But he pulled himself together to go on again. When he came to telling of his visit to Madame Hohlakov, 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.”
At last, when he described his despair and told them how, when he left Madame Hohlakov’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.” Mitya let them write it without protest. At last he reached the point in his story when he learned that Grushenka had deceived him and had returned from Samsonov’s 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. Mitya 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 recognise this object?” he asked, showing it to Mitya.
“Oh, yes,” he laughed gloomily. “Of course, I recognise 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 Mitya 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?”
Mitya’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… Oh, 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?”
“Ugh! damn it all, gentlemen! There’s positively no talking to you!” cried Mitya, 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 Pavlovitch… 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 drily 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, passons, 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 a 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 Mitya, 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 Nikolay Parfenovitch, with extraordinary softness.
“No, I’m not wrong, at all!” Mitya 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 right 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 Nikolay Parfenovitch.
Chapter 5 The Third Ordeal
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
