The Brothers Karamazov by Fyodor Dostoyevsky (best e book reader for android txt) š
- Author: Fyodor Dostoyevsky
- Performer: 0140449248
Book online Ā«The Brothers Karamazov by Fyodor Dostoyevsky (best e book reader for android txt) šĀ». Author Fyodor Dostoyevsky
may have happened quite naturally, but it may have passed off quite
naturally, and the sick man may have recovered, not completely
perhaps, but still regaining consciousness, as happens with
epileptics.
āThe prosecutor asks at what moment could Smerdyakov have
committed the murder. But it is very easy to point out that moment. He
might have waked up from deep sleep (for he was only asleep-an
epileptic fit is always followed by a deep sleep) at that moment
when the old Grigory shouted at the top of his voice āParricide!ā That
shout in the dark and stillness may have waked Smerdyakov whose
sleep may have been less sound at the moment: he might naturally
have waked up an hour before.
āGetting out of bed, he goes almost unconsciously and with no
definite motive towards the sound to see whatās the matter. His head
is still clouded with his attack, his faculties are half asleep;
but, once in the garden, he walks to the lighted windows and he
hears terrible news from his master, who would be, of course, glad
to see him. His mind sets to work at once. He hears all the details
from his frightened master, and gradually in his disordered brain
there shapes itself an idea-terrible, but seductive and
irresistibly logical. To kill the old man, take the three thousand,
and throw all the blame on to his young master. A terrible lust of
money, of booty, might seize upon him as he realised his security from
detection. Oh! these sudden and irresistible impulses come so often
when there is a favourable opportunity, and especially with
murderers who have had no idea of committing a murder beforehand.
And Smerdyakov may have gone in and carried out his plan. With what
weapon? Why, with any stone picked up in the garden. But what for,
with what object? Why, the three thousand which means a career for
him. Oh, I am not contradicting myself-the money may have existed.
And perhaps Smerdyakov alone knew where to find it, where his master
kept it. And the covering of the money-the torn envelope on the
floor?
āJust now, when the prosecutor was explaining his subtle theory
that only an inexperienced thief like Karamazov would have left the
envelope on the floor, and not one like Smerdyakov, who would have
avoided leaving a piece of evidence against himself, I thought as I
listened that I was hearing something very familiar, and, would you
believe it, I have heard that very argument, that very conjecture,
of how Karamazov would have behaved, precisely two days before, from
Smerdyakov himself. Whatās more, it struck me at the time. I fancied
that there was an artificial simplicity about him; that he was in a
hurry to suggest this idea to me that I might fancy it was my own.
He insinuated it, as it were. Did he not insinuate the same idea at
the inquiry and suggest it to the talented prosecutor?
āI shall be asked, āWhat about the old woman, Grigoryās wife?
She heard the sick man moaning close by, all night.ā Yes, she heard
it, but that evidence is extremely unreliable. I knew a lady who
complained bitterly that she had been kept awake all night by a dog in
the yard. Yet the poor beast, it appeared, had only yelped once or
twice in the night. And thatās natural. If anyone is asleep and
hears a groan he wakes up, annoyed at being waked, but instantly falls
asleep again. Two hours later, again a groan, he wakes up and falls
asleep again; and the same thing again two hours later-three times
altogether in the night. Next morning the sleeper wakes up and
complains that someone has been groaning all night and keeping him
awake. And it is bound to seem so to him: the intervals of two hours
of sleep he does not remember, he only remembers the moments of
waking, so he feels he has been waked up all night.
āBut why, why, asks the prosecutor, did not Smerdyakov confess
in his last letter? Why did his conscience prompt him to one step
and not to both? But, excuse me, conscience implies penitence, and the
suicide may not have felt penitence, but only despair. Despair and
penitence are two very different things. Despair may be vindictive and
irreconcilable, and the suicide, laying his hands on himself, may well
have felt redoubled hatred for those whom he had envied all his life.
āGentlemen of the jury, beware of a miscarriage of justice! What
is there unlikely in all I have put before you just now? Find the
error in my reasoning; find the impossibility, the absurdity. And if
there is but a shade of possibility, but a shade of probability in
my propositions, do not condemn him. And is there only a shade? I
swear by all that is sacred, I fully believe in the explanation of the
murder I have just put forward. What troubles me and makes me
indignant is that of all the mass of facts heaped up by the
prosecution against the prisoner, there is not a single one certain
and irrefutable. And yet the unhappy man is to be ruined by the
accumulation of these facts. Yes, the accumulated effect is awful: the
blood, the blood dripping from his fingers, the bloodstained shirt,
the dark night resounding with the shout āParricide!ā and the old
man falling with a broken head. And then the mass of phrases,
statements, gestures, shouts! Oh! this has so much influence, it can
so bias the mind; but, gentlemen of the jury, can it bias your
minds? Remember, you have been given absolute power to bind and to
loose, but the greater the power, the more terrible its
responsibility.
