And he swung round on his chair so that it creaked. And did you notice, asked the prosecutor suddenly, as though not observing Mitcha's excitement, did you notice when you ran away from the window whether the door into the garden was open? No, it was not open. It was not. It was shut, and who could open it? Bah! The door! Wait a bit! He seemed suddenly to be think himself, and almost with a start. Why, did you find the door open? Yes, it was open. I, who could have opened it if you did not open it yourselves? cried Mitcha, greatly astonished. The door stood open, and your father's murderer undoubtedly went in at that door, and having accomplished the crime, went out again by the same door. The prosecutor pronounced deliberately, as though chiselling out each word separately. That is perfectly clear. The murder was committed in the room, and not through the window, that is absolutely certain from the examination that has been made, from the position of the body and everything. There can be no doubt of that circumstance. Mitcha was absolutely dumbfounded. But that's utterly impossible, he cried, completely at a loss. I, I didn't go in. I tell you positively, definitely, the door was shut, the whole time I was in the garden, and when I ran out of the garden, I only stood at the window and saw him through the window. That's all, that's all. I remember to the last minute, and if I didn't remember it would be just the same. I know it, for no one knew the signals except Smirjakov and me and the dead man, and he wouldn't have opened the door to anyone in the world without the signals. Signals? What signals? asked the prosecutor, with greedy almost hysterical curiosity. He instantly lost all trace of his reserve and dignity. He asked the question with a sort of cringing timidity. He sented an important fact of which he had known nothing, and was already filled with dread that Mitcher might be unwilling to disclose it. So you didn't know, Mitcher winked at him with a malicious and mocking smile. What if I won't tell you, from whom could you find out? No one knew about the signals except my father, Smirjakov and me. That was all. Heaven knew, too, but it won't tell you. But it's an interesting fact, there's no knowing what you might build on it. Ha-ha! Dear gentlemen, I'll reveal it. You've some foolish idea in your hearts. You don't know the man you have to deal with. You have to do with the prisoner who gives evidence against himself to his own damage. Yes, for I'm a man of honour, and you are not. The prosecutor swallowed this without a murmur. He was trembling with impatience to hear the new fact. Minutely and defusely Mitcher told them everything about the signals invented by Fyodor Pavlovich for Smirjakov. He told them exactly what every tap on the window meant, tapped the signals on the table, and when Nikolai Parfenovic said that he supposed he, Mitcher, had tapped the signal Grushenko has come, when he tapped to his father, he answered precisely that he had tapped that signal that Grushenko had come. So now you can build up your tower, Mitcher broke off and again turned away from them contemptuously. So no one knew of the signals but your dead father, you, and the valet Smirjakov, and no one else, Nikolai Parfenovic inquired once more. Yes, the valet Smirjakov, and heaven, write down about heaven, that may be of use, besides you will need God yourselves. And they had already, of course, begun writing it down. But while they wrote, the prosecutor said suddenly, as though pitching on a new idea. But if Smirjakov also knew of these signals, and you absolutely deny all responsibility for the death of your father, was it not he, perhaps, who knocked the signal agreed upon, induced your father to open to him, and then committed the crime? Mitcher turned upon him with a look of profound irony and intense hatred. His silent stare lasted so long that it made the prosecutor blink. You've caught the fox again, commented Mitcher at last. You've got the beast by the tail. Ha! I see through you, Mr. Prosecutor. You thought, of course, that I should jump at that. Catch at your prompting, and shout with all my might, Ah! It's Smirjakov. He's the murderer. Confess, that's what you thought. Confess, and I'll go on. But the prosecutor did not confess. He held his tongue, and waited. You're mistaken. I'm not going to shout at Smirjakov, said Mitcher. And you don't even suspect him? Why, do you suspect him? He is suspected, too. Mitcher fixed his eyes on the floor. Joking apart, he brought out gloomily. Listen. From the very beginning, almost from the moment when I ran out to you from behind the curtain, I've had the thought of Smirjakov in my mind. I've been sitting here, shouting that I'm innocent, and thinking all the time, Smirjakov. I can't get Smirjakov out of my head. In fact, I, too, thought of