And it is not as though he had forgotten it on the path, dropped it through carelessness or haste, no, he had flung away his weapon, for it was found fifteen paces from where Grigory lay.
Why did he do so? just because he was grieved at having killed a man, an old servant; and he flung away the pestle with a curse, as a murderous weapon. That's how it must have been, what other reason could he have had for throwing it so far?
And if he was capable of feeling grief and pity at having killed a man, it shows that he was innocent of his father's murder. Had he murdered him, he would never have run to another victim out of pity; then he would have felt differently; his thoughts would have been centred on self-preservation. He would have had none to spare for pity, that is beyond doubt.
On the contrary, he would have broken his skull instead of spending five minutes looking after him.
There was room for pity and good-feeling just because his conscience had been clear till then.
Here we have a different psychology.
I have purposely resorted to this method, gentlemen of the jury, to show that you can prove anything by it.
It all depends on who makes use of it.
Psychology lures even most serious people into romancing, and quite unconsciously.
I am speaking of the abuse of psychology, gentlemen."
Sounds of approval and laughter, at the expense of the prosecutor, were again audible in the court.
I will not repeat the speech in detail; I will only quote some passages from it, some leading points.
Chapter 11.
There Was No Money.
There Was No Robbery
THERE was one point that struck everyone in Fetyukovitch's speech. He flatly denied the existence of the fatal three thousand roubles, and consequently, the possibility of their having been stolen.
"Gentlemen of the jury," he began. "Every new and unprejudiced observer must be struck by a characteristic peculiarity in the present case, namely, the charge of robbery, and the complete impossibility of proving that there was anything to be stolen.
We are told that money was stolen- three thousand roubles but whether those roubles ever existed, nobody knows.
Consider, how have we heard of that sum, and who has seen the notes?
The only person who saw them, and stated that they had been put in the envelope, was the servant, Smerdyakov.
He had spoken of it to the prisoner and his brother, Ivan Fyodorovitch, before the catastrophe.
Madame Svyetlov, too, had been told of it.
But not one of these three persons had actually seen the notes, no one but Smerdyakov had seen them. "Here the question arises, if it's true that they did exist, and that Smerdyakov had seen them, when did he see them for the last time?
What if his master had taken the notes from under his bed and put them back in his cash-box without telling him?
Note, that according to Smerdyakov's story the notes were kept under the mattress; the prisoner must have pulled them out, and yet the bed was absolutely unrumpled; that is carefully recorded in the protocol.
How could the prisoner have found the notes without disturbing the bed? How could he have helped soiling with his blood-stained hands the fine and spotless linen with which the bed had been purposely made?
"But I shall be asked: What about the envelope on the floor?
Yes, it's worth saying a word or two about that envelope.
I was somewhat surprised just now to hear the highly talented prosecutor declare of himself- of himself, observe- that but for that envelope, but for its being left on the floor, no one in the world would have known of the existence of that envelope and the notes in it, and therefore of the prisoner's having stolen it.
And so that torn scrap of paper is, by the prosecutor's own admission, the sole proof on which the charge of robbery rests, 'otherwise no one would have known of the robbery, nor perhaps even of the money.'
But is the mere fact that that scrap of paper was lying on the floor a proof that there was money in it, and that that money had been stolen? Yet, it will be objected, Smerdyakov had seen the money in the envelope. But when, when had he seen it for the last time, I ask you that?
I talked to Smerdyakov, and he told me that he had seen the notes two days before the catastrophe.
Then why not imagine that old Fyodor Pavlovitch, locked up alone in impatient and hysterical expectation of the object of his adoration, may have whiled away the time by breaking open the envelope and taking out the notes. 'What's the use of the envelope?' he may have asked himself. 'She won't believe the notes are there, but when I show her the thirty rainbow-coloured notes in one roll, it will make more impression, you may be sure, it will make her mouth water.' And so he tears open the envelope, takes out the money, and flings the envelope on the floor, conscious of being the owner and untroubled by any fears of leaving evidence.
"Listen, gentlemen, could anything be more likely than this theory and such an action?
Why is it out of the question?
But if anything of the sort could have taken place, the charge of robbery falls to the ground; if there was no money, there was no theft of it.
If the envelope on the floor may be taken as evidence that there had been money in it, why may I not maintain the opposite, that the envelope was on the floor because the money had been taken from it by its owner? "But I shall be asked what became of the money if Fyodor Pavlovitch took it out of the envelope since it was not found when the police searched the house? In the first place, part of the money was found in the cash-box, and secondly, he might have taken it out that morning or the evening before to make some other use of it, to give or send it away; he may have changed his idea, his plan of action completely, without thinking it necessary to announce the fact to Smerdyakov beforehand.
And if there is the barest possibility of such an explanation, how can the prisoner be so positively accused of having committed murder for the sake of robbery, and of having actually carried out that robbery?
This is encroaching on the domain of romance.
If it is maintained that something has been stolen, the thing must be produced, or at least its existence must be proved beyond doubt.
Yet no one had ever seen these notes.
"Not long ago in Petersburg a young man of eighteen, hardly more than a boy, who carried on a small business as a costermonger, went in broad daylight into a moneychanger's shop with an axe, and with extraordinary, typical audacity killed the master of the shop and carried off fifteen hundred roubles.
Five hours later he was arrested, and, except fifteen roubles he had already managed to spend, the whole sum was found on him.
Moreover, the shopman, on his return to the shop after the murder, informed the police not only of the exact sum stolen, but even of the notes and gold coins of which that sum was made up, and those very notes and coins were found on the criminal.
This was followed by a full and genuine confession on the part of the murderer.
That's what I call evidence, gentlemen of the jury!
In that case I know, I see, I touch the money, and cannot deny its existence.
Is it the same in the present case?
And yet it is a question of life and death. "Yes, I shall be told, but he was carousing that night, squandering money; he was shown to have had fifteen hundred roubles- where did he get the money? But the very fact that only fifteen hundred could be found, and the other half of the sum could nowhere be discovered, shows that that money was not the same, and had never been in any envelope.
By strict calculation of time it was proved at the preliminary inquiry that the prisoner ran straight from those women servants to Perhotin's without going home, and that he had been nowhere. So he had been all the time in company and therefore could not have divided the three thousand in half and hidden half in the town.