"TO begin with, what was the source of this suspicion?" (Ippolit

Kirillovitch began). "The first person who cried out that Smerdyakov

had committed the murder was the prisoner himself at the moment of his

arrest, yet from that time to this he had not brought forward a single

fact to confirm the charge, nor the faintest suggestion of a fact. The

charge is confirmed by three persons only- the two brothers of the

prisoner and Madame Svyetlov. The elder of these brothers expressed

his suspicions only to-day, when he was undoubtedly suffering from

brain fever. But we know that for the last two months he has

completely shared our conviction of his brother's guilt and did not

attempt to combat that idea. But of that later. The younger brother

has admitted that he has not the slightest fact to support his

notion of Smerdyakov's guilt, and has only been led to that conclusion

from the prisoner's own words and the expression of his face. Yes,

that astounding piece of evidence has been brought forward twice

to-day by him. Madame Svyetslov was even more astounding. 'What the

prisoner tells you, you must believe; he is not a man to tell a

lie.' That is all the evidence against Smerdyakov produced by these

three persons. who are all deeply concerned in the prisoner's fate.

And yet the theory of Smerdyakov's guilt has been noised about, has

been and is still maintained. Is it credible? Is it conceivable?"

    Here Ippolit Kirillovitch thought it necessary to describe the

personality of Smerdyakov, "who had cut short his life in a fit of

insanity." He depicted him as a man of weak intellect, with a

smattering of education, who had been thrown off his balance by

philosophical ideas above his level and certain modern theories of

duty, which he learnt in practice from the reckless life of his

master, who was also perhaps his father- Fyodor Pavlovitch; and,

theoretically, from various strange philosophical conversations with

his master's elder son, Ivan Fyodorovitch, who readily indulged in

this diversion, probably feeling dull or wishing to amuse himself at

the valet's expense. "He spoke to me himself of his spiritual

condition during the last few days at his father's house," Ippolit

Kirillovitch explained; "but others too have borne witness to it-

the prisoner himself, his brother, and the servant Grigory- that is,

all who knew him well.

    "Moreover, Smerdyakov, whose health was shaken by his attacks of

epilepsy, had not the courage of a chicken. 'He fell at my feet and

kissed them,' the prisoner himself has told us, before he realised how

damaging such a statement was to himself. 'He is an epileptic

chicken,' he declared about him in his characteristic language. And

the prisoner chose him for his confidant (we have his own word for it)

and he frightened him into consenting at last to act as a spy for him.

In that capacity he deceived his master, revealing to the prisoner the

existence of the envelope with the notes in it and the signals by

means of which he could get into the house. How could he help

telling him, indeed? 'He would have killed me, I could see that he

would have killed me,' he said at the inquiry, trembling and shaking

even before us, though his tormentor was by that time arrested and

could do him no harm. 'He suspected me at every instant. In fear and

trembling I hastened to tell him every secret to pacify him, that he

might see that I had not deceived him and let me off alive.' Those are

his own words. I wrote them down and I remember them. 'When he began

shouting at me, I would fall on my knees.'

    "He was naturally very honest and enjoyed the complete

confidence of his master, ever since he had restored him some money he

had lost. So it may be supposed that the poor fellow suffered pangs of

remorse at having deceived his master, whom he loved as his

benefactor. Persons severely afflicted with epilepsy are, so the

most skilful doctors tell us, always prone to continual and morbid

self-reproach. They worry over their 'wickedness,' they are

tormented by pangs of conscience, often entirely without cause; they

exaggerate and often invent all sorts of faults and crimes. And here

we have a man of that type who had really been driven to wrongdoing by

terror and intimidation.

    "He had, besides, a strong presentiment that something terrible

would be the outcome of the situation that was developing before his

eyes. When Ivan Fyodorovitch was leaving for Moscow, just before the

catastrophe, Smerdyakov besought him to remain, though he was too

timid to tell him plainly what he feared. He confined himself to

hints, but his hints were not understood.

    "It must be observed that he looked on Ivan Fyodorovitch as a

protector, whose presence in the house was a guarantee that no harm

would come to pass. Remember the phrase in Dmitri Karamazov's

drunken letter, 'I shall kill the old man, if only Ivan goes away.' So

Ivan Fyodorovitch's presence seemed to everyone a guarantee of peace

and order in the house.

    "But he went away, and within an hour of his young master's

departure Smerdyakov was taken with an epileptic fit. But that's

perfectly intelligible. Here I must mention that Smerdyakov, oppressed

by terror and despair of a sort, had felt during those last few days

that one of the fits from which he had suffered before at moments of

strain, might be coming upon him again. The day and hour of such an

attack cannot, of course, be foreseen, but every epileptic can feel

beforehand that he is likely to have one. So the doctors tell us.