Smirjakov just now. But only for a second. Almost at once I thought, no, it's not Smirjakov. It's not his doing, gentlemen. In that case is there anybody else you suspect? Nikolai Parfenovich inquired cautiously. I don't know anyone it could be, whether it's in the hand of heaven or Satan, but not Smirjakov. Mitcher jerked out with decision. But what makes you affirm so confidently and emphatically that it's not he? From my conviction, my impression, because Smirjakov is a man of the most abject character and a coward. He's not a coward. He's the epitome of all the cowardice in the world, walking on two legs. He has the heart of a chicken. When he talked to me he was always trembling for fear I should kill him, though I never raised my hand against him. He fell at my feet and blubbered. He has kissed these very boots, literally, beseeching me not to frighten him. Do you hear? Not to frighten him. What a thing to say. Why, I offered him money. He's a peeling chicken, sickly epileptic, weak-minded, a child of eight could thrash him. He has no character worth talking about. It's not Smirjakov, gentlemen. He doesn't care for money. He wouldn't take my presence. Besides, what motive had he for murdering the old man? Why, he's very likely his son, you know, his natural son. Do you know that? We have heard that legend, but you are your father's son, too, you know, yet you yourself told everyone you meant to murder him. That's a thrust, and a nasty mean one, too. I'm not afraid. Oh, gentlemen, isn't it too base of you to say that to my face? It's base because I told you that myself. I not only wanted to murder him, but I might have done it. And what's more, I went out of my way to tell you, of my own accord, that I nearly murdered him. But you see, I didn't murder him. You see, my guardian angel saved me. That's what you've not taken into account. And that's why it's so base of you. For I didn't kill him. I didn't kill him. Do you hear, I did not kill him. He was almost choking. He had not been so moved before during the whole interrogation. And what has he told you, gentlemen? Smirjakov, I mean. He added suddenly, after a pause. May I ask that question? You may ask any question, the prosecutor replied, with frigid severity, any question relating to the facts of the case. And we are, I repeat, bound to answer every inquiry you make. We found the servant Smirjakov, concerning whom you inquire, lying unconscious in his bed, in an epileptic fit of extreme severity, that had recurred possibly ten times. The doctor who was with us told us, after seeing him, that he may possibly not outlive the night. Well, if that's so, the devil must have killed him. Broke suddenly from Mitcha, as though until that moment he had been asking himself, was it Smirjakov or not. We will come back to this later, Nikolai Parfenovich decided. Now, wouldn't you like to continue your statement? Mitcha asked for a rest. His request was courteously granted. After resting he went on with his story, but he was evidently depressed. He was exhausted, mortified, and morally shaken. To make things worse, the prosecutor exasperated him, as though intentionally, by vexatious interruptions, about trifling points. Scarcely had Mitcha described how, sitting on the wall, he had struck Grigori on the head with the pestle, while the old man had hold of his left leg, and how he had then jumped down to look at him, when the prosecutor stopped him to ask him to describe exactly how he was sitting on the wall. Mitcha was surprised. How I was sitting like this astride one leg on one side of the wall and one on the other. And the pestle? The pestle was in my hand. Not in your pocket? Do you remember that precisely? Was it a violent blow you gave him? It must have been a violent one, but why do you ask? Would you mind sitting on the chair, just as you sat on the wall then, and showing us just how you moved your arm, and in what direction? You're making fun of me, aren't you, asked Mitcha, looking hotly at the speaker, but the latter did not flinch. Mitcha turned abruptly, sat astride on his chair, and swung his arm. This was how I struck him, that's how I knocked him down. What more do you want? Thank you. May I trouble you now to explain why you jumped down, with what object, and what you had in view? Oh, hang it, I jumped down to look at the man I'd heard. I don't know what for. Though you were so excited, and were running away. Yes, though I was excited, and running away. You wanted to help him? Help? Yes, perhaps I did want to help him. I don't remember. You don't remember? Then you didn't quite know what you were doing. Not at all. I remember everything, every detail. I jumped down to look at him, and wiped his face with my handkerchief. We have seen your handkerchief. Did you hope to restore him to consciousness? I don't know whether