The Brothers Karamazov

The Brothers Karamazov_Part_4

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Broadcast on:: 11 Oct 2024
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So the gentlemen impressively, you are really angry with me for not having appeared to you in a red glow with thunder and lightning, with scorched wings, but have shown myself in such a modest form. You are wounded in the first place in your aesthetic feelings and secondly in your pride. How could such a vulgar devil visit such a great man as you? Yes, there is that romantic strain in you that was so derided by Bielinsky. I can't help it, young man. As I got ready to come to you, I did think, as a joke, of appearing in the figure of a retired general who had served in the Caucasus, with a star of the lion and sun on my coat. But I was positively afraid of doing it, for you'd have thrashed me for daring to pin the lion and the sun on my coat, instead of at least the polar star or the serious. And you keep on saying I'm stupid, but mercy on us, I make no claim to be equal to you in intelligence. Mephistopheles declared to fast that he desired evil but did only good. Well he can say what he likes, it's quite the opposite with me. I am perhaps the one man in all creation who loves the truth and genuinely desires good. I was there when the word who died on the cross rose up into heaven, bearing on his bosom the soul of the penitent thief. I heard the glad shrieks of the cherubins singing and shouting her zanna and the thunderous rapture of the seraphim who chalk heaven and all creation. And I swear to you by all that sacred I longed to join the choir and shout her zanna with them all. The word had almost escaped me, had almost broken from my lips. You know how susceptible and aesthetically impressionable I am. But common sense, oh a most unhappy tray in my character, kept me in due bounds and I let the moment pass. For what would have happened I reflected. What would have happened after my her zanna? Sitting on earth would have been extinguished at once and no events could have occurred. And so solely from a sense of duty and my social position was forced to suppress the good moment and to stick to my nasty task. Somebody takes all the credit of what's good for himself and nothing but nastiness is left for me. But I don't envy the honor of a life of idle imposture, I'm not ambitious, why am I of all the creatures in the world doomed to be cursed by all decent people and even to be kicked, for if I put on mortal form I'm bound to take such consequences sometimes. I know of course there's a secret in it, but they won't tell me the secret for anything. For then perhaps seeing the meaning of it I might bore ho' zanna and the indispensable minus would disappear at once and good sense would reign the supreme throughout the whole world. And that of course would mean the end of everything, even of magazines and newspapers for who would take them in. I know that at the end of all things I shall be reconciled, I too shall walk my quadrillion and learn the secret. But till that happens I'm sulking and fulfil my destiny, though it's against the grain, and is to ruin thousands for the sake of saving one. How many souls have had to be ruined and how many honourable reputations destroyed for the sake of that one righteous man and jobe over whom they made such a fool of me in the old days? Yes, till their secret is revealed there are two sorts of truth for me, one their truth yonder, which I know nothing about so far, and the other my own, and there's no knowing which will turn out the better. Are you asleep? I might well be, even groaned angrily, all my stupid ideas outgrown, thrashed out long ago and flung aside like a dead carcass you present to me as something new. There's no pleasing you, and I thought I should fascinate you by my literary style. What hosanna in the skies really wasn't bad was it? And then that ironical tone a la hyena, eh? No, I was never such a flunky, how then could my soul beget a flunky like you? My dear fellow, I know a most charming and attractive young Russian gentleman, a young thinker, and a great lover of literature and art, the author of a promising poem entitled The Grand Inquisitor, I was only thinking of him. I forbid you to speak of the Grand Inquisitor, cried Ivan, crimson with shame. And the geological cataclysm, do you remember, that was a poem now. Hold your tongue, or I'll kill you. You'll kill me, no, excuse me, I will speak. I came to treat myself to that pleasure, oh I love the dreams of my ardent young friends quivering with eagerness for life. There are new men, you decided, last spring, when you were meaning to come here, they propose to destroy everything and begin with cannibalism, stupid fellows, they didn't ask my advice. I maintain that nothing need be destroyed, that we only need to destroy the idea of God in man, that's how we have to set to work. It's that, that we must begin with. Oh blind race of men who have no understanding. As soon as men have all of them denied God, and I believe that period, analogous with geological periods, will come to pass, the old conception of the universe will fall of itself without cannibalism, and what's more, the old morality and everything will begin anew. Men will unite, to take from life all it can give, but only for joy and happiness in the present world. Men will be lifted up with a spirit of divine titanic pride, and the man God will appear. From hour to hour extending his conquest of nature infinitely by his will and his science, will feel such lofty joy from hour to hour in doing it that it will make up for all his old dreams of the joys of heaven. Everyone will know that he is mortal and will accept death proudly and serenely like a God. His pride will teach him that it's useless for him to repine at life's being a moment, and he will love his brother without need of reward. Love will be sufficient only for a moment of life, but the very consciousness of its momentliness will intensify its fire, which now is dissipated in dreams of eternal love beyond the grave, and so on and so on in the same style, charming. Ivan sat with his eyes on the floor, and his hands pressed to his ears, but he began trembling all over. The voice continued. The question now is, my young thinker reflected, is it possible that such a period will ever come? If it does, everything is determined, and humanity is settled forever. But as owing to man's inveterate stupidity, this cannot come about for at least a thousand years, everyone who recognises the truth even now may legitimately order his life as he pleases on the new principles. In that sense, all things are lawful for him. What's more, even if this period never comes to pass since there is no God and no immortality, the new man may well become the man-guard, even if he is the only one in the whole world, and promoted to his new position, he may lightheartedly overstep all the barriers of the old morality of the old slave-man, if necessary. There is no law for God, where God stands to places holy, where I stand will be at once the foremost place. All things are lawful, and that's the end of it. That's all very charming, but if you want a swindle, why do you want a moral sanction for doing it? But that's our modern Russian all over. He can't bring himself to swindle without a moral sanction. He is so in love with truth. The visitor talked, obviously carried away by his own eloquence, speaking louder and louder, and looking ironically at his host. But he did not succeed in finishing; Yvonne suddenly snatched a glass from the table and flung it at the orator. "Ah, miss, they bet on fun!" Translator's note. And after all that stupid, cried the latter, jumping up from the sofa and shaking the drops of tea off himself. He remembers Luther's ink stand. He takes me for a dream, and throws glasses at a dream. It's like a woman. I suspected you were only pretending to stop up your ears. Allowed persistent knocking was suddenly heard at the window. Yvonne jumped up from the sofa. "Do you hear you'd better open?" cried the visitor. "It's your brother, Al-Yosha, with the most interesting and surprising news I'll be bound." "Be silent, deceiver. I knew it was Al-Yosha. I felt he was coming, and of course he has not come for nothing. Of course he brings news," Yvonne exclaimed frantically. "Open, open to him. There's a snowstorm, and he is your brother." "Monsure said he'll talk, you fair," said an "apametran-shan-de-ar." Translators note, "Does the gentleman know the weather he's making? It's not weather for a dog." The knocking continued. Yvonne wanted to rush to the window, but something seemed to fatter his arms and legs. He strained every effort to break his chains, but in vain. The knocking at the window grew louder and louder. At last the chains were broken and Yvonne leapt up from the sofa. He looked around him wildly. Both candles had almost burned out. The glass he had just thrown at his visitor stood before him on the table, and there was no one on the sofa opposite. The knocking on the window frame went on persistently, but it was by no means so loud as it had seemed in his dream. On the contrary, it was quite subdued. It was not a dream. No, I swear it was not a dream. It all happened just now!" cried Yvonne. He rushed the window and opened the movable pain. "Alyasha, I told you not to come," he cried fiercely to his brother. "In two words, what do you want? In two words, do you hear?" An hour ago, Smardiakov hanged himself. "Alyasha answered from the yard." "Come round to the steps, I'll open at once," said Yvonne, going to open the door. Hey Amazon Prime members, why pay more for groceries when you can save big on thousands of items at Amazon Fresh? Shop Prime exclusive deals and save up to 50% on weekly grocery favorites. Plus save 10% on Amazon brands, like our new brand Amazon's Favor, 365 by Whole Foods Market, a plenty and more. Come back for new deals rotating every week. Don't miss out on savings. Shop Prime exclusive deals at Amazon Fresh. Select varieties. As a United Explorer card member, you can earn 50,000 bonus miles. Plus, look forward to extraordinary travel rewards, including a free-checked bag, two times the miles on United purchases, and two times the miles on dining and at hotels. Become an explorer and seek out unforgettable places while enjoying rewards everywhere you travel. Games issued by JP Morgan Chase Bank NA member FDIC, subject to credit approval, offer subject to change. Terms apply. To Aliauscha. I went in to clear away the Sanovar, and he was hanging on a nail in the wall. On Aliauscha's inquiring whether she had informed the police, she answered that she had told no one. But I flew straight to you, I've run all the way. She seemed perfectly crazy, Aliauscha reported, and was shaking like a leaf. When Aliauscha ran with her to the cottage, he found Smerdyakov still hanging. On the table lay a note. I destroy my life of my own will and desire, so as to throw no blame on anyone. Aliauscha left the note on the table, and went straight to the police captain and told him all about it. "And from him I've come straight to you," said Aliauscha in conclusion, looking intently into Ivan's face. He had not taken his eyes off him while he told his story, as though struck by something in his expression. "Brother," he cried suddenly, "you must be terribly ill. You look and don't seem to understand what I tell you." "It's a good thing you came," said Ivan, as though brooding, and not hearing Aliaus' exclamation. I knew he had hanged himself. From whom? I don't know, but I knew. Did I know? Yes, he told me. He told me so just now. Ivan stood in the middle of the room and still spoke in the same brooding tone, looking at the ground. "Who is he?" asked Aliauscha, involuntarily looking around. He slipped away. Ivan raised his head and smiled softly. He was afraid of you, of a dove like you. You are a pure cherub, immediately calls you a cherub. Cherub, the thunderous rapture of the seraphim, what are seraphim? Perhaps our whole constellation, but perhaps that constellation is only a chemical molecule. There's a constellation of the lion and the sun, don't you know it? "Brother, sit down," said Aliauscha, in alarm. "For goodness' sake, sit down on the sofa. You are delirious. Put your head on the pillar." That's right. "Would you like a wet towel on your head? Perhaps it will do you good." "Give me the towel. It's here on the chair. I just threw it down there." "It's not here. Don't worry yourself. I know where it is. Here," said Aliauscha, finding a clean towel folded up and unused by Ivan's dressing table in the other corner of the room. Ivan looked strangely at the towel. The election seems to come back to him for an instant. "Stay," he got up from the sofa. "An hour ago I took that new towel from there and wetted it. I wrapped it round my head and threw it down here. How is it? It's dry. There was no other." "You put that towel on your head," asked Aliauscha. "Yes, and walked up and down the room an hour ago." "Why have the candles burnt down so? What's the time?" "It's only 12." "No, no, no," Ivan cried suddenly. It was not a dream. He was here. He was sitting here on that sofa. When you knocked at the window I threw a glass at him. This one. Wait a minute. I was asleep last time, but this dream was not a dream. It has happened before. I have dreams now, Aliauscha, yet that they are not dreams, but reality. I walk about, talk, and see, though I am asleep, but he was sitting here on that sofa there. He is frightfully stupid, Aliauscha, frightfully stupid. Ivan laughed suddenly and began pacing about the room. "Who is stupid, of whom are you talking, brother?" Aliauscha asked anxiously again. "The devil, he's taken to visiting me. He's been here twice, almost three times. He taunted me with being angry at his being a simple devil, and not Satan with scorched wings in thunder and lightning. But he is not Satan. That's a lie. He is an imposter. He is simply a devil, a paltry, trivial devil. He goes to the baths. If you undressed him, you'd be sure to find he had a tail, long and smooth like a Danish dog. He has a long, dumb colour. Aliauscha, you're cold. You've been in the snow. Would you like some tea? What? Is it cold? Shall I tell her to bring the sun? Sit down the parm-metra-shander-er. Aliauscha ran to the washing-stand, wetted the towel, persuaded Ivan to sit down again and put the wet towel round his head. He sat down beside him. What were you telling me just now about Lisa, Ivan began again? He was becoming very talkative. I liked Lisa. I said something nasty about her. It was a lie. I like her. I'm afraid to occur to you tomorrow. I'm more afraid of her than of anything, on account of the future. She will cast me off tomorrow and trample me under foot. She thinks that I'm ruining Nitya from jealousy on her account. Yes, she thinks that, but it's not so. Tomorrow, the cross, but not the gallows. No, I shan't hang myself. Do you know I can never commit suicide, Aliauscha? Is it because I am base? I'm not a coward. Is it from love of life? How did I know that Smelladiaco had hanged himself? Yes, it was he told me so. And you are quite convinced that there has been someone here, actually, Aliauscha. Yes, on that sofa in the corner, you would have driven him away. You did drive him away. He disappeared when you arrived. I love your face, Aliauscha. Did you know I loved your face? And he is myself, Aliauscha. All that's base in me, all that's mean and contemptible. Yes, I'm a romantic, he guessed it, though it's a libel. He is frightfully stupid, but it's to his advantage. He has cunning, animal cunning. He knew how to infuriate me. He kept taunting me with believing in him, and that was how he made me listen to him. He fooled me like a boy. He told me a great deal that was true about myself, though. I had never have owned it to myself. Do you know Aliauscha? He van added in an intensely earnest and confidential tone. I should be awfully glad to think that it was he and not I. He has worn you out, said Aliauscha, looking compassionately at his brother. He's been teasing me. And you know, he does it so cleverly, so cleverly. Conscience, what is conscience? I make it up for myself. Why am I tormented by it? From habit, from the universal habit of mankind for the seven thousand years. So let us give it up, and we shall be gods. It was he who said that. It was he who said that. And not you, not you. Aliauscha could not help crying, looking frankly at his brother. Never mind him anyway, have done with him and forget him. And let him take with him all that you curse now and never come back. Yes, but he is spiteful. He laughed at me. He was impudent, Aliauscha, even said with a shudder of offense. But he was unfair to me, unfair to me about lots of things. He told lies about me to my face. Oh, you are going to perform an act of heroic virtue to confess you murdered your father that the valet murdered him at your instigation. Brother, Aliauscha interposed, restrain yourself. It was not you murdered him. It's not true. That's what he says. He and he knows it. You're going to perform an act of heroic virtue, and you don't believe in virtue. That's what tortures you and makes you angry. That's why you're so vindictive. He said that to me, about me. And he knows what he says. It's you say that, not he, exclaimed Aliauscha mournfully. And you say it because you are ill and delirious, tormenting yourself. No, he knows what he says. You are going from pride, he says. You'll stand up and say it was I killed him, and why do you ride with horror? You are lying. I despise your opinion. I despise your horror. He said that about me. And do you know you are longing for their praise? He's a criminal, a murderer, but what a generous soul. He wanted to save his brother, and he confessed. That's a lie, Aliauscha, Yvonne cried suddenly with flashing eyes. I don't want the low rabble to praise me. I swear I don't. That's a lie. That's why, through the glass at him, and it broke against his ugly face, brother, calm yourself, stop, Aliauscha and treated him. Yes, he knows how to torment one. He's cruel, Yvonne went on unheeding. I had an inkling from the first what he came for. He was expecting that you go through pride. Still you had a hope that Smardiacoff might be convicted and sent to Siberia, and Metia would be acquitted, while you only would be punished with moral condemnation. "Do you hear?" he laughed then. And some people will praise you. But now Smardiacoff's dead, he has hanged himself, and he'll believe you alone. But yet you are going. You are going. You'll go all the same. You've decided to go. What are you going for now? That's awful, Aliauscha. I can't endure such questions. Who dare ask me such questions? Brother interposed Aliauscha, his heart sank with terror, but he still seems to hope to be new man to reason. How could he have told you of Smardiacoff's death before I came, when no one knew of it, and there was no time for anyone to know of it? He told me, said Ivan, firmly, refusing to admit a doubt. It was all he did talk about if you come to that. And it would be all right if you believed in virtue, he said. No matter if they disbelieve you, you are going for the sake of principle. But you're a little pig like Fyodor Pavlovitch, and what do you want to invert you? Why do you want to go medley?" Hey Amazon Prime members, why pay more for groceries when you can save big on thousands of items at Amazon Fresh? Shop Prime exclusive deals and save up to 50% on weekly grocery favorites. Plus, save 10% on Amazon brands, like our new brand Amazon's Favor, 365 by Whole Foods Market, a plenty and more. Come back for new deals rotating every week. Don't miss out on savings. Shop Prime exclusive deals at Amazon Fresh. Select varieties. As a United Explorer card member, you can earn 50,000 bonus miles. Plus, look forward to extraordinary travel rewards, including a free-checked bag, two times the miles on United purchases, and two times the miles on dining and at hotels. Become an explorer and seek out unforgettable places while enjoying rewards everywhere you travel. Cards issued by JP Morgan Chase Bank NA member FDIC, subject to credit approval, offer subject to change, terms apply. If your sacrifice is of no use to anyone, because you don't know yourself where you go, or you'd give a great deal to know yourself where you go, and can you have made up your mind, you've not made up your mind, you'll sit all night, deliberating whether to go or not, but you will go, you know you'll go, you know that whichever way you decide the decision does not depend on you, you'll go because you won't dare not to go, why won't you dare? You must guess that for yourself, that's a widdle for you. He got up and went away. You came and he went. He called me a coward, Alyosha. Lemodle Niegma is that I am a coward. It is not for such eagles to soar above the earth. It was he added that he, and Smur of Gyakov said the same, he must be killed. Katya despises me, I've seen that for a month's past, even Lisa will begin to despise me. You're going in order to be praised, that's a brutal lie, and you despise me too, Alyosha, now I'm going to hate you again, and I hate the monster too, I hate the monster, I don't want to save the monster, let him rot in Siberia, he's become singing a hymn. Oh tomorrow I'll go, stand before them and spit in their faces. He jumped up in a frenzy, flung off the towel, and fell to pacing up and down the room again. Alyosha recalled what he had just said. I seem to be sleeping awake, I walk, I speak, I see, but I am asleep. It seemed to be just like that now. Alyosha did not leave him. The thought passed through his mind to run for a doctor, that he was afraid to leave his brother alone, there was no wonder who he could leave him. By degrees, Ivan lost consciousness completely at last. He still went on talking, talking incessantly, but quite incoherently, and even articulated his words with difficulty. Suddenly he staggered violently, but Alyosha was in time to support him. Ivan let him lead him to his bed. Alyosha undressed him somehow and put him to bed. He sat watching over him for another two hours. The sick man slept soundly, without stirring, breathing softly and evenly. Alyosha took a pillow and lay down on the sofa without undressing. As he fell asleep, he prayed for Metia and Ivan. He began to understand Ivan's illness, the anguish of a proud determination and earnest conscience. God in whom he disbelieved and his truth were gaining mastery of his heart which still refused to submit. Yes, the thought floated through Alyosha's head as it lay on the pillow. Yes, if Merjakov is dead, no one will believe through Ivan's evidence, but he will go and give it. Alyosha smiled softly. God will conquer, he thought. He will either rise up in the light of truth or he'll perish in hate, revengeing on himself and on everyone, is having served the cause he does not believe in. Alyosha added bitterly, and again he prayed for Ivan. Book Twelve, a judicial error, Chapter One, The Fatal Day. At ten o'clock in the morning of the day following the events I have described, the trial of the Mitre Karamazov began in our district court. I hasten to emphasize the fact that I am far from streaming myself capable of reporting all that took place at the trial in full detail, or even in the actual order of events. I imagine that to mention everything with full explanation would fill a volume, even a very large one, and so I trust I may not be reproached for confining myself to what struck me. I may have selected, as of most interest, what was of secondary importance, and may have omitted the most prominent and essential details, but I see I shall do better not to apologize. I will do my best and the reader will see for himself that I have done all I can. And to begin with, before entering the court, I will mention what surprised me most on that day. Indeed, as it appeared later, everyone was surprised at it too. We all knew that the affair had aroused great interest, that everyone was burning within patience for the trial to begin, that it had been a subject of talk, conjecture, exclamation, and surmise for the last two months in local society. Everyone knew too that the case had become known throughout Russia, but yet we had not imagined that it had aroused such burning, such intense interest in everyone, not only among ourselves, but all over Russia. This became evident at the trial this day. Visitors had arrived not only from the chief town of our province, but from several other Russian towns, as well as from Moscow and Petersburg. Among them were lawyers, ladies, and even several distinguished personages. Three tickets of admission had been snatched up. A special place behind the table at which the three judges sat were set apart for the most distinguished and important of the men-visitors. A row of armchairs had been placed there, something exceptional which had never been allowed before. A large proportion, not less than half of the public, were ladies. There was such a large number of lawyers from all parts that they did not know where to seat them, for every ticket had long since been eagerly sought for and distributed. I saw, at the end of the room, behind the platform, a special partition hurriedly put up, behind which all these lawyers were admitted, and they thought themselves lucky to have standing room there, for all chairs had been removed for the sake of space, and the crowd behind the partition stood throughout the case closely packed, shoulder to shoulder. Some of the ladies, especially those who came from a distance, made their appearance in the gallery very smartly dressed, but the majority of the ladies were oblivious even of dress. Their faces betrayed hysterical, intense, almost morbid curiosity. A peculiar fact, established afterwards by many observations, was that almost all the ladies, or, at least, the vast majority of them, were on Métis's side, and in favor of his being acquitted. This was perhaps chiefly owing to his reputation as a conqueror of female hearts. It was known that two women rivals were to appear in the case. One of them, Katarina Ivanovna, was an object of general interest. All sorts of extraordinary tales were told about her, amazing anecdotes of her passion for Métia, in spite of its crime. Her pride and aristocratic connections were particularly insisted upon. She had called upon scarcely anyone in the town. People said, she intended to petition the government for leave to accompany the criminal to Siberia, and to be married to him somewhere in the mines. The appearance of Grushenko, in court, was awaited with no less impatience. The public was looking forward with anxious curiosity to the meeting of the two rivals. The proud aristocratic girl, and the hetaira, but Grushenko was a more familiar figure to the ladies of the district than Katarina Ivanovna. They had already seen the women who had ruined Fyodor Pablovitch and his unhappy son. And all, almost without exception, wondered how father and son could be so in love with such a very common ordinary Russian girl who was not even pretty. In brief, there was a great deal of talk. I know for a fact that there were several serious family quarrels on Métia's account in our town. Many ladies quarreled violently with their husbands over differences of opinion about the dreadful case, and it was that the husbands of these ladies, far from being favorably disposed to the prisoner, should answer the court bitterly prejudiced against them. In fact, one may say pretty certainly that the masculine, as distinguished from the feminine, part of the audience, was biased against the prisoner. There were numbers of severe, frowning, even vindictive faces. Métia indeed had managed to offend many people during his stay in the town. Some of the visitors were, of course, in excellent spirits, and quite unconcerned as to the fate of Métia personally. But all were interested in the trial, and the majority of men were certainly hoping for the conviction of the criminal, except, perhaps, the lawyers, who were more interested in the legal than in the moral aspect of the case. Everybody was excited in the presence of the celebrated lawyer, Fittukovich. His talent was well known, and this was not the first time he had defended notorious criminal cases in the provinces; and, if he defended them, such cases became celebrated and long remembered all over Russia. There were stories, too, about our prosecutor, and about the president of the court. It was said that Eposit Kireilovich was in a tremor at meeting Fittukovich, and that they had been enemies from the beginning of their careers in Petersburg, that though our sensitive prosecutor, who always considered that he had been aggrieved by someone in Petersburg, because his talents had not been properly appreciated, was keenly excited over the Karamazov case, and was even dreaming of rebuilding his flagging fortunes by means of it. Fittukovich, they said, was his one anxiety. But these rumours were not quite the just. Our prosecutor was not one of those men who lose heart in face of danger. On the contrary, his self-confidence increased with the increase of danger. It must be noted that our prosecutor was in general too hasty and morbidly impressionable. He would put his whole soul into some case and work at it as though his whole fate and his whole fortune depended on its result. This was the subject of some ridicule in the le- Hey Amazon Prime members, why pay more for groceries when you can save big on thousands of items at Amazon Fresh? Shop Prime exclusive deals and save up to 50% on weekly grocery favourites. Plus save 10% on Amazon brands, like our new brand Amazon's favour, 365 by Whole Foods Market, a plenty and more. Come back for new deals rotating every week. Don't miss out on savings. Prime exclusive deals at Amazon Fresh. Select varieties. As a United Explorer card member, you can earn 50,000 bonus miles. Plus, look forward to extraordinary travel rewards, including a free checked bag, two times the miles on United purchases, and two times the miles on dining and at hotels. Become an explorer and seek out unforgettable places while enjoying rewards everywhere you travel. Cards issued by JP Morgan Chase Bank NA member FDIC, subject to credit approval, offer subject to change terms apply. Google World. For just by this characteristic, our prosecutor had gained a wider notoriety than could have been expected from his modest position. People laughed particularly at his passion for psychology. In my opinion, they were wrong and our prosecutor was, I believe, a character of greater depth than was generally supposed. But with his delicate health, he had failed to make his mark at the outset of his career and had never made up for it later. As for the president of our court, I can only say that he was a humane and cultured man who had a practical knowledge of his work and progressive views. He was rather ambitious, but did not concern himself greatly about his future career. The great aim of his life was to be a man of advanced ideas. He was, too, a man of connections and property. He felt, as we learned afterwards, rather strongly about the Kurama soft case, but from a social, not from a personal standpoint. He was interested in it as a social phenomenon, in its classification and its character, as a product of our social conditions, as typical of the national character, and so on, and so on. His attitude to the personal aspect of the case to its tragic significance and the persons involved in it, including the prisoner, was rather indifferent and abstract, as was perhaps fitting indeed. The court was packed and overflowing long before the judges made their appearance. Our court is the best hall in the town, spacious, lofty, and good for sound. On the right of the judges, who were on a raised platform, a table and two rows of chairs had been put ready for the jury. On the left was the place of the prisoner and the council for the defense. In the middle of the court, near the judges, was a table with the material proofs. On it, lay Fyodorbavlovich, white silk dressing gown, stained with blood. The fatal brass pestle with which the supposed murder had been committed. Mitch's shirt was a blood-stained sleeve. His coat stained with blood in patches over the pocket in which he had put his handkerchief. The handkerchiefs itself, still with blood, and by now quite yellow. The pestle loaded by MITIA at Perhotin's, with a view to suicide, and taken from him on the sly at Mochro by Trifon Borisovich, the envelope in which the three thousand rubles had been put ready for Drushenko, the narrow pink ribbon with which it had been tied, and many other articles I don't remember. In the body of the whole, at some distance, came the seats for the public. But in front of the balustrade, a few chairs had been placed for witnesses who remained in the court after giving their evidence. At ten o'clock, the three judges arrived. The president, one honorary judge of the peace, and one other. The prosecutor, of course, entered immediately after. The president was a short, stout, six-set man of fifty, with a dyspeptic complexion, dark hair turning grey and cut short, and a red ribbon, of what order I don't remember. The prosecutor struck me, and the others, too, as looking particularly pale, almost green. His face seemed to have grown suddenly thinner, perhaps in a single night, for I had seen him looking as usual only two days before. The president began with asking the court whether all the jury were present. "But I see, I can't go on like this, partly because some things I did not hear, others, I did not notice, and others I have forgotten. But most of all, because, as I have said before, I have literally no time or space to mention everything that was said and done. I only know that not a side objected to very many of the jury men. I remember the twelve jury men; four were petty officials of the town; two were merchants, and six peasants and artisans of the town. I remember, long before the trial, questions were continually asked with some