And so, as soon as Ivan Fyodorovitch had driven out of the yard,

Smerdyakov, depressed by his lonely and unprotected position, went

to the cellar. He went down the stairs wondering if he would have a

fit or not, and what if it were to come upon him at once. And that

very apprehension, that very wonder, brought on the spasm in his

throat that always precedes such attacks, and he fell unconscious into

the cellar. And in this perfectly natural occurrence people try to

detect a suspicion, a hint that he was shamming an attack on

purpose. But, if it were on purpose, the question arises at once, what

was his motive? What was he reckoning on? What was he aiming at? I say

nothing about medicine: science, I am told, may go astray: the doctors

were not able to discriminate between the counterfeit and the real.

That may be so, but answer me one question: what motive had he for

such a counterfeit? Could he, had he been plotting the murder, have

desired to attract the attention of the household by having a fit just

before?

    "You see, gentlemen of the jury, on the night of the murder, there

were five persons in Fyodor Pavlovitch's- Fyodor Pavlovitch himself

(but he did not kill himself, that's evident); then his servant,

Grigory, but he was almost killed himself; the third person was

Grigory's wife, Marfa Ignatyevna, but it would be simply shameful to

imagine her murdering her master. Two persons are left- the prisoner

and Smerdyakov. But, if we are to believe the prisoner's statement

that he is not the murderer, then Smerdyakov must have been, for there

is no other alternative, no one else can be found. That is what

accounts for the artful, astounding accusation against the unhappy

idiot who committed suicide yesterday. Had a shadow of suspicion

rested on anyone else, had there been any sixth person, I am persuaded

that even the prisoner would have been ashamed to accuse Smerdyakov,

and would have accused that sixth person, for to charge Smerdyakov

with that murder is perfectly absurd.

    "Gentlemen, let us lay aside psychology, let us lay aside

medicine, let us even lay aside logic, let us turn only to the facts

and see what the facts tell us. If Smerdyakov killed him, how did he

do it? Alone or with the assistance of the prisoner? Let us consider

the first alternative- that he did it alone. If he had killed him it

must have been with some object, for some advantage to himself. But

not having a shadow of the motive that the prisoner had for the

murder- hatred, jealousy, and so on- Smerdyakov could only have

murdered him for the sake of gain, in order to appropriate the three

thousand roubles he had seen his master put in the envelope. And yet

he tells another person- and a person most closely interested, that

is, the prisoner- everything about the money and the signals, where

the envelope lay, what was written on it, what it was tied up with,

and, above all, told him of those signals by which he could enter

the house. Did he do this simply to betray himself, or to invite to

the same enterprise one who would be anxious to get that envelope

for himself? 'Yes,' I shall be told, 'but he betrayed it from fear.'

But how do you explain this? A man who could conceive such an

audacious, savage act, and carry it out, tells facts which are known

to no one else in the world, and which, if he held his tongue, no

one would ever have guessed!

    "No, however cowardly he might be, if he had plotted such a crime,

nothing would have induced him to tell anyone about the envelope and

the signals, for that was as good as betraying himself beforehand.

He would have invented something, he would have told some lie if he

had been forced to give information, but he would have been silent

about that. For, on the other hand, if he had said nothing about the

money, but had committed the murder and stolen the money, no one in

the world could have charged him with murder for the sake of

robbery, since no one but he had seen the money, no one but he knew of

its existence in the house. Even if he had been accused of the murder,

it could only have been thought that he had committed it from some

other motive. But since no one had observed any such motive in him

beforehand, and everyone saw, on the contrary, that his master was

fond of him and honoured him with his confidence, he would, of course,

have been the last to be suspected. People would have suspected

first the man who had a motive, a man who had himself declared he

had such motives, who had made no secret of it; they would, in fact,

have suspected the son of the murdered man, Dmitri Fyodorovitch. Had

Smerdyakov killed and robbed him, and the son been accused of it, that

would, of course, have suited Smerdyakov. Yet are we to believe

that, though plotting the murder, he told that son, Dmitri, about

the money, the envelope, and the signals? Is that logical? Is that

clear?

    "When the day of the murder planned by Smerdyakov came, we have

him falling downstairs in a feigned fit- with what object? In the

first place that Grigory, who had been intending to take his medicine,

might put it off and remain on guard, seeing there was no one to

look after the house, and, in the second place, I suppose, that his

master seeing that there was no one to guard him, and in terror of a

visit from his son, might redouble his vigilance and precaution.

And, most of all, I suppose that he, Smerdyakov, disabled by the

fit, might be carried from the kitchen, where he always slept, apart

from all the rest, and where he could go in and out as he liked, to

Grigory's room at the other end of the lodge, where he was always put,

shut off by a screen three paces from their own bed. This was the

immemorial custom established by his master and the kindhearted

Marfa Ignatyevna, whenever he had a fit. There, lying behind the

screen, he would most likely, to keep up the sham, have begun

groaning, and so keeping them awake all night (as Grigory and his wife

testified). And all this, we are to believe, that he might more

conveniently get up and murder his master!

