though I never raised my hand against him. He fell at my feet and blubbered; he has kissed these very boots, literally, beseeching me ‘not to frighten him.’ Do you hear? ‘Not to frighten him.’ What a thing to say! Why, I offered him money. He’s a puling chicken—sickly, epileptic, weak-minded—a child of eight could thrash him. He has no character worth talking about. It’s not Smerdyakov, gentlemen. He doesn’t care for money; he wouldn’t take my presents. Besides, what motive had he for murdering the old man? Why, he’s very likely his son, you know—his natural son. Do you know that?”
“We have heard that legend. But you are your father’s son, too, you know; yet you yourself told everyone you meant to murder him.”
“That’s a thrust! And a nasty, mean one, too! I’m not afraid!
Oh, gentlemen, isn’t it too base of you to say that to my face? It’s base, because I told you that myself. I not only wanted to murder him, but I might have done it. And, what’s more, I went out of my way to tell you of my own accord that I nearly murdered him.
But, you see, I didn’t murder him; you see, my guardian angel saved me—that’s what you’ve not taken into account. And that’s why it’s so base of you. For I didn’t kill him, I didn’t kill him! Do you hear, I did not kill him.”
He was almost choking. He had not been so moved before during the whole interrogation.
“And what has he told you, gentlemen—Smerdyakov, I mean?” he added suddenly, after a pause. “May I ask that question?”
“You may ask any question,” the prosecutor replied with frigid severity, “any question relating to the facts