The Brothers Karamazov, Fyodor Dostoyevsky [children's books read aloud TXT] 📗

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