    "But I shall be told that he shammed illness on purpose that he

might not be suspected and that he told the prisoner of the money

and the signals to tempt him to commit the murder, and when he had

murdered him and had gone away with the money, making a noise, most

likely, and waking people, Smerdyakov got up, am I to believe, and

went in- what for? To murder his master a second time and carry off

the money that had already been stolen? Gentlemen, are you laughing? I

am ashamed to put forward such suggestions, but, incredible as it

seems, that's just what the prisoner alleges. When he had left the

house, had knocked Grigory down and raised an alarm, he tells us

Smerdyakov got up, went in and murdered his master and stole the

money! I won't press the point that Smerdyakov could hardly have

reckoned on this beforehand, and have foreseen that the furious and

exasperated son would simply come to peep in respectfully, though he

knew the signals, and beat a retreat, leaving Smerdyakov his booty.

Gentlemen of the jury, I put this question to you in earnest: when was

the moment when Smerdyakov could have committed his crime? Name that

moment, or you can't accuse him.

    "But, perhaps, the fit was a real one, the sick man suddenly

recovered, heard a shout, and went out. Well- what then? He looked

about him and said, 'Why not go and kill the master?' And how did he

know what had happened, since he had been lying unconscious till

that moment? But there's a limit to these flights of fancy.

    "'Quite so,' some astute people will tell me, 'but what if they

were in agreement? What if they murdered him together and shared the

money- what then?' A weighty question, truly! And the facts to confirm

it are astounding. One commits the murder and takes all the trouble

while his accomplice lies on one side shamming a fit, apparently to

arouse suspicion in everyone, alarm in his master and alarm in

Grigory. It would be interesting to know what motives could have

induced the two accomplices to form such an insane plan.

    "But perhaps it was not a case of active complicity on

Smerdyakov's part, but only of passive acquiescence; perhaps

Smerdyakov was intimidated and agreed not to prevent the murder, and

foreseeing that he would be blamed for letting his master be murdered,

without screaming for help or resisting, he may have obtained

permission from Dmitri Karamazov to get out of the way by shamming a

fit- 'you may murder him as you like; it's nothing to me.' But as this

attack of Smerdyakov's was bound to throw the household into

confusion, Dmitri Karamazov could never have agreed to such a plan.

I will waive that point however. Supposing that he did agree, it would

still follow that Dmitri Karamazov is the murderer and the instigator,

and Smerdyakov is only a passive accomplice, and not even an

accomplice, but merely acquiesced against his will through terror.

    "But what do we see? As soon as he is arrested the prisoner

instantly throws all the blame on Smerdyakov, not accusing him of

being his accomplice, but of being himself the murderer. 'He did it

alone,' he says. 'He murdered and robbed him. It was the work of his

hands.' Strange sort of accomplices who begin to accuse one another at

once! And think of the risk for Karamazov. After committing the murder

while his accomplice lay in bed, he throws the blame on the invalid,

who might well have resented it and in self-preservation might well

have confessed the truth. For he might well have seen that the court

would at once judge how far he was responsible, and so he might well

have reckoned that if he were punished, it would be far less

severely than the real murderer. But in that case he would have been

certain to make a confession, yet he has not done so. Smerdyakov never

hinted at their complicity, though the actual murderer persisted in

accusing him and declaring that he had committed the crime alone.

    "What's more, Smerdyakov at the inquiry volunteered the

statement that it was he who had told the prisoner of the envelope

of notes and of the signals, and that, but for him, he would have

known nothing about them. If he had really been a guilty accomplice,

would he so readily have made this statement at the inquiry? On the

contrary, he would have tried to conceal it, to distort the facts or

minimise them. But he was far from distorting or minimising them. No

one but an innocent man, who had no fear of being charged with

complicity, could have acted as he did. And in a fit of melancholy

arising from his disease and this catastrophe he hanged himself

yesterday. He left a note written in his peculiar language, 'I destroy

myself of my own will and inclination so as to throw no blame on

anyone.' What would it have cost him to add: 'I am the murderer, not

Karamazov'? But that he did not add. Did his conscience lead him to

suicide and not to avowing his guilt?

    "And what followed? Notes for three thousand roubles were

brought into the court just now, and we were told that they were the

same that lay in the envelope now on the table before us, and that the

witness had received them from Smerdyakov the day before. But I need

not recall the painful scene, though I will make one or two

comments, selecting such trivial ones as might not be obvious at first

sight to everyone, and so may be overlooked. In the first place,

Smerdyakov must have given back the money and hanged himself yesterday

from remorse. And only yesterday he confessed his guilt to Ivan

Karamazov, as the latter informs us. If it were not so, indeed, why

should Ivan Fyodorovitch have kept silence till now? And so, if he has

confessed, then why, I ask again, did he not avow the whole truth in

the last letter he left behind, knowing that the innocent prisoner had

to face this terrible ordeal the next day?

