THOUGH Mitya 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 Grushenka was with his father or

not. But, strange to say, both the lawyers listened now with a sort of

awful reserve, looked coldly at him, asked few questions. Mitya

could gather nothing from their faces.

    "They're 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 Grushenka 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 Mitya 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... 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.

    "Our story?" repeated Nikolay Parfenovitch.

    Mitya dropped his eyes and was a long time silent.

    "My story, gentlemen? Well, was like this," he began softly.

"Whether 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 Grigory 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 Mitya's soul.

    "Why, you're laughing at me at this moment, gentlemen!" he broke

off suddenly.

    "What makes you think that?" observed Nikolay Parfenovitch.

    "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

run away from the window. A romance! Poetry! As though one could

believe a fellow on his word. Ha 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 Mitya'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 bethink himself, and almost with a start:

    "Why, did you find the door open?"

    "Yes, it was open."

    "Why, who could have opened it if you did not open it yourselves?"

cried Mitya, 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."

    Mitya 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 Smerdyakov, 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 scented an important fact of which he had known nothing, and was

already filled with dread that Mitya might be unwilling to disclose

it.

    "So you didn't know!" Mitya 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, Smerdyakov, 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! Take comfort, 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 a 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 diffusely Mitya

told them everything about the signals invented by Fyodor Pavlovitch

for Smerdyakov. He told them exactly what every tap on the window

meant, tapped the signals on the table, and when Nikolay

Parfenovitch said that he supposed he, Mitya, had tapped the signal

"Grushenka has come," when he tapped to his father, he answered

precisely that he had tapped that signal, that "Grushenka had come."

    "So now you can build up your tower," Mitya broke off, and again

turned away from them contemptuously.

    "So no one knew of the signals but your dead father, you, and

the valet Smerdyakov? And no one else?" Nikolay Parfenovitch

inquired once more.

    "Yes. The valet Smerdyakov, 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 Smerdyakov 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?"

    Mitya turned upon him 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 Mitya at last; "you've

got the beast by the tail. Ha 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, 'Aie! it's Smerdyakov; 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, 'It's Smerdyakov,'" said

Mitya.

    "And you don't even suspect him?"

    "Why, do you suspect him?"

    "He is suspected, too."

    Mitya 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 Smerdyakov in my mind. I've

been sitting here, shouting that I'm innocent and thinking all the

time 'Smerdyakov!' I can't get Smerdyakov out of my head. In fact,

I, too, thought of Smerdyakov just now; but only for a second.

Almost at once I thought, 'No, it's not Smerdyakov.' It's not his

doing, gentlemen."

    "In that case is there anybody else you suspect?" Nikolay

Parfenovitch inquired cautiously.

    "I don't know anyone it could be, whether it's the hand of

Heaven or of Satan, but... not Smerdyakov," Mitya jerked out with

decision.

    "But what makes you affirm so confidently and emphatically that

it's not he?"

    "From my conviction- my impression. Because Smerdyakov 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 puling chicken- sickly, epileptic, weak-minded- a

child of eight could thrash him. He has no character worth talking

about. It's not Smerdyakov, gentlemen. He doesn't care for money; he

wouldn't take my presents. 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- Smerdyakov, 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

Smerdyakov, 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 Mitya, as though until that moment had been asking

himself: "Was it Smerdyakov or not?"

    "We will come back to this later," Nikolay Parfenovitch decided.

"Now wouldn't you like to continue your statement?"

    Mitya 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 Mitya described

how, sitting on the wall, he had struck Grigory on the head with the

pestle, while the old man had hold of his left leg, and how he 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. Mitya was

surprised.

    "Oh, 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 Mitya, looking

haughtily at the speaker; but the latter did not flinch.

    Mitya 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 hurt... 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 Mitya'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 With painful effort Mitya

went on. But this time he was pulled up immediately by Nikolay

Parfenovitch.

    "How came you to run to the servant, Fedosya 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

Mitya.

    "That's quite likely. It does happen sometimes." The prosecutor

exchanged glances with Nikolay Parfenovitch.

    "I simply didn't notice. You're quite right there, prosecutor,"

Mitya assented suddenly.

    Next came the account of Mitya'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- Grigory's.... 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

Perhotin's when I loaded my pistols. Here's the letter. Read it!

It's 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 Perhotin'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. Perhotin 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-rouble 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," Nikolay Parfenovitch 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 brows contracted at the question being asked so

plainly, but he did not interrupt Nikolay Parfenovitch.

    "No, I didn't go home," answered Mitya, apparently perfectly

composed, but looking at the floor.

    "Allow me then to repeat my question," Nikolay Parfenovitch went

on as though creeping up to the subject. "Where were you able to

procure such a sum all at once, when by your own confession, at five

o'clock the same day you-"

    "I was in want of ten roubles and pledged my pistols with

Perhotin, and then went to Madame Hohlakov to borrow three thousand

which she wouldn't give me, and so on, and all the rest of it,"

Mitya interrupted sharply. "Yes, gentlemen, I was in want of it, and

suddenly thousands turned up, eh? Do 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 Mitya, 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," said Nikolay Parfenovitch, softly and

suavely.

    "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," Mitya 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 Nikolay Parfenovitch nervously.

    "You see, gentlemen, joking apart"- Mitya 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?"

    Mitya 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 Nikolay Parfenovitch.

    "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 pounce 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?" Nikolay

Parfenovitch hazarded.

    The prosecutor frowned darkly.

    "No, no, c'est fini, 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. Nikolay Parfenovitch did not

insist further, but from Ippolit Kirillovitch'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 roubles exactly?"

    "I can't tell you that."

    "You spoke to Mr. Perhotin, I believe, of having received three

thousand from Madame Hohlakov."

    "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 motives 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 Nikolay Parfenovitch 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'm surprised, indeed, that you haven't inquired about it

before. It's true I couldn't get away anywhere. I'm 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 copecks- he pulled out of his waistcoat pocket.

They counted the money, which amounted to eight hundred and thirty-six

roubles, and forty copecks.

    "And is that all?" asked the investigating lawyer.

    "You stated just now in your evidence that you spent three hundred

roubles at Plotnikovs'. You gave Perhotin ten, your driver twenty,

here you lost two hundred, then..."

    Nikolay Parfenovitch reckoned it all up. Mitya helped him readily.

They recollected every farthing and included it in the reckoning.

Nikolay Parfenovitch hurriedly added up the total. "With this eight

hundred you must have had about fifteen hundred at first?"

    "I suppose so," snapped Mitya.

    "How is it 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, is proved that you

have undisputed right to it. Well, and now..."

    Nikolay Parfenovitch suddenly got up, and informed Mitya firmly

that it was his duty and obligation to conduct a minute and thorough

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! Undress? Ugh! Damn it! Won't you search me as I am? Can't

you?"

    "It's utterly impossible, Dmitri Fyodorovitch. You must take off

your clothes."

    "As you like," Mitya submitted gloomily; "only, please, not

here, but behind the curtains. Who will search them?"

    "Behind the curtains, of course."

    Nikolay Parfenovitch bent his head in assent. His small face

wore an expression of peculiar solemnity.