“Don’t disturb yourselves. I am not mad, I am only a murderer,” Ivan began again. “You can’t expect eloquence from a murderer,” he added suddenly for some reason and laughed a queer laugh.
The prosecutor bent over to the President in obvious dismay. The two other judges communicated in agitated whispers. Fetyukovitch pricked up his ears as he listened: the hall was hushed in expectation. The President seemed suddenly to recollect himself.
“Witness, your words are incomprehensible and impossible here. Calm yourself, if you can, and tell your story … if you really have something to tell. How can you confirm your statement … if indeed you are not delirious?”
“That’s just it. I have no proof. That cur Smerdyakov won’t send you proofs from the other world … in an envelope. You think of nothing but envelopes—one is enough. I’ve no witnesses … except one, perhaps,” he smiled thoughtfully.
“Who is your witness?”
“He has a tail, your excellency, and that would be irregular! Le diable n’existe point! Don’t pay attention: he is a paltry, pitiful devil,” he added suddenly. He ceased laughing and spoke as it were, confidentially. “He is here somewhere, no doubt—under that table with the material evidence on it, perhaps. Where should he sit if not there? You see, listen to me. I told him I don’t want to keep quiet, and he talked about the geological cataclysm … idiocy! Come, release the monster … he’s been singing a hymn. That’s because his heart is light! It’s like a drunken man in the street bawling how ‘Vanka went to Petersburg,’ and I would give a quadrillion quadrillions for two seconds of joy. You don’t know me! Oh, how stupid all this business is! Come, take me instead of him! I didn’t come for nothing. … Why, why is everything so stupid? …”