I hoped it. I simply wanted to make sure whether he was alive or not. Ah, you wanted to be sure. Well, what then? I'm not a doctor, I couldn't decide. I ran away thinking I'd killed him, and now he's recovered. Excellent, commented the prosecutor. Thank you. That's all I wanted. Kindly proceed. Alas, it never entered Mitch's head to tell them, though he remembered it, that he had jumped back from pity, and standing over the prostrate figure had even uttered some words of regret, you've come to grief old man, there's no help for it, well there you must lie. The prosecutor could only draw one conclusion, that the man had jumped back at such a moment and in such excitement, simply with the object of ascertaining whether the only witness of his crime were dead, that he must therefore have been a man of great strength, coolness, decision and foresight even at such a moment, and so on. The prosecutor was satisfied, I've provoked the nervous fellow by trifles and he has said more than he meant to. With painful effort Mitch went on, but this time he was pulled up immediately by Nicolai Parvenovic. How came you to run to the servant, Fadosia Markovna, with your hands so covered with blood, and as it appears your face too? Why, I didn't notice the blood at all at the time, answered Mitcha. That's quite likely, it does happen sometimes. The prosecutor exchanged glances with Nicolai Parvenovic. I simply didn't notice, you're quite right there prosecutor, Mitcha assented suddenly. Next came the account of Mitch's sudden determination to step aside and make way for their happiness, but he could not make up his mind to open his heart to them as before and tell them about the queen of his soul. He disliked speaking of her before these chilly persons who were fastening on him like bugs. And so, in response to their reiterated questions, he answered briefly and abruptly, Well I made up my mind to kill myself. What had I left to live for? That question stared me in the face. Her first rightful lover had come back, the man who wronged her but who'd hurried back to offer his love after five years, and atone for the wrong with marriage. So I knew it was all over for me. And behind me disgrace, and that blood, gregaries, what had I to live for? So I went to redeem the pistols I had pledged, to load them and put a bullet in my brain to-morrow. And a grand feast the night before? Yes, a grand feast the night before. Damn it, all gentlemen, do make haste and finish it. I meant to shoot myself not far from here beyond the village, and I'd planned to do it at five o'clock in the morning. And I had a note in my pocket already, I wrote it at Perhoton's when I loaded my pistols. Here's the letter. Read it. Not for you, I tell it," he added contemptuously. He took it from his waistcoat pocket and flung it on the table. The lawyers read it with curiosity, and as is usual, added it to the papers connected with the case. And you didn't even think of washing your hands at Perhoton's? You were not afraid, then, of arousing suspicion? What suspicion? Suspicion or not I should have galloped here just the same and shot myself at five o'clock, and you wouldn't have been in time to do anything. If it hadn't been for what's happened to my father, you would have known nothing about it, and wouldn't have come here. Oh, it's the devil's doing. It was the devil, murdered father. It was through the devil that you found it out so soon. How did you manage to get here so quick? It's marvellous, a dream. Mr. Perhoton informed us that when you came to him you held in your hands, your blood-stained hands, your money, a lot of money, a bundle of hundred ruble notes, and that his servant boy saw it, too. That's true, gentlemen. I remember it was so. Now, there's one little point presents itself. Can you inform us? Nikolai Parfenovich began with extreme gentleness. Where did you get so much money, all of a sudden, when it appears from the facts, from the reckoning of time, that you had not been home? The prosecutor's browse contracted that the question being asked so plainly, but he did not interrupt Nikolai Parfenovich. No, I didn't go home, answered Mitcha, apparently perfectly composed, but looking at the floor. Allow me then to repeat my question, Nikolai Parfenovich went on as though creeping up to the subject. Where were you able to procure, such as some, all at once, when by your own confession, at five o'clock, the same day, you— I was in want of ten rubles and pledged my pistols with Pirhotin, and then went to Madame Holakoff to borrow three thousand, which she wouldn't give me, and so on and all the rest of it. Mitcha interrupted sharply. Yes, gentlemen, I was in want of it, and suddenly thousands turned up, eh? You know, gentlemen, you're both afraid now. What if he won't tell us where he got it? That's just how it is. I'm