The Brothers Karamazov by Fyodor Dostoyevsky (best e book reader for android txt) 📖
- Author: Fyodor Dostoyevsky
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had he committed the murder for the sake of gain only, would he have
left the torn envelope on the floor as it was found, beside the
corpse? Had it been Smerdyakov, for instance, murdering his master
to rob him, he would have simply carried away the envelope with him,
without troubling himself to open it over his victim’s corpse, for
he would have known for certain that the notes were in the envelope-they had been put in and sealed up in his presence-and had he taken
the envelope with him, no one would ever have known of the robbery.
I ask you, gentlemen, would Smerdyakov have behaved in that way? Would
he have left the envelope on the floor?
“No, this was the action of a frantic murderer, a murderer who was
not a thief and had never stolen before that day, who snatched the
notes from under the pillow, not like a thief stealing them, but as
though seizing his own property from the thief who had stolen it.
For that was the idea which had become almost an insane obsession in
Dmitri Karamazov in regard to that money. And pouncing upon the
envelope, which he had never seen before, he tore it open to make sure
whether the money was in it, and ran away with the money in his
pocket, even forgetting to consider that he had left an astounding
piece of evidence against himself in that torn envelope on the
floor. All because it was Karamazov, not Smerdyakov, he didn’t
think, he didn’t reflect, and how should he? He ran away; he heard
behind him the servant cry out; the old man caught him, stopped him
and was felled to the ground by the brass pestle.
“The prisoner, moved by pity, leapt down to look at him. Would you
believe it, he tells us that he leapt down out of pity, out of
compassion, to see whether he could do anything for him. Was that a
moment to show compassion? No; he jumped down simply to make certain
whether the only witness of his crime were dead or alive. Any other
feeling, any other motive would be unnatural. Note that he took
trouble over Grigory, wiped his head with his handkerchief and,
convincing himself he was dead, he ran to the house of his mistress,
dazed and covered with blood. How was it he never thought that he
was covered with blood and would be at once detected? But the prisoner
himself assures us that he did not even notice that he was covered
with blood. That may be believed, that is very possible, that always
happens at such moments with criminals. On one point they will show
diabolical cunning, while another will escape them altogether. But
he was thinking at that moment of one thing only-where was she? He
wanted to find out at once where she was, so he ran to her lodging and
learnt an unexpected and astounding piece of news-she had gone off to
Mokroe to meet her first lover.”
The Galloping Troika. The End of the Prosecutor’s Speech
IPPOLIT KIRILLOVITCH had chosen the historial method of
exposition, beloved by all nervous orators, who find in its limitation
a check on their own eager rhetoric. At this moment in his speech he
went off into a dissertation on Grushenka’s “first lover,” and brought
forward several interesting thoughts on this theme.
“Karamazov, who had been frantically jealous of everyone,
collapsed, so to speak, and effaced himself at once before this
first lover. What makes it all the more strange is that he seems to
have hardly thought of this formidable rival. But he had looked upon
him as a remote danger, and Karamazov always lives in the present.
Possibly he regarded him as a fiction. But his wounded heart grasped
instantly that the woman had been concealing this new rival and
deceiving him, because he was anything but a fiction to her, because
he was the one hope of her life. Grasping this instantly, he
resigned himself.
“Gentlemen of the jury, I cannot help dwelling on this
unexpected trait in the prisoner’s character. He suddenly evinces an
irresistible desire for justice, a respect for woman and a recognition
of her right to love. And all this at the very moment when he had
stained his hands with his father’s blood for her sake! It is true
that the blood he had shed was already crying out for vengeance,
for, after having ruined his soul and his life in this world, he was
forced to ask himself at that same instant what he was and what he
could be now to her, to that being, dearer to him than his own soul,
in comparison with that former lover who had returned penitent, with
new love, to the woman he had once betrayed, with honourable offers,
with the promise of a reformed and happy life. And he, luckless man,
what could he give her now, what could he offer her?
“Karamazov felt all this, knew that all ways were barred to him by
his crime and that he was a criminal under sentence, and not a man
with life before him! This thought crushed him. And so he instantly
flew to one frantic plan, which, to a man of Karamazov’s character,
must have appeared the one inevitable way out of his terrible
position. That way out was suicide. He ran for the pistols he had left
in pledge with his friend Perhotin and on the way, as he ran, he
pulled out of his pocket the money, for the sake of which he had
stained his hands with his father’s gore. Oh, now he needed money more
than ever. Karamazov would die, Karamazov would shoot himself and it
should be remembered! To be sure, he was a poet and had burnt the
candle at both ends all his life. ‘To her, to her! and there, oh,
there I will give a feast to the whole world, such as never was
before, that will be remembered and talked of long after! In the midst
of shouts of wild merriment, reckless gypsy songs and dances I shall
raise the glass and drink to the woman I adore and her new-found
happiness! And then, on the spot, at her feet, I shall dash out my
brains before her and punish myself! She will remember Mitya Karamazov
sometimes, she will see how Mitya loved her, she will feel for Mitya!’