    "The money alone is no proof. A week ago, quite by chance, the

fact came to the knowledge of myself and two other persons in this

court that Ivan Fyodorovitch had sent two five per cent coupons of

five thousand each- that is, ten thousand in all- to the chief town of

the province to be changed. I only mention this to point out that

anyone may have money, and that it can't be proved that these notes

are the same as were in Fyodor Pavlovitch's envelope.

    "Ivan Karamazov, after receiving yesterday a communication of such

importance from the real murderer, did not stir. Why didn't he

report it at once? Why did he put it all off till morning? I think I

have a right to conjecture why. His health had been giving way for a

week past: he had admitted to a doctor and to his most intimate

friends that he was suffering from hallucinations and seeing

phantoms of the dead: he was on the eve of the attack of brain fever

by which he has been stricken down to-day. In this condition he

suddenly heard of Smerdyakov's death, and at once reflected. 'The

man is dead, I can throw the blame on him and save my brother. I

have money. I will take a roll of notes and say that Smerdyakov gave

them me before his death.' You will say that was dishonourable: it's

dishonourable to slander even the dead, and even to save a brother.

True, but what if he slandered him unconsciously? What if, finally

unhinged by the sudden news of the valet's death, he imagined it

really was so? You saw the recent scene: you have seen the witness's

condition. He was standing up and was speaking, but where was his

mind?

    "Then followed the document, the prisoner's letter written two

days before the crime, and containing a complete programme of the

murder. Why, then, are we looking for any other programme? The crime

was committed precisely according to this programme, and by no other

than the writer of it. Yes, gentlemen of the jury, it went off without

a hitch! He did not run respectfully and timidly away from his

father's window, though he was firmly convinced that the object of his

affections was with him. No, that is absurd and unlikely! He went in

and murdered him. Most likely he killed him in anger, burning with

resentment, as soon as he looked on his hated rival. But having killed

him, probably with one blow of the brass pestle, and having

convinced himself, after careful search, that she was not there, he

did not, however, forget to put his hand under the pillow and take out

the envelope, the torn cover of which lies now on the table before us.

    "I mention this fact that you may note one, to my thinking, very

characteristic circumstance. Had he been an experienced murderer and

had he committed the murder for the sake of gain only, would he have

left the torn envelope on the floor as it was found, beside the

corpse? Had it been Smerdyakov, for instance, murdering his master

to rob him, he would have simply carried away the envelope with him,

without troubling himself to open it over his victim's corpse, for

he would have known for certain that the notes were in the envelope-

they had been put in and sealed up in his presence- and had he taken

the envelope with him, no one would ever have known of the robbery.

I ask you, gentlemen, would Smerdyakov have behaved in that way? Would

he have left the envelope on the floor?

    "No, this was the action of a frantic murderer, a murderer who was

not a thief and had never stolen before that day, who snatched the

notes from under the pillow, not like a thief stealing them, but as

though seizing his own property from the thief who had stolen it.

For that was the idea which had become almost an insane obsession in

Dmitri Karamazov in regard to that money. And pouncing upon the

envelope, which he had never seen before, he tore it open to make sure

whether the money was in it, and ran away with the money in his

pocket, even forgetting to consider that he had left an astounding

piece of evidence against himself in that torn envelope on the

floor. All because it was Karamazov, not Smerdyakov, he didn't

think, he didn't reflect, and how should he? He ran away; he heard

behind him the servant cry out; the old man caught him, stopped him

and was felled to the ground by the brass pestle.

    "The prisoner, moved by pity, leapt down to look at him. Would you

believe it, he tells us that he leapt down out of pity, out of

compassion, to see whether he could do anything for him. Was that a

moment to show compassion? No; he jumped down simply to make certain

whether the only witness of his crime were dead or alive. Any other

feeling, any other motive would be unnatural. Note that he took

trouble over Grigory, wiped his head with his handkerchief and,

convincing himself he was dead, he ran to the house of his mistress,

dazed and covered with blood. How was it he never thought that he

was covered with blood and would be at once detected? But the prisoner

himself assures us that he did not even notice that he was covered

with blood. That may be believed, that is very possible, that always

happens at such moments with criminals. On one point they will show

diabolical cunning, while another will escape them altogether. But

he was thinking at that moment of one thing only- where was she? He

wanted to find out at once where she was, so he ran to her lodging and

learnt an unexpected and astounding piece of news- she had gone off to

Mokroe to meet her first lover."