not going to tell you, gentlemen. You've guessed right, you'll never know. said Mitcha, chipping out each word with extraordinary determination. The lawyers were silent for a moment. You must understand, Mr. Karamazov, that it is of vital importance for us to know. I understand, but still I won't tell you. The prosecutor, too, intervened, and again reminded the prisoner that he was at liberty to refuse to answer questions if he thought it to his interest, and so on. But in view of the damage he might do himself by his silence, especially in a case of such importance as— And so on, gentlemen, and so on, enough! I've heard that rigmarole before, Mitcha interrupted again. I can see for myself how important it is, and that this is the vital point, and still I won't say. What is it to us? It's not our business, but yours. You are doing yourself harm, observed Nikolai Parvenevich nervously. You see, gentlemen, joking apart, Mitcha lifted his eyes and looked firmly at them both. I had an inkling from the first that we should come to loggerheads at this point. But at first, when I began to give my evidence, it was all still far away and misty, it was all floating, and I was so simple that I began with the supposition of mutual confidence existing between us. Now I can see for myself that such confidence is out of the question, for in any case we were bound to come to this cursed, stumbling block, and now we've come to it. It's impossible, and there's an end of it, but I don't blame you. You can't believe it all simply on my word. I understand that, of course. He relapsed into gloomy silence. Couldn't you, without abandoning your resolution to be silent about the chief point, could you not, at the same time, give us some slight hint as to the nature of the motives which are strong enough to induce you to refuse to answer at a crisis so full of danger to you? Mitch is smiled mournfully, almost dreamily. I'm much more good-natured than you think, gentlemen. I'll tell you the reason why, and give you that hint, though you don't deserve it. I won't speak of that, gentlemen, because it would be a stain on my honour. The answer to the question where I got the money would expose me to far greater disgrace than the murder and robbing of my father if I had murdered and robbed him. That's why I can't tell you. I can't, for fear of disgrace. What, gentlemen, are you going to write that down? Yes, we'll write it down, lisped Nikolai Parfenovich. You ought not to write that down about disgrace. I only told you that in the goodness of my heart. I needn't have told you. I made you a present of it, so to speak, and you pounced upon it at once. Oh, well, write, write what you like, he concluded, with scornful disgust. I'm not afraid of you, and I can still hold up my head before you. And can't you tell us the nature of that disgrace? Nikolai Parfenovich has erded. The prosecutor frowned darkly. No, no, Sethini, don't trouble yourselves. It's not worth while soiling one's hands. I have soiled myself enough through you as it is. You're not worth it. No one is. Enough, gentlemen. I'm not going on. This was said too peremptorily. Nikolai Parfenovich did not insist further, but from Ipollid Kurilevich's eyes he saw that he had not given up hope. Can you not at least tell us what sum you had in your hands when you went into Mr. Perhotin's? How many rubles exactly? I can't tell you that. You spoke to Mr. Perhotin, I believe, of having received three thousand from Madame Holikov? Perhaps I did. Enough, gentlemen. I won't say how much I had. Will you be so good, then, as to tell us how you came here and what you have done since you arrived? Oh, you might ask the people here about that, but I'll tell you, if you like. He proceeded to do so, but we won't repeat his story. He told it dryly and curtly. Of the raptures of his love he said nothing, but told them that he abandoned his determination to shoot himself owing to new factors in the case. He told the story without going into motifs or details, and this time the lawyers did not worry him much. It was obvious that there was no essential point of interest to them here. We shall verify all that. We will come back to it during the examination of the witnesses, which will, of course, take place in your presence, said Nikolai Parfenovich, in conclusion. And now allow me to request you to lay on the table everything in your possession, especially all the money you still have about you. My money, gentlemen. Certainly. I understand that that is necessary. I am surprised indeed that you haven't inquired about it before. It's true I couldn't get away anywhere. I am sitting here where I can be seen. But here's my money. Count it. Take it. That's all, I think. He turned it all out of his pockets, even the small change, two pieces of twenty copax. He pulled out of his waistcoat