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that’s to say.... But of the murder of my old father I’m not
guilty. That’s a wild idea. It’s quite a wild idea!... I will prove
you that and you’ll be convinced directly.... You will laugh,
gentlemen. You’ll laugh yourselves at your suspicion!..’
‘Be calm, Dmitri Fyodorovitch,’ said the investigating
lawyer evidently trying to allay Mitya’s excitement by his
own composure. ‘Before we go on with our inquiry, I should
like, if you will consent to answer, to hear you confirm the
statement that you disliked your father, Fyodor Pavlov-
itch, that you were involved in continual disputes with him.
Here at least, a quarter of an hour ago, you exclaimed that
you wanted to kill him: ‘I didn’t kill him,’ you said,’but I
wanted to kill him.’’
‘Did I exclaim that? Ach, that may be so, gentlemen! Yes,
unhappily, I did want to kill him... many times I wanted to...
unhappily, unhappily!’
‘You wanted to. Would you consent to explain what mo-
tives precisely led you to such a sentiment of hatred for your
parent?’
‘What is there to explain, gentlemen?’ Mitya shrugged
his shoulders sullenly, looking down. ‘I have never con-
cealed my feelings. All the town knows about it — everyone
knows in the tavern. Only lately I declared them in Father
Zossima’s cell. And the very same day, in the evening I beat
my father. I nearly killed him, and I swore I’d come again
and kill him, before witnesses.... Oh, a thousand witnesses!
I’ve been shouting it aloud for the last month, anyone can
tell you that!... The fact stares you in the face, it speaks for
itself, it cries aloud, but feelings, gentlemen, feelings are an-