surprise, especially by ladies. Can such a delicate, complex, and psychological case be submitted for decision to petty officials and even peasants? And what can an official, still more a peasant, understand in such an affair? All the four officials in the jury were, in fact, men of no consequence and of low rank. Except one who was rather younger, they were grey-headed men, little known in society, who had vegetated on a pitiful salary, and who probably had elderly, unpresentable wives and crowds of children, perhaps even without shoes and stockings. At most they spent their leisure over cars and, of course, had never read a single book. The two merchants looked respectable, but were strangely silent and stole it. One of them was close-shaven and was dressed in European style. And the other had a small grey beard, and wore a red ribbon with some sort of a medal upon it on his neck. There is no need to speak of the artisans and the peasants. The artisans of scotoping gonyevsk are almost peasants, and even work on the land. Two of them also wore European dress, and, perhaps, for that reason, were dirtier and more uninviting-looking than the others. So that one might well wonder, as I did as soon as I had looked at them, what men like that could possibly make of such a case. Yet their faces made a strangely imposing, almost menacing impression. They were stern and frowning. At last the presidents opened the case of the murder of Fyodor Parvlolich Karamasov. I don't quite remember how he described him. The court usher was told to bring in the prisoner, and Mitya made his appearance. There was a hush through the court. One could have heard a fly. I don't know how it was with others, but Mitya made the most unfavorable impression on me. He looked an awful dandy in a brand new frock-coat. I heard afterwards that he had ordered it in Moscow expressly for the occasion from his own tailor who had his measure. He wore immaculate black kid gloves and exquisite linen. He walked in with his yard-long strides, looking stiffly straight in front of him, and sat down in his place with a most unperturbed air. At the same moment the council for defense, the celebrated Fyodor Parvlolich, entered, and a sort of subdued hum passed through the court. He was a tall, spare man with long, thin legs, with extremely long, thin, pale fingers, clean, shaven face, demurely brushed, rather short hair, and thin lips that were at times curved into something between a sneer and a smile. He looked about forty. His face would have been pleasant, if it had not been for his eyes, which, in themselves, small and inexpressive, were set remarkably close together, with only the thin, longed nose as a dividing line between them. In fact, there was something strikingly birdlike about his face. He was in evening dress, and white tie. I remember the president's first question to Metia about his name, his calling, and so on. Metia answered sharply, and his voice was so unexpectedly loud that it made the president start and look at the prisoner with surprise. Then followed a list of persons who were to take part in the proceedings. That is, of the witnesses and experts. It was a long list; four of the witnesses were not present; Musof, who had given evidence at the preliminary inquiry, but was now in Paris; Madame Hochlacov, and Maximov, who were absent through illness; and Smardiacov, through his sudden death, of which an official statement from the police was presented. The news of Smardiacov's death produced a sudden stir and whisper in the court. Many of the audience, of course, had not heard of the sudden suicide. What struck people most, was Metia's sudden outburst. As soon as the statement, "A Smardiacov's death was made," he'd cried out aloud from his place, "He was a dog and died like a dog." I remember how his counsel rushed to him, and how the president addressed him, threatening to take stern measures. If such an irregularity were repeated, Metia nodded, and in a subdued voice, repeated several times abruptly to its counsel, with no show of regret. "I won't again; I won't; it escaped me; I won't do it again." Of course, this brief episode did him no good with the jury or the public. His character was displayed, and it spoke for itself. It was, under the influence of this incident, that the opening statement was read. It was rather short, but circumstantial. It only stated the chief reasons why he had been arrested, why he must be tried, and so on. Yet it made a great impression on me. The clerk read it loudly and distinctly. The whole tragedy was suddenly unfolded before us, concentrated, in bold relief, in a fatal and pitiless light. I remember how, immediately after it had been read, the president asked Metia in a loud, impressive voice. "Prisona, do you plead guilty?" Metia suddenly rose from his seat. "I plead guilty to drunkenness and dissipation," he explained, again in a startling, almost frenzied voice. To udleness and the glossary, I meant to become an honest man for good, just at the moment when I was struck down by fate. But I am not guilty of the death of that old man, my enemy, and my father. Hey Amazon Prime members, why pay more for groceries when you can save big on thousands of items at Amazon Fresh? Shop Prime exclusive deals and save up to 50% on weekly grocery favorites. Plus, save 10% on Amazon brands, like our new brand Amazon's Favor, 365 by Whole Foods Market, a plenty and more. Come back for new deals rotating every week. Don't miss out on savings. Shop Prime exclusive deals at Amazon Fresh. Select varieties. As a United Explorer card member, you can earn 50,000 bonus miles. Plus, look forward to extraordinary travel rewards, including a free-checked bag, two times the miles on United purchases, and two times the miles on dining and at hotels. Become an explorer and seek out unforgettable places while enjoying rewards everywhere you travel. Cards issued by JP Morgan Chase Bank NA member FDIC, subject to credit approval, offer subject to change, terms apply. No, no, I am not guilty of robbing him. I could not be. Dimitri Karamazov is a scoundrel, but not a thief. He sat down again, visibly trembling all over. The president again briefly, but impressively admonished him to enter only what was asked, and not to go off in irrelevant exclamations. Then he ordered the case to proceed. All the witnesses were led up to take the oath. Then, I saw them all together. The brothers of the prisoner were, however, allowed to give evidence without taking the oath. After an exhortation from the priest and the president, the witnesses were led away, and were made to sit as far as possible apart from one another. Then they began calling them up, one by one. And of chapter one, of book twelve, book twelve, chapter two, dangerous witnesses. I do not know whether the witnesses for the defense and for the prosecution were separated into groups by the president, and whether it was arranged to call them in a certain order. But no doubt, it was so. I only know that the witnesses for the prosecution were called first. I repeat, I don't intend to describe all the questions step by step. Besides, my account would be to some extent superfluous, because, in the speeches for the prosecution and for the defense, the whole course of the evidence was brought together and set in a strong and significant light, and I took down parts of those two remarkable speeches in full, and will quote them in due course. Later, with one extraordinary and quite unexpected episode, which 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 defense had to rely upon. Everyone realized it from the first moment that the facts began to grip 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 evidence 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, or 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 Vichyukovic. All were wondering and asking themselves what could even a talent like Vichyukovic'd make of such a desperate case, and so they followed his achievement, step by step, with concentrated attention. But Vichyukovic 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 more over 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 nice day. 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 dispersed 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 a 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 defense, 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 showed off by Vlovitch's old servant, who had given the most damning piece of evidence about the open door, was examined, the counsel for the defense 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 mastery 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 Karamasovs. The family pictures stood out in lurid colors. It was plain to ill and I 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 had then brought up his children as he should. He had been devoured by lice when he was a little, if it hadn't been for me. He added, describing Mitya's early childhood. It was unfair either of the father to wrong his son over his mother's property, which was by right his. In reply to the prosecution's question, what grounds he had for asserting that Fyodor Spaldlovich had wronged his son in their money relations? Hey Amazon Prime members, why pay more for groceries when you can save big on thousands of items at Amazon Fresh? Shop Prime exclusive deals and save up to 50% on weekly grocery favorites. Plus save 10% on Amazon brands, like our new brand Amazon's Favor, 365 by Whole Foods Market, a plenty and more. Come back for new deals rotating every week. Don't miss out on savings. Prime exclusive deals at Amazon Fresh. Select varieties. As a United Explorer card member, you can earn 50,000 bonus miles. Plus, look forward to extraordinary travel rewards, including a free-checked bag, two times the miles on United purchases, and two times the miles on dining and at hotels. Become an explorer and seek out unforgettable places while enjoying rewards everywhere you travel. Cards issued by JP Morgan Chase Bank NA member FDIC, subject to credit approval, offer subject to change, terms, apply. Gregory, to the surprise of everyone, had no proof at all to bring forward. But he still persisted that the arrangement with the sun was unfair, and that he ought to have paid him several thousand rebels more. I must note, by the way, that the prosecution asked this question, whether Fyodor Bovlovich had really kept back part of Mitch's inheritance, with marked persistence of all the witnesses who could be asked it, not accepting 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. Gregory's description of the scene at the dinner table, when Dimitri, had burst in and beaten his father, threatening to come back to kill him, made his 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 smelled Yakov, he observed, crossing himself, that he was allowed of ability, but stupid, and afflicted, and worse still, and infidel, and that it was Fyodor Bovlovich and his eldest son, who had taught him to be so. But he defended Smyrd Yakov's honesty almost with warmth, and related, Osmerd Yakov 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 good peace 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 council for the defences began to cross-examine him, and the first question he asked was about the envelope in which Fyodor Bovlovich was supposed to have put three thousand rubbles for a certain person. Have you ever seen it? You, who were so many years in close attendance on your master?" Gregory answered that he had not seen it, and had ever heard of the money from any one, till everybody was talking about it. This question, about the envelope, Fyodor Bovlovich put to everyone who could conceivably have known of it, as persistently as the prosecutor asked his question about Dimitri's inheritance, and got this answer from all that no one had seen the envelope, though money had heard of it. From the beginning everyone noticed Fyodor Bovl's persistence on this subject. "Now, with your permission, I'll ask you a question," Fyodor Bovlovich said, suddenly and unexpectedly, "of what was that bosom, or rather deconcuction, made, which, as we learned from the preliminary inquiry, you used, on that evening, to rub your lumburgle, and the hope of curing it?" Gregory 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 ingredients?" There was mail-foil in it, too, "and, type her, perhaps, fit you to give his queried?" "Yes, there was pepper, too, et cetera, 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 wine-gloss, or two?" "It might have been a tumblerful." "A tumblerful, even. Perhaps a tumbler and a half?" "Gregri," 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." Grigri remained silent. There was another laugh in the court. The president made a movement. "Do you know for a fact, fit youkovich persistent, 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 any one has asked you a question, for instance, what year it is?" "I don't know. And what year is it, Anodomini, do you know?" Grigri 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," Grigri 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." Fichukovich was a little taken aback. And the president intervened, reminding him that he must ask more relevant questions. Fichukovich 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 Grigri 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 loud witness. Except about the door, all he has said is true, quite mitia, in a loud voice. For coming the lies of me, I thank him; for for giving my blows, I thank him. The old man has been honest all his life, and has faithful to my father as seven hundred poodles. "Prisoner, be careful in your language," the president admonished him. "I am not a poodle," Grigri muttered. "All right, it's I am a poodle myself," cried Mitia. "If it's an insult, I take it myself, and I beg his pardon. I was a beast, and cruel to him. I was cruel to Isop, too." "What Isop?" The president asked, sternly again. "Oh, Piero, my father, field of Pavlovitch." The president again and again warned Mitia, impressively and very sternly, to be more careful in his language. You are injuring yourself in the opinion of your judges. Hey Amazon Prime members, why pay more for groceries when you can save big on thousands of items at Amazon Fresh? Shop Prime exclusive deals and save up to 50% on weekly grocery favorites. Plus, save 10% on Amazon brands, like our new brand Amazon's Favor, 365 by Whole Foods Market, a plenty and more. Come back for new deals rotating every week. Don't miss out on savings. Shop Prime exclusive deals at Amazon Fresh. Select varieties. "As a United Explorer card member, you can earn 50,000 bonus miles. Plus, look forward to extraordinary travel rewards, including a free checked bag, two times the miles on United purchases, and two times the miles on dining and at hotels. Become an explorer and seek out unforgettable places while enjoying rewards everywhere you travel." Cards issued by JP Morgan Chase Bank NA member FDIC, subject to credit approval, offer subject to change, terms apply. The counsel for the defense was equally clever in dealing with the evidence of Rakuten. I may remark that Rakuten 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 Yodharpavlovitch and all the Karamasovs. But the envelope, it is true, he had only heard from Mitya himself. But he described my nuclear Mitya's exploits in the metropolis, all his compromising doings and sayings and told the story of Captain's nigiri of Wisp of Tao. But even Ratikin could say nothing positive about Mitya's inheritance and confine himself to contemptuous generalities. Who could tell which of them was to blame and which was in depth to the other, with their crazy Karamasov way of muddling things so that no one could make head or tell of it? He attributed the tragic crime to the habits that had become ingrained by ages of serfdom and the distressed condition of Russia due to the lack of appropriate institutions. He was in fact allowed some latitude of speech. This was the first occasion on which Ratikin showed what he could do, an attracted notice. The prosecutor knew that the witness was preparing a magazine article on the case, and afterwards in his speech, as we shall see later, quoted some ideas from the article, showing that he had seen it already. The picture drawn by the witness was a gloomy and sinister one, and greatly strengthened the case for the prosecution. Altogether Ratikin's discourse fascinated the public by its independence and the extra ordinability of its ideas. There were even two or three outbreaks of applause when he spoke of serfdom and the distressed condition of Russia. But Ratikin, in his useful order, made a slight blunder, of which the counsel for the defense at once adroitly took advantage. He had to make certain questions about Krushenka and carried away by the loftiness of his own sentiments and success, of which he was, of course, conscious. He went so far as to speak somewhat contemptuously about Raffina Alexandrovna, as the kept mistress of Samsonov. He could have given a good deal to take back his words afterwards, for Ratikovich caught him out over it at once, and it was all because Ratikin had not reckoned. And on the lawyer having been able to become so intimately acquainted with every detail in so short a time. "Allow me to ask," began the counsel for the defense, with the most affable and even respectful smile. "You are, of course, the same Mr. Ratikin, whose pamphlet, The Life of the Deceased Elder, Father's Ocema, published by the Deosees in Authorities, full of profound and religious reflections, and preceded by an excellent and devout dedication to the bishop. I have just read with such pleasure." "I did not write it for publication. It was published afterwards, Mater Ratikin, for some reason fearfully disconcerted, and almost ashamed." "Oh, that's excellent. I think you're like you can, and indeed ought to take the widest view of every social question. The most instructive pamphlet has been widely circulated through the patronage of the bishop, and has been of appreciable service. But this is the chief thing I should like to learn from you. You stated, just now, that you are very intimately acquainted with Madame Sveetlov. It must be noted that Gruschenka's surname was Sveetlov. I heard it for the first time that day during the case. "I cannot answer for all my acquaintances. I am a young man, and who can be responsible for everyone he meets, cried Ratikin, fleshing all over. I understand. I quite understand, quite fitukovich, as though he too were embarrassed and in haste to excuse himself. You, like any other, might well be interested in an acquaintance with a young and beautiful woman who would readily entertain the elite of the use of the neighbourhood. But I only wanted to know. It has come to my knowledge that Madame Sveetlov was particularly anxious, a couple of months ago, to make the acquaintance of the younger Karamazov, Alexei Feodorovich, and promised you twenty-five rubles if you would bring him to her in his monastic dress. And that actually took place on the evening of the day on which the terrible crime, which is the subject of the present investigation, was committed. You brought Alexei Karamazov to Madame Sveetlov, and did you receive the twenty-five rubles for Madame Sveetlov as a reward that's what I wanted to hear from you? It was a joke. I don't see of what interest that can be to you. I took it for a joke, meaning to give it back later. Then you did take, but you have not given it back yet. Where have you?" "That's of no consequence," muttered Rakuten, "I refuse to answer such questions. Of course I shall give it back." The president intervened, but Feodorovich declared he had no more questions to ask of the witness. Mr. Rakuten left the witness box not absolutely without a stain upon his character. The effect left by the lofty idealism of his speech was somewhat marred, and Feodorovich's expression, as he watched him walk away, seemed to suggest to the public. This is a specimen of the lofty-minded persons who accuse him. I remember that this incident, too, did not pass off without an outbreak from Mitya. Enraged by the tone in which Rakuten had referred to Grushenko, he suddenly shouted, "Burnard!" When after Rakuten's cross-examination, the president asked the prisoner if he had anything to say. Mitya cried out loudly, "Since I have been arrested, he has borrowed money from me. He is a contemptible burn-ard, an apportionist, and he doesn't believe in God, he took the bishop in." Hey Amazon Prime members, why pay more for groceries when you can save big on thousands of items at Amazon Fresh? Shop Prime exclusive deals and save up to 50% on weekly grocery favorites. Plus, save 10% on Amazon Brands, like our new brand Amazon Saver, 365 by Whole Foods Market, a plenty and more. Come back for new deals rotating every week. Don't miss out on savings. Shop Prime exclusive deals at Amazon Fresh. Select varieties. As a United Explorer card member, you can earn 50,000 bonus miles. Plus, look forward to extraordinary travel rewards, including a free-checked bag, two times the miles on United purchases, and two times the miles on dining and at hotels. Become an explorer and seek out unforgettable places while enjoying rewards everywhere you travel. Cards issued by JP Morgan Chase Bank NA member FDIC, subject to credit approval, offer subject to change terms apply. Next about Mitch's attack upon him, he refused to answer. "God bless him. Elisha told me not to. God will make it up to me, Yanda." "Who told you not to tell? Of whom are you talking?" "Elisha, my little son. Father, father, how he insulted you?" He said that, at the stone. Now he is dying. The captain suddenly began sobbing, and plumped down on his knees before the president. He was hurtly led away amidst the laughter of the public. The effect prepared by the prosecutor did not come at all. Fittukovich went on, making the most a very opportunity, and amazed people more and more by his minute knowledge of the case. Thus, for example, 3-1 body saw which made a great impression, of course, very prejudicial to Mitya. He calculated, almost on his fingers, that on his first visit to Mokror, Mitya must have spent three thousand rubles, or very little less, just think what he squandered on those kips he girls alone, and as for our lousy peasants, it was in the case of flinging half a rubble in the street. He made them presents of twenty-five rubbles each, at least. He didn't give them less, and what a lot of money was simply stolen from him. And if any one did steal, he did not leave a receipt. How could one catch the thief when he was flinging his money away all the time? Our peasants and rubbers, you know, they have no care for their souls. And the way he went on with the girls, our village girls, they are completely set up since then, I tell you, they used to be poor. He recalled, in fact, every item of expense, and added it all up. So the theory that only fifteen-hundred had been spent, and the rest had been put aside in a little bag, seemed inconceivable. I saw three thousand as clear as a penny in his hands. I saw it with my own eyes. I should think I ought to know how to reckon money, cried thriffon bodhisaurvitch, doing his best to satisfy his bettors. If a tukorvitch had to cross-examine him, he scarcely tried to refute this evidence. But began asking him about an incident at the first carousel at Makro, a month before the arrest. One Timofe and another peasant, called Akim, had picked up on the floor in the passage eight hundred rubbles dropped by media when he was drunk, and had given them two thriffon bodhisaurvitch, and received a rubble each from him for doing so. "Well," asked the lawyer, "did you give that hundred rubbles back to Mr. Karamazov?" "Threiffon bodhisaurvitch shuffled in vain." He was obliged, after the peasants had been examined, to admit the finding of the hundred rubbles, only adding that he had religiously returned it, all to the midriffa yodorovitch, in perfect honesty, and it's only because his honor was in liquor at the time he wouldn't remember it. But, as he had denied the incident of the hundred rubbles, till the peasants had been called to prove it, his evidence as to returning the money to media was naturally regarded with great suspicion. So one of the most dangerous witnesses brought forward by the prosecution was again discredited. The same thing happened with the Poles; they took up an attitude of pride and independence. They were separated loudly, that they had both been in the service of the crown, and that Panmitia had offered them three thousand to buy their honor, and that they had seen a large sum of money in his hands. Pan Musyalovitch introduced a terrible number of Polish words into his sentences, and seeing that this only increased his consequence in the eyes of the president and the prosecutor, grew more and more pompous, and ended by talking in Polish altogether. But Vittukovic caught them, too, in his nails. Pryfangboryzovitch recalled, was forced, in spite of his evasions, to admit that Pan Vroblevsky had substituted another pack of cards for the one he had provided, and that Pan Musyalovitch had cheated during the game. Kargonov confirmed this, and both the Poles left the witness box with damaged reputations, and missed laughter from the public. Then, exactly the same thing happened with almost all of the most dangerous witnesses. Vittukovic succeeded in casting a slur on all of them, and dismissing them with a certain derision. The lawyers and experts were lost in admiration, and were only at a loss to understand what good purpose could be served by it, for all I repeat, felt that decades for the prosecution could not be refuted, but was growing more and more tragically overwhelming. But from the confidence of the great magician, they saw that he was serene, and they waited, telling that such a man had not come to Petersburg for nothing, and that he was not a man, to return on successful. CHAPTER II. Book XII CHAPTER III. THE MEDICAL EXPERTS AND THE POUND OF NUTS The evidence of the medical experts, too, was of little use to the prisoner, and it appeared that later that Vittukovic had not reckoned much upon it. The medical line of defense had only been taken up through the insistence of Katerina Ivanovna, who had sent for a celebrated doctor from Moscow on purpose. The case for the defense could, of course, lose nothing by it, and might, with luck, gain something from it. There was, however, an element of comedy about it, through the difference of opinion of the doctors. The medical experts were the famous doctor from Moscow, our doctor, Herton Stuber, and the young doctor, Varvinsky. The two latter appeared also as witnesses for the prosecution. The first to be called in the capacity of expert was Dr. Herton Stuber. He was a grey and bold old man of severity, of middle height, and sturdy build. He was much esteemed and respected by everyone in the town. He was a conscientious doctor, and an excellent and pious man, a hangouta or a Moravian brother. I am not quite sure which. He had been living amongst us for many years, and behaved with wonderful dignity. He was a kind-hearted and humane man. He treated the sick poor and peasants for nothing, visited them in their slums and huts, and left money for medicine. But he was as obstinate as a mule. If once he had taken an idea into his head, there was no shaking it. Almost every one in the town was aware, by the way, that the famous doctor had, within the first two or three days of his presence among us, uttered some extremely offensive illusion to Dr. Herton Stuber's qualifications. Though the Moscow doctor asked twenty-five robals for a visit, several people in the town were glad to take advantage of his arrival, and rushed to consult him regardless of expense. All these had, of course, been previously patients of Dr. Herton Stuber, and the celebrated doctor had criticized his treatment with extreme harshness. Finally, he had asked the patients as soon as he saw them. "Well, who has been cramming you with nostrums, Herton Stuber? He, he." Dr. Herton Stuber, of course, heard all this, and now all the three doctors made their appearance, one after another, to be examined. Dr. Herton Stuber roundly declared that the abnormality of the prisoner's mental faculties was self-evident. Then, giving his grounds for his opinion, which I am at here, he added that the abnormality was not only evident in many of the prisoner's actions in the past, but was apparent even now at this very moment. When he was asked to explain how it was apparent now at this moment, the old doctor was simple hearted directness, pointed out that the prisoner had an extraordinary air remarkable in circumstances. That he had, marched in like a soldier, looking straight before him, though it would have been more natural for him to look to the left where, among the public, the ladies were sitting, seeing that he was a great admirer of the fair sex, and must be thinking much of what the ladies are seeing of him now. The old man concluded in his peculiar language, "I must add that he spoke Russian readily, but every phrase was formed in German style, which did not, however, trouble him, for it had always been a weakness of his to believe that he spoke Russian perfectly." 