pocket. They counted the money which amounted to eight hundred and thirty-six rubles and forty copax. And is that all? asked the investigating lawyer. Yes. You stated just now in your evidence that you spent three hundred rubles at Plotnikov's. You gave Perhotin ten, your driver twenty. After you lost two hundred, then Nikolai Parfenovich reckoned it all up. Mitcha helped him readily. They recollected every farthing and included it in the reckoning. Nikolai Parfenovich hurriedly added up the total. With this eight hundred you must have had about fifteen hundred at first. I suppose so, snapped Mitcha. How is it that they all assert there was much more? Let them assert it. But you asserted it yourself. Yes, I did, too. We will compare all this with the evidence of other persons not yet examined. Don't be anxious about your money. It will be properly taken care of and be at your disposal at the conclusion of what is beginning, if it appears, or so to speak, has proved that you have undisputed right to it. Well, and now Nikolai Parfenovich suddenly got up. And informed Mitcha firmly that it was his duty and obligation to conduct to my new, tenderer search of your clothes and everything else. By all means, gentlemen, I'll turn out all my pockets, if you like. And he did, in fact, begin turning out his pockets. It will be necessary to take off your clothes, too. What, untress? Ugh! Damn it! Won't you search me as I am, can't you? It is utterly impossible, Dmitry Fyodorovich, you must take off your clothes. As you like, Mitcha submitted gloomily, only, please, not here, but behind the curtains. Who will search them? Behind the curtains, of course. Nikolai Parfenovich bent his head in ascent. His small face wore an expression of peculiar solemnity. CHAPTER VI The Prosecutor Catches Mitcha Something utterly unexpected and amazing to Mitcha followed. He could never, even a minute before, have conceived that anyone could behave like that to him, Mitcha Karamazov. What was worst of all, there was something humiliating in it, and on their side something supercilious and scornful. It was nothing to take off his coat, but he was asked to untress further, or rather not asked, but commanded, he quite understood that. From pride and contempt he submitted without a word. Local peasants accompanied the lawyers and remained on the same side of the curtain. To be ready, if force is required, thought Mitcha, and perhaps for some other reason too. Well, must I take off my shirt, too? He asked sharply, but Nikolai Parfenovich did not answer. He was busily engaged with the prosecutor in examining the coat, the trousers, the waistcoat, and the cap, and it was evident that they were both much interested in the scrutiny. They make no bones about it, thought Mitcha, they don't keep up the most elementary politeness. I ask you for the second time, need I take off my shirt or not? He said, still more sharply and irritably. Don't trouble yourself, we will tell you what to do, Nikolai Parfenovich said, and his voice was positively peremptory or so it seemed to Mitcha. Meantime a consultation was going on in undertones between the lawyers. There turned out to be on the coat, especially on the left side at the back, a huge patch of blood, dry and still stiff. There were blood stains on the trousers, too. Nikolai Parfenovich, moreover, in the presence of the peasant witnesses, passed his fingers along the collar, the cuffs, and all the seams of the coat and trousers, obviously looking for something, money, of course. He didn't even hide from Mitcha his suspicion that he was capable of sewing money up in his clothes. He treats me not as an officer but as a thief, Mitcha muttered to himself. They communicated their ideas to one another with amazing frankness. The secretary, for instance, who was also behind the curtain, fussing about and listening, called Nikolai Parfenovich's attention to the cap, which they were also fingering. You remember Grigenko, the copying clerk, observed the secretary. Last summer he received the wages of the whole office and pretended to have lost the money when he was drunk. And where was it found? Why, in just such pipings in his cap, the hundred rubble notes were screwed up in little rolls and sewed in the piping. Both the lawyers remembered Grigenko's case perfectly, and so laid aside Mitcha's cap and decided that all his clothes must be more thoroughly examined later. "'Excuse me,' cried Nikolai Parfenovich, suddenly noticing that the right cuff of Mitcha's shirt was turned in and covered with blood. "'Excuse me, what's that, blood?' "'Yes,' Mitcha jerked out. "'That is, what blood, and why is the cuff turned in?' Mitcha told him how he had got the sleeve stained with blood looking after Grigori and had turned it inside when he was washing his hands at Perhotin's. "'You must take off