coherence, with
drunken tears and blows on the table. The letter was written on a dirty
piece of ordinary paper of the cheapest kind. It had been provided by the
tavern and there were figures scrawled on the back of it. There was
evidently not space enough for his drunken verbosity and Mitya not only
filled the margins but had written the last line right across the rest.
The letter ran as follows:

FATAL KATYA: To-morrow I will get the money and repay your three
thousand and farewell, woman of great wrath, but farewell, too, my
love! Let us make an end! To-morrow I shall try and get it from
every one, and if I can't borrow it, I give you my word of honor I
shall go to my father and break his skull and take the money from
under the pillow, if only Ivan has gone. If I have to go to
Siberia for it, I'll give you back your three thousand. And
farewell. I bow down to the ground before you, for I've been a
scoundrel to you. Forgive me! No, better not forgive me, you'll be
happier and so shall I! Better Siberia than your love, for I love
another woman and you got to know her too well to-day, so how can
you forgive? I will murder the man who's robbed me! I'll leave you
all and go to the East so as to see no one again. Not _her_
either, for you are not my only tormentress; she is too. Farewell!

P.S.--I write my curse, but I adore you! I hear it in my heart. One
string is left, and it vibrates. Better tear my heart in two! I
shall kill myself, but first of all that cur. I shall tear three
thousand from him and fling it to you. Though I've been a
scoundrel to you, I am not a thief! You can expect three thousand.
The cur keeps it under his mattress, in pink ribbon. I am not a
thief, but I'll murder my thief. Katya, don't look disdainful.
Dmitri is not a thief! but a murderer! He has murdered his father
and ruined himself to hold his ground, rather than endure your
pride. And he doesn't love you.

P.P.S.--I kiss your feet, farewell! P.P.P.S.--Katya, pray to God
that some one'll give me the money. Then I shall not be steeped in
gore, and if no one does--I shall! Kill me!

Your slave and enemy,

D. KARAMAZOV.

When Ivan read this "document" he was convinced. So then it was his
brother, not Smerdyakov. And if not Smerdyakov, then not he, Ivan. This
letter at once assumed in his eyes the aspect of a logical pro