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And he was very fond of using Russian proverbs, always declaring that the Russian proverbs were the best and most expressive sayings in the whole world. I may remark too that in conversation, through absence-mindedness, he often forgot the most ordinary words, which sometimes went out of his head, though he kneeled them perfectly. The same thing happened, though, when he spoke German, and at such times he always waved his hand before his face as though trying to catch the lost word, and no one could induce him to go on speaking till he had found the missing word. His remark that the prisoner ought to have looked at the ladies on entering, rouse the whisper of amusement in the audience. All our ladies were very fond of our old doctor. They knew him too, that haven't been all his life a bachelor in the religious man of exemplary conduct, he looked upon women as lofty creatures. And so, his unexpected observation struck everyone as very queer. The Moscow doctor, being questioned in his turn, definitely and emphatically repeated that he considered the prisoner's mental condition abnormal in the highest degree. He talked at Lent, and with a tradition of aberration and mania, and argued that from all the facts collected, the prisoner had undoubtedly been in a condition of aberration for several days before his arrest, and if the crime had been committed by him, it must, even if he were conscious of it, have been almost involuntary, as he had not the power to control the morbid impulse that possessed him. But apart from temporary aberration, the doctor diagnosed mania, which promised, in his words, to lead to complete insanity in the future. It must be noted that I report this in my own words. The doctor made use a very learned and professional language. All his actions are in contravention of common sense and logic, he continued, not to refer to what I have not seen, that is, the crime itself, as the whole catastrophe, the day before yesterday, while he was talking to me, he had an unaccountably fixed look in his eye. He laughed unexpectedly, when there was nothing to laugh at. He showed continual and inexplicable irritability, using strange words, burnart, ethics, and other equally inappropriate. But the doctor detected mania, above all, in the fact that the prisoner could not even speak of the three thousand rubles, of which he considered himself to have been cheated, without extraordinary irritation, though he could speak comparatively lightly, of the utter misfortunes and grievances. According to all accounts, he had even in the past, whenever the subject of the three thousand rubles was touched on, flowed into a perfect frenzy, and yet he was reported to be a disinterested and not grasping man. As to the opinion of my learned colleague, the Moscow doctor added ironically in conclusion, that the prisoner would, entering the court, have naturally looked at the ladies and not straight before him. I will only say that, appear from the playfulness of his theory, it is radically unsound, for though I fully agree that the prisoner, on entering the court where his fate will be decided, would not naturally look straight before him in that fixed way, and that, that may rarely be a sign of his abnormal mental condition. At the same time, I maintain that you would naturally not look to the left at the ladies, but on the contrary, to the right, to find his legal advisor, on whose help all his hopes rest, and on whose defense all his future depends. The doctor expressed his opinion positively and emphatically. But the unexpected pronouncement of Dr. Varvinsky gave the last touch of comedy to the difference of opinion between the experts. In his opinion, the prisoner was now, and had been all along, in a perfectly normal condition, and although he certainly must have been in a nervous and exceedingly excited state before his arrest, this might have been due to several perfectly obvious causes. Jealousy, anger, continual drunkenness, and so on, but this nervous condition would not involve the mental aberration of which mention had just been made, as to the question whether the prisoner should have looked to the left or to the right on entering the court. In his modest opinion, the prisoner would naturally look straight before him on entering the court, as he had in fact done as that was where the judges, on whom his fate depended, was sitting. So that it was just by looking straight before him that he showed his perfectly normal state of mind at the present. The young doctor concluded his modest testimony with some heat. "Bravo, Doctor," cried Mitya from his seat, "just so." Mitya, of course, was checked, but the young doctor's opinion had a decisive influence on the judges and on the public, and, as appeared afterwards, everyone agreed with him. But Dr. Heltson Struber, when called as a witness, was quite unexpectedly of use to Mitya. As an old resident in the town, who had known the Karamaso family for years, he finished some facts of great value for the prosecution, and suddenly, as though recalling something, he added, "But the poor young man might have had a very different life, for he had a good heart both in childhood and after childhood, that I know. But the Russian proverb says, "If a man has one head, it's good; but if another clever man comes to visit him, it would be better still; for then there will be two heads and not only one." "One head is good, but two are better," the prosecutor put in impatiently. He knew the old man's habit of talking slowly and deliberately, regardless of the impression he was making, and of the delay he was causing, and highly pricing his flat, dull, and always gleeful, complacent German wit. The old man was fond of making jokes. "Oh, yes, that's what I say," he went on stubbornly. One head is good, but two are much better. But he did not meet another head with wit, and his wits went. Where did they go? I've forgotten the word. He went on, passing his hand before his eyes. "Oh, yes." "But Seren," translators note, promenading. "Wandering?" "Oh, yes, wandering, that's what I say." "Well, his wits went wandering, and fell in such a deep hole that he lost himself. And yet he was a grateful and sensitive boy. Oh, I remember him very well. A little chap so high, left neglected by his father in the backyard, when he ran about without boots on his feet, and his little breeches, hanging by one button. "A lot of feeling in tenderness suddenly came into the honest old man's voice. The chook of which positively started, I still sent him something, and caught at it instantly. Oh, yes, I was a young man then. I was—well, I was forty-five then, and had only just come here. And I was so sorry for the boy then. I asked myself, why shouldn't I buy him a pound of—a pound of what? I've forgotten what it's called. A pound of what children are very fond of. What is it? What is it?" The doctor began waving his hands again. It grows on a tree, and is gathered and given to everyone. "Apples?" "Oh, no, no. You have a dozen of apples, not a pound. No, there are a lot of them. And call little. You put them in the mouth and crack." "Quitso, not, I say so." The doctor repeated in the calmest way as though he had been at no loss for a word. I brought him a pound of nuts, for no one had ever brought the boy a pound of nuts before. And I lifted my finger and said to him, "Boy, God, they are fatter." He laughed and said, "God, they are fatter. God, they are zone." He laughed again, "enlist, God, they are zone. God, they are highly disguised." And he laughed and said as best he could, "God, they are highly disguised." I went away, and two days later, after I happened to be passing, and he shouted to me of himself, "Uncle, God, they are fatter, God, they are zone." And he had only forgotten, "God, they are highly disguised." But I reminded him of it, and I felt very sorry for him again. But he was taken away. And I did not see him again, twenty-three years past. I am sitting one morning in my study, a white haired old. Hey Amazon Prime members, why pay more for groceries when you can save big on thousands of items at Amazon Fresh? Shop prime exclusive deals and save up to 50% on weekly grocery favorites. Plus, save 10% on Amazon brands, like our new brand Amazon's Favor, 365 by Whole Foods Market, a plenty and more. Come back for new deals rotating every week. Don't miss out on savings. Shop prime exclusive deals at Amazon Fresh. Select varieties. As a United Explorer card member, you can earn 50,000 bonus miles. Plus, look forward to extraordinary travel rewards, including a free-checked bag, two times the miles on United purchases, and two times the miles on dining and at hotels. Become an explorer and seek out unforgettable places while enjoying rewards everywhere you travel. This is issued by JP Morgan Chase Bank NA member FDIC, subject to credit approval, offer subject to change, terms apply. Man, when there walks into the room, a blooming young man, whom I should never have recognized, but he held up his finger and said, "Laughing, Got their father, Got their son, and Got their hide-digger geist. I have just arrived and have come to thank you for that pound of nuts, for no one else ever bought me a pound of nuts. You are the only one that ever did." Then I remembered my happy youth and the poor child in the yard without boots on his feet, and my heart was touched, and I said, "You are a grateful young man, for you have remembered all your life the pound of nuts I bought you in your childhood. And I embraced and blessed him, and I shed tears. He laughed, but he shed tears too, for the Russian often laughed when he ought to be weeping. But he did weep, I saw it, and now, alas. I am weeping now, German. I am weeping now too, you saintly man, meteor cried suddenly. In any case the anecdote made a certain favorable impression on the public, but the chief sensation in meteor's favor was created by the evidence of Katharina Ivanovna, which I will describe directly. Indeed, when the witness is a discharge, that is, called the defense, began giving evidence. Fortune seemed all at once markedly more favorable to meteor, and what was particularly striking this was a surprise even to the counsel for the defense. But before Katharina Ivanovna was called, Alyosha was examined, and he recalled the fact which seemed to furnish positive evidence against one important point made by the prosecution. It came quite as a surprise even to Alyosha himself. He was not required to take the oath, and I remember that both sides addressed him very gently and sympathetically. It was evident that his reputation for goodness had preceded him. Alyosha gave his evidence modestly and with restraint, but his warm sympathy for his unhappy brother was unmistakable. In answer to one question, he sketched his brother's character as that of a man, violent tempered perhaps and carried away by his passions, but at the same time, honorable, proud, and generous, capable of self-sacrifice if necessary. He admitted, however, that, through his passion for Drushanka and his revelry with his father, his brother had been of late in an intolerable position. But he repelled with indignation the suggestion that his brother might have committed a mother for the sake of gain, though he recognized that the three thousand rubbles had become almost an obsession with Mitya. That upon them, as part of the inheritance, he had been cheated by his father, and that, indifferent as he was to money as he ruled, he could not even speak of that three thousand without fury. As for the rivalry of the two ladies, as the prosecutor expressed it, that is, of Drushanka and Cartia, he answered evasively, and was even unwilling to answer one or two questions altogether, "Did your brother tell you, anyway, that he intended to kill your father?" asked the prosecutor. "You can refuse to answer if you think necessary," he added. "He did not tell me so directly," answered Aliyosha. "How so did he indirectly?" He spoke to me once of his hatred for our father and his fear that, at an extreme moment, at a moment of fury, he might perhaps murder him. "And you believed him?" "I am afraid to say that I did, but I never doubted that some higher feeling would always save him at that fatal moment, as it has indeed saved him, for it was not he killed my father," Aliyosha said firmly, in a loud voice that was heard throughout the court. The prosecutor started like a war horse at the sound of a trumpet. "Let me assure you that I fully believe in the complete sincerity of your conviction, and do not explain it by or identifying it with your affection for your unhappy brother. Your peculiar view of the whole tragic episode is known to us already from the preliminary investigation. I won't attempt to conceal from you that it is highly individual and contradicts all the other evidence collected by the prosecution. And so I think it's essential to press you to tell me what facts have led you to this conviction of your brother's innocence and of the guilt of another person against whom you gave evidence at the preliminary inquiry." I only answered the questions asked me at the preliminary inquiry, replied Aliyosha, slowly and calmly. I made no accusation against Smirdiacov of myself. "Yet you gave evidence against him?" I was led to do so by my brother Demetri's words. I was told what took place at his arrest and how he had pointed to Smirdiacov before I was examined. I believe absolutely that my brother is innocent, and if he didn't commit the murder, then, Smirdiacov, why Smirdiacov, and why are you so completely persuaded of your brother's innocence? "I cannot help believing my brother. I know he wouldn't lie to me. I saw from his face he wasn't lying. Only from his face is that all a proof you have. I have no other proof. And of Smirdiacov's guilt you have no proof whatever, but your brother's word and the expression of his face? No. I have no other proof." The prosecutor dropped the examination at this point. The impression left by Aliyosha's evidence on the public was most disappointing. There had been talk about Smirdiacov before the trial. Someone had heard something. Someone had pointed out something else. It was said that Aliyosha had gathered together some extraordinary proofs of his brother's innocence and Smirdiacov's guilt. And after all, there was nothing. No evidence except certain moral convictions so natural in a brother. But Fittukovic began his cross-examination. On his asking Aliyosha when it was that the prisoner had told him of his hatred for his father, and that he might kill him, and whether he had heard it, for instance, at their last meeting before the catastrophe, Aliyosha started, as he answered, as though only just recollecting and understanding something. I remember one circumstance now, which I'd quite forgotten myself. It wasn't clear to me at the time, but now. And obviously, only now for the first time struck by an idea. He recounted eagerly how at his last interview with Mitya that evening under the tree, on the road to the monastery, Mitya had struck himself on the breast. The upper part of the breast, and had repeated several times that he had a means of regaining his honor, that that means was there, here, on his breast. I thought, when he struck himself on the breast, he meant that it was in his heart, Aliyosha continued, that he might find in his heart, strength, to save himself from some awful disgrace which was awaiting him, and which he did not there confess even to me. I must confess, I did think, at the time, that he was speaking of our father, and that the disgrace he was shuddering at was the thought of going to our father, and doing some violence to him. Yet it was just then that he pointed to something on his breast, so that I remember the idea struck me at the time that the heart is not on that part of the breast, but below, and that he struck himself much too high, just below the neck, and kept pointing to that place. My idea seemed silly to me at the time, but he was perhaps pointing then to that little bag in which he had fifteen hundred thrables. "Just so," Mita cried from his place, "that's right, Aliyosha. It was the little bagger struck with my fist." Fechukovic flew to him in hot haste, entreating him to keep quiet, and, at the same instant, pounced on Aliyosha, Aliyosha carried away himself by his recollection. Warmly expressed his theory that this disgrace was probably just that fifteen hundred rubles on him, which he might have returned to Katerina Ivanovna, as half of what he owed her, but which he had yet determined not to repay her, and to use for another purpose, namely, to enable him to elope with Guru Shankar, if she consented. "It is so. It must be so," exclaimed Aliyosha, in sudden excitement. My brother cried several times that half of the disgrace, half of it, he said half several times. Hey Amazon Prime members, why pay more for groceries when you can save big on thousands of items at Amazon Fresh? Shop Prime exclusive deals and save up to 50% on weekly grocery favorites. Plus, save 10% on Amazon brands, like our new brand Amazon's Favor, 365 by Whole Foods Market, a plenty and more. Come back for new deals rotating every week. Don't miss out on savings. Shop Prime exclusive deals at Amazon Fresh. Select varieties. As a United Explorer card member, you can earn 50,000 bonus miles. Plus, look forward to extraordinary travel rewards, including a free-checked bag, two times the miles on United purchases, and two times the miles on dining and at hotels. Become an explorer and seek out unforgettable places while enjoying rewards everywhere you travel. Cards issued by JP Morgan Chase Bank NA member FDIC, subject to credit approval, offer subject to change, terms apply. But that he was so unhappy in his weakness of will that he wouldn't do it, that he knew beforehand he wasn't capable of doing it. And you clearly, confidently remember, that he struck himself just on this part of the breast? Fichukovic asked eagerly. Clearly, and confidently, for I thought at the time, why does he strike himself up there when the heart is lower down, and the thought seemed stupid to me at the time? I remember, it's seeming stupid. It flashed through my mind. That's what brought it back to me just now. How could I have forgotten it till now? But it was that little bag he meant when he said he had the means but wouldn't give back that 15 hundred. And when he was arrested at Mokru, he cried out, I know I was told it, that he considered it the most disgraceful act of his life. That when he had the means of repaying Katerina Ivanovna, half, half-note, what he owed her, yet he could not bring himself to repay the money and preferred to remain a thief in her eyes rather than part with it. And what torture, what torture, that depth has been to him? Aliyosha exclaimed in conclusion. The prosecutor, of course, intervened. He asked Aliyosha to describe once more how it had all happened, and several times insisted on the question. Had the prisoner seemed to point to anything? Perhaps he had simply struck himself with his fist on the breast. But it was not with his fist, cried Aliyosha. He pointed with his fingers and pointed here, very high up. How could I have so completely forgotten it till this moment? The president asked Mitya what he had to say to the last witness's evidence. Mitya confirmed it, saying that he had been pointing to the fifteen-hundred rubles, which were on his breast, just below the neck, and that that was, of course, the disgrace. "A disgrace I cannot deny, the most shameful act of my life," cried Mitya. "I might have repaid it and didn't repay it. I preferred to remain a thief in her eyes rather than give it back. And the most shameful part of it was that I knew beforehand I shouldn't give it back. You're right, Aliyosha. Thanks, Aliyosha." So Aliyosha's cross-examination ended. What was important, and striking about it, was that one fact, at least, had been found. And even though this were only one tiny bit of evidence, a mere hint at evidence. It did go some little way towards proving that the bag had existed, and had contained fifteen-hundred rubles, and that the prisoner had not been lying at the preliminary inquiry when he alleged, at Mokro, that those fifteen-hundred rubles were his own. Aliyosha was glad. But a flushed face he moved away to the seat assigned to him. He kept repeating to himself, "How was it I forgot? How could I have forgotten it? And what made it come back to me now?" Katerina Ivanovna was called to the witness-box. As she entered, something extraordinary happened in the court. The ladies clutched their loinets and opera-glasses. There was a stir among the men. One stood up to get a better view. Everybody alleged afterwards that Mitya had turned white of sheet on her entrance. All in black, she advanced modestly, almost timidly. It was impossible to tell from her face that she was agitated. But there was a resolute gleam in her dark and gloomy eyes. I may remark that many people mentioned that she looked particularly handsome at that moment. She spoke softly, but clearly, so that she was heard all over the court. She expressed herself with composure, or at least tried to appear composed. The president began his examination discreetly and very respectfully, as though afraid to touch on certain cords, and showing consideration for a great unhappiness. But an answer to one of the first questions, Katerina Ivanovna replied firmly that she had been formally bethroded to the prisoner. Until he left me of his own accord, she added quietly. When they asked her about the three thousand, she had entrusted to Mitya to post to her relations, she said firmly. I didn't give him the money simply to send it off. I felt at the time that he was in great need of money. I gave him the three thousand on the understanding that he should post it within the month if he carried you. There was no need for him to worry himself about that debt afterwards. I will not repeat all the questions asked her, and all the answers in detail. I will only give the substance of her evidence. I was firmly convinced that he would send off that sum as soon as he got money from his father. She went on. I have never doubted his disinterestedness and his honesty. His scrupulous honesty, in money matters. He felt quite certain that he would receive the money from his father, and spoke to me several times about it. I knew he had a feud with his father, and have always believed that he had been unfairly treated by his father. I don't remember any threat uttered by him against his father. He certainly never uttered any such threats before me. If he had come to me at that time, I should have at once relieved his anxiety about that unlucky three thousand rubles, but he had given up coming to see me, and I myself was put in such a position that I could not invite him. And I had no right indeed to be exacting as to that money. She added suddenly, and there was a ring of resolution in her voice. I was once indebted to him for assistance in money for more than three thousand, and I took it, although I could not at that time foresee that I should ever be in a position to repay my debt. There was a note of defiance in her voice. It was then Fittukovic began his cross-examination. Did that take place not here, but, at the beginning of your acquaintance, Fittukovic suggested cautiously, feeling his way, instantly sending something favorable. I must mention in parenthesis that, though Fittukovic had been brought from Petersburg partly at the instance of Katarina Ivanovna herself, he knew nothing about the episode of the four thousand rubles given her by Mitya, and of her bowing to the ground to him. She concealed this from him and said nothing about it, and that was strange. It may be pretty certainly assumed that she herself did not know till the very last minute whether she would speak of that episode in the court, and waited for the inspiration of the moment. No, I can never forget those moments. She began telling her story. She told everything, the whole episode that Mitya had told Ariosha, and her bowing to the ground, and her reason. She told about her father and her going to Mitya, and did not, in one word, in a single hint, suggest that Mitya had himself, through her sister, proposed they should send him Katarina Ivanovna to fetch the money. She generously concealed that, and was not ashamed to make it appear as though she had of her own impulse run to the young officer, relying on something, to beg him for the money. It was something tremendous. I turned cold and trembled as I listened. The court was hushed, trying to catch each word. It was something unexampled, even from such a self-willed and contemptuously proud girl as she was, such an extremely frank of our wall, such sacrifice, such self-immolation, seemed incredible. And for what? For whom? To save the man who had deceived and insulted her, and to help in however small a degree in saving him, by creating a strong impression in his favor. And indeed, the figure of the young officer, who, with a beautiful bow to the innocent girl, handed her his last four thousand rubles, all he had in the world, was thrown into a very sympathetic and attractive light. But I had a painfulness giving at heart. I felt that Kalimni might come of it later, and it did, in fact, it did. It was repeated all over the town afterwards, with spiteful laughter. That was perhaps not quite complete, that is, in the statement that the officer had let the young lady depart, with nothing but a respectful bow. It was hinted that something was here omitted. And even if nothing had been omitted, if this were the whole story, the most highly respected of our ladies maintained, even then, it is very doubtful whether it was creditable for a young girl to behave in that way, even for the sake of saving her father. And Canderena Ivanovna, with her intelligence, her morbid sensitiveness, have failed to understand that people would talk like that. You must have understood it, yet. Stop prime exclusive deals at Amazon Fresh. Select varieties. As a United Explorer card member, you can earn 50,000 bonus miles. Plus, look forward to extraordinary travel rewards, including a free-checked bag, two times the miles on United purchases, and two times the miles on dining and at hotels. Become an explorer and seek out unforgettable places while enjoying rewards everywhere you travel. Cards issued by JP Morgan Chase Bank NA member FDIC, subject to credit approval, offer subject to change terms apply. She made up her mind to tell everything. Of course, all these nasty little suspicions as to the truth of her story only arose afterwards and, at the first moment, all were deeply impressed by it. As for the judges and the lawyers, they listened in reverence, almost shame-faced silence, to Katharina Ivanovna. The prosecutor did not venture upon even one question on the subject. Fityokovich made a low bow to her. Oh, he was almost triumphant. Much ground had been gained. For a man to give his last four thousand on a generous impulse, and then, for the same man, to murder his father for the sake of robbing him of three thousand, the idea seemed too in Congress. Fityokovich felt that now the charge of theft, at least, was as good as disproved. The case was thrown into quite a different light. There was a wave of sympathy for media. As for him, I was told that once or twice while Katharina Ivanovna was giving her evidence, he jumped up from his seat, signed back again, and heard his face in his hands. But when she had finished, he suddenly cried in his sobbing voice, "Khatya, why have you ruined me?" And his subs were audible all over the court. But he instantly restrained himself and cried again, "Now I am condemned." And he sat rigid in his place, with his teeth clenched and his arms across his chest. Katharina Ivanovna remained in the court, and sat down in her place. She was pale and sat with her eyes cast down. Those who were sitting near her declared that for a long time she shivered all over, as they were in a fever. Groshenko was called. I am approaching the sudden catastrophe, which was perhaps the final cause of Mitya's ruin. For I am convinced, so is everyone, all the lawyers said the same afterwards, that if the episode had not occurred, the prisoner would at least have been recommended to Mercy. But of that later, a few words first about Groshenko. She too was dressed entirely in black, with her magnificent black shawl on her shoulders. She walked to the witness-box with her smooth, noiseless thread, with the slightest swaying gate common in women a full figure. She looked steadily at the president, putting her eyes neither to the right, nor to the left. To my thinking, she looked very handsome at the moment, and not at all pale, as the ladies alleged afterwards. They declared too, that she had he concentrated, and spiteful expression. I believe that she was simply irritated, and painfully conscious, of the contemptuous and inquisitive eyes of our scandal-loving public. She was proud, and could not stand contempt. She was one of those people who flare up, angry, and eager to retaliate, at the mere suggestion of contempt. There was an element of timidity, too, of course, and inward shame at her own timidity, so it was not strange that her tone kept changing. At one moment it was angry, contemptuous, and rough, and, at another, there was a sincere note of sole condemnation. Sometimes she spoke as though she were taking a desperate plunge, as though she felt. "I don't care what happens, I'll say it." I proposed of her acquaintance with Fjordor Parluvitch. She remarked curtly. "That's all nonsense, and was it my fault that he would pester me?" "But a minute later she added." It was all my fault. I was laughing at them both, at the old man and at him, too, and then brought both of them to this. It was all an account of me it happened. Sometimes an officer's name came up somehow. "That's nobody's business?" she snapped at once, with his snort of insolent defiance. "He was my benefactor. He took me when I had an issue to my foot, when my family had turned me out." The president reminded her, there very politely, that she must answer the questions directly, without going into irrelevant details. "Bruschenka, crimsoned, and her eyes flashed." "The envelope, with the notes in it, she had not seen. But had only heard from that wicked wretch that Fjordor Parluvitch had an envelope with notes of three thousand in it. But that was all foolishness. I was only laughing. I wouldn't have gone to him for anything." "To whom are you referring, as that wicked wretch inquired to the prosecutor?" "The lackey, smeared the Agof, who mad at his master, and hanged himself last night." She was, of course, at once, asked what ground she had for such a definite accusation. But it appeared that she, too, had no grounds for it. "The immediately Fjordor Vitch told me so himself, you can believe him. The woman who came between us has ruined him. She is the cause of it all. Let me tell you," Gruschenka added. She seemed to be quivering with hatred, and there was a vindictive note in her voice. She was again asked, to whom she was referring. "The young lady, Katharina Ivanovna, there. She sent for me, offered me chocolate, tried to fascinate me. There's not much shame about her. I can tell you that." At this point the President checked her sternly, begging her to moderate her language. But the jealous woman's heart was burning, and she did not care what she did. When the prisoner was arrested at Makro, the prosecutor asked, "Everyone saw and heard you run out of the next room and cry out, it's all my fault. We'll go to Siberia together." "So you already believed him to have murdered his father?" "I don't remember what I felt at the time," answered Gruschenka. Everyone was crying out that he had killed his father, and I felt that it was my fault, that it was on my account he had murdered him. But when he said he wasn't guilty, I believed him at once, and I believe him now, and always shall believe him. He is not the man to tell a lie. But you cabbage began his cross-examination. I remember that among other things he asked about Rakitin and the twenty-five rebels. You paid him for bringing Alexei Fyodorovic, Karamazov, to see you. "There was nothing strange about his taking the money," sneered Gruschenka, with angry contempt. He was always coming to me for money. He used to get thirty rebels a month, at least out of me. Chiefly for luxuries, he had enough to keep him without my help. "What led you to be so liberal to Mr. Rakitin?" Fyodorovic asked, in spite of an uneasy movement on the part of the president. "Why, he's my cousin. His mother was my cousin's sister, but he has always besought me not to tell anyone here of it. He is so dreadfully ashamed of me." His fact was a complete surprise to everyone. No one in the town, nor in the monastery, not even Mitya knew of it. I was told that Rakitin turned purple with shame where he sat. Gruschenka had somehow heard before she came into the court that he had given evidence against Mitya, and so she was angry. The whole effect on the public of Rakitin's speech, of his noble sentiments, of his attacks upon serve them, and the political disorder of Russia, was this time finally ruined. Fyodorovic was satisfied. It was another godsend. Gruschenka's cross-examination did not last long, and of course, there could be nothing particularly new in her evidence. She left a very disagreeable impression on the public. Hundreds of contemptuous eyes were fixed upon her, as she finished giving her evidence and sat down again in the court at a good distance from Katharina Ivanovna. Mitya was silent throughout her evidence. He sat as though turned to stone, with his eyes fixed on the ground. Ivan was called to give evidence. But the usher of the court announced to the president that owing to an attack of illness or some sort of fit, the witness could not appear at the moment, but was ready to give his evidence as soon as he recovered. But no one seemed to have heard it, and it only came out later. His entrance was for the first moment, almost unnoticed. The principal witnesses, especially the two rival ladies, had already been questioned. Curiosity was satisfied for the time. The public was feeling almost fatigued. Several more witnesses were still to be heard, who probably had little information to give after all that had been given. Thanks for watching! As a United Explorer card member, you can earn 50,000 bonus miles. Plus, look forward to extraordinary travel rewards, including a free-checked bag, two times the miles on United purchases, and two times the miles on dining and at hotels. Become an explorer and seek out unforgettable places while enjoying rewards everywhere you travel. Cards issued by JP Morgan Chase Bank NA member FDIC, subject to credit approval, offer subject to change, terms apply. Passing Ivan walked up with extraordinary slowness, looking at no one, and with his head bowed, as though plunged in gloomy thought. He was irreproteably dressed, but his face made a painful impression, on me at least. There was an earthy look in it, a look like a dying man's. His eyes were lustrous; he raised them and looked slowly round the cord. Anyosha jumped up from his seat and moaned, "Ahh!" I remember that, but it was hardly noticed. The president began, by informing him that he was a witness not on oath, that he might answer or refuse to answer, but that, of course, he must bear witness according to his conscience, and so on and so on. Ivan listened and looked at him bluntly, but his face gradually relaxed into a smile, and as soon as the president, looking at him in astonishment, finished, he laughed outright. "Well, and what else?" he asked in a loud voice. "There was a hush in the cord. There was a feeling of something strange." The president showed signs of uneasiness. "You are perhaps still on well?" he began, looking everywhere for the usher. "Don't trouble yourself, your excellency. I am well enough and can tell you something interesting." Ivan answered, with sudden calmness and respectfulness. "You have some special communication to make?" The president went on, still mistrustfully. Ivan looked down, waited a few seconds, and raising his head, answered, almost stammering. "No, I haven't. I have nothing particular." They began asking him questions. He answered, as it were, reluctantly, with extreme brevity, with his sort of disgust, which grimoire and more mocked, though he answered rationally. In many questions he answered that he did not know. He knew nothing of his father's money relations with Demetri. I wasn't interested in the subject, he added. Threats to murder his father, he had heard from the prisoner. Of the money in the envelope, he had heard from Smirtheakov. The same thing over and over again. He interrupted suddenly, with a look of weariness. I have nothing particular to tell the court. I see you are unwell and understand your feelings, the president began. He turned to the prosecutor and the counsel for the defense to invite them to examine the witness, if necessary, when Ivan suddenly asked in an exhausted voice. "Let me go, Your Excellency, I feel very ill." And with these words, without waiting for permission, he turned to walk out of the court. But after taking four steps, he stood still, as though he had reached a decision, smiled slowly, and went back. "I am like the peasant girl, Your Excellency. You know, how does it go? I'll stand up, if I like, and I won't, if I don't. They were trying to put on her sada-fun to take her to church to be married. And she said, I'll stand up, if I like, and I won't, if I don't. It's in some book about the peasantry." "What do you mean by that?" the president asked severely. "Why this?" Ivan suddenly pulled out a roll of notes. "Here's the money," the notes that lay in that envelope. He nodded towards the table, on which lay the material evidence, for the sake of which our father was murdered. "Where shall I put them, Mr. Superintendent? Take them." The usher of the court took the whole roll and handed it to the president. "How could this money have come into your position, if it is the same money?" the president asked, wonderingly. I got them from Smurfjekov, from the murderer, yesterday. I was with him just before he hanged himself. It was he, not my brother, killed our father. He murdered him, and I incited him to do it. Who doesn't desire his father's death? "Are you in your right's mind?" broke involuntarily from the president. "I should think I am in my right's mind, in the same nasty mind as all of you, all of these ugly faces." He turned suddenly to the audience. My father has been murdered, and they pretend they are horrified, he snarled, with furious contempt. They keep up the sham of one another. Liars, the old desire to death of their fathers, one reptile devours another. If there hadn't been a murder, they'd have been angry and gone home ill-humoured. It's a spectacle they want. "Panama, it's your senses," translators note, bread and circuses. "Though I am one to talk. Have you any water? Give me a drink for Christ's sake." He suddenly clutched his head. The usher at once approached him. Aliyosha jumped up and cried. "He is ill. Don't believe him. He has brain fever." Katerina Ivanovna rose impulsively from her seat, and rigid with horror, gazed at Ivan. Mitch stood up and greedily looked at his brother and listened to him with a wild, strange smile. "Don't disturb yourselves. I am not mad. I am only a murderer." Ivan began again. "You can't expect the eloquence from a murderer?" He added suddenly for some reason and laughed a queer laugh. The prosecutor bent over to the president, in obvious dismay. The two other judges communicated in agitated whispers. Fichyogovich pricked up his ears as he listened. The whole was hushed in expectation. The president seemed suddenly to recollect himself. Witness. Your words are incomprehensible and impossible here. Calm yourself if you can and tell your story, if you really have something to tell. How can you confirm your statements? If indeed you are not delirious. That's just it. I have no proof that curse mad Jacob won't send you proof from the other world. In an envelope. You think of nothing but envelopes. One is enough. I have no witness, except one, perhaps." He smiled thoughtfully. "Who is your witness?" "He has a tale, here, Excellency, and that would be irregular. The diablin exists a poi. Don't pay attention. He is a poetry pitiful devil." He added suddenly. He ceased laughing and spoke as it were, confidentially. "He is here somewhere, no doubt, under that table with the material evidence on it, perhaps. Where should he sit, if not there?" "You see, listen to me. I told him, I don't want to keep quiet. And he talked about the geological cataclysm. Adiosi. Come, release the monster. He's been singing in him. That's because his heart is light. It's like a drunken man in the street, bawling how Vanka went to Petersburg, and I would give her quadrillion for two seconds of joy. If you don't know me, oh, how stupid all this business is, come, take me instead of him. I don't come for nothing. Why? Why is everything so stupid?" And he began slowly, and, as it were, reflectively, looking round him again. But the court was all excitements by now. Adiosi rushed towards him, but the court usher had already seized Ivan by the arm. "What are you about?" he cried, staring into the man's face, and suddenly seizing him by the shoulders. He flung him violently to the floor. But the police were on the spot, and he was seized. He screamed furiously. And all the time he was being removed, he yelled and screamed something incoherent. The whole court was thrown into confusion. I don't remember everything as it happened. I was excited myself and could not follow. I only know that afterwards when everything was quiet again and everyone understood what had happened. The court usher came in for a reprimand, though he very reasonably explained that the witness had been quite a while, that the doctor had seen him an hour ago, when he had a slight attack of giddiness, but that, until he had come into the court, he had taught quite consecutively, so that nothing could have been foreseen, that he had, in fact, insisted on giving evidence. But before everyone had completely regained their composure and recovered from this scene, it was followed by another. Katerina Ivanovna had an attack of hysterics. She sobbed shrieking loudly, but refused to leave the court, struggled, and besought them not to remove her. Suddenly, she cried to the president. There is more evidence I must give a twop. 