your shirt, too. That's very important as material evidence.' Mitcha flushed red and flew into a rage. "'What, am I to stay naked?' he shouted. "'Don't disturb yourself, we will arrange something, and meanwhile take off your socks.' "'You're not joking? Is that really necessary?' Mitcha's eyes flashed. "'We are in no mood for joking,' answered Nikolai Parfenovich sternly. "'Well, if I must,' muttered Mitcha, and sitting down on the bed, he took off his socks. He felt unbearably awkward. All were clothed. While he was naked, and strange to say, when he was undressed, he felt somehow guilty in their presence, and was almost ready to believe himself that he was inferior to them, and that now they had a perfect right to despise him. When all are undressed, one is somehow not ashamed, but when one's the only one undressed and everybody is looking, it's degrading. He kept repeating to himself again and again. It's like a dream. I sometimes dreamed of being in such degrading positions. It was a misery to him to take off his socks. They were very dirty, and so were his underclothes, and now everyone could see it. And what was worse, he disliked his feet. All his life he had thought both his big toes hideous. He particularly loathed the coarse, flat, crooked nail on the right one, and now they would all see it. Feeling intolerably ashamed made him, at once and intentionally, rougher. He pulled off his shirt himself. Would you like to look anywhere else, if you're not ashamed, too? No, there's no need to at present. Well, am I to stay naked, like this? He added savagely. Yes, that can't be helped for the time. Kindly sit down here for a while. You can wrap yourself in a quilt from the bed, and I'll see to all this. All the things were shown to the witnesses. The report of the search was drawn up, and at last Nikolai Parfenovich went out, and the clothes were carried out after him. Ipolit Kirilevich went out, too. Mitcher was left alone with the peasants, who stood in silence, never taking their eyes off him. Mitcher wrapped himself up in the quilt. He felt cold, his bare feet stuck out, and he couldn't pull the quilt over so as to cover them. Nikolai Parfenovich seemed to be gone a long time, an insufferable time. He thinks of me as a puppy, thought Mitcher, gnashing his teeth, that rotten prosecutor has gone, too, contemptuous, no doubt, it disgusts him to see me naked. Mitcher imagined, however, that his clothes would be examined and returned to him. But what was his indignation when Nikolai Parfenovich came back with quite different clothes, brought in behind him by a peasant? Here are clothes for you. He observed errorly, seeming well satisfied with the success of his mission. Mr. Kalganov has kindly provided these for this unusual emergency, as well as a clean shirt. Luckily he had them all in his trunk. You can keep your own socks and underclothes. Mitcher flew into a passion. I won't have other people's clothes, he shouted menacingly, give me my own. It's impossible. Give me my own, damn Kalganov and his clothes, too. It was a long time before they could persuade him, but they succeeded somehow in quieting him down. They impressed upon him that his clothes, being stained with blood, must be included with the other material evidence, and that they had not even the right to let him have them now, taking into consideration the possible outcome of the case. Mitcher at last understood this. He subsided into gloomy silence and hurriedly dressed himself. He merely observed, as he put them on, that the clothes were much better than his old ones and that he disliked gaining by the change. The coat was, besides, ridiculously tight, am I to be dressed up like a fool for your amusement? They urged upon him again that he was exaggerating that Kalganov was only a little taller so that only the trousers might be a little too long. But the coat turned out to be really tight in the shoulders. Damn it all, I can hardly button it! Mitcher grumbled, be so good as to tell Mr. Kalganov from me that I didn't ask for his clothes, and it's not my doing that they've dressed me up like a clown. He understands that and is sorry, I mean not sorry to lend you his clothes, but sorry about all this business, mumbled Nikolai Parfenovich. But his sorrow—well, where now? Am I to go on sitting here? He was asked to go back to the other room. Mitcher went in, scowling with anger, and trying to avoid looking at anyone. Dressed in another man's clothes, he felt himself disgraced, even in the eyes of the peasants, and of Trifun Borisovich, whose face appeared, for some reason, in the doorway, and vanished immediately. Please come to look at me dressed up, thought Mitcher. He sat down on the same chair as before. He had an absurd nightmarish feeling as though he were out of his mind. Well, what now? Are you going to flog