āI do not draw back one iota from what I have said just now, but
suppose for one moment I agreed with the prosecution that my
luckless client had stained his hands with his fatherās blood. This is
only hypothesis, I repeat; I never for one instant doubt of his
innocence. But, so be it, I assume that my client is guilty of
parricide. Even so, hear what I have to say. I have it in my heart
to say something more to you, for I feel that there must be a great
conflict in your hearts and mindsā¦. Forgive my referring to your
hearts and minds, gentlemen of the jury, but I want to be truthful and
sincere to the end. Let us all be sincere!ā
At this point the speech was interrupted by rather loud
applause. The last words, indeed, were pronounced with a note of
such sincerity that everyone felt that he really might have
something to say, and that what he was about to say would be of the
greatest consequence. But the President, hearing the applause, in a
loud voice threatened to clear the court if such an incident were
repeated. Every sound was hushed and Fetyukovitch began in a voice
full of feeling quite unlike the tone he had used hitherto.
A Corrupter of Thought
āITāS not only the accumulation of facts that threatens my
client with ruin, gentlemen of the jury,ā he began, āwhat is really
damning for my client is one fact-the dead body of his father. Had it
been an ordinary case of murder you would have rejected the charge
in view of the triviality, the incompleteness, and the fantastic
character of the evidence, if you examine each part of it
separately; or, at least, you would have hesitated to ruin a manās
life simply from the prejudice against him which he has, alas! only
too well deserved. But itās not an ordinary case of murder, itās a
case of parricide. That impresses menās minds, and to such a degree
that the very triviality and incompleteness of the evidence becomes
less trivial and less incomplete even to an unprejudiced mind. How can
such a prisoner be acquitted? What if he committed the murder and gets
off unpunished? That is what everyone, almost involuntarily,
instinctively, feels at heart.
āYes, itās a fearful thing to shed a fatherās blood-the father
who has begotten me, loved me, not spared his life for me, grieved
over my illnesses from childhood up, troubled all his life for my
happiness, and has lived in my joys, in my successes. To murder such a
father-thatās inconceivable. Gentlemen of the jury, what is a father-a real father? What is the meaning of that great word? What is the
great idea in that name? We have just indicated in part what a true
father is and what he ought to be. In the case in which we are now
so deeply occupied and over which our hearts are aching-in the
present case, the father, Fyodor Pavlovitch Karamazov, did not
correspond to that conception of a father to which we have just
referred. Thatās the misfortune. And indeed some fathers are a
misfortune. Let us examine this misfortune rather more closely: we
must shrink from nothing, gentlemen of the jury, considering the
importance of the decision you have to make. Itās our particular
duty not to shrink from any idea, like children or frightened women,
as the talented prosecutor happily expresses it.
āBut in the course of his heated speech my esteemed opponent
(and he was my opponent before I opened my lips) exclaimed several
times, āOh, I will not yield the defence of the prisoner to the lawyer
who has come down from Petersburg. I accuse, but I defend also!ā He
exclaimed that several times, but forgot to mention that if this
terrible prisoner was for twenty-three years so grateful for a mere
pound of nuts given him by the only man who had been kind to him, as a
child in his fatherās house, might not such a man well have remembered
for twenty-three years how he ran in his fatherās backyard, without
boots on his feet and with his little trousers hanging by one buttonā-
to use the expression of the kindhearted doctor, Herzenstube?
āOh, gentlemen of the jury, why need we look more closely at
this misfortune, why repeat what we all know already? What did my
client meet with when he arrived here, at his fatherās house, and
why depict my client as a heartless egoist and monster? He is
uncontrolled, he is wild and unruly-we are trying him now for that-but who is responsible for his life? Who is responsible for his having
received such an unseemly bringing up, in spite of his excellent
disposition and his grateful and sensitive heart? Did anyone train him
to be reasonable? Was he enlightened by study? Did anyone love him
ever so little in his childhood? My client was left to the care of
Providence like a beast of the field. He thirsted perhaps to see his
father after long years of separation. A thousand times perhaps he
may, recalling his childhood, have driven away the loathsome
phantoms that haunted his childish dreams and with all his heart he
may have longed to embrace and to forgive his father! And what awaited
him? He was met by cynical taunts, suspicions and wrangling about
money. He heard nothing but revolting talk and vicious precepts
uttered daily over the brandy, and at last he saw his father
seducing his mistress from him with his own money. Oh, gentlemen of
the jury, that was cruel and revolting! And that old man was always
complaining of the disrespect and cruelty of his son. He slandered him
in society, injured him, calumniated him, bought up his unpaid debts
to get him thrown into prison.
āGentlemen of the jury, people like my client, who are fierce,
unruly, and uncontrolled on the surface, are sometimes, most
frequently indeed, exceedingly tender-hearted, only they donāt express
it. Donāt laugh,
Comments (0)