“Here we see in excess a love of effect, a romantic despair and
sentimentality, and the wild recklessness of the Karamazovs. Yes,
but there is something else, gentlemen of the jury, something that
cries out in the soul, throbs incessantly in the mind, and poisons the
heart unto death-that something is conscience, gentlemen of the jury,
its judgment, its terrible torments! The pistol will settle
everything, the pistol is the only way out! But beyond-I don’t know
whether Karamazov wondered at that moment ‘What lies beyond,’
whether Karamazov could, like Hamlet, wonder ‘What lies beyond.’ No,
gentlemen of the jury, they have their Hamlets, but we still have
our Karamazovs!”
Here Ippolit Kirillovitch drew a minute picture of Mitya’s
preparations, the scene at Perhotin’s, at the shop, with the
drivers. He quoted numerous words and actions, confirmed by witnesses,
and the picture made a terrible impression on the audience. The
guilt of this harassed and desperate man stood out clear and
convincing, when the facts were brought together.
“What need had he of precaution? Two or three times he almost
confessed, hinted at it, all but spoke out.” (Then followed the
evidence given by witnesses.) “He even cried out to the peasant who
drove him, ‘Do you know, you are driving a murderer!’ But it was
impossible for him to speak out, he had to get to Mokroe and there
to finish his romance. But what was awaiting the luckless man?
Almost from the first minute at Mokroe he saw that his invincible
rival was perhaps by no means so invincible, that the toast to their
new-found happiness was not desired and would not be acceptable. But
you know the facts, gentlemen of the jury, from the preliminary
inquiry. Karamazov’s triumph over his rival was complete and his
soul passed into quite a new phase, perhaps the most terrible phase
through which his soul has passed or will pass.
“One may say with certainty, gentlemen of the jury,” the
prosecutor continued, “that outraged nature and the criminal heart
bring their own vengeance more completely than any earthly justice.
What’s more, justice and punishment on earth positively alleviate
the punishment of nature and are, indeed, essential to the soul of the
criminal at such moments, as its salvation from despair. For I
cannot imagine the horror and moral suffering of Karamazov when he
learnt that she loved him, that for his sake she had rejected her
first lover, that she was summoning him, Mitya, to a new life, that
she was promising him happiness-and when? When everything was over
for him and nothing was possible!
“By the way, I will note in parenthesis a point of importance
for the light it throws on the prisoner’s position at the moment. This
woman, this love of his, had been till the last moment, till the
very instant of his arrest, a being unattainable, passionately desired
by him but unattainable. Yet why did he not shoot himself then, why
did he relinquish his design and even forget where his pistol was?
It was just that passionate desire for love and the hope of satisfying
it that restrained him. Throughout their revels he kept close to his
adored mistress, who was at the banquet with him and was more charming
and fascinating to him than ever-he did not leave her side, abasing
himself in his homage before her.
“His passion might well, for a moment, stifle not only the fear of
arrest, but even the torments of conscience. For a moment, oh, only
for a moment! I can picture the state of mind of the criminal
hopelessly enslaved by these influences-first, the influence of
drink, of noise and excitement, of the thud of the dance and the
scream of the song, and of her, flushed with wine, singing and dancing
and laughing to him! Secondly, the hope in the background that the
fatal end might still be far off, that not till next morning, at
least, they would come and take him. So he had a few hours and
that’s much, very much! In a few hours one can think of many things. I
imagine that he felt something like what criminals feel when they
are being taken to the scaffold. They have another long, long street
to pass down and at walking pace, past thousands of people. Then there
will be a turning into another street and only at the end of that
street the dread place of execution! I fancy that at the beginning
of the journey the condemned man, sitting on his shameful cart, must
feel that he has infinite life still before him. The houses recede,
the cart moves on-oh, that’s nothing, it’s still far to the turning
into the second street and he still looks boldly to right and to
left at those thousands of callously curious people with their eyes
fixed on him, and he still fancies that he is just such a man as they.
But now the turning comes to the next street. Oh, that’s nothing,
nothing, there’s still a whole street before him, and however many
houses have been passed, he will still think there are many left.
And so to the very end, to the very scaffold.
“This I imagine is how it was with Karamazov then. ‘They’ve not
had time yet,’ he must have thought, ‘I
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