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Once, at once, here is a document, a letter, take it, read it quickly, quickly, it a letter from that monster that went there, there. She pointed to media. It was he who killed his father, he will see that directly, he wrote to me how he could kill his father, but the other one is ill. He is ill, he is delirious. She kept crying out, beside herself. The court usher took the document she held out to the president, and she, dropping into her chair, hiding her face in her hands, began convulsively and noiselessly sobbing, shaking all over, and stifling every sound for fear she should be ejected from the court. The document she had handed up was that letter media had written at the Metropolis Tavern, which Yvonne had spoken of as a mathematical proof. Alas, its mathematical conclusiveness was recognized, and had it not been for that letter, Metia might have escaped his doom, or at least, that doom would have been less terrible. It was a repeat, difficult, to notice every detail. What followed is still confused to my mind. The president, must I suppose, have at once passed on the document to the judges, the jury, the lawyers on both sides. I only remember how they began examining the witness. On being gently asked by the president, whether she had recovered sufficiently, Katerina Ivanovna exclaimed impetuously, "I am ready. I am ready. I am quite equal to answering you," she added, evidently still afraid that she would somehow be prevented from giving evidence. She was asked to explain in detail what this letter was, and under what circumstances she received it. I received it the day before the crime was committed, but he wrote it the day before that, at the tavern, that is, two days before he committed the crime. "Look, it is written on some sort of bill," she cried breathlessly. He hated me at that time, because he had behaved contentedly, and was running after that creature, and because he healed me that three thousand. Oh, he was humiliated by that three thousand on account of his own meanness. This is how it happened, about that three thousand. "I beg you, I beseech you, to hear me." Three weeks before he murdered his father, he came up to me one morning. I knew he wasn't want of money, and what he wanted it for. "Yes, yes, to end that creature and carry her off." I knew then that he had been forced to me, and meant to abandon me, and it was I, I, who gave him that money, who offered it to him on the pretext of his sending it to my sister in Moscow, and as I gave it to him, I looked him in the face and said that he could send it when he liked, in a month's time would do. How, how could he have failed to understand that I was practically telling him to his face? You want money to be forced to me with your creature, so here's the money for you. I give it to you myself, take it, if you have so little honor as to take it. I wanted to prove what he was, and what happened? He took it, he took it, and squandered it with that creature in one night. But he knew, he knew that I knew all about it. I assure you he understood too, that I gave him that money to test him, to see whether he was so lost, to all sense of honor, as to take it from me. I looked into his eyes, and he looked into mine, and he understood it all, and he took it. He carried off my money. "That's true, Katya," Mita wrote suddenly, "I looked into your eyes, and I knew that you were dishonoring me. And yet I took your money, despised me as a scoundrel, despised me all of you, I deserved it. Prisoner," cried the President, "another word, and I will order you to be removed." "That money was a torment to him," Katya went on with impulsive haste. He wanted to repay it to me. He wanted to, that's true, but he needed money for that creature too. So he murdered his father, but he didn't repay me, and went off with her to that village where he was arrested. There, again, he squandered the money he had stolen after the murder of his father. And a day before the murder, he wrote me this letter. He was drunk when he wrote it. I saw it at once, at the time. He wrote it from spite, and feeling certain, positively certain that I should never show it to anyone, even if he did kill him, or else he wouldn't have written it. For he knew I shouldn't want to revenge myself and ruin him. But read it. Read it attentively. More attentively, please, and you will say that he had described it all in his letter, all beforehand, how he would kill his father, and where his money was kept. Look, please, don't overlook that. There's one phrase there. I shall kill him as soon as Yvonne has gone away. He thought it all out beforehand, how he would kill him. Faterina Ivanovna pointed out to the court, with venomous and malignant triumph. Oh, it was clear, she had studied every line of that letter, and detected every meaning underlining it. If he hadn't been drunk, he wouldn't have written it to me. But look, everything is written there beforehand, just as he committed the murder after. "A complete program of it," she exclaimed frontically. She was reckless now, of all consequences to herself. Though no doubt, she had foreseen them even a month ago. Or even then, perhaps, shaking with anger, she had pondered, whether to show it at the trial or not. Now, she had taken the fatal plunge. I remember that the letter was read aloud by the clerk, directly afterwards, I believe. It's made an overwhelming impression. They asked Mitya whether he admitted having written the letter. "It's mine, mine," cried Mitya, "I shouldn't have written it, if I hadn't been drunk. We've hated each other for many things, Katya, but I swear, I swear, I loved you even while I hated you, and you didn't love me." He cycled back on his seat, wringing his hands in despair. The prosecutor and the counsel for the defense began cross-examining her, chiefly to a certain word had induced her, to conceal such a document, and to give her evidence in quite a different turn and spirit just before. "Yes, yes, I was telling lies just now, I was lying against my honor and my conscience. But I wanted to save him, as he had hated and despised me so," Katya cried madly, "Oh, he has despised me horribly. He has always despised me. And do you know, he has despised me from the very moment that I bow down to him for that money. I saw that. I felt it at once, at the time, but for a long time, I wouldn't believe him. How often I have read it in his eyes. You came of yourself there? Oh, he didn't understand. He had no idea why I ran to him. He can suspect nothing but baseness. He judged me by himself. He thought everyone was like himself," Katya hissed furiously, in a perfect frenzy. "Had he only wanted to marry me, because I inherited a fortune. Because of that, because of that, I always suspected it was because of that. Oh, he is a brute. He was always convinced that I should be trembling with shame all my life before him, because I went to him then, and that he had a right to despise me forever for it. And so, to be superior to me, that's why he wanted to marry me. That's so. That's all so. I tried to conquer him by my love, a love that knew no bounds. I even tried to forgive his faithlessness. But he understood nothing, nothing. How could he understand indeed? He is a monster. I only received that letter the next evening. It was brought me from the tavern. And only that morning, only that morning, I wanted to forgive him everything, everything. Even his treachery. The president and the prosecutor, of course, tried to calm her. I can't help thinking that they felt ashamed of taking advantage of her history and of listening to such a vowels. I remember hearing them say to her, "We understood how hard it is for you. Be sure. We are able to feel sorry for you." And so on, and so on. And yet, they dragged the evidence out of the raving, historical woman. She described that last with extraordinary clearness, which is so often seen, the only for a moment, in such overwrought states, how Ivan had been nearly driven out of his mind during the last two months, trying to save the monster and murder his brother. Hey Amazon Prime members, why pay more for groceries when you can save big on thousands of items at Amazon Fresh? Shop Prime exclusive deals and save up to 50% on weekly grocery favorites. Plus, save 10% on Amazon brands, like our new brand Amazon's Favor, 365 by Whole Foods Market, a plenty and more. Come back for new deals rotating every week. Don't miss out on savings. Shop Prime exclusive deals at Amazon Fresh. Select varieties. As a United Explorer card member, you can earn 50,000 bonus miles. Plus, look forward to extraordinary travel rewards, including a free-checked bag, two times the miles on United purchases, and two times the miles on dining and at hotels. Become an explorer and seek out unforgettable places while enjoying rewards everywhere you travel. Buyers issued by JP Morgan Chase Bank NA member FDIC, subject to credit approval, offer subject to change. Terms apply. He tortured himself, she explained. He was always trying to minimize his brother's guilt, and confessing to me that he, too, had never loved his father, and perhaps decided his death for himself. Oh, he has a tender, over tender conscience. He tormented himself with his conscience. He told me everything, everything. He came every day, and talked to me as his only friend. I have the honor of being his only friend. She cried suddenly with a sort of defiance, and her eyes flashed. He had been twice to see Smardiacov. One day, he came to me and said, "It was not my brother, but Smardiacov committed the mother." For the legend was circulating everywhere that Smardiacov had done it. Perhaps I, too, am guilty for Smardiacov knew I didn't like my father, and perhaps believed that I desired my father's death. Then, I brought out that letter and showed it him. He was evidently convinced that his brother had done it, and he was overwhelmed by it. He couldn't endure the thought that his own brother was a parasite. Only a week ago I saw that it was making him ill. During the last few days he has talked incoherently in my presence. I saw his mind was giving way. He walked about raving. He was in mattering in the streets. The doctor from Moscow, at my request, examined him the day before yesterday and told me that he was on the eve of brain fever. And all on his account, an account of this monster! And last night he learned that Smardiacov was dead. It was such a shock that I drove him out of his mind, and all through this monster, all for the sake of saving this monster! Oh, of course, such an outpouring, such an avowal is only possible once in a lifetime, at the hour of death, for instance, on the way to the scaffold. But it wasn't Katya's character, and it was such a moment in her life. It was the same in Petrus Katya, who had thrown herself on the mercy of a young profligate to save her father, the same Katya, who had just before, in her pride and chastity, sacrificed herself and her maidenly modesty before all these people, telling of media's generous conduct, in the hope of softening his fate a little. And now again she sacrificed herself. But this time it was for another. And perhaps only now, perhaps only at this moment, she felt and knew how dear that other character was to her. She had sacrificed herself in terror for him, conceiving all of a sudden that he had ruined himself by his confession, that it was he who had committed the murder, not his brother. She had sacrificed herself to save him, to save his good name, his reputation. And yet one terrible doubt occurred to one. Was she lying in her description of her former relations with Smithia? That was the question. No, she had not intentionally slandered him when she cried that Smithia despised her for her bowing down to him. She believed it herself. She had been firmly convinced, perhaps ever since that bow, that the simple hearted Mitya, who even then adored her, was laughing at her and despising her. She had loved him, with an hysterical, lacerated love only from pride, from wounded pride, and that love was not like love, but more like revenge. Oh, perhaps that lacerated love would have grown into real love. Perhaps Catia longed for nothing more than that. But Smithia's faithlessness had wounded her to the bottom of her heart, and her heart could not forgive him. The moment of revenge had come upon her suddenly, and all that had been accumulating so long and so painfully in the offended woman's breasts burst out all at once and unexpectedly. She betrayed Mitya, but she betrayed herself, too. And no sooner had she given full expression to her feelings, than the tension, of course, was over. And she was overwhelmed, with shame. lyrics began again. She fell on the floor, sobbing and screaming. She was carried out. At that moment, Grushenka, with a will, rushed towards Mitya before they had time to prevent her. "Mitya," she wailed, "your serpent has destroyed you. There, she has shown you what she is," she shouted to the judges, shaking with anger. They signaled from the president, they seized her, and tried to remove her from the court. She wouldn't allow it. She fought and struggled to get back to Mitya. Mitya uttered a cry and struggled to get to her. He was overpowered. "Yes, I think the ladies who came to see the spectacle must have been satisfied. The show had been a varied one. When I remember the Moscow doctor appeared on the scene. I believe the president had previously sent the court usher to arrange for medical aid for Ivan. The doctor announced to the court that the sick man was suffering from a dangerous attack of brain fever, and that he must be at once removed. In answer to questions from the prosecutor and the counsel for the defense, he said that the patient had come to him of his own accord the day before yesterday, and that he had warned him that he had such an attack coming on. But he had not consented to be looked after. He was certain not in a normal state of mind. He told me himself that he saw visions when he was awake, that he met several persons in the street who were dead, and that satan visited him every evening, said the doctor in conclusion. Having given his evidence, the celebrated doctor withdrew. The letter produced by Katya Ivanovna was added to the material proofs. After some deliberation, the judges decided to proceed with the trial and to enter both the unexpected pieces of evidence, given by Ivan and Katya Ivanovna, on the protocol. But I will not detail the evidence of the other witnesses, who only repeated and confirmed what had been said before, though all with their characteristic peculiarities. I repeat, all was brought together in the prosecutor's speech, which I shall quote immediately. Everyone was excited, everyone was electrified by the late catastrophe, and all were awaiting the speeches for the prosecution and the defense with intense impatience. That yoga-rich was obviously shaken by Katya Ivanovna's evidence, but the prosecutor was triumphant. When all the evidence had been taken, the court was adjourned for almost an hour. I believe it was just eight o'clock when the president returned to his seat, and our prosecutor, Eposit Kirilovich, began his speech. End of chapter 5 of book 12 Book 12, chapter 6, the prosecutor's speech, sketches of character. Eposit Kirilovich began his speech, trembling with nervousness, with cold sweat on his forehead, feeling hot and cold all over by turns. He described this himself afterwards. He regarded this speech as his shadover, the shadover of his whole life, as his swan song. He died this true nine months later of rapid consumption, so that he had to write, as it turned out, to compare himself to a swan singing his last song. He had put his whole heart and all the brain he had into that speech. And poor Eposit Kirilovich unexpectedly revealed that, at least some feeling for the public welfare and the external question lay concealed in him. Where his speech really excelled was in its sincerity. He genuinely believed in the prisoner's guilt. He was accusing him not as an official duty only, and in calling for vengeance he quivered with a genuine passion for the security of society. Even the ladies in the audience, though they remained hostile to Eposit Kirilovich, admitted that he made an extraordinary impression on them. He began in a breaking voice, but it soon gained strength and filled the court to the end of his speech. But as soon as he had finished, he almost fainted. Little men of the jury began the prosecutor. This case has made a stir throughout Russia. But what is there to wonder at? What is there so peculiarly horrifying in it for us? We are so accustomed to such crimes. That's what's so horrible, that such dark deeds have ceased to horrify us. What ought to horrify us is that we are so accustomed to it. And not this, or that isolated crime. What are the causes of our indifference, our lukewarm attitude to such deeds, to such signs of the times, omnis of an unenviable future? Is it our cynicism? Is it the premature exhaustion of intellect and imagination in a society that is sinking into decay in spite of its use? Is it? Hey Amazon Prime members, why pay more for groceries when you can save big on thousands of items at Amazon Fresh? Shop Prime exclusive deals and save up to 50% on weekly grocery favorites. Plus, save 10% on Amazon Brands, like our new brand Amazon's Favor, 365 by Whole Foods Market, a plenty and more. Come back for new deals rotating every week. Don't miss out on savings. Prime exclusive deals at Amazon Fresh. Select varieties. As a United Explorer card member, you can earn 50,000 bonus miles. Plus, look forward to extraordinary travel rewards, including a free-checked bag, two times the miles on United purchases, and two times the miles on dining and at hotels. Become an explorer and seek out unforgettable places while enjoying rewards everywhere you travel. Cards issued by JP Morgan Chase Bank NA member FDIC, subject to credit approval, offer subject to change terms apply. That our moral principles are shattered to their foundations, or is it perhaps a complete lack of such principles among us? I cannot answer such questions. Nevertheless, they are disturbing, and every citizen not only must, but ought to be harassed by them. Their newborn, and still timid press, has done good service to the public already. For without it we should never have heard of the horrors of unbridled violence and moral degradation which are continually made known by the press, not merely to those who attend the new jury courts established in the present reign, but to everyone. And what do we read almost daily? What things, besides which the present case grows pale, and seems almost commonplace? But what is most important is that the majority of our national crimes of violence bear witness to a widespread evil, now so general among us that it is difficult to contend against it. One day we see a brilliant young officer of high society at the very outside of his career, in a cowardly underhand way, without a pang of conscience, murdering an official who had once been his benefactor, and the servant girl, to steal his own IOU, and what ready money he could find on him. It will come in handy for my pleasures in the fashionable world, and for my career in the future. After murdering them he puts pillows under the head of each of his victims. He goes away. Next, a young hero, decorated for bravery, kills the mother of his chief and benefactor, like a highwayman, and to urge his companions to join him he asserts that she loves him like a son, and so will follow all his directions and take no precautions. Granted, that he is a monster, yet I dare not say in these days that he is unique. Another man will not commit the murder, but will feel and sink like him, and is as dishonorable in soul, in silence, alone with his conscience. He asks himself, perhaps, what is honor, and isn't the condemnation of bloodshed a prejudice? Perhaps people will cry out against me that I am morbid, historical, that it is a monstrous slander, that I am exaggerating, let them say so, and heavens, I should be the first to rejoice if it were so. Oh, don't believe me, think of me as morbid, but remember my words. If only a tenth, if only a twentieth part of what I say is true, even so, it's awful. Look, how our young people commit suicide, without asking themselves Hamlet's question what there is beyond, without a sign of such a question, as though all that relates to the soul, and to what awaits us beyond the grave, had long been erased in their minds, and buried under the sands. Look at our vice, at our profligate. Fyodor Pavlovitch, the luckless victim in the present case, was almost an innocent babe compared with many of them. And yet we all knew him. He lived among us. Yes, one day perhaps, the leading intellects of Russia and of Europe will study the psychology of Russian crime, for the subject is so worth it. But this study will come later, at leisure, when all the tragic Terpsi Tervidam of today is farther behind us, so that it's possible to examine it with more insight and more impartiality than I can do. Now we are either horrified or pretend to be horrified, though we really gloat over the spectacle, and love strong and eccentric sensations which trickle our cynical, tempered idleness. For like little children, we brush the dreadful ghosts away and hide our heads in the pillow, so as to turn to our sports and merriment as soon as they have vanished. But we must one day begin life in sober earnest. We must look at ourselves as a society. It's time we tried to grasp something of our social position, or at least, to make a beginning in that direction. A great writer, translators note, Gogol, of the last epoch, comparing Russia to a swift Troika galloping to an unknown goal, exclaims, "O Troika, birdlike Troika, who invented thee?" And adds, in proud ecstasy, that all the peoples of the world stands aside respectfully to make way for the recklessly galloping Troika to pass. That may be. They may stand aside, respectfully or no. But in my poor opinion, the great writer ended his book in this way, either in an excess of childish and naive optimism, or simply in fear of the censorship of the day. For if the Troika were drawn by his heroes, Sobakevich, Nodzdryov, Chichikov, it could reach no rational goal, whoever might be driving it. And those were the heroes of an older generation, ours, ours specimens still. At this point, a Politkerelovich speech was interrupted by applause. The liberal significance of this smile was appreciated. Hey Amazon Prime members, why pay more for groceries when you can save big on thousands of items at Amazon Fresh? Shop Prime exclusive deals and save up to 50% on weekly grocery favorites. Plus, save 10% on Amazon brands, like our new brand Amazon's Favor, 365 by Whole Foods market, a plenty and more. Come back for new deals rotating every week. Don't miss out on savings. Shop Prime exclusive deals at Amazon Fresh. Select varieties. As a United Explorer card member, you can earn 50,000 bonus miles. Plus, look forward to extraordinary travel rewards, including a free-checked bag, two times the miles on United purchases, and two times the miles on dining and at hotels. Become an explorer and seek out unforgettable places while enjoying rewards everywhere you travel. Cards issued by JP Morgan Chase Bank NA member FDIC, subject to credit approval, offer subject to change. Terms apply. As was, it's true, of brief duration, so that the President did not think it's necessary to caution the public, and only looked severely in the direction of the offenders. But a Politkerelovich was encouraged. He had never been applauded before. He had been all his life unable to get a hearing. And now he suddenly had an opportunity of securing the ear of all Russia. What after all is this Karamaso family, which has gained such an uninviable neutrality throughout Russia, he continued. Perhaps I am exaggerating, but it seems to me that certain fundamental features of the educated class of today are reflected in this family picture, only, of course, in miniature, like the sun in a drop of water. Think of that unhappy, vicious, unbridled old man, who has met with such a melancholy end, the head of a family, beginning life of noble births, but in a poor dependent position. Through an unexpected marriage he came into a small fortune, a petty nave, a toady and buffoon, of fairly good, though undeveloped intelligence. He was, above all, a money-lender, who grew bolder with growing prosperity. His abject and servile characteristics disappeared. His malicious and sarcastic cynicism was all that remained. On the spiritual side he was undeveloped, while his vitality was excessive. He saw nothing in life but central pleasure, and he brought his children up to be the same. He had no feelings for his duties as a father. He ridiculed those duties. He left his little children to the servants, and was glad to be rid of them, forgot about them completely. The old man's maxim was, a primualo de luge, translators note, after me, the de luge. He was an example of everything that is opposed to civic duty, of the most complete and malignant individualism. The world may burn for art I care so long as I am all right. And he was all right. He was content. He was eager to go on living, in the same way, for another twenty or thirty years. He swindled his own son, and spent his money, his material inheritance, on trying to get his mistress from him. No, I don't intend to leave the prisoner's defence altogether to my talented colleague from Petersburg. I will speak the truth myself. I can well understand what resentment he had heaped up in his son's heart against him. But enough, enough of that unhappy old man. He has paged the penalty. Let us remember, however, that he was a father, and one of the typical fathers of today. Am I unjust indeed, in saying that he is typical of many modern fathers? Alas, many of them only differ, in not openly professing such cynicism, for they are better educated, more cultured, but their philosophy is essentially the same as his. Perhaps I am a pessimist, but you have agreed to forgive me. Let us agree beforehand, you need not believe me, but let me speak. Let me speak what I have to say, and remember something of my words. Now for the children of this father, this head of a family. One of them is the prisoner before us. All the rest of my speech will deal with him. Of the other two, I will speak only cursoryly. The other one is of those modern young men of brilliant education and vigorous intellect, who has lost all faith in everything. He has denied and rejected much already, like his father. We have all heard him. He was a welcome guest in local society. He never concealed his opinions, quite the contrary, in fact, which justifies me in speaking rather openly of him now, of course, not as an individual, but as a member of the Karamas or family. Another person I closely connected with the case died here by his own hand last night. I mean an afflicted idiot, formerly the servant, and possibly the illegitimate son of Fyodor Pivlurvitch, Smart Diakov. At the preliminary inquiry he told me with historical tears how the young Yvonne Karamasov had horrified him by his spiritual audacity. Everything in the world is lawful according to him, and nothing must be forbidden in the future. That is what he always taught me. I believe that idiot was driven out of his mind by a dis-theory, though, of course, the epileptic attacks from which he suffered, and this terrible catastrophe, have helped to unhinge his faculties. But he dropped one very interesting observation, which could have done credit to a more intelligent observer, and that is, indeed, why I've mentioned it. If there is one of the sons that is like Fyodor Pivlurvitch in character, it is Yvonne Fyodorvitch. With that remark I conclude my sketch of his character, feeling it indelicate to continue further. Oh, I don't want to draw any further conclusions and croak like a raven over the young man's future. We've seen today, in this court, that there are still good impulses in his young heart, that family feeling has not been destroyed in him by lack of faith and cynicism, which have come to him rather by inheritance than by the exercise of indel- Hey Amazon Prime members, why pay more for groceries when you can save big on thousands of items at Amazon Fresh? Shop Prime exclusive deals and save up to 50% on weekly grocery favorites. Plus, save 10% on Amazon brands, like our new brand Amazon's Favor, 365 by Whole Foods Market, a plenty and more. Come back for new deals rotating every week. Don't miss out on savings. Shop Prime exclusive deals at Amazon Fresh. Select varieties. As a United Explorer card member, you can earn 50,000 bonus miles. Plus, look forward to extraordinary travel rewards, including a free checked bag, two times the miles on United purchases and two times the miles on dining and at hotels. Become an explorer and seek out unforgettable places while enjoying rewards everywhere you travel. Cards issued by JP Morgan Chase Bank N.A. member FDIC, subject to credit approval, offer subject to change, terms apply. Handened thought. Then the third son, oh, he is at the vouch and modest youth, who does not share his elder brothers' gloomy and destructive theory of life. He has thought to cling to the ideas of the people, or to what goes by that name in some circles of our intellectual classes. He clung to the monastery. He was within an ace of becoming a monk. He seems to me to have betrayed unconsciously, and so early, that timid despair which leads so many in our unhappy society, who dreads cynicism and its corrupting influences, and may stakeingly attribute all the mischief to European enlightenment, to return to their native soil, as they say, to the bosom, so to speak, of their mother earth, like frightened children, yearning to fall asleep on the withered bosom of their decrepit mother, and to sleep there for ever, only to escape the horrors that terrify them. For my part, I wish the excellent and gifted young man every success. I trust that youthful idealism and impulse towards the ideas of the people may never regenerate, as often happens, on the moral side, into gloomy mysticism, and on the political, into blinds chauvinism, two elements which are even a greater menace to Russia than the premature decay, due to misunderstanding and gratuitous adoption of