me? That's all that's left for you, he said, clenching his teeth and addressing the prosecutor. He would not turn to Nikolai Parfenovich as though he disdained to speak to him. He looked too closely at my socks, and turned them inside out on purpose to show everyone how dirty they were, the scoundrel. Well, now we must proceed to the examination of witnesses, observed Nikolai Parfenovich, as though in reply to Mitcher's question. Yes, said the prosecutor thoughtfully, as though reflecting on something. We've done what we could in your interest, Dmitry Fyodorovich, Nikolai Parfenovich went on, but having received from you such an uncompromising refusal to explain to us the source from which you obtained the money found upon you, we are at the present moment. What is the stone in your ring? Mitcher interrupted suddenly, as though awakening from a reverie. He pointed to one of the three large rings adorning Nikolai Parfenovich's right hand. Ring, repeated Nikolai Parfenovich, with surprise. Yes, that one, on your middle finger, with the little veins in it. What stone is that? Mitcher persisted, like a peevish child. That's a smoky topaz, said Nikolai Parfenovich, smiling. Would you like to look at it? I'll take it off. No, don't take it off! cried Mitcher furiously, suddenly waking up and angry with himself. Don't take it off. There's no need. Dammit! Gentlemen, you've sullied my heart. Can you suppose that I would conceal it from you if I had really killed my father, that I would shuffle, lie, and hide myself? No, that's not like Dmitry Karamazov. That he couldn't do. And if I were guilty, I swear I shouldn't have waited for your coming or for the sunrise as I meant at first, but should have killed myself before this, without waiting for the dawn. I know that about myself now. I couldn't have learned so much in twenty years as I found out in this accursed night. And should I have been like this on this night and at this moment sitting with you, could I have talked like this, could I have moved like this, could I have looked at you and at the world like this, if I had really been the murderer of my father, when the very thought of having accidentally killed Grigori gave me no peace all night, not from fear—oh, not simply from fear of your punishment—the disgrace of it. And you expect me to be open with such scoffers as you, who see nothing and believe in nothing, blind moles and scoffers, and to tell you another nasty thing I've done, another disgrace, even if that would save me from your accusation? No. Better Siberia. The man who opened the door to my father and went in at that door, he killed him, he robbed him. Who was he? I'm racking my brains and can't think who. But I can tell you it was not Dmitry Karamazov, and that's all I can tell you, and that's enough, enough. Leave me alone. Exile me, punish me, but don't bother me any more. I'll say no more. Call your witnesses. Georgia uttered his sudden monologue as though he were determined to be absolutely silent for the future. The prosecutor watched him the whole time, and only when he had ceased speaking, observed, as though it were the most ordinary thing, with the most frigid and composed air. Oh, about the open door of which you spoke just now, we may as well inform you, by the way, now, of a very interesting piece of evidence of the greatest importance, both to you and to us, that has been given us by Grigori, the old man you wounded. On his recovery he clearly and emphatically stated, in reply to our questions, that when, on coming out to the steps, and hearing a noise in the garden, he made up his mind to go into it through the little gate which stood open, before he noticed you running, as you have told us already, in the dark, from the open window where you saw your father. He, Grigori, glanced to the left, and while noticing the open window, observed at the same time, much nearer to him, the door, standing wide open, that door which you have stated to have been shut the whole time you were in the garden. I will not conceal from you that Grigori himself confidently affirms and bears witness that you must have run from that door, though, of course, he did not see you do so with his own eyes, since he only noticed you first some distance away in the garden running towards the fence. Mitcha had leapt up from his chair halfway through this speech. Nonsense! he yelled in a sudden frenzy. It's a bare-faced lie. He couldn't have seen the door open because it was shut. He's lying. I consider it my duty to repeat that he is firm in his statement. He does not waver. He adheres to it. We've cross-examined him several times. Precisely, I have cross-examined him several times, Nikolai Parfenovich confirmed warmly. It's false, false! It's either an attempt to slander me or the hallucination of a mad man. Mitcha still shouted. He's