The Brothers Karamazov by Fyodor Dostoyevsky (best e book reader for android txt) 📖

occurred before

the final speeches, and undoubtedly influenced the sinister and

fatal outcome of the trial.

 

I will only observe that from the first moments of the trial one

peculiar characteristic of the case was conspicuous and observed by

all, that is, the overwhelming strength of the prosecution as compared

with the arguments the defence had to rely upon. Everyone realised

it from the first moment that the facts began to group themselves

round a single point, and the whole horrible and bloody crime was

gradually revealed. Everyone, perhaps, felt from the first that the

case was beyond dispute, that there was no doubt about it, that

there could be really no discussion, and that the defence was only a

matter of form, and that the prisoner was guilty, obviously and

conclusively guilty. I imagine that even the ladies, who were so

impatiently longing for the acquittal of the interesting prisoner,

were at the same time, without exception, convinced of his guilt.

What’s more, I believe they would have been mortified if his guilt had

not been so firmly established, as that would have lessened the effect

of the closing scene of the criminal’s acquittal. That he would be

acquitted, all the ladies, strange to say, were firmly persuaded up to

the very last moment. “He is guilty, but he will be acquitted, from

motives of humanity, in accordance with the new ideas, the new

sentiments that had come into fashion,” and so on, and so on. And that

was why they had crowded into the court so impatiently. The men were

more interested in the contest between the prosecutor and the famous

Fetyukovitch. All were wondering and asking themselves what could even

a talent like Fetyukovitch’s make of such a desperate case; and so

they followed his achievements, step by step, with concentrated

attention.

 

But Fetyukovitch remained an enigma to all up to the very end,

up to his speech. Persons of experience suspected that he had some

design, that he was working towards some object, but it was almost

impossible to guess what it was. His confidence and self-reliance were

unmistakable, however. Everyone noticed with pleasure, moreover,

that he, after so short a stay, not more than three days, perhaps,

among us, had so wonderfully succeeded in mastering the case and

“had studied it to a nicety.” People described with relish,

afterwards, how cleverly he had “taken down” all the witnesses for the

prosecution, and as far as possible perplexed them and, what’s more,

had aspersed their reputation and so depreciated the value of their

evidence. But it was supposed that he did this rather by way of sport,

so to speak, for professional glory, to show nothing had been

omitted of the accepted methods, for all were convinced that he

could do no real good by such disparagement of the witnesses, and

probably was more aware of this than anyone, having some idea of his

own in the background, some concealed weapon of defence, which he

would suddenly reveal when the time came. But meanwhile, conscious

of his strength, he seemed to be diverting himself.

 

So, for instance, when Grigory, Fyodor Pavlovitch’s old servant,

who had given the most damning piece of evidence about the open

door, was examined, the counsel for the defence positively fastened

upon him when his turn came to question him. It must be noted that

Grigory entered the trial with a composed and almost stately air,

not the least disconcerted by the majesty of the court or the vast

audience listening to him. He gave evidence with as much confidence as

though he had been talking with his Marfa, only perhaps more

respectfully. It was impossible to make him contradict himself. The

prosecutor questioned him first in detail about the family life of the

Karamazovs. The family picture stood out in lurid colours. It was

plain to ear and eye that the witness was guileless and impartial.

In spite of his profound reverence for the memory of his deceased

master, he yet bore witness that he had been unjust to Mitya and

“hadn’t brought up his children as he should. He’d have been

devoured by lice when he was little, if it hadn’t been for me,” he

added, describing Mitya’s early childhood. “It wasn’t fair either of

the father to wrong his son over his mother’s property, which was by

right his.”

 

In reply to the prosecutor’s question what grounds he had for

asserting that Fyodor Pavlovitch had wronged his son in their money

relations, Grigory, to the surprise of everyone, had no proof at all

to bring forward, but he still persisted that the arrangement with the

son was “unfair,” and that he ought “to have paid him several thousand

roubles more.” I must note, by the way, that the prosecutor asked this

question (whether Fyodor Pavlovitch had really kept back part of

Mitya’s inheritance) with marked persistence of all the witnesses

who could be asked it, not excepting Alyosha and Ivan, but he obtained

no exact information from anyone; all alleged that it was so, but were

unable to bring forward any distinct proof. Grigory’s description of

the scene at the dinner-table, when Dmitri had burst in and beaten his

father, threatening to come back to kill him, made a sinister

impression on the court, especially as the old servant’s composure

in telling it, his parsimony of words, and peculiar phraseology were

as effective as eloquence. He observed that he was not angry with

Mitya for having knocked him down and struck him on the face; he had

forgiven him long ago, he said. Of the deceased Smerdyakov he

observed, crossing himself, that he was a lad of ability, but stupid

and afflicted, and, worse still, an infidel, and that it was Fyodor

Pavlovitch and his elder son who had taught him to be so. But he

defended Smerdyakov’s honesty almost with warmth, and related how

Smerdyakov had once found the master’s money in the yard, and, instead

of concealing it, had taken it to his master, who had rewarded him

with a “gold piece” for it, and trusted him implicitly from that

time forward. He maintained obstinately that the door into the

garden had been open. But he was asked so many questions that I

can’t recall them all.

