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. It's just this consideration that has led the prosecutor to

assume that the money is hidden in some crevice at Mokroe. Why not

in the dungeons of the castle of Udolpho, gentlemen? Isn't this

supposition really too fantastic and too romantic? And observe, if

that supposition breaks down, the whole charge of robbery is scattered

to the winds, for in that case what could have become of the other

fifteen hundred roubles? By what miracle could they have

disappeared, since it's proved the prisoner went nowhere else? And

we are ready to ruin a man's life with such tales!

    "I shall be told that he could not explain where he got the

fifteen hundred that he had. and everyone knew that he was without

money before that night. Who knew it, pray? The prisoner has made a

clear and unflinching statement of the source of that money, and if

you will have it so, gentlemen of the jury, nothing can be more

probable than that statement, and more consistent with the temper

and spirit of the prisoner. The prosecutor is charmed with his own

romance. A man of weak will, who had brought himself to take the three

thousand so insultingly offered by his betrothed, could not, we are

told, have set aside half and sewn it up, but would, even if he had

done so, have unpicked it every two days and taken out a hundred,

and so would have spent it all in a month. All this, you will

remember, was put forward in a tone what brooked no contradiction. But

what if the thing happened quite differently? What if you've been

weaving a romance, and about quite a different kind of man? That's

just it, you have invented quite a different man!

    "I shall be told, perhaps, there are witnesses that he spent on

one day all that three thousand given him by his betrothed a month

before the catastrophe, so he could not have divided the sum in

half. But who are these witnesses? The value of their evidence has

been shown in court already. Besides, in another man's hand a crust

always seems larger, and no one of these witnesses counted that money;

they all judged simply at sight. And the witness Maximov has testified

that the prisoner had twenty thousand in his hand. You see,

gentlemen of the jury, psychology is a two edged weapon. Let me turn

the other edge now and see what comes of it.

    "A month before the catastrophe the prisoner was entrusted by

Katerina Ivanovna with three thousand roubles to send off by post. But

the question is: is it true that they were entrusted to him in such an

insulting and degrading way as was proclaimed just now? The first

statement made by the young lady on the subject was different,

perfectly different. In the second statement we heard only cries of

resentment and revenge, cries of long-concealed hatred. And the very

fact that the witness gave her first evidence incorrectly gives us a

right to conclude that her second piece of evidence may have been

incorrect also. The prosecutor will not, dare not (his own words)

touch on that story. So be it. I will not touch on it either, but will

only venture to observe that if a lofty and high-principled person,

such as that highly respected young lady unquestionably is, if such

a person, I say, allows herself suddenly in court to contradict her

first statement, with the obvious motive of ruining the prisoner, it

is clear that this evidence has been given not impartially, not

coolly. Have not we the right to assume that a revengeful woman

might have exaggerated much? Yes, she may well have exaggerated, in

particular, the insult and humiliation of her offering him the

money. No, it was offered in such a way that it was possible to take

it, especially for a man so easygoing as the prisoner, above all, as

he expected to receive shortly from his father the three thousand

roubles that he reckoned was owing to him. It was unreflecting of him,

but it was just his irresponsible want of reflection that made him

so confident that his father would give him the money, that he would

get it, and so could always dispatch the money entrusted to him and

repay the debt.

    "But the prosecutor refuses to allow that he could the same day

have set aside half the money and sewn it up in a little bag. That's

not his character, he tells us, he couldn't have had such feelings.

But yet he talked himself of the broad Karamazov nature; he cried

out about the two extremes which a Karamazov can contemplate at

once. Karamazov is just such a two-sided nature, fluctuating between

two extremes, that even when moved by the most violent craving for

riotous gaiety, he can pull himself up, if something strikes him on

the other side. And on the other side is love that new love which

had flamed up in his heart, and for that love he needed money; oh, far

more than for carousing with his mistress. If she were to say to

him, 'I am yours, I won't have Fyodor Pavlovitch,' then he must have

money to take her away. That was more important than carousing.

Could a Karamazov fail to understand it? That anxiety was just what he

was suffering from- what is there improbable in his laying aside

that money and concealing it in case of emergency?

    "But time passed, and Fyodor Pavlovitch did not give the

prisoner the expected three thousand; on the contrary, the latter

heard that he meant to use this sum to seduce the woman he, the

prisoner, loved. 'If Fyodor Pavlovitch doesn't give the money,' he

thought, 'I shall be put in the position of a thief before Katerina

Ivanovna.' And then the idea presented itself to him that he would

go to Katerina Ivanovna, lay before her the fifteen hundred roubles he

still carried round his neck, and say, 'I am a scoundrel, but not a

thief.' So here we have already a twofold reason why he should guard

that sum of money as the apple of his eye, why he shouldn't unpick the

little bag, and spend it a hundred at a time. Why should you deny

the prisoner a sense of honour? Yes, he has a sense of honour, granted

that it's misplaced, granted it's often mistaken, yet it exists and

amounts to a passion, and he has proved that.

    "But now the affair becomes even more complex; his jealous

torments reach a climax, and those same two questions torture his

fevered brain more and more: 'If I repay Katerina Ivanovna, where

can I find the means to go off with Grushenka?' If he behaved

wildly, drank, and made disturbances in the taverns in the course of

that month, it was perhaps because he was wretched and strained beyond

his powers of endurance. These two questions became so acute that they

drove him at last to despair. He sent his younger brother to beg for

the last time for the three thousand roubles, but without waiting

for a reply, burst in himself and ended by beating the old man in

the presence of witnesses. After that he had no prospect of getting it

from anyone; his father would not give it him after that beating.

    "The same evening he struck himself on the breast, just on the

upper part of the breast where the little bag was, and swore to his

brother that he had the means of not being a scoundrel, but that still

he would remain a scoundrel, for he foresaw that he would not use that

means, that he wouldn't have the character, that he wouldn't have

the will-power to do it. Why, why does the prosecutor refuse to

believe the evidence of Alexey Karamazov, given so genuinely and

sincerely, so spontaneously and convincingly? And why, on the

contrary, does he force me to believe in money hidden in a crevice, in

the dungeons of the castle of Udolpho?

    "The same evening, after his talk with his brother, the prisoner

wrote that fatal letter, and that letter is the chief, the most

stupendous proof of the prisoner having committed robbery! 'I shall

beg from everyone, and if I don't get it I shall murder my father

and shall take the envelope with the pink ribbon on it from under

his mattress as soon as Ivan has gone.' A full programme of the

murder, we are told, so it must have been he. 'It has all been done as

he wrote,' cries the prosecutor.

    "But in the first place, it's the letter of a drunken man and

written in great irritation; secondly, he writes of the envelope

from what he has heard from Smerdyakov again, for he has not seen

the envelope himself; and thirdly, he wrote it indeed, but how can you

prove that he did it? Did the prisoner take the envelope from under

the pillow, did he find the money, did that money exist indeed? And

was it to get money that the prisoner ran off, if you remember? He ran

off post-haste not to steal, but to find out where she was, the

woman who had crushed him. He was not running to carry out a

programme, to carry out what he had written, that is, not for an act

of premeditated robbery, but he ran suddenly, spontaneously, in a

jealous fury. Yes! I shall be told, but when he got there and murdered

him he seized the money, too. But did he murder him after all? The

charge of robbery I repudiate with indignation. A man cannot be

accused of robbery, if it's impossible to state accurately what he has

stolen; that's an axiom. But did he murder him without robbery, did he

murder him at all? Is that proved? Isn't that, too, a romance?"