simply raving, from loss of blood, from the wound. He must have fancied it when he came to. He's raving. Yes, but he noticed the open door not when he came to after his injuries, but before that, as soon as he went into the garden from the lodge. But it's false! It's false! It can't be so. He's slandering me from spite. He couldn't have seen it. I didn't come from the door, gasped Mitcha. The prosecutor turned to Nikolai Parfenovich and said to him impressively, Confront him with it. Do you recognize this object? Nikolai Parfenovich laid upon the table a large and thick official envelope on which three seals still remained intact. The envelope was empty and slit open at one end. Mitcha stared at it with open eyes. It must be that envelope of my father's, the envelope that contained the three thousand rubles, and if there's inscribed on it, allow me. For my little chicken, yes, three thousand, he shouted. Do you see? Three thousand. Do you see? Of course we see, but we didn't find the money in it. It was empty, lying on the floor by the bed, behind the screen. For some seconds Mitcha stood as though thunder struck. Gentlemen, it's Smarchakov. He shouted suddenly at the top of his voice. It's he who's murdered him. He's robbed him. No one else knew where the old man hid the envelope. It's Smarchakov. That's clear now. But you too knew of the envelope and that it was under the pillow. I never knew it. I've never seen it. This is the first time I've looked at it. I'd only heard of it from Smarchakov. He was the only one who knew where the old man kept it hidden. I didn't know. Mitcha was completely breathless. But you told us yourself that the envelope was under your deceased father's pillow. You especially stated that it was under the pillow, so you must have known it. We've got it written down, confirmed Nikolai Perfenovich. Nonsense! It's absurd. I had no idea it was under the pillow, and perhaps it wasn't under the pillow at all. It was just a chance guess that it was under the pillow. What does Smarchakov say? Have you asked him where it was? What does Smarchakov say? That's the chief point. And I went out of my way to tell lies against myself. I told you without thinking that it was under the pillow, and now you—oh, you know how one says the wrong thing without meaning it? No one knew but Smarchakov, only Smarchakov, and no one else. He didn't even tell me where it was. But it's his doing, his doing. There's no doubt about it. He murdered him. That's as clear as daylight now. Mitcha exclaimed more and more frantically, repeating himself incoherently, and growing more and more exasperated and excited. You must understand that, and arrest him at once. He must have killed him while I was running away, and while Grigori was unconscious. That's clear now. He gave the signal, and father opened to him. For no one but he knew the signal, and without the signal father would never have opened the door. But you're again forgetting the circumstance, the prosecutor observed, still speaking with the same restraint, though with a note of triumph, that there was no need to give the signal, if the door already stood open when you were there while you were in the garden. The door, the door, muttered Mitcha, and he stared speechless at the prosecutor. He sank back helpless in his chair. All were silent. Yes, the door, it's a nightmare. God is against me, he exclaimed, staring before him in complete stupefaction. Come, you see, the prosecutor went on with dignity, and you can judge for yourself, Dmitriy Fyodorovich. On the one hand we have the evidence of the open door from which you ran out, a fact which overwhelms you and us. On the other side your incomprehensible, persistent, and so to speak obdurate silence with regard to the source from which you obtained the money, which was so suddenly seen in your hands, when only three hours earlier, on your own showing, you pledged your pistols for the sake of ten rubles. In view of all these facts, judge for yourself. What are we to believe, and what can we depend upon? And don't accuse us of being frigid, cynical, scoffing people who are incapable of believing in the generous impulses of your heart, try to enter into our position. Mitchell was indescribably agitated. He turned pale. Very well, he exclaimed suddenly, I will tell you my secret, I'll tell you where I got the money, I'll reveal my shame that I may not have to blame myself or you hereafter. And believe me, Dmitri Fyodorovich, put in Nikolai Parfenovich, in a voice of almost pathetic delight, that every sincere and complete confession on your part at this moment may, later on, have an immense influence in your favour, and may indeed moreover. But the prosecutor gave him a slight shove under the table, and he checked himself in time. Mitchell, it is true, had not heard him. End of section 59.