 

At last the counsel for the defence began to cross-examine him,

and the first question he asked was about the envelope in which Fyodor

Pavlovitch was supposed to have put three thousand roubles for “a

certain person.” “Have you ever seen it, you, who were for so many

years in close attendance on your master?” Grigory answered that he

had not seen it and had never heard of the money from anyone “till

everybody was talking about it.” This question about the envelope

Fetyukovitch put to everyone who could conceivably have known of it,

as persistently as the prosecutor asked his question about Dmitri’s

inheritance, and got the same answer from all, that no one had seen

the envelope, though many had heard of it. From the beginning everyone

noticed Fetyukovitch’s persistence on this subject.

 

“Now, with your permission I’ll ask you a question,”

Fetyukovitch said, suddenly and unexpectedly. “Of what was that

balsam, or, rather, decoction, made, which, as we learn from the

preliminary inquiry, you used on that evening to rub your lumbago,

in the hope of curing it?”

 

Grigory looked blankly at the questioner, and after a brief

silence muttered, “There was saffron in it.”

 

“Nothing but saffron? Don’t you remember any other ingredient?”

 

“There was milfoil in it, too.”

 

“And pepper perhaps?” Fetyukovitch queried.

 

“Yes, there was pepper, too.”

 

“Etcetera. And all dissolved in vodka?”

 

“In spirit.”

 

There was a faint sound of laughter in the court.

 

“You see, in spirit. After rubbing your back, I believe, you drank

what was left in the bottle with a certain pious prayer, only known to

your wife?”

 

“I did.”

 

“Did you drink much? Roughly speaking, a wineglass or two?”

 

“It might have been a tumbler-full.”

 

“A tumbler-full, even. Perhaps a tumbler and a half?”

 

Grigory did not answer. He seemed to see what was meant.

 

“A glass and a half of neat spirit-is not at all bad, don’t you

think? You might see the gates of heaven open, not only the door

into the garden?”

 

Grigory remained silent. There was another laugh in the court. The

President made a movement.

 

“Do you know for a fact,” Fetyukovitch persisted, “whether you

were awake or not when you saw the open door?”

 

“I was on my legs.”

 

“That’s not a proof that you were awake.” (There was again

laughter in the court.) “Could you have answered at that moment, if

anyone had asked you a question-for instance, what year it is?”

 

“I don’t know.”

 

“And what year is it, Anno Domini, do you know?”

 

Grigory stood with a perplexed face, looking straight at his

tormentor. Strange to say, it appeared he really did not know what

year it was.

 

“But perhaps you can tell me how many fingers you have on your

hands?”

 

“I am a servant,” Grigory said suddenly, in a loud and distinct

voice. “If my betters think fit to make game of me, it is my duty to

suffer it.”

 

Fetyukovitch was a little taken aback, and the President

intervened, reminding him that he must ask more relevant questions.

Fetyukovitch bowed with dignity and said that he had no more questions

to ask of the witness. The public and the jury, of course, were left

with a grain of doubt in their minds as to the evidence of a man who

might, while undergoing a certain cure, have seen “the gates of

heaven,” and who did not even know what year he was living in. But

before Grigory left the box another episode occurred. The President,

turning to the prisoner, asked him whether he had any comment to

make on the evidence of the last witness.

 

“Except about the door, all he has said is true,” cried Mitya,

in a loud voice. “For combing the lice off me, I thank him; for

forgiving my blows, I thank him. The old man has been honest all his

life and as faithful to my father as seven hundred poodles.”

 

“Prisoner, be careful in your language,” the President

admonished him.

 

“I am not a poodle,” Grigory muttered.

 

“All right, it’s I am a poodle myself,” cried Mitya. “If it’s an

insult, I take it to myself and I beg his pardon. I was a beast and

cruel to him. I was cruel to Aesop too.”

 

“What Aesop?” the President asked sternly again.

 

“Oh, Pierrot… my father, Fyodor Pavlovitch.”

 

The President again and again warned Mitya impressively and very

sternly to be more careful in his language.

 

“You are injuring yourself in the opinion of your judges.”

 

The counsel for the defence was equally clever in dealing with the

evidence of Rakitin. I may remark that Rakitin was one of the

leading witnesses and one to whom the prosecutor attached great

significance. It appeared that he knew everything; his knowledge was

amazing, he had been everywhere, seen everything, talked to everybody,

knew every detail of the biography of Fyodor Pavlovitch and all the

Karamazovs. Of the envelope, it is true, he had only heard from

Mitya himself. But he described minutely Mitya’s exploits in the

Metropolis, all his compromising doings and sayings, and told the

story of Captain Snegiryov’s “wisp of tow.” But even Rakitin could say

nothing positive about Mitya’s inheritance, and confined himself to

contemptuous generalities.

 

“Who could tell which of them was to blame, and which was in

debt to the other, with their crazy Karamazov way of muddling things

so that no one could make head