European ideas, from which his elder brother is suffering. Two or three people clap their hands at the dimension of chauvinism and mysticism. A political village had been, indeed, carried away by his own eloquence. All this had little to do with the case in hand, to say nothing of the fact of its being somewhat vague, but the stickly and consumptive man was overcome by the desire to express himself once in his life. People said afterwards that he was actuated by unworthy motives in his criticism of Yvonne, because the latter had on one or two occasions got the better of him in argument, and the politically little of it, remembering it, tried now to take his revenge. But I don't know whether it was true. All this was only introductory, however, and the speech passed to more direct consideration of the case. But to return to the eldest son, Ipolitkirilovich, went on. He is the prisoner before us. We have his life and his actions, too, before us. The fatal day has come, and all has been brought to the surface. While his brothers seemed to stand for Europeanism and the principles of the people, he seems to represent Russia as she is. Oh, not all Russia, not all, got preservous if it were. Yet here we have her, our mother Russia, the very scent and sound of her. Oh, he is spontaneous, he is a marvellous mingling of good and evil. He is a lover of culture and shila, yet he brawls in taverns and plucks out the beard of his boond companions. Oh, he, too, can be good and noble. But only when all goes well with him, what is more, he can be carried off his feet, positively carried off his feet by noble ideals. But only if they come of themselves, if they fall from heaven for him, if they need not be paid for. He dislikes paying for anything, but is very fond of receiving, and that so with him in everything. Oh, give him every possible good in life, he couldn't be content with less, and put no obstacle in his way, and he will show that he, too, can be noble. He is not greedy, no, but he must have money, a great deal of money, and you will see how generously, with what scorn a filthy looker, he will fling it all away in the reckless dissipation of one night. But if he has not money, he will show what he is ready to do to get it when he is in great need of it. But all this later, let us take events in their chronological order. First we have before us a poor, abandoned child, running about in the backyard without boots on his feet, as our worthy and esteemed fellow citizen, for an origin alas, expressed it just now. I repeat it again; I yield to know one the defense of the criminal. I am here to accuse him, but to defend him also. Yes, I, too, am human. I, too, can weigh the influence of home and childhood on the character. But the boy grows up and becomes an officer. For a duel and other reckless conduct, he is exiled to one of the remote frontier towns of Russia. There, he led a wild life as an officer. And of course, he needed money, money before all things. And so, after prolonged disputes, he came to a settlement with his father, and the last six thousand was sent to him. A letter is in existence in which he practically gives up his claim to the rest and settles his conflict with his father over the inheritance on payment of this six thousand. Then came his mating with a young girl of lofty character, and brilliant education. Oh, I do not venture to repeat the details. You have only just heard them. Honor, self-sacrifice, were shown there, and I will be silent. The figure of the young officer, frivolous and profligate, doing homage to true nobility and eloft the ideal, was shown in a very sympathetic light before us. But the other side of the medal was unexpectedly turned to us immediately after, in this very court. Again, I will not venture to conjecture why it happened so. But there were causes. Some lady, bathed in tears of long concealed indignation, alleged that he, he of all men, had despised her for her action, which, though in cautious, reckless perhaps, was still dictated by lofty and generous motives. He, he, the girl's butroded, looked at her with that smile of mockery, which was more insufferable from him than from any one; and, knowing that he had already deceived her, he had deceived her, believing that she was bound to injure everything for him, even treachery. She intentionally offered him three thousand rubles, and clearly, too clearly, let him understand, that she was offering him money to deceive her. "Well, where do you take it or not? Are you so lost to shame? Was the dumb question in her scrutinizing eyes?" He looked at her, so clearly what was in her mind. He's admitted here before you that he understood it all, appropriated that three thousand unconditionally, and squandered it in two days, with the new object of his affections. What are we to believe then? The first legend of the young officer sacrificing his last farting in a noble impulse of generosity, and doing reference to virtue, or this other revolting picture. As a role, between two extremes one has to find the mean. But in the present case, this is not true. The probability is that, in the first case, he was genuinely noble, and in the second, as genuinely base. And why? Because he was, of the broad caramel self-character, that's just what I'm leading up to, capable of combining the most in congress contradictions, and capable of the greatest heights, and of the greatest depths. Remember that brilliant remark made by a young observer, who has seen the Karamazov family at close quarters, Mr. Rakhidin. The sense of their own degradation is as essential to those reckless, unbritalled natures, as the sense of their lofty generosity. And that's true. They need continually this unnatural mixture. Two extremes at the same moment, or they are miserable, and dissatisfied, and their existence is incomplete. They are wide. Why does Mother Russia? They include everything, and put up with everything. By the way, gentlemen of the jury, we've just touched upon that three thousand rubles, and I will venture to anticipate things a little. Can you conceive that a man like that on receiving that sum, and in such a way, at the price of such shame, such disgrace, such utter degradation, could have been capable that very day, of letting apart half that sum, that very day, and suing it up in a little bag, and would have had the firmness of character to carry it about with him for a whole month afterwards, in spite of every temptation, and his extreme need of it. Neither in drunken debauchery, in taverns, nor when he was flying into the country, trying to get from God knows whom, the money so essential to him, to remove the object of his affections from being tempted by his father, that he bring himself to touch that little bag. Why, if only to avoid abandoning his mistress to the rival of whom he was so jealous, he would have been certain to have opened that bag, and to have stayed at home, to keep watch over her, and to await the moment when she would say to him at last, I am yours, and to fly with her far from their fatal surroundings. But no, he did not touch his talisman, and what is the reason he gives for it? The chief reason, as I have just said, was that when she would say, I am yours, take me where you will, he might have the where widow to take her. But that first reason, in the prisoner's own words, was of little wait beside the second. "While I have that money on me," he said, "I am a scoundrel, not a thief; for I can always go to my insulted bit throated, and, laying down, have the sum I have fraudulently appropriated, I can always say to her, you see?" "I have scolded half your money, and shown I am a weak and immoral man, and if you like, a scoundrel, I use the prisoner's own expressions. But though I am a scoundrel, I am not a thief; for, if I had been a thief, I shouldn't have brought you back this half of the money, but should have taken it as I did the other half, a marvelous explanation. This frantic but weak man, who could not resist the temptation of accepting the three thousand rubles at the price of such disgrace, this very man, suddenly develops the most stoical firmness, and carries about a thousand rubles without daring to touch it. Does that fit in at all, with the character we have analyzed?" "No, and I venture to tell you, how the real Dmitri Karamazov would have behaved in such circumstances, if he really had brought himself to put away the money." Hey Amazon Prime members, why pay more for groceries when you can save big on thousands of items at Amazon Fresh? Shop Prime exclusive deals and save up to 50% on weekly grocery favorites. Plus, save 10% on Amazon Brands, like our new brand Amazon Saver, 365 by Whole Foods Market, a Plenty and more. Come back for new deals rotating every week. Don't miss out on savings. Shop Prime exclusive deals at Amazon Fresh. Select varieties. As a United Explorer card member, you can earn 50,000 bonus miles. Plus, look forward to extraordinary travel rewards, including a free-checked bag, two times the miles on United purchases, and two times the miles on dining and at hotels. Become an explorer and seek out unforgettable places while enjoying rewards everywhere you travel. Cards issued by JP Morgan Chase Bank NA member FDIC, subject to credit approval, offer subject to change, terms apply. "At the first temptation, for instance, to entertain the woman with whom he had already squandered half the money, he would have unpicked his little bag and have taken out some hundred rubles, for why should he have taken back precisely half the money? That is, fifteen hundred rubles. Why not fourteen hundred? He could, just as well, have said then that he was not a thief, because he brought back fourteen hundred rubles. Then, another time, he would have unpicked it again and taken out another hundred, and then a third, and then a fourth. And before the end of the month, he would have taken the last note but one, feeling that if he took back only a hundred, it would answer the purpose, for a thief would have stolen it all. And then he would have looked at this last note, and have said to himself, "It is really not worth while to give back one hundred. Let's spend that, too. That's how the real Demetri Karamazov, as we know him, would have behaved. One cannot imagine anything more in Congress with the actual fact than this legend of the little bag. Nothing could be more inconceivable. But we shall return to that later. After touching upon what had come out in the proceedings, concerning the financial relations of father and son, and arguing again and again, that it was utterly impossible, from the facts known, to determine which was in the wrong, a politically low-rich passed to the evidence of the medical experts in reference to Meteia's fixed idea about the three thousand owing him. The medical experts have striven to convince us that the prisoner is out of his mind, and in fact, I maintain that he is in his right mind, and that if he had not been, he would have behaved more cleverly. As for his being a maniac, that I would agree with but only in one point, that is, his fixed idea about the three thousand. Yet, I think one might find a much simpler cause than his tendency to insanity. For my part, I agree thoroughly, with the young doctor who maintained that the prisoner's mental faculties have always been normal, and that he has only been irritable and exasperated. But the object of the prisoner's continual and violent anger was not the sum itself. There was a special motive at the bottom of it. That motive is jealousy. Here, Ipolite Kirilovich described at length the prisoner's fatal passion for Grushenko. He began from the moment when the prisoner went to the young person's lodgings to beat her. "I use his own expression," the prosecutor explained, but instead of beating her, he remained there at her feet. That was the beginning of the passion. At the same time, the prisoner's father was captivated by the same young person, a strange and fatal coincidence, for they both lost their hearts to her simultaneously, though both had known her before. And she inspired, in both of them, the most violent, characteristically Karama-sov passion. We have her own confession. I was laughing at both of them. Yes, the sudden desire to make a jest of them came over her. And she conquered both of them at once. The old man, who worshipped money, at once set aside three thousand ripples as he reward for one visit from her. But soon after that, he would have been happy to lay his property and his name at her feet, if only she would become his lawful wife. We have good evidence of this. As for the prisoner, the tragedy of his fate is evident. It is before us. But such was the young person's game. The enchantress gave the unhappy young man no hope until the last moment, when he knelt before her, stretching out hands that were already stained with the blood of his father and rival. It was in that position that he was arrested. Sent me to Siberia with him; I have brought him to this; I am most to blame. The woman herself cried out, in genuine remorse at the moment of his arrest. The talented young man, to whom I have referred already, Mr. Rakitin, characterised this heroine in brief and impressive terms. She was disillusioned early in life, deceived and ruined by a bethroded, who seduced and abandoned her. She was left in poverty, cursed by her respectable family, and taken under the protection of a wealthy old man, whom she still, however, considers as her benefactor. There was perhaps much that was good in her young heart, but it wasn't bitter too early. She became prudent and saved money. She grew sarcastic and resentful against society. After this sketch of her character, it may well be understood that she might laugh at both of them, simply from mischief, from malice. After a month of hopeless love and moral degradation, during which he betrayed his bethroded and appropriated money entrusted to his honour, the prisoner was driven almost to frenzy. Almost to madness by continual jealousy. And of whom? His father, and the worst of it was that the crazy old man was alluring and enticing the object of his affection by means of that very three thousand rubles which the son looked upon as his own property, part of his inheritance from his mother, of which his father was cheating him. Yes, I admit, it was hard to bear; it might well drive a man to madness. It was not the money, but the fact that this money was used with such revolting cynicism to ruin his happiness. Then, the prosecutor went on to describe how the idea of murdering his father had entered the prisoner's hand and illustrated his theory with facts. At first, he only talked about it in taverns; he was talking about it all that month. Ah, he likes being always surrounded with company, and he likes to tell his companions everything, even his most diabolical and dangerous ideas. He likes to share every thought with others and expects for some reason that those he confides in will meet him with perfect sympathy, entering to all his troubles and anxieties, take his part and not oppose him in anything. If not, he flies into a rage and smashes up everything in this tavern. Then followed the anecdote about Captain's negiri of. Those who heard the prisoner began to think at last that he might mean more than threats, and that such a frenzy might turn threats into actions. Here, the prosecutor described the meeting of the family at the monastery, the conversations with Aliyosha, and the horrible scene of violence when the prisoner had rushed into his father's house just after dinner. "I cannot positively assert," the prosecutor continued, "that the prisoner fully intended to murder his father before that incident." "Yet the idea had several times presented itself to him, and he had deliberated on it. For that we have facts, witnesses, in his own words. I confess gentleman of the jury," he added, "that till today I have been uncertain whether to attribute to the prisoner conscious premeditation. I was firmly convinced that he had pictured the fatal moment beforehand but had only pictured it, contemplating it, as a possibility. He had not definitely considered when and how he might commit the crime. But I was only uncertain till today till that fatal document was presented to the court just now. You yourselves heard that young lady's exclamation. It's the plan, the program of the murder. That is how she defined that miserable, drunken letter of the unhappy prisoner. And in fact, from that letter, we see that the whole fact of the murder was premeditated. It was written two days before, and so we know now for a fact that forty-eight hours before the perpetration of this terrible design, the prisoner swore that, if he could not get money next day, he would murder his father in order to take the envelope with the notes from under his pillow. As soon as Yvonne had left, as soon as Yvonne had gone away, you heard that, so he had thought everything out, wading every circumstance, and he carried it all out, just as he had written it. The proof of premeditation is conclusive. The crime must have been committed for the sake of the money. That is stated clearly, that is written and signed. The prisoner does not deny his signature. I shall be told he was drunk when he wrote it. But that does not diminish the value of the letter. Quite the contrary. He wrote when drunk what he had planned when sober. Had he not planned it when sober, he would not have written it when drunk. I shall be asked. Then why did he talk about it in taverns? A man who premeditates such a crime is silent and keeps it to himself. Yes. But he talked about it before he had formed a plan, when he had only the desire, only the impulse to it. The words, he talked less about it. On the evening he wrote that letter at the metropolis tavern, contrary to his custom, he was silent, though he had been drinking. He did not play billiards. He sat in a corner, talked to no one. He did indeed turn a shop man out of his seat. But that was done almost unconsciously, because he could never enter the tavern without making a disturbance. It is true that after he had taken the final decision, he must have felt apprehensive that he had talked too much about his design beforehand, and that this might lead to his arrest and prosecution afterwards. But there was nothing for it. He could not take his words back. But his luck had served him before. It would serve him again. He believed in his style, you know. I must confess, too, that he did a great deal to avoid the fatal catastrophe. Tomorrow I shall try and borrow the money from every one, as he writes in his peculiar language. And if they won't give it to me, there will be bloodshed. Here, a poet Gilelovich passed to a detailed description of all media's efforts to borrow the money. He described his visit to Samsungov, his journey to Ljagaví, harassed and jeered at, hungry after selling his watch to pay for the journey. Though he tells us he had fifteen hundred rubbles on him, a likely story. Tortured by jealousy, at having left the object of his affections in the town, suspecting that she would go to Fjordorf by Vlovich in his absence, he returned at last to the town, to find to his joy that she had not been near his father. He accompanied her himself to her protector, strange to say he doesn't seem to have been jealous of Samsungov, which is psychologically interesting. Then, he hastens back to his ambush in the back gardens, and then learns that Smerejagav is in a fit, that the other servant is ill, because this clear and he knows the signals. For the temptation, still, he resists it. He goes off to a lady, who has for some time been residing in the town. Hey Amazon Prime members, why pay more for groceries when you can save big on thousands of items at Amazon Fresh? Shop Prime exclusive deals and save up to 50% on weekly grocery favorites. Plus, save 10% on Amazon brands, like our new brand Amazon's Favor, 365 by Whole Foods Market, a plenty and more. Come back for new deals rotating every week, don't miss out on savings, shop Prime exclusive deals at Amazon Fresh, select varieties. As a United Explorer card member, you can earn 50,000 bonus miles, plus look forward to extraordinary travel rewards, including a free-checked bag, two times the miles on United purchases, and two times the miles on dining and at hotels. Become an explorer and seek out unforgettable places while enjoying rewards everywhere you travel. Games issued by JP Morgan Chase Bank N.A. member FDIC, subject to credit approval, offer subject to change, terms apply. And who is highly esteemed among us? Madam Hohla Khov, that lady, who had long watched his career with compassion, gave him the most judicious advice to give up his dissipated life, his unseemly love affair, the waste of his youth and vigor in pot house debauchery, and to set off to Siberia to the gold mines . That would be an outlet for your turbulent energies, your romantic character, your thirst for adventure. After describing the results of this conversation and the moment when the prisoner learned that Khrushanka had not remained at Samsonov's, the sudden frenzy of the luckless man worn out with jealousy and nervous exhaustion, at the thought that she had deceived him and was now with his father, a politkerel of which concluded by dwelling upon the fatal influence of chance. Had the maid told him that her mistress was at Mochro with her former lover, nothing would have happened, but she lost her head. She could only swear and protest her ignorance, and if the prisoner did not kill her on the spot, it was only because he flew in pursuit of his false mistress. With note, frantic as it was, he took with him a brass pestle. Why that? Why not some other weapon? But since he had been contemplating his plan and preparing himself for it for a whole month, he would snatch up anything like a weapon that caught his eye. He had realized for a month past that only object of the kind would serve as a weapon, so he instantly, without hesitation, recognized that it would serve his purpose. So it was by no means unconsciously, by no means involuntarily, that he snatched up that fatal pestle. And then, we find him, in his father's garden, the coast is clear, there are no witnesses, darkness and jealousy. The suspicion that she was there with him with his rival in his arms, perhaps laughing at him at that moment, took his breath away. And it was not mere suspicion that deception was open, obvious. She must be there, in that lighted room, she must be behind the screen, and the unhappy man would have his belief that he stole up to the window, peeped respectfully in, and discreetly withdrew, for fear something terrible and immoral should happen. And he tries to persuade us of that, us, who understand his character, who know his state of mind at that moment, and he knew the signals by which he could at once enter the house. At this point, he politically little which broke off to discuss exhaustively the suspected connection of smeared d'accove with the murder. He did this very circumstantially, and everyone realized that, although he professed to despise that suspicion, he thought the subject of great importance. And of Chapter Seven of Book Twelve, Book Twelve, Chapter Eight, eight treaties on smeared d'accove. To begin with, what was the source of this suspicion, E. Politkirilovich began? The first person who cried out that smeared d'accove had committed the murder was the prisoner himself at the moment of his arrest. Yet, from that time to this, he had not brought forward a single fact to confirm the charge, nor the faintest suggestion of a fact. The charge is confirmed by three persons only, the two brothers of the prisoner and Madame's Vietlov. He was undoubtedly suffering from brain fever. But we know that, for the last two months, he has completely shared our conviction of his brother's guilt, and did not attempt to combat that idea. But of that later, the young brother has admitted that he has not disliked his fact to support his notion of smeared d'accove's guilt, and has only been led to that conclusion from the prisoner's own words, and the expression of his face. Yes, that astounding peace of evidence has been brought forward twice today by him. Madame's Vietlov was even more astounding. What the prisoner tells you, you must believe, he is not a man to tell a lie. But is all the evidence against smeared d'accove produced by these three persons, who are all deeply concerned in the prisoner's fate? And yet, the story of smeared d'accove's guilt has been noiseed about, has been, and is still maintained. Is it credible? Is it conceivable? Here, Eppolik Kireluvitch thought it necessary to describe the personality of smeared d'accove. Will it cut short his life in a fit of insanity? He depicted him as a man of weak intellect, with his maturing of education, who had been thrown up his balance by philosophical ideas above his level, and certain modern theories of duty, which he learnt in practice from the reckless life of his master, who was also perhaps his father, Fjordov Pavlovitch, and theoretically, from various strange philosophical conversations with his master's eldest son, Ivan Fjordovitch, who readily indulged in this diversion, probably feeling dull or wishing to amuse himself at the valet's expense. He spoke to me himself of his spiritual condition during the last few days at his father's house, Eppolik Kireluvitch explained. But others, too, have borne witness to it. The prisoner himself, his brother, and the servant Grigori, that is, all who knew him well. Moreover, smeared d'accove, whose health was shaken by his attacks of epilepsy, had not the courage of a chicken. He fell at my feet and kissed them, the prisoner himself has told us, before he realized how damaging such a statement was to himself. He is an epileptic chicken. He declared about him in his characteristic language. And the prisoner chose him for his confident. We have to take his own word for it. And he frightened him into consenting at last to act as a spy for him. In that capacity he deceived his master, revealing to the prisoner the existence of the envelope with the notes in it and the signals by means of which he could get into the house. How could he help telling him, indeed? He would have killed me. I could say that he would have killed me, he said, in the inquiry, trembling and shaking, even before us, though his tormentor was by that time arrested and could do him no harm. He suspected me at every instant, in fear and trembling, I hastened to tell him every secret to pacify him, that he might see that I had not deceived him and let me off alive. Those are his own words. I wrote them down and I remembered them. When he began shouting at me, I would fall on my knees. He was naturally very honest and enjoyed the complete confidence of his master, ever since he had restored him some money he had lost. So it may be supposed that the poor fellow suffered pangs of remorse at having deceived his master, whom he loved as his benefactor. Persons severely afflicted with epilepsy are, so the most skillful doctors tell us, are always prone to continual and morbid self-approach. They worry over their wickedness; they are tormented by pangs of conscience, of an entirely without cause; they exaggerate and often invent all sorts of faults and crimes. And here we have a man of that type who had really been driven to wrongdoing by terror and intimidation. He had, besides, a strong presentiment that something terrible would be the outcome of the situation that was developing before his eyes. When Ivan Feudorovich was leaving for Moscow just before the catastrophe, smelt the Agov besought him to remain, though he was too timid to tell him plainly what he feared. He confined himself to hints, but his hints were not understood. It must be observed that he looked on Ivan Feudorovich as a protector, whose presence in the house was a guarantee that no harm would come to pass. After the phrase in Dimitri Karama's of drunken letter, "I shall kill the old man, if only Ivan goes away." So Ivan Feudorovich's presence seemed to everyone a guarantee of peace and order in the house. But he went away, and within an hour of his young master's departure, smelt the Agov was taken with an epileptic fit. But that's perfectly intelligible. However, I must mention the smelt the Agov, oppressed by terror and despair of his sort, had felt during those last few days that one of the fits from which he had suffered before at moments of strain might be coming upon him again. The day and hour of such an attack cannot of course be foreseen, but every epileptic can feel beforehand that he is likely to have one. So the doctors tell us. And so, as soon as Ivan Feudorovich had driven out of the yard, smelt the Agov, depressed by his lonely and unprotected position, went to the cellar. He went down the stairs, wondering if he could have a fit or not, and what if it were to come upon him at once? And that very apprehension that very wonder brought on the spasm in his throat that always precedes such attacks, and he fell unconscious into the cellar. And in this perfectly natural occurrence, people tried to detect his suspicion, a hint that he was shaming an attack on purpose. But if it were on purpose, the question arises at once. What was his motive? What was he reckoning on? What was he aiming at? I see nothing about medicine. Science, I am told, may go astray. The doctors were not able to discriminate between the counterfeit and the real. That may be so. But answer me one question. What motive had he for such a counterfeit? He, had he been plotting the murder, have desired to attract the attention of the household by having a fit just before? You see, gentlemen of the jury, on the night of the murder, there were five persons in Feudor Pavlovitch, Feudor Pavlovitch himself. But he did not kill himself, that's evident. In his servant, Grigori, but he was almost kill himself. The third person was Grigori's wife, Marfa Ignativna. But it would be simply shameful to imagine her murdering her master. Two persons are left. The prisoner, and smeared the Arkov. But if we are to believe the prisoner's statement, that he is not the murderer, then smeared the Arkov must have been; for there is no other alternative, no one else can be found. That is what accounts for the artful astounding accusation against the unhappy idiot who committed suicide yesterday. Had a shadow of suspicion rested on anyone else, had there been any sixth person, I am persuaded that even the prisoner would have been ashamed to accuse smeared the Arkov. And would have accused that sixth person, for to charge smeared the Arkov with that murder is perfectly absurd. A gentleman, let us lay aside psychology, let us lay aside medicine, let us even lay aside logic, let us turn only to the facts, and see what the facts tell us. If smeared the Arkov killed him, how did he do it? Many Amazon Prime members, why pay more for groceries when you can save big on thousands of items at Amazon Fresh? Shop Prime exclusive deals and save up to 50% on weekly grocery favorites. 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But not having a shadow of the motive that the prisoner had for the merger, hatred, jealousy and so on, Smeltiakov could only have murdered him for the sake of gain, in order to appropriate the three thousand rubles he had seen his master putch in the envelope. And yet he tells another person, and the person most closely interested, that is the prisoner, everything about the money and the signals where the envelope lay, what was written on it, what it was tied up with, and above all told him of those signals by which he could enter the house. Did he do this simply to betray himself, or to invite to the same enterprise, one, who would be anxious to get that envelope for himself? Yes, I shall be told, but he betrayed it from fear. But how do you explain this? a man, who could conceive such an audacious, savage act and carry it out, tells facts, which are known to no one else in the world, and which, if he held his tongue, no one else would have guessed. No, however cowardly he might be, if he had plotted such a crime nothing would have induced him to tell anyone about the envelope and the signals, for that was as good as betraying himself beforehand. He would have invented something. He would have told some lie, if he had been forced to give information. But he would have been silent about that. For on the other hand, if he had said nothing about the money, but had committed the murder and stolen the money, no one in the world could have charged him with no one in the world with mother, for the sake of robbery, since no one but he had seen the money. No one but he knew of its existence in the house. Even if he had been accused of the murder, it could only have been thought that he had committed it from some other motive. But since no one had observed any such motive in him beforehand, and everyone saw on the contrary that his master was fond of him and honored him with his confidence, he would, of course, have been the last to be suspected. People would have suspected first the man who had the motive, a man who had himself declared he had such motives, who had made no secret of it. They would, in fact, have suspected that the son of the murdered man, the Meet-Rifio Dorovitch, that smeared the hark of killed and robbed him, and the son been accused of it. That would, of course, have suited smeared the hark of. Yet, are we to believe that it's so plotting the murder, he told that son Dimitri about the money, the envelope, and the signals? Is that logical? Is that clear? When the day of the murder planned by smeared the hark of came, we have him felling down stairs in a faint fit. But what object, in the first place, that guriguri, who had been intending to take his medicine, might put it off and remain on guard, seeing there was no one to look after the house, and in the second place, I suppose, that his master, seeing that there was no one to guard him, and in terror of a visit from his son, might redouble his vigilance in precaution. And most of all, I suppose that he is merely a hark of, disabled by the fit, might be carried from the kitchen, where he always slept, apart from all the rest, and where he could go in and out as he liked, to guriguri's room at the other end of the lodge, where he was always put, shuts off by a screen three paces from their own bed. This was the immemorial custom established by his master, and the kind-hearted Vashva Ignacievna, whenever he had a fit. There, lying behind the screen, he would most likely to keep up the sham, has begun groaning, and so, keeping them awake all night, as guriguri and his wife testified. And all this, we are to believe, that he might more conveniently get up, and murder his master, but I shall be told that he shunned illness on purpose, that he might not be suspected, and that he told the prisoner of the money and the signals to tempt him to commit the murder; and when he had murdered him, he had gone away with the money, making a noise, most likely, and waking people. Smear the hark of gothop, I am to believe, and went in. But for, to murder his master a second time, and carry off the money that had already been stolen. Gentlemen, are you laughing? I am ashamed to put forward such suggestions. But incredibly, as it seems, that's just what the prisoner alleges. When he had left the house, had knocked guriguri down, and raised an alarm, he tells us smear the hark of gothop, went in, and murdered his master and stole the money. I won't press the point that smear the hark of could hardly have reckoned on this beforehand, and have foreseen that the furious and exasperated son would simply come to peep in respectfully, though he knew the signals, and be the retreat, leaving smear the hark of his booty. Gentlemen of the jury, I put this question to you, in earnest. When was the moment when smear the hark of could have committed his crime? Name that moment, or you can't accuse him. But perhaps, the fit was a real one. The sick man suddenly recovered, heard a shout, and went out. "Well, what then?" he looked about him and said, "Why not guriguri kill the master? And how did he know what had happened, since he had been lying unconscious till that moment? But there is a limit to these flights of fancy." "Quite so, some astute people would tell me. But what if they were in agreement? What if, demanded him together, and shared the money? What then?" "A way to question, truly, and the facts to confirm it are astounding. One commits the murder, and takes all the trouble, while his accomplice lies on one side shaming a fit, apparently to a rather suspicion in every one, alarm in his master, and alarm in guriguri. It would be interesting to know what motives could have induced the two accomplices to form such an insane plan." "But perhaps, it was not a case of active complicity on Smirtiakov's part, but only of passive acquiescence. Perhaps Smirtiakov was intimidated and agreed not to prevent the murder, and foreseeing that he would be blamed for letting his master be murdered without screaming for help or resisting. He might have obtained permission from Demetra Karamazov to get out of the way by shaming a fit. You may murder him as you like; it's nothing to me. But as this attack of Smirtiakov's was bound to throw the household into confusion, Demetra Karamazov could never have agreed to such a plan. I will wave that point, however. Supposing that he did agree. It would still follow that Demetra Karamazov is the murderer, and the instigator. And Smirtiakov is only a passive accomplice, and not even an accomplice but merely acquiesced against his will through terror. But what do we say? As soon as he is arrested, the prisoner instantly throws all the blame on Smirtiakov, not accusing him of being his accomplice, but of being himself the murderer. He did it alone, he says, he murdered and robbed him. It was the work of his hands. Strange sort of accomplices who began to accuse one another at once. And think of the risk for Karamazov. After committing the murder while his accomplice lay in bed, he throws the blame on the invalid who might well have resented it, and in self-preservation might well have confessed the truth. Or he might well have seen that the court would at once judge how far he was responsible, and so he might well have reckoned that if he were punished, it would be far less severely than the real murderer, and in that case he would have been certain to make a confession. Yet he has not done so. Smirtiakov never hinted at their complicity, though the actual murderer persisted in accusing him and declaring that he had committed the crime alone. What's more, Smirtiakov at the inquiry volunteered this statement that it was not he who had told the prisoner of the envelope of notes and of the signals, and that, but for him, he would have known nothing about them. If he had really been a guilty accomplice, what he so readily have made this statement at the inquiry. On the contrary, he would have tried to conceal it, to distort the facts or minimize them. But he was far from distorting or minimizing them. No one but an innocent man who had no fear of being charged with complicity could have acted as he did, and in a fit of melancholy arising from his disease and discatastrophe he hanged himself yesterday. He left a note written in his peculiar language, by destroying myself of my own wheel and inclination so as to throw no blame on any one. What would it have cost him to add? I am the murderer, not Karamazov, but that he did not add, that his conscience led him to suicide, but not to avowing his guilt. And what followed? Notes for three thousand rubles were brought into the courts just now, and we were told that they were the same that lay in the envelope now on the table before us, and that the witness had received them from Smirdeac of the day before. But I need not recall the painful scene, though I will make one or two comments, selecting such trivial ones as might not be obvious at first sight to everyone, and so may be overlooked. In the first place Smirdeac of must have given back the money and hanged himself yesterday from remorse, and only yesterday he confessed his guilt to Ivan Karamazov as the letter informs us. If it were not so, indeed, why should Ivan Feudorovich have kept silence till now? And so, if he has confessed, then why I ask again, that he not avow the whole truth in the last letter he left behind, knowing that the innocent prisoner had to face this terrible ordeal the next day. The money alone is no proof. A week ago quite by chance, the fact came to the knowledge of myself and two other persons in this court that Ivan Feudorovich had sent two five percent coupons of five thousand each, that is ten thousand in all to the chief town of the province, to be changed. I only mention this to point out that anyone may have money, and that it can't be proved that these nodes are the same as were in Feudorovich's envelope. Ivan Karamazov, after receiving yesterday a communication of such importance from the real murderer, did not stir. Why didn't he report it at once? Why did he put it all off till morning? I think I have a right to conjecture why. His health had been giving way for a week past. He had admitted to a doctor and to his most intimate friends, that he was suffering from hallucinations and seeing phantoms of the dead. He was on the eve of the attack of brain fever, by which he has been striking down today. In this condition he suddenly heard of Smardiakov's death, and at once reflected. The man is dead. I can throw the blame on him and save my brother. I have money. I will take a roll of notes and say that Smardiakov gave them to me before his death. You could say that was dishonorable. It's dishonorable to Slender even the dead, and even to save a brother. True. But, what if he slandered him unconsciously? What if finally unhinged, by the sudden laws of the valid death, he imagined it really was so? You saw the recent scene? You have seen the witness's condition. He was standing up and speaking. But where was his mind? And followed the document, the prisoner's letter written two days before the crime, and containing a complete program of the murder. Why then are we looking for any other program? The crime was committed precisely according to this program, and by no other than the writer of it. Yes, gentleman of the cherry. It went off without a hitch. He did not run respectfully and timidly away from his father's window, though he was firmly convinced that the object of his affections was with him. No, that is absurd and unlikely. He went in and murdered him. Most likely he killed him in anger, burning with resentment, as soon as he looked on his hated rival, but having killed him, probably with one glow of the brass pestle, and having convinced himself, after careful search, that she was not there. He did not, however, forget to put his hand under the pillow, and take out the envelope. The torn cover of which lies now on the table before us. I mentioned this fact that you may note one, to my thinking, a very characteristic circumstance. Had he been an experienced murderer, and 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 Smirdiaco, 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, or 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 asked you, gentlemen, would Smirdiaco 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 Demitrica Ramasov in regard to that money, and pouncing upon the envelope, which he had never seen before, 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 Karma-sov. Not Smirdiaco have. He didn't think, he didn't reflect. And how should he? He ran away. He heard behind him the servants cry out. The old man caught him, stopped him and was spelled to the ground by the brass pencil. 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 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 Gregory, 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 dictated. 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 learned and unexpected, an astounding piece of news. She had gone off to Mackerel to meet her first lover. End of Chapter 8 of Book 12 Book 12, Chapter 9, the Galloping Troika, the end of the prosecutor's speech. He believed Kirilovich had chosen the historical message 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 evances in a resistible 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. And 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, dear to him that his own soul, in comparison with that former lover who had returned penitent with his new love to the woman he had once betrayed with honorable offers, was the promise of a reformed and happy life. And he, luckless man, what could he give her now? What could he offer her? Garamaso felt all this, knew that always were barred to him by his crime, and that he was a criminal under sentence, and not a man was life before him. This thought crushed him, and so he instantly flew to one frantic plan, which to a man of Garamaso'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 Perotin, 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 the money more than ever. Garamaso would die, Garamaso would shoot himself, and it should be remembered. To be sure? He was a poet, and had burned 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 newfound happiness; and then, on the spot at her feet, I shall dash out my brains before her and punish myself. She will remember Mitya Garamaso 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 Garamasos. Yes, but there is something else, gentleman of the jury, something that cries out in the soul, thrubs incessantly in the mind, and poisons the heart unto death. That something is conscience, gentleman 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 Garamaso have wondered at that moment what lies beyond. Would a Garamaso could, like Hamlet, wonder what lies beyond? No gentleman of the jury, they have their Hamlets, but we still have our Garamasos. Here, a poet Girilovich 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 Makro, and there to finish his romance. But what was awaiting the luckless man? Almost from the first minute at Makro, he saw that his invincible rival was perhaps by no means so invincible, that the toast to their newfound happiness was not desired, and would not be acceptable. But you know the facts, gentleman of the jury, from the preliminary inquiry. As of triumph, over his rival, was complete, and his soul passed into quite a new face. Perhaps the most terrible face through which his soul has passed, or will pass. One may say with certainty, gentleman 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, just as in punishment on earth positively alleviates the punishment of nature, and ah, indeed, essential to the soul of the criminal at such moments, and its salvation from despair. For I cannot imagine the horror and moral suffering of Karama sof, when he learned 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 parentheses the point of importance for the light and throes on the prisoner's position at the moment. And 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 rivals, 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, but 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, pass 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 house is receded, 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 was their eyes fixed on him, and he still fancies that he is just such a man as day. 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 vitamins of death. They've not had time yet, he must have thought; I may still find some way out; oh, there's still some time to make some plan of defence, and now, now, she, is so fascinating. His soul was full of confusion and dread, but he managed, however, to put aside half his money, and hard it somewhere. I cannot otherwise explain the disappearance of quite half of the three thousand, he had just taken from his father's pillow. He had been, in Macro, more than once before. He had carouced, there, for two days together already. He knew the old big house with all its passage and old buildings. I imagine that part of the money was hidden in that house, not long before the arrest, in some crevice, under some floor, in some corner, under the roof. Was what object? I shall be asked. Why, the catastrophe may take place at once, of course. He hadn't yet considered how to meet it. He hadn't, the time, his head was throbbing, and his heart was with her. But money. Money was indispensable in any case. With money, a man is always a man. For such foresight at such a moment may strike you as unnatural. But he assures us, himself, that a month before, at a critical and exciting moment, he had hacked his money and soon it up, in a little bag. And though that was not true, as we shall prove directly, it shows the idea was a familiar one to get him as of. He had contemplated it. It was more when he had declared at the inquiry that he had put fifteen hundred rougues in a bag, which never existed. He may have invented that little bag on the inspiration of the moment, because he had, two hours before, divided his money and hidden half of it at Mokru till moaning, in case of emergency, simply not to have it on himself. To extremes, gentlemen of the jury. And that Paramahansov can contemplate two extremes and both at once. We have looked in the house, but we haven't found the money. It may still be there, or it may have disappeared next day and be in the prisoner's hands now. In any case, he was at her side, on his knees before her. She was lying on the bed. He had his hands stretched out to her, and he had so entirely forgotten everything, that he did not even hear the man coming to arrest him. He hadn't time to prepare any line of defense in his mind. He was caught on the wares and confronted with his judges, the arbiters of his destiny. Gentlemen of the jury, there are moments in the execution of our duties when it is terrible for us to face a man, terrible, on his account, too. The moments of contemplating that animal fear, when the criminal sees that all is lost but still struggles, still means to struggle. The moments when every instinct of self-preservation rises up in him at once, and he looks at you with questioning and suffering eyes, studies you, your face, your thoughts, uncertain on which side you will strike, and his distracted mind frames thousands of plans in an instant. But he is still afraid to speak, afraid of giving himself away. This purgatory of the spirit, this animal thirst for self-preservation, these humiliating moments of the human soul, are awful, and sometimes arouse horror and compassion for the criminal, even in the lawyer, and this was what we all witnessed in. At first he was thunderstruck, and in his terror dropped some very compromising phrases. "Blood, I've deserved it." But he quickly restrained himself. He had not prepared what he was to say, what answer he was to make. He had nothing but a bare denial ready. I am not guilty of my father's death. That was his fence for the moment, and behind it he hoped to throw up a barricade of some sort. His first compromising exclamation he hastened to explain by declaring that he was responsible for the death of the servant Gregory only. Of that bloodshed I am guilty. But who has killed my father, gentlemen? Who has killed him? Who can have killed him, if not I? Do you hear? He asked us that, us, who had come to ask him that question. Do you hear that uttered with such premature haste? If not I. The animal cunning. The naivete de carama solving patience of it. I didn't kill him, and you mustn't think I did. I wanted to kill him, gentlemen, I wanted to kill him. He hastened to admit. He was in a hurry, in a terrible hurry. But still, I am not guilty. It is not I murdered him. He concedes to us that he wanted to murder him, as though to say, you can see for yourselves how truthful I am, so you'll believe all the sooner that I didn't murder him. Oh, in such cases, the criminal is often amazingly shallow and credulous. At that point, one of the lawyers asked him, as it were incidentally, the most simple question. Wasn't it, smelt the arch of killed him? Then, as we expected, he was horribly angry at our having anticipated him and caught him on the wares, before he had time to pave the way to choose and snatch the moment when it would be most natural to bring in smelt the arch of's name. He rushed at once to the other extreme, as he always does, and began to assure us that smelt the arch of could not have killed him, was not capable of it. But don't believe him, that was only his cunning. He didn't really give up the idea of smelt the arch of. On the contrary, he meant to bring him forward again. Or indeed, he had no one else to bring forward. But he would do that later, because for the moment, that line was spoiled for him. He would bring him forward perhaps next day, or even a few days later, choosing an opportunity to cry out to us. You know, I was more skeptical about smelt the arch of than you. You remember that yourselves. But now I am convinced. He killed him. He must have done. And for the present, he falls black upon an gloomy and irritable denial. In patience, an anger prompted him, however, to the most inept and incredible explanation of how he looked into his father's window, and how respectfully he was true. The worst of it was that he was unaware of the position of affairs of the evidence given by Grigori. We proceeded to search him. The search angered, but encouraged him. The whole three thousand had not been found on him. Only half of it. And no doubt, only at that moment of angry silence, the fiction of the little bag first occurred to him. No doubt he was conscious himself of the improbability of the story, and still painfully to make it sound more likely to weave it into a romance that would sound plausible. In such cases, the first duty, the chief task of the investigating lawyers, is to prevent the criminal being prepared, to pounce upon him unexpectedly, so that he may blurt out his cherished ideas in all their simplicity, improbability, and inconsistency. The criminal can only be made to speak by the sudden an apparent incidental communication of some new fact, of some circumstance of great importance in the case, of which he had no previous idea and could not have foreseen. We had such a fact in readiness, that was Grigori's evidence about the open door through which the prisoner had run out. He had completely forgotten about that door, and had not even suspected that Grigori could have seen it. The effect of it was amazing. He leapt up, and shouted to us, then smears Diakov murdered him. It was Smears Diakov. And so betrayed the basis of the defence he was keeping back, and betrayed it in its most improbable shape, for Smears Diakov could only have committed the murder after he had knocked Gregory down and run away. When we told him that Grigori saw the door was open before he fell down, and had heard Smears Diakov behind the screen as he came out of his bedroom, Karamasov was positively crushed. My esteemed and witty colleague, Nikolai Parfenovich, told me afterwards that he was almost moved to tears at the sight of him. And to improve matters, the prisoner hastened to tell us about the much talked of little bag. So be it, you shall hear this romance. Gentlemen of the jury, I have told you already why I consider this romance not only an absurdity, but the most improbable invention that could have been brought forward in the circumstances. If one tried for a bet to invent the most unlikely story, one could hardly find anything more incredible. The worst of such stories is that the triumph and romances can always be put to confusion, and crushed by the very details in which real life is so rich, and which these unhappy and involuntary storytellers neglect as insignificant trifles. Oh, they have no thought to spare for such details; their minds are concentrated on their grand invention as a whole, and fancy anyone daring to pull them up for a trifle. But that's how they are caught. The prisoner was asked the question, "Where did you get the stuff for your little bag, and who made it for you? I made it myself." And where did you get the linen? The prisoner was positively offended. He thought it almost insulting to ask him such a trivial question. And would you believe it? His resentment was genuine. But they are all like that. I tore it off my shirt. Then we shall find that shirt among your linen tomorrow, with a peace torn off. And only fancy, gentlemen of the jury, if we really had found that torn shirt. But how could we have failed to find it in his chest of drawers or trunk? That would have been a fact, a material fact, in support of his statement. But he was incapable of that reflection. I don't remember. It may not have been of my shirt. I saw it up in one of my land-lady's caps. What sort of cap? It was an old cotton rag of hers lying about. And do you remember that clearly? No I don't. And he was angry. Very angry. And yet imagine, not remembering it. At the most terrible moment of a man's life, for instance, when he is being led to execution, he remembers just such trifles. He will forget anything but some green roof that has splashed past him on the road, or a jock-dah on a cross. But he will remember. He concealed the making of that little bag from his household. He must have remembered, his humiliating fear, that someone might come in and find him nadle in hand. How, at the slightest sound, he slipped behind the screen. There is a screen in his lodgings. But gentlemen of the jury, why do I tell you all this? All these details, trifles, cried the Politkirilovich suddenly. Just because the prisoner still persists in these absurdities to this moment. He has not explained anything since that fatal night two months ago. He has not added one actual illuminating fact to his former fantastic statements. All those are trivialities. He must believe it on my honor. Oh, we are glad to believe it. We are eager to believe it, even if only on his word of honor. Are we tackles thirsting for human blood? Show us a single fact in the prisoner's favor, and we shall rejoice. But let it be substantial, real fact, and not a conclusion drawn from the prisoner's expression by his own brother, or that when he beat himself on the breast, he must have meant to point to the little bag in the darkness, too. We shall rejoice at the new fact. We shall be the first to repudiate our charge. We shall hasten to repudiate it. But now, justice cries out, and we persist. We cannot repudiate anything. He put it a little of each past to his final peroration. He looked, as though he was in a fever, and spoke of the blood that cried for vengeance. The blood of the father murdered by his son was the base motive of robbery. He pointed to the tragic and glaring consistency of the facts. And whatever you may hear from the talented and celebrated counsel for the defense. People at Kirilovich could not resist adding. Whatever eloquent and touching appeals may be made to your sensibilities. Remember that at this moment you are in a temple of justice. Remember that you are the champions of our justice, the champions of our holy Russia, of her principles, her family, everything that you hold sacred. Yes, you represent Russia here at this moment, and your verdict will be heard, not in this whole only, but will re-echo throughout the whole of Russia, and all Russia will hear you as her champions and her judges. And she will be encouraged or disheartened by your verdict. Do not disappoint Russia and her expectations. Our fatal Troika dashes on in her headlong flight, perhaps to destruction, and in all Russia for long past men have stretched out in purring hands and called a halt to its furious reckless cause. And if other nations stand aside from that Troika, that may be, not from respect. As the poet would feign believe, but simply from horror, from horror, perhaps, from disgust. And well it is that they stand aside, but maybe they will seize one day to do so. And will form a firm wall confronting the hurrying apparition, and will check the frenzied rush of our lawlessness, for the sake of their own safety, enlightenment, and civilization. Again we have heard voices of alarm from Europe. They already begin to sound. Do not tempt them. Do not heap up their growing hatred by a sentence justifying the murder of a father by his son. Though E. Politkirirovitch was genuinely moved, he wound up his speech with this rhetorical appeal, and the effect produced by him was extraordinary. When he had finished his speech, he went out hurriedly, and as I have mentioned before, almost fainted in the adjoining room. There was no applause in the court. But serious persons were pleased. The ladies were not so well-satisfied, though even they were pleased with his eloquence, especially as they had no apprehensions as to the upshot of the trial, and had full trust in Fittyokovich. He will speak at last, and of course carry all before him. Everyone looked at Mitya. He sat silent through the hall of the prosecutor's speech, clenching his teeth, with his hands clasped, and his head bowed. Only from time to time he raised his head and listened, especially when Grushenko was spoken of. When the prosecutor mentioned Rakitin's opinion of her, a smile of contempt and anger passed over his face, and he murmured rather audibly, "The Bernards." On a politically low reach, described how he had questioned and tortured him at Mokro. Mitya raised his head and listened, with intense curiosity. At one point he seemed about to jump up and cry out, but controlled himself, and only shrugged his shoulders disdainfully. People talked afterwards of the end of the speech, of the prosecutor's speech, in examining the prisoner at Mokro, and geeered at a politically low reach. The man could not resist boasting of his cleverness, they said. The court was adjourned, but only for a short interval, a quarter of an hour or twenty minutes at most. There was a hum of conversation and exclamations in the audience. "I remember some of them." "A weighty speech," a gentleman in one group observed gravely. "He brought in too much psychology," said another voice. "But it was all true, the absolute truth." "Yes, he is first rate at it." "He summed it all up." "Yes, he summed us up, too," chimed in another voice. "And at the end, too. But that was all rot, and obscure, too. He was a little too much carried away." "It's unjust. It's unjust." "No, it was smartly done, anyway. He's had long to wait, but he's had his say. Ha-ha." "What will the concept of the defense say?" In another group I heard. He had no business to make a thrust at the Petersburg man, like that, appealing to your sensibilities. "Do you remember?" "Yes, that was awkward of him." "He was in too great a hurry." "He is a nervous man." "We laugh, but what must the prisoner be feeling?" "Yes, what must it be for Mitya?" "Be in a third group." "What lady is that, the fat one, was Delaunette, sitting at the end?" "She's a general's wife, divorced, I know her." "That's why she has Delaunette." "She is not good for much." "Oh, no, she's a pecan't little woman." "Two places beyond her, there is a little fair woman. She is prettier." "They caught him smartly at macro, didn't they, eh?" "Oh, it was smart enough. We've heard it before. How often he has told the story at people's houses. And he couldn't resist doing it now. That's vanity." "He is a man with a grievance, eh, heh, yes, and quick to take offense, and it was too much rhetoric, such long sentences." "Yes, he tries to alarm us, he kept trying to alarm us. Do you remember about the Troika?" "Something about, they have hamlets, but we have so far. The Ikara Maasovs. That was cleverly said. That was to propitiate the liberals, he's afraid of them. Yes, and he is afraid of the lawyer, too." "Yes, what will fetch you of each say?" "Whatever he says, he won't get round our represents. Don't you think so?" "A fourth group." "What he said about the Troika was good, that piece about the other nations. And that was true, what he said about the other nations not standing yet. What do you mean?" "Why, in the English Parliament, a member got up last week, and, speaking about the nihilists, asked the ministry whether it was not high-time to intervene, to educate this barbarous people. He thought it was thinking of him. I know he was. He was talking about that last week." "Not an easy job. Not an easy job. Why not?" "Why, which shut up Kronstadt, and not let them have any cordon? Where would they get it? In America. They get it from America now." "Monsens." "But the bell rang, all rushed to their places. Fichrukovich mounted the Tribune." "Of Chapter Nine of Book Twelve." Book Twelve, Chapter Ten, the speech for the defence, an argument that cuts both ways. All was hushed as the first words of the famous orator rang out. The eyes of the audience were fastened upon him. He began very simply and directly with an air of conviction. But not the slightest trace of conceit. He made no attempt at eloquence, at pesos or emotional freezes. He was like a man, speaking in a circle of intimate and sympathetic friends. His voice was a fine one, sonorous and sympathetic. And there was some saying genuine and simple, in the very sound of it. But everyone realized, at once, that the speaker might suddenly rise to genuine paces and pierce the heart with untold power. His language was perhaps more irregular than epolyticeary lovitches. But he spoke without long phrases, and indeed, with more precision. One thing did not please the ladies. He kept bending forward, especially at the beginning of his speech, not exactly bowing. But as though he were about to dart at his listeners, bending his long spine in half, as though there were a spring in the middle that enabled him to bend almost at right angles. At the beginning of his speech, he spoke rather disconnectively, without system, one may say, dealing with facts separately, though at the end these facts formed a hole. His speech might be divided into two parts, the first consisting of criticism in refutation of the charge, sometimes malicious and sarcastic. But in the second half, he suddenly changed his tone, and even his manner, and at once rose to pesos. The audience seemed on the lookout for it, and quivered with enthusiasm. He went straight to the point, and began by saying that although he practiced in Petersburg, he had more than once visited the provincial towns to defend prisoners, of whose innocence he had a conviction, or at least a preconceived idea. "That is what has happened to me in the present case," he explained. In the very first accounts in the newspapers, I was struck by something which strongly pre-possessed me in the prisoner's favour. What interest it made most was a fact which often occurs in legal practice, but rarely I think, in such an extreme and peculiar form, as in the present case. I ought to formulate that peculiarity only at the end of my speech, but I will do so at the very beginning, for it is my weakness to go to work directly, not keeping my effects in reserve and economizing my material. That may be imprudent on my parts, but at least it's sincere. What I have in mind is this. There is an overwhelming chain of evidence against the prisoner, and at the same time, not one fact that will stand criticism, if it is examined separately. As I followed the case more closely in the papers, my idea was more and more confirmed, and I suddenly received from the prisoner's relatives a request to undertake his defence. I at once hurried here, and here I became completely convinced. It was to break down this terrible chain of facts, and to show that each piece of evidence taken separately was improved and fantastic, that I undertook the case. Sophie Tuchovich began, "Gentlemen of the jury," he suddenly protested, "I am new to this district. I have no preconceived ideas. The prisoner, a man of turbulence and unbridled temper, has not insulted me; but he has insulted, perhaps, hundreds of persons in this town, and so prejudiced many people against him beforehand. Of course, I recognize that the moral sentiment of local society is justly excited against him. The prisoner is of turbulence and violent temper. Yet, he was received in society here. He was even welcome in the family of my talented friend, the prosecutor. And, B, at these words there were two or three laughs in the audience, quickly suppressed, but noticed by all. All of us knew that the prosecutor received media against his will, solely because he had somehow interested his wife, a lady of the highest virtue, and moral worse, but fanciful, capricious, and fond of opposing her husband, especially in trifles. Media's visits, however, had not been frequent. Nevertheless, I venture to suggest, that Tuchovich continued, that in spite of this independent mind and just character, my opponent may have formed a mistaken prejudice against my unfortunate client. Oh, that is so natural. The unfortunate man has only too well deserved such prejudice. Outrage to morality, and still more outrage to taste, is often relentless. We have, in the talented prosecutor's speech, heard a stern analysis of the prisoner's character and conduct, and his severe critical attitude to the case was evident. And what's more, he went into psychological subtleties, into which he could not have entered, if he had the least conscious and malicious prejudice against the prisoner. But there are things, which are even worse, even more fatal in such cases, than the most malicious and consciously unfair attitude. It is worse, if we are carried away by the artistic instinct, by the desire to create, so to speak, a romance, especially if God has endowed us with psychological insight. Before I started on my way here, I was warned in Petersburg, and was myself aware, that I should find here a talented opponent whose psychological insight and subtlety had gained him peculiarly renowned in legal circles of recent years. But profound a psychology is, it's a knife that cuts both ways, laughter among the public. The world, of course, forgives my comparison. I can't spare the eloquence, but I will take, as an example, any point in the prosecutor's speech. The prisoner, running away in the garden in the dark, climbed over the fence, was seized by the servant, and knocked him down with a brass pestle. Then he jumped back into the garden and spent five minutes over the man, trying to discover whether he had killed him or not. And the prosecutor refuses to believe the prisoner's statement that he ran and told old Gregory out of pity. "No," he says, "such sensibility isn't possible at such a moment, that's unnatural." He ran to find out whether the only witness of his crime was dead or alive, and so showed that he had committed the murder. Since he would not have run back, for any other reason. "Here, you have psychology. But let us take the same method and apply it to the case the other way round, and our result will be no less probable. The murderer we are told, leapt down to find out, as he precaution, whether the witness was alive or not. Yet, he had left in his murdered father's study, as the prosecutor himself argues, an amazing piece of evidence in the shape of a torn envelope with an inscription that there had been three thousand rubles in it. If he had carried that envelope away with him, no one in the world would have known of that envelope and of the notes in it, and that the money had been stolen by the prisoner. Those are the prosecutor's own words. So on one side, you see, a complete absence of precaution, a man who has lost his head and ran away in a fright, leaving that clue on the floor. And two minutes later, when he has killed another man, we are entitled to assume the most heartless and calculating foresight in him. But even admitting this was so, it is psychological subtlety, I suppose, that discerns that under certain circumstances, I become as bloodthirsty and keen sighted as a Caucasian eagle. Well, at the next, I am as timid and blind as a maul. But if I am so bloodthirsty and cruelly calculating that when I kill a man, I only run back to find out whether he is alive to witness against me. Why should I spend five minutes looking after my victim at the risk of encountering other witnesses? Why soak my handkerchief, wiping the blood of his head, so that it may be evidence against me later? If he were so cold-hearted and calculating, why not hit the servant on the head again and again with the same pestle, so as to kill him outright and relieve himself of all anxiety about the witness? Again, though, he ran to see whether the witness was alive. He left another witness on the path, that breast pestle, which he had taken from the two women, and which they could always recognize afterwards as theirs, and prove that he had taken it from them, and it is not as though he had forgotten it on the path, dropped it through carelessness or haste. No, he had flung away his weapon, for it was found fifteen paces from where Gregory lay. Why did he do so? Just because he was grieved at having killed a man, an old servant, and he flung away the pestle with a curse as a murderous weapon. That's how it must have been, what other reason could he have had for throwing it so far? And if he was capable of feeling grieve and pity at having killed a man, it shows that he was innocent of his father's murder. Had he murdered him, he would never have run to another victim out of pity. Then he would have felt differently, his thoughts would have been centered on self-preservation. He would have had none to spare for pity. That is beyond doubt. On the contrary, he would have broken his call instead of spending five minutes looking after him. There was room for pity, and good feeling just because his conscience had been clear till then. Here, we have a different psychology. I have purposely resorted to this method, gentlemen of the jury, to show that you can prove anything by it. It all depends on who makes use of it. Psychology lures even most serious people into romancing, and quite unconsciously. I am speaking of the abuse of psychology, gentlemen, sound of approval, and laughter at the expense of the prosecutor, were again audible in the court. I will not repeat this speech in detail. I will only quote some passages from it, some leading points. End of Book 12 Book 12 Chapter 11 There was no money, there was no robbery. There was one point that struck everyone in Fatukovich's speech. He flatly denied the existence of the fatal three thousand rubles, and, consequently, the possibility of their having been stolen. Gentlemen of the jury, he began. Every new and unprecedented observer must be struck by a characteristic peculiarity in the present case, namely the charge of robbery, and the complete impossibility of proving that there was anything to be stolen. We are told that money was stolen, three thousand rubles, but whether those rubles ever existed. Nobody knows. Whether—how have we heard of that sum, and who—has seen the notes? The only person who saw them, and stated that they had been put in the envelope, was the servant Smardiagov. He had spoken of it to the prisoner and his brother, Ivan Fodorovich, before the catastrophe. Madame Zviitlov, too, had been told of it, but not one of these three persons had actually seen the notes. No one but Smardiagov had seen them. Here the question arises. If it's true that they did exist, and that Smardiagov had seen them, when did he see them for the last time, what if his master had taken the notes from under his bed and put them back in his cash-box without telling him? Note that according to Smardiagov's story, the notes were kept under the mattress. The prisoner must have pulled them out, and yet the bed was absolutely unrumpled. That is carefully recorded in the protocol. How could the prisoner have found the notes without disturbing the bed? How could he have helped soiling with his blood-stained hands the fine and spotless linen, with which the bed had been purposely made? But I shall be asked. What about the envelope on the floor? Yes, it's worth saying, you would or two, about that envelope. I was somewhat surprised, just now, to hear the highly talented prosecutor declare of himself, observe, that but for that envelope, but for its being left on the floor, no one in the world would have known of the existence of that envelope and the notes in it, and therefore of the prisoners having stolen it. And so that torn scrap of paper is, by the prosecutor's own admission, the sole proof on which the charge of rubbery rests. Otherwise, no one would have known of the rubbery, nor perhaps even of the money. But is the mere fact that that scrap of paper was lying on the floor, a proof that there was money in it, and that that money had been stolen? Yet it will be objected, smelt the alcove had seen the money in the envelope. But when? when had he seen it for the last time? I asked you that. I talked to Smelt the alcove, and he told me that he had seen the notes two days before the catastrophe. Then why not imagine that old Fjordov by Rovitch, locked up alone in inpatient and hysterical expectation of the object of his adoration, may have wiled away the time by breaking open the envelope and taking out the notes. What's the use of the envelope? He may have asked himself. She won't believe the notes are there. But when I show her the thirty rainbow-colored notes in the roll, it will make more impression. You may be sure. It will make her mouth water. And so he tears open the envelope, takes out the money, and flings the envelope on the floor, conscious of being the owner and untroubled by any fears of leaving evidence. Listen, gentlemen, could anything be more likely than this theory and such an action? Why is it out of the question? But if anything of the Sord could have taken place, the charge of rubbery falls to the ground. If there was no money, there was no test of it. If the envelope on the floor may be taken as evidence that there had been money in it, why may I not maintain the opposite, that the envelope was on the floor, because the money had been taken from it by its owner? But I shall be asked, what became of the money if field of parlor, which took it out of the envelope, since it was not found when the police searched to house? In the first place, part of the money was found in the cash-box, and secondly, he might have taken it out that morning, or the evening, or the evening before, to make some other use of it, to give or send it away. He may have changed his idea, his plan of action completely, without thinking it's necessary to announce the fact to smell the act of beforehand. And if there is the barest possibility of such an explanation, how can the prisoner be so positively accused of having committed murder for the sake of rubbery, and of having actually carried out that rubbery? This is encroaching on the domain of romance. If it is maintained that something has been stolen, the thing must be produced, or at least its existence must be proofed beyond doubt; yet no one had ever seen these notes. Not long ago in Petersburg, a young man of eighteen, hardly more than a boy, who carried on his small business as a cost-monger, went in broad daylight into a money-changer's shop with an axe, and with extra ordinary, typical audacity, killed the master of the shop and carried off fifteen hundred rubles. Five hours later he was arrested, and, except fifteen rubles he had already managed to spend the whole sum was found in him. Moreover, the shopman, on his return to the shop after the murder, informed the police not only of the exact sum stolen, but even of the notes and gold coins, of which that sum was made up, and those very notes and coins were found under criminal. This was followed by a full and genuine confession on the part of the murderer. That's what I call evidence, gentlemen of the jury. In that case I know, I see, I touch the money, and cannot deny its existence. Is it the same in the present case? And yet it is a question of life and death. Yes, I shall be told, but he was carousing that night, squandering money. He was shown to have had fifteen hundred rubles. Where did he get the money? But the very fact that only fifteen hundred could be found, and the other half of the sum could know where be discovered, shows that that money was not the same, and had never been in any envelope. By strict calculation of time it was proved at the preliminary inquiry that the prisoner ran straight from those women servants to pre-hotence without going home, and that he had been nowhere. So he had been all the time in the company, and therefore could not have divided the three thousand in half and hidden half in the town. It's just this consideration that has led the prosecutor to assume that the money is hidden in some crevice at Mokro. Why not in the dungeons of the castle at Woodoy for gentlemen? Is in this position really too fantastic and too romantic? And observe, if that supposition breaks down, the whole charge of rumoury is scattered to the winds. For in that case, what could have become of the other fifteen hundred rubles? By what miracle could they have disappeared? Since it's proved the prisoner went nowhere else, and we are ready to ruin a man's life with such tales. I shall be told that he could not explain where he got the fifteen hundred that he had, and everyone knew that he was without money before that night. Who knew it, Pray? The prisoner has made a clear and unflinching statement of the source of that money. And if you have it so, gentlemen of the jury, nothing can be more probable than that statement and more consistent with the temper and spirit of the prisoner. The prosecutor is charmed with his own romance. A man of weak will, who had brought himself to take the three thousand so insultingly offered by his protroted, could not, we are told, have set aside half and sewn it up. That word, even if he had done so, have unpicked it every two days, and taken out a hundred, and so would have spent it all in a month. All this, you will remember, was put forward in a tone what brookhed no contradiction. But what if the thing happened quite differently? But if you have been weaving a romance, and about quite a different kind of man, that just it, you have invented quite a different man. I shall be told, perhaps, there were witnesses that he spent on one day all that three thousand given him by his protroted a month before that catastrophe, so he could not have divided the sum in half, but who are these witnesses? The value of their evidence has been shown in court already. Besides, in another man's hand, it crusts, always seems larger, and no one of these witnesses counted that money. They all judged simply at sight, and the witness, Maximov, has testified that the prisoner had twenty thousand in his hand. You see, gentlemen of the jury, psychology is a two-edged weapon. Let me turn the other edge now, and see what comes of it. A month before the catastrophe, the prisoner was entrusted by Catalina Ivanovna, with three thousand rubles, to send off by post. But the question is, is it true that they were entrusted to him in such an insulting and degrading way as was proclaimed just now? The first statement made by the young lady on the subject was different, perfectly different. In the other statement we heard only cries of resentment and revenge, cries of long-concealed hatred, and the very fact that the witness gave her first evidence incorrectly, gives us the right to conclude that her second piece of evidence may have been incorrect also. The prosecutor will not, dare not, in his own words, touch on that story. So be it, I will not touch on it either, but we only venture to observe that if you lofty and high-principled person, such as that highly respected young lady unquestionably is, if such a person, I say, allows herself suddenly in court to contradict her first statement, with the obvious motive of ruining the prisoner, it is clear that this evidence has been given not impartially, not poorly. Have we not the right to assume that a revengeful woman might have exaggerated much? Yes, she may well have exaggerated, in particular, the insult and humiliation of her offering him the money. No, it was offered, in such a way, that it was possible to take it, especially for a man so easygoing as the prisoner, above all, as he expected to receive shortly from his father the three thousand rubles that he reckoned was owing to him. It was on reflecting of him, but it was just his irresponsible want of reflection that made him so confident that his father would give him the money, that he would get it, and so could always dispatch the money, entrusted to him, and repay the debt. But the prosecutor refuses to allow that he could, the same day, have set aside half the money and soon it up in a little bag. "That's not his character," he tells us. He couldn't have had such feelings. But yet, he talked himself of the broad caramel of nature. He cried out about the two extremes which a caramel soup can contemplate at once. Caramel soup is just a two-sided nature, fluctuating between two extremes, that even one moved by the most violent craving for riotous gaitie, he can pull himself up, if something strikes him on the other side, and on the other side is love, that new love, which had flamed up in his heart, and for that love, he needed money, oh far more, than for carousing with his mistress. If she were to say to him, I am yours, I won't have orders by Blue Ridge, then he must have money to take her away. That was more important than carousing. Could a caramel soup fail to understand it, that an anxiety was just what he was suffering from? What is there improbable in his laying aside that money and concealing it in case of emergency? That time passed, and Fjordurf Pavlovitch did not give the prisoner the expected 3,000. On the contrary, the latter heard that he meant to use this sum, to seduce the woman he, the prisoner, loved. If Fjordurf Pavlovitch doesn't give the money, he thought, I shall be put in a position of a thief before Katharina Ivanovna. And then, the idea presented to him, that he would go to Katharina Ivanovna. Live before her, the fifteen hundred rubus he still carried round his neck, and say, I am a scoundrel, but not a thief. So here, we have already a two-fold reason why he should guard that sum of money as the apple of his eye, why he shouldn't unpick the little bag, and spend it a hundred at a time. Why should you deny the prisoner a sense of honor? Yes, he has a sense of honor, granted that it's misplaced, granted it's often mistaken, yet it exists and amounts to a passion, and he has proved that. But now, the affair becomes even more complex. His jealous torment reach a climax, and those same two questions torture his fevered brain more and more. If I repay Katharina Ivanovna, where can I find the means to go off with Guru Shankar? If he behaved wildly, drank and made disturbances in the taverns in the cause of that month, it was perhaps because he was retched and strained beyond his powers of endurance. These two questions became so acute that they drove him at last to despair. He sent his younger brother to beg for the last time for the three thousand rubles, but without waiting for a reply burst in himself and ended by beating the old man in the presence of witnesses. After that, he had no prospect of getting it from any one. His father would not give it him after that beating. The same evening, he struck himself on the breast, just on the upper part of the breast, where the little bag was, and swore to his brother that he had the means of not being his scoundrel, but that still he would remain a scoundrel, for he foresaw that he could not use that means that he wouldn't have the character, that he wouldn't have the willpower to do it. Why? Why does the prosecutor refuse to believe the evidence of Alexei Karamansov, given so genuinely and sincerely, so spontaneously and convincingly? And why on the contrary does he force me to believe in money hidden in a crevice in the dungeons of the castle of Odolfor? In the same evening, after his talk with his brother, the prisoner wrote that fatal letter, and that letter is the chief, the most prependous proof of the prisoner, having committed rubbery. I shall beg from everyone, and if I don't get it, I shall murder my father, and shall take the envelope with the pink ribbon on it from under his mattress, as soon as Ivan has gone. A full program of the murder, we are told, so it must have been he. It has all been done, as he wrote, cries the prosecutor. But in the first place, it's the letter of a drunken man, and written in great irritation. Secondly, he writes of the envelope from what he has heard, from Smirtyakov again, for he has not seen the envelope himself. And thirdly, he wrote it indeed. But how can you prove, that he did it, that the prisoner take the envelope from under the pillow, that he find the money, that that money exists indeed? And was it to get money that the prisoner ran off, if you remember? He ran off post-haste, not to steal, but find out where she was, the woman who had crushed him. He was not running to carry out a program, to carry out what he had written, that is, not for an act of premeditated rubbery. But he ran suddenly, spontaneously, in a jealous fury. Yes, I shall be told, but when he got there, and murdered him, he seized the money, too. But did he murder him after all? The torture of rubbery, I repudiate with indignation. A man cannot be accused of rubbery, if it's impossible to state accurately what he has stolen. That's an axiom. But did he murder him without rubbery, that he murder him at all? Is that proved? Isn't that, too, a romance? End of chapter 11 of book 12. Book 12, chapter 12, and there was no murder either. Come me gentlemen of the jury, to remind you, that a man's life is at stake, and that you must be careful. We have heard the prosecutor himself admit that until today he hesitated to accuse the prisoner of a full and conscious premeditation of the crime. He hesitated, till he saw that fatal drunken letter which was produced in court today. All was done and written, but I repeat again. He was running to her, to seek her, solely, to find out where she was. That's a fact that can't be disputed. Had she been at home, he would not have run away, but would have remained at her side, and so would not have done what he promised in the letter. He ran unexpectedly, and accidentally, and by that time, very likely, he did not even remember his drunken letter. "He snatched up the pestle," they say, "and you will remember, how a whole edifice of psychology was built on that pestle, why he was bound to look at that pestle as a weapon, to snatch it up, and so on, and so on. Every common place idea occurs to me at this point. What if that pestle had not been in sight, had not been lying on the shelf, from which it was snatched by the prisoner, but had been put away in a cupboard? It would not have caught the prisoner's eye, and he would have run away without a weapon, and empty hands, and then he would certainly not have killed anyone. How then can I look upon the pestle as a proof of premeditation?" "Yes, but he talked into the caverns of murdering his father, and two days before, on the evening, when he wrote his drunken letter, he was quiet, and only quarreled with a shopman in the tavern, because a garamazof could not help quarrelling, for sooth. But my answer to that is that, if he was planning such a murder in accordance with his letter, he certainly would not have quarreled, even with a shopman, and probably would not have gone into the tavern at all, because a person plotting such a crime seeks quiet and retirement, weeks, to efface himself, to avoid being seen and heard, and that not from calculation, but from instinct." "Gentlemen of the cherry, the psychological method is a two-edged weapon, and we too can use it. As for all this shouting in taverns throughout the month, don't we often hear children or drunkards coming out of taverns, shouts, I'll kill you, but they don't murder anyone? And that fatal letter isn't that simply drunken irritability, too? Isn't that simply the shout of the brawler outside the tavern? I'll kill you, I'll kill the lot of you. Why not? Why could it not be that? What reason have we, to call that letter fatal, rather than absurd? Because his father has been found murdered, because he witnessed, saw the prisoner running out of the garden with a weapon in his hand, and was knocked down by him. Therefore we are told everything was done as he had planned in writing, and the letter was not absurd, but fatal. Now thank God, we've come to the real point. Since he was in the garden, he must have murdered him. In those few words, since he was, then he must, lies the whole case for the prosecution. He was there, so he must have. And what if there is no must about it, even if he was there? Oh, I admit that the chain of evidence, the coincidences, are really suggestive, but examine all these facts separately, regardless of their connection. Why, for instance, does the prosecution refuse to admit the truth of the prisoner's statement that he ran away from his father's window? Remember the sarcasms in which the prosecutor indulged at the expense of the respectful and pious statements which suddenly came over the murderer. But what if there were something of the sort, a feeling, a religious awe, if not a filial respect? My mother must have been praying for me at that moment, with a prisoner's word at the preliminary inquiry. And so he ran away as soon as he convinced himself that Madame Svyaklov was not in his father's house. But he could not convince himself by looking through the window, the prosecutor objects. But why couldn't he? Why? The window opened at the signals given by the prisoner. Some word might have been uttered by Svyaklovitch. Some exclamation which showed the prisoner that she was not there. Why should we assume everything as we imagine it? As we make up our minds to imagine it, a thousand things may happen in reality which elude the subtlest imagination. Yes, but Gregory saw the door open, and so the prisoner suddenly was in the house, therefore he killed him. Now about that door, gentlemen of the jury, observe that we have only the statement of one witness as to that door. And he was, at the time, in such a condition, that, but supposing the door was open, supposing the prisoner has lied in denying it, from an instinct of self-defense, natural in his position. Supposing he did go into the house. Well, what's then? How does it follow that because he was there he committed the murder? He might have dashed in, run through the rooms, might have pushed his father away, might have struck him. But as soon as he had made sure Madam Svyaklov was not there, he may have run away rejoicing that she was not there, and that he had not killed his father. And it was perhaps just because he had escaped from the temptation to kill his father, because he had a clear conscience and was rejoicing at not having killed him, that he was capable of a pure feeling, the feeling of pity and compassion, and leapt off the fence invented later to the assistance of Gregory, after he had, in his excitement, knocked him down. With terrible eloquence, the prosecutor has described to us the dreadful state of the prisoner's mind at Makro, when love again lay before him, calling him to new life, while love was impossible for him, because he had his father's blood-stained corpse behind him, and beyond that corpse, retribution. And yet the prosecutor allowed him to love, which he explained, according to his method, talking about this drunken condition, about a criminal being taken to execution, about it being still far off, and so on, and so on. But again I ask, Mr. Prosecutor, have you not invented a new personality? Is the prisoner so coarse and heartless as to be able to think at that moment of love and of dodges to escape punishment? If his hands were really stained with his father's blood, no, no, no, as soon as it was made plain to him, that she loved him, and called him to her side, promising him new happiness. Oh, then, I protest, he must have felt the impulse to suicide-doubled, troubled, and must have killed himself, if he had his father's murder on his conscience. Oh, no, he would not have forgotten where his pistols lay. I know the prisoner, the savage, stony heartlessness ascribed to him by the prosecutor, is inconsistent with his character. He would have killed himself that certain. He did not kill himself, just because his mother's prayers saved him, and he was innocent of his father's blood. He was troubled, he was grieving that night at Makro, only about old Gregory, and praying to God that the old man would recover, that his blow had not been fatal, and that he would not have to suffer for it. And why not accept such an interpretation of the facts? What trustworthy proof have we that the prisoner is lying? But we shall be told at once again. There is his father's corpse, if he ran away without murdering him, who did murder him? Here, I repeat, you have the whole logic of the prosecution. Who murdered him, if not he? There's no one to put in his place. Gentlemen of the jury, is that really so? Is it positively, actually sure, that there is no one else at all? We've heard the prosecutor count on his fingers, all the persons who were in that house that night. There were five in number, three of them, I agree, could not have been responsible. The murdered man himself, old Gregory, and his wife. There are left then the prisoner, and smelt the alcove, and the prosecutor dramatically exclaims that the prisoner pointed to smelt the alcove because he had no one else to fix on, that had there been a sixth person, even a phantom of a sixth person. He would have abandoned the child against smelt the alcove at once, in shame, and have accused the other. But gentlemen of the jury, why may I not draw the very opposite conclusion? There are two persons, the prisoner, and smelt the alcove. Why can I not say, that you accuse my client, simply, because you have no one else to accuse, and you have no one else, only because you have determined to exclude smelt the alcove from all suspicion? It's true indeed, smelt the alcove is accused only by the prisoner, his two brothers, and madam smyet love, but there are others who accuse him. There are vague rumours of a question, of a suspicion, and obscure report, a feeling of expectation. Finally, we have the evidence of a combination of facts very suggestive, though I admit inconclusive. In the first place we have precisely on the day of the catastrophe that fit for the genuineness of which the prosecutor, for some reason, has felt obliged to make a careful defence. Then smelt the alcove's sudden suicide on the eve of the trial, then the equally startling evidence given in court today by the elder of the prisoner's brothers, who had believed in his guilt, but has today produced a bundle of notes and proclaimed smelt the alcove as the murderer. Oh, I fully share the courts and the prosecutor's conviction that Ivan Karamazov is suffering from brain fever, that his statesmen may really be a desperate effort, planned in delirium, to save his brother by throwing the guilt on the dead man. But again smelt the alcove's name is pronounced. Again, there is a suggestion of mystery, there is something unexplained, incomplete, and perhaps it may one day be explained, but we won't go into that now. Of that later, the court has resolved to go on with the trial, but meantime I might make a few remarks about the character's sketch of smelt the alcove drawn with subtlety and talent by the prosecutor. But while I admire his talent, I cannot agree with him. I have visited smelt the alcove. I have seen him and talked to him, and he made a very different impression on me. He was weak in health, it is true. But in character, in spirit, he was by no means the weak man the prosecutor has made him out to be. I found in him no trace of timidity on which the prosecutor so insisted. There was no simplicity about him, either. I found in him, on the contrary, an extreme mistrustfulness concealed under a mask of naivete and an intelligence of considerable range. The prosecutor was too simple in taking him for weak-minded. He made a very different impression on me. I left him with the conviction that he was a distinctly spiteful creature, excessively ambitious, vindictive, and intensely envious. I made some inquiries. He resented his parentage, was ashamed of it, and would clench his teeth when he remembered that he was the son of stinking Lisa Vetta. He was disrespectful to the servant Gregory and his wife, who had cared for him in his childhood. He cursed and jeered at Russia. He dreamed of going to France and becoming a Frenchman. He used often to say that he hadn't the means to do so. I fancy. He loved no one but himself, and had a strange high opinion of himself. His conception of culture was limited to good clothes, queen shirt-fronts, and polished boots. Believing himself to be the illegitimate son of Jodov Pavlovitch, there is evidence of this. He might well have resented his position, compared with that of his master's legitimate sons. They had everything, he, nothing. They had all the rights. They had the inheritance, while he was only the cook. He told me himself that he had helped Jodov Pavlovitch to put the notes in the envelope. The destination of that sum, a sum which would have made his career, must have been hateful to him. More over, he saw three thousand rubles in new rainbow-coloured notes. I asked him about that on purpose. Oh, beware of showing an ambitious and envious man a large sum of money at once. And it was the first time he had seen so much money in the hands of one man. The sight of the rainbow-coloured notes may have made a morbid impression on his imagination, but with no immediate results. The talented prosecutor, with extraordinary subtlety, sketched for us all the arguments for and against the hypothesis of smeared the act of skill. And asked us in particular what motive he had in feigning a fit. But he may not have been feigning at all. The fit 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. The prosecutor asks, at what moment could smeared the act of have committed the murder. But it is very easy to point out that moment. He might have worked up from deep sleep, for he was only asleep, and epileptic fit is always followed by a deep sleep. At that moment, one day old category shouted at the top of his voice, "Paraside!" That shout in the dark and stillness may have worked smeared the act of, whose sleep may have been less sound at that moment. He might naturally have waked up an hour before. Getting out of bed, he goes almost unconsciously and with no definite motive towards the sound to see what's the matter. His head is still clouded with the 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, they have shaped itself an idea--terrible, but seductive, and irresistibly logical. To kill the old man, take the three thousand, and throw all the blame unto his young master, at terrible lust of money, of booty, might seize upon him as he realized his security from detection. Oh, these sudden and irresistible impulses come so often when there is a favorable opportunity, and especially with murderers, who have had no idea of committing a murder beforehand. This mad Diakov 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 thousandths, which means a career for him? Oh, I am not contradicting myself, the money may have existed, and perhaps smelt Diakov alone knew where to find it, where his master kept it, and the covering of the money that wore an envelope on the floor. Just now, when the prosecutor was explaining his subtle theory that only an inexperienced thief like Karamazo would have left the envelope on the floor, and not one like Smert Diakov, 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 Karamazo would have behaved, precisely two days before, from Smert Diakov himself was 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 in my 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? I shall be asked, what about the old woman, Gregory's wife? She heard this sick man moaning close by, all night. 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 that's natural. If any one is asleep, and here's a groan, he wakes up, annoyed at being wait, 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. But why? Why? Asked the prosecutor, did not smirt the ark of confess in his last letter. Why did his conscience prompt him to one step and not to both? But, excuse me, my conscience implies penitence, and the suicide may not have felt penitence, but only despair; despair and penitence are two very different things. The spare 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. Gentlemen 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, put 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 all the mass of facts heat 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 blood stained shirt, the dark night resounding with the shout, pericide, 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 lose. But the greater the power, the more terrible its responsibility. I 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 father's 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 pericide. 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 minds. There is 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. At this point this speech was interrupted by rather loud applause. The last words, indeed, were pronounced with a note of such sincerity that everyone felt that he rarely might have something to say. It is 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 the fugue of which began in a voice, full of feeling, quite unlike the turn he had used theater to. In the end of Chapter 12 of Book 12, Book 12, Chapter 13, a corruptor of thought. It is not only the accumulation of facts that threatens my client with ruin, gentlemen of the jury. He began. What 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 man's life simply from the prejudice against him which he has, alas, only too well deserved. But it's not an ordinary case of murder. It's a case of parasite. It impresses man's mind, 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. Yes, it's a fearful thing to shed a father's 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 with my happiness, and has lived in my joys, in my successes. To murder such a father, that's 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, Fyodorzbavlovitch Karamazov, did not correspond to that conception of a father, to which we have just referred. That's 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. It's our particular duty not to shrink from any idea, like children or frightened women, as the talented prosecutor happily expresses it. But in the cause of his heated speech, my esteemed opponent, and he was my opponent before I opened my lips, exclaimed several times, oh, I will not yield the defense of the prisoner to the lawyer, who has come down from Petersburg, I accuse, but I defend also. 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 father's house, might not such a man well have remembered for twenty-three years how he ran in his father's backyard, without boots on his feet, and with his little trousers hanging by one button, to use the expression of the kind-hearted doctor, Hilsen Shtuba. Oh, gentlemen of the jury, why need we look more closely at this misfortune? Well, repeat, what we all know already, what did my client's meet with, when he arrived here, at his father's 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 its 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 lived some phantoms that haunted his childhood's 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 utter daily over the brandy, and at last he saw his father, seducing his mistress from him with his own money. O 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, calamitated him, brought up his unpaid debts to get him thrown into prison. O gentlemen 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 don't express it. Don't laugh, don't laugh at my idea. The talented prosecutor laughed mercilessly, just never to my client, for loving Sheila, having, the sublime and beautiful. I should not have laughed at that in his place. Yes, such natures—oh, let me speak in defense of such natures, so often and so cruelly misunderstood. These natures often thirst for tenderness, goodness, and justice, as it were, in contrast to themselves, their unrulyness, their ferocity, they thirst for it unconsciously, passionate and fierce on the surface, they are painfully capable of loving women, for instance, and, with his spiritual and elevated love. Again, do not laugh at me. This is very often the case in such natures. But they cannot hide their passions, sometimes very coarse, and that is conspicuous and is noticed, but the inner man is unseen. Their passions are quickly exhausted, but a side of a noble and lofty creature that seemingly coarse and rough man seeks a new life, seeks to correct himself, to be better, to become noble and honorable, sublime and beautiful. However much the expression has been ridiculed. I said just now that I would not venture to touch upon my client's engagement. But I may say have a word. What we heard just now was not evidence, but only the scream of a frenzied and revengeful woman, and it was not for her—oh, not for her—to reproach him with treachery, for she has betrayed him. If she had heard but a little time for reflection, she would not have given such evidence. Oh, do not believe her. My client is not a monster, as she called him. The lover of mankind on the eve of his crucifixion said, "I am the good shepherd. The good shepherd lays down his life for his sheep, so that not one of them might be lost. That not a man's soul be lost through us." I asked just now, "What does father mean?" and exclaimed that it was a great word—a precious name. But one must use word, honestly, gentlemen, and eventually took all things by their right names such a father as old Karamazov cannot be called a father, and does not deserve to be. Feel your love for an unworthy father is an absurdity, an impossibility. Love cannot be created from nothing. Only God can create something from nothing. Fathers, provoke not your children to wrath. The apostle writes, "From a heart glowing with love." It's not for the sake of my client that I quote these sacred words. I mention them for all fathers. Who has authorized me to preach to fathers? No one. But as a man and a citizen, I make my appeal, Viva's vocal. We are not long on us, and we do many evil deeds and say many evil words. So let us all catch a favorable moment when we are all together to say a good word to each other. That's what I'm doing. Well, I am in this place. I take advantage of my opportunity. Not for nothing is this tribune given us for the highest authority. All Russia hears us. I am not speaking only for the fathers here present. I cry aloud to all fathers. Fathers, provoke not your children to wrath. Yes. Let us first fulfill Christ's injunction ourselves and only the adventure to expect it of our children. Otherwise, we are not fathers, but enemies of our children. And they are not our children, but our enemies. And we have made them, our enemies, ourselves. What measure you meet? It shall be measured unto you again. It's not I who said that; it's the gospel precept, measure to others, according, as they measure to you. How can we blame children if they measure us according to our measure? Not long ago a servant's girl in Finland was suspected of having secretly given birth to a child. She was watched, and, a box of which no one knew anything, was found in the corner of the loft behind some bricks. It was opened, and inside was found a body of a newborn child which she had killed. In the same box were found, the skeletons of two other babies which, according to her own confession, she had killed at the moment of their birth. One of the juries, was she a mother to her children? She gave birth to them, indeed, but was she a mother to them? Would any one venture to give her the sacred name of mother? Let us be bold, gentlemen. Let us be audacious even. It's our duty to be so at this moment and not be afraid of certain words and ideas like the Moscow women in a Trotsky's play, who are scared of the sound of certain words. No, let us prove that the progress of the last few years has touched even us, and let us say plainly the father is not merely he who begets the child, but he who begets it and does his duty by it. Oh, of course, there is the other meaning. There is the other interpretation of the word father, which insists that any father even though he be a monster, even though he be the enemy of his children, still remains my father, simply because he begot me. But this is, so to say, the mystical meaning, which I cannot comprehend with my intellect, but can only accept by faith, or better to say, on faith, like many other things which I do not understand, but which religion bids me believe. And in that case, let it be kept outside the sphere of actual life, in the sphere of actual life which has, indeed, its own rights, but also lays upon us great duties and obligations in that sphere, if we want to be humane, Christian in fact, we must, or ought to, act only upon convictions justified by reasoning and experience, which have been passed through the crucible of analysis. In a word, we must act rationally, and not, as though in dream and delirium, that we may not do harm, that we might not ill-treat and ruin a man. Then it will be real Christian work, not only mystic, but rational, and philanthropic. There was a violent applause at this passage from many parts of the court, but it took a bit of each wave his hands as though imploring them to let him finish without interruption. The court relapsed into silence at once. The orator went on. "Do you suppose, gentlemen, that our children, as they grow up and begin to reason, can avoid such questions? No, they cannot, and we will not impose on them an impossible restriction. The side of an unworthy father involuntarily suggests tormenting questions to a young creature, especially when he compares him with the excellent fathers of his companions. The controversial answer to this question is, "He begot you, and you are his flesh and blood, and therefore you are bound to love him." The youth involuntarily reflects, "But did he love me when he begot me?" he asks, wondering more and more. "Is it for my sake? He begot me." He did not know me, not even my sex, at that moment, at the moment of passion, perhaps, inflamed by wine, and he has only transmitted to me a propensity to drunkenness. That's all he's done for me. Why am I bound to love him, simply for begetting me, when he has cared nothing for me all my life after? Or, perhaps, those questions strike you as cause and crawl, but do not expect an impossible restraint from a young man's. Drive nature out of the door, and it will fly in at the window. And above all, let us not be afraid of words, but decides the question according to the dictates of reason and humanity, and not of mystic ideas. How shall it be decided? Why, like this, let the sun stand before his father and ask him, "Father, tell me why must I love you?" "Father, show me that I must love you. And if that father is able to answer him and show him good reason, we have a real, normal, parental relation, not resting on mystical prejudice, but on irrational, responsible, in strictly humanitarian basis. But if he does not, there's an end to the family tie. He is not a father to him, and the sun has a right to look upon him as a stranger, and even an enemy." Our Tribune, gentlemen, of the jury ought to be a scall of true and sound ideas. Here, the auditor was interrupted by a irrepressible and almost frantic applause. Of course, it was not the whole audience; but a good half of it applauded. The father's and mother's present applauded. Shreeks and exclamations were heard from the gallery, where the ladies were sitting. Handkerchiefs were waved. The president began ringing his bell with all his might. He was obviously irritated by the behavior of the audience, but did not venture to clear the court as he had threatened. Even persons of high position, old men with stars and their breasts, sitting on specially reserved seats behind the judges, applauded the auditor, and waved their handkerchiefs. So that, when the noise died to him, the president confined himself to repeating his turn threat to clear the court, and Vichukovic, excited and triumphant, continued his speech. Gentlemen of the jury, you remember that awful night of which so much has been said today, when the sun got over the fence and stood face to face with the enemy and persecutor who had begotten him. I insist most emphatically, it was not for money he ran to his father's house. The charge of robbery is an absurdity, as I proved before, and it was not to murder him, he broke into the house. Oh, no. If he had had that design, he would at least have taken the precaution of arming himself beforehand. The brass bezel, he caught up instinctively without knowing why he did it. Granted that he deceived his father by tapping out the window, granted that he made his way in. I've said already, that I do not, for a moment, believe that legend. But let it be so, let us suppose it for a moment. Gentlemen, I swear to you, by all that holy. If it had not been his father, but an ordinary enemy, he would, after running through the rooms and satisfying himself, that the woman was not there, have made of, post-haste, without doing any harm to his rival. He would have struck him, pushed him away, perhaps, nothing more. For he had no thought, and no time to spare for that. What he wanted to know was where she was. But his father, his father, the mere sight of the father, who had hated him from his childhood, had been his enemy, his persecutor, and now his unnatural rival, was enough. A feeling of hatred came over him involuntarily, irresistibly, clouding his reason. It all searched up in one moment. It was an impulse of madness and insanity, but also an impulse of nature, irresistibly and unconsciously, like everything in nature. Revengeing the violation of his eternal laws. But, the prisoner even then did not murder him. I maintained that. I cried at a lounge. No. He only brandished the pestle in the burst of indignant disgust, not meaning to kill him, but knowing that he would kill him. Had he not had this fatal pestle in his hand, he would have only knocked his father down perhaps, but would not have killed him. As he ran away, he did not know whether he had killed the old man. Such a murder is not a murder. Such a murder is not a parasite. No. The murder of such a father cannot be called parasite. Such a murder can only be reckoned parasite by prejudice. As I appeal to you again and again from the depths of my soul, did this mother actually take place? Gentlemen of the jury, if we convict and punish him, he will say to himself, "These people have done nothing for my bringing up, for my education, nothing to improve my lot, nothing to make me better, nothing to make me a man. These people have not given me to eat and to drink, have not visited me in prison and nakedness, and here they have sent me to penal servitude. I am quits. I owe them nothing now, and owe no one anything for ever. They are wicked, and I will be wicked. They are cruel, and I will be cruel." That is what he will say, gentlemen of the jury, and I swear, by finding him guilty, you will only make it easier for him. You will ease his conscience. You will curse the blood he has shed and will not regret it. At the same time, you will destroy in him the possibility of becoming a new man, for he will remain in his wickedness and blindness all his life. But do you want to punish him fearfully, terribly, with the most awful punishment that could be imagined, and at the same time to save him and regenerate his soul? If so, overwhelm him with your mercy. You will see, you will hear, how he will tremble and be horror-struck. How can I endure this mercy? How can I endure so much love, am I worthy of it? That's what he will explain. Oh, I know, I know that heart, that wild, but grateful heart, gentlemen of the jury. It will bow before your mercy. It thirsts for great, and loving action. It will melt and mount upwards. There are souls which, in their limitation, blame the whole world. But some do such a soul with mercy. Show it love, and it will curse its past, for there are many good impulses in it. Such a heart will expand and see that God is merciful, and that men are good and just. He will be horror-stricken. He will be crushed by remorse, and the vast obligation laid upon him henceforth. And he will not say then, I am quits, but will say, I am guilty, in the sight of all men, and I am more unworthy than all. With tears of penitence and poignant tend to anguish, he will exclaim, "Others are better than I. They want it to save me, not to ruin me." Oh, this act of mercy is so easy for you. For in the absence of anything like real evidence, it will be too awful for you to pronounce. Yes, here's guilty. Better to acquit ten guilty men than punish one innocent man. Do you hear? Do you hear that majestic voice from the past century of our glorious history? It is not for an insignificant person like me to remind you that the Russian court does not exist for the punishment only, but also for the salvation of the criminal. Let other nations think of retribution and the letter of the law. We will cling to the spirit and demeaning the salvation and the reformation of the lost. If this is true, if Russia and her justice are such, she may go forward with good cheer. Do not try to scare us with your frenzied Trojica's from which all the nations stand aside in disgust. Not a runaway Trojica, but the stately chariot of Russia will move calmly and majestically to its goal in your hands is the fate of my client. In your hands is the fate of Russian justice. You will defend it. You will save it. You will prove that there are men to watch over it that it is in good hands. Meet of Chapter 13 of Book Twelve. Book Twelve, Chapter Fourteen. The peasants stand firm. This was how Fittukovich concluded his speech, and the enthusiasm of the audience burst black and irresistible storm. It was out of the question to stop it. The women wept. Many of the men wept too. Women, two important personages, shed tears. The president submitted, and even postponed, ringing his bell. The suppression of such an enthusiasm would be the suppression of something sacred, as the ladies cried afterwards. The orator himself was genuinely touched. And it was at this moment that the bodied Gabrielovich got up to make certain objections. People looked at him with hatred. "What? What's the meaning of it? He positively dazed to make objections," the ladies babbled. "But if the whole world of ladies, including his wife, had protested, he could not have been stopped at that moment." He was pale. He was shaking with emotion. His first phrases were even unintelligible. He gasped from breath, could hardly speak clearly, who lost the thread. But he soon recovered himself. Of this new speech, of his, I will quote only a few sentences. I am reproached with having woven a romance. "But what is this defense, if not one romance, on top of another? All that was lacking was poetry. Feudor Pavlovitch, while waiting for his mistress, tears opened the envelope and throws it on the floor. We're even told what he said while engaged in this strange act. Is not this a flight of fainty? And what proof have we that he had taken out the money? Who heard what he said? The weak-minded idiot, Smard Diagov, transformed into a bironic hero, avenging society, for his illegitimate birth. Isn't this a romance in the bironic style? And the son, who breaks into his father's house, and murders him without murdering him, is not even a romance. This is a sphinx, setting us a riddle, which he cannot solve himself. If he murdered him, he murdered him. And what's the meaning of his murdering him, without having murdered him? Who can make head, or tell of this? Then, we are admonished, that our tribune is a tribune of true and sound ideas. And from this tribune, I've found ideas, is heard a solemn declaration, that to call the murder of a father parasite, is nothing but a prejudice. But if parasite is a prejudice, and if every child is to ask his father what he is to love him, what will become of us? What will become of the foundations of society? What will become of the family? What it appears, is only a boggy of Moscow merchants' wives. The most precious, the most sacred guarantees for the destiny and future of Russian justice are presented to us, in a perverted and frivolous form, simply to attain an object, to obtain the justification of something which cannot be justified. Oh, crush him by mercy, cries the council for the defence. But that's all the criminal wants, and, tomorrow, it will be seen how much he is crushed. And is not the council for the defence too modest in asking only for the acquittal of the prisoner? Why not found a charity in the honour of the parasite, to commemorate his exploits among future generations? Religion and the gospel are corrected. That all mysticism we are taught, and ours, is the only true Christianity, which has been subjected to the analysis of reason and common sense. And so they set up before us a false resemblance of Christ. "What measure ye meet so it shall be meted unto you again?" cried the council for the defence, and instantly deduces that Christ teaches us to measure as it is measured to us, and this from the striving of truth and sound sense. We peep into the gospel, only on the eve of making speeches, in order to dazzle the audience by our acquaintance with what is, anyway, a rather original composition, which may be of use to produce a certain effect, or to serve the purpose. But what Christ commences is something very different. He bitters beware of doing this, because the wicked world does this, but we ought to forgive and to turn the other cheek, and not to measure to our persecutors as they measure to us. This is what our God has taught us, and not that to forbid children to murder their fathers is a prejudice. And we will not, from the tribune of truth and good sense, correct the gospel of our Lord, whom the council for the defence dains to call only the crucified lover of humanity, in a position to all our seducts Russia, which calls him, for thou art our God. At this the president intervened, and checked the overseer's speaker, begging him not to exaggerate, not to overstep the bounds, and so on, as presidents always do in such cases. The audience, too, was uneasy. The public was restless. There were even exclamations of indignation. Fityogovich did not so much as reply. He only mounted the tribune to lay his hands on his heart, and, with an offended voice, utter a few words full of dignity. He only touched again, lightly and ironically, on romancing and psychology, and, in an appropriate place, quoted, "Jupiter, you are angry, therefore you are wrong, which provoked a burst of approving laughter in the audience." For a poet Kirillovich was by no means like Sir Peter. Then, a prepos of the accusation that he was teaching the young generation to murder their fathers, Fityogovich observed, with great dignity, that he would not even answer. As for the prosecutor's charge of uttering on orthodox opinions, Fityogovich hinted that it was a personal insinuation, and that he had expected in this court to be secure from accusations damaging to my reputation as a citizen and a loyal subject. But at these words, the presidents pulled him up, too, and Fityogovich concluded his speech with a bow amid a hum of approbation in the court. And the poet Kirillovich was, in the opinion of our ladies, crushed for good. Then the prisoner was allowed to speak. Meets stood up, but said very little. He was fearfully exhausted, physically and mentally. The look of strength and independence, with which he had entered in the morning, had almost disappeared. He seemed as though he had passed through an experience that day, which had taught him for the rest of his life something very important he had not understood till then. His voice was weak. He did not shout as before. In his words there was a new note of humility, defeat and submission. What am I to say, gentlemen of the jury? The hour of judgment has come for me. I feel the hands of God upon me. The end has come to an erring man. But before God, I repeat to you, I am innocent of my father's blood. For the last time I repeat, it wasn't I killed him. I was erring, but I loved what is good. Every instant I strove to reform, but I lived like a wild beast. I thanked the prosecutor. He told me many things about myself that I did not know. But it's not true that I killed my father. The prosecutor is mistaken. I thanked my counsel too. I cried listening to him. But it is not true that I killed my father, and he needn't have supposed it. And don't believe the doctors. I am perfectly sane. Only my heart is heavy. If you spare me, if you let me go, I will pray for you. I will be a better man. I give you my word before God, I will. And if you condemn me, I will break my sword over my hand myself, and kiss the pieces. But spare me, do not rob me of my God. I know myself, I shall rebel. My heart is heavy, gentlemen. Spare me. He almost fell back in his place. His voice broke. He could hardly articulate the last phrase. Then the judges proceeded to put the questions and began to ask both sides to formulate their conclusions. But I will not describe the details. At last the jury rose to retire for consultation. The president was very tired, and so his last charge to the jury was rather feeble. Be impartial, don't be influenced by the eloquence of the defense. But yet weigh the arguments. Remember that there is a great responsibility laid upon you. And so on, and so on. The jury withdrew, and the court adjourned. People could get up, move about, exchange their accumulated impressions, refresh themselves at the buffet. It was very late. Almost one o'clock in the night. But nobody went away. The strain was so great that no one could think of repose. All waited with sinking hearts. Though that is, perhaps too much to say, for the ladies were only in a state of hysterical impatience, and their hearts were untroubled. And acquittal they thought was inevitable. They all prepared themselves for a dramatic moment of general enthusiasm. I must own, there were many among the men too, who were convinced that an acquittal was inevitable. Some were placed, others frowned, while some were simply dejected, not wanting him to be acquitted. Duke of each himself was confident of his success. There are, he said to one group, as I was told afterwards, there are invisible threads binding the counsel for the defense with the jury. One feels, during one's speech, if they are being formed, I was aware of them. They exist. Our cause is one, such a mind at rest. "What will our peasants say now?" said one stout, cross-looking, pockmarked gentleman, a landowner of the neighbourhood, approaching a group of gentlemen engaged in conversation. "But there are not all peasants. There are four government clerks among them." "Yes, there are clerks," said the member of the district council, joining the group. "And, do you know that Nazarev, the merchant, was the middle, a jury man?" "What of him?" "He is a man with brains. But he never speaks." "He is no great talker, but so much the better. There is no need for the Petersburg man to teach him. He could teach old Petersburg himself. He is the father of twelve children. Think of that." "Upon my word, you don't suppose they want to quit him?" One of our young officials exclaimed in another group. "They'll quit him for certain," said the resolute boys. "It would be shameful, disgraceful, not to acquit him," cried the official. "Suppose he did murder him." "They are fathers and fathers. And besides, he wasn't such a frenzy. He really may have done nothing but swing the pestle in the air, and so knocked the old man down. But it was a pity they dragged the valet in. That was simply an absurd theory. If I'd been in Fittugovich's place, I should simply have said street out. He murdered him. But he is not guilty. Hang it all." "That's what he did, only without saying, hang it all. No only High Symyonovich." "He almost said that, too," put in a third voice. "Why, gentlemen, in Lent an actress was acquitted in our town, who had cut the throat of her lover's lawful wife." "Oh, but she did not finish cutting it. That makes a difference. She began cutting it." "What did you think of what he said about children? Splendid, wasn't it? Splendid." "And about mysticism, too." "Oh, drop mysticism, too," cried someone else. Think of it, put it, in his feet, from this day forth. His wife will scratch his eyes out to-morrow for me just sick. Is she here? What an idea. If she'd been here, she'd have scratched him out in court. She is at home what to take. Heh heh heh. Heh heh heh. In a third group, I dare say, they will acquit me tenka, after all. I shall not be surprised if he attends the metropolis upside down to-morrow. You will be drinking for ten days." "Oh, the devil. The devil's bound to have a hand in it. Where should he be, if not here?" "Well, gentlemen. I admit it was eloquent. But still, it's not the thing to break your father's head with the pestle. Or, what are we coming to? The chariot. Do you remember the chariot?" "Yes, he turned the cart into a chariot. And to-morrow he will turn the chariot into a cart, just to suit his purpose. What cunning traps there are nowadays, is there any justice to be had in Russia?" "But the bell rang. The jury deliberated for exactly an hour, neither more, nor less. A profound silence rained in the court as soon as the public had taken their seats. I remember how the jury men walked into the court. At last I won't repeat the questions in order, and indeed I have forgotten them. I remember only the answer to the prisoners first, and chief question." "Did the prisoner commit the murder for the sake of robbery and waste premeditation? I don't remember the exact words. There was a complete hush. The foreman of the jury, the youngest of the clerks, pronounced in a clear, loud voice, to submit the death-like stoners of the court." "Yes, guilty." "And the same answer was repeated to every question." "Yes, guilty. And without the slightest extenuating comment, this, no one had expected. And everyone had reckoned upon a recommendation to Massey, at least. The death-like silence in the court was not broken. All seemed petrified. Those who desired his conviction, as well as those who had been eager for his acquittal. But that was only for the first instant, and it was followed by a fearful hubbub. Many of the men in the audience were pleased. Some were rubbing their hands, with no attempt to conceal their joy. Those who disagreed with the verdict seemed crushed, shrugged their shoulders, whispered, "But still, seemed unable to realize this. But how shall I describe the state the ladies were in?" "I thought they would create a riot. But first, they could ghastly believe their ears. Then suddenly, the whole court rang with exclamations. What's the meaning of it? What next?" They leapt up from their places, they seemed too fancy that it might be at once reconsidered and reversed. At that instant, Meteor suddenly stood up and cried, in a heart-rending voice, stretching his hands out before him. "I swear by God, and the dreadful day of judgment, I am not guilty of my father's blood. Katya, I forgive you, brothers, friends, have pity on the other woman." He could not go on. He broke into a terrible sobbing wail that was heard all over the court, in a strange, unnatural voice unlike his own. From the farthest corner at the back of the gallery came a piercing shriek. It was Gruschenka. She had succeeded in begging admittance to the court again before the beginning of the lawyer's speeches. Meteor was taken away. The passing of the sentence was deferred till next day. The whole court was no hubbub, but I did not wait to hear. I only remember a few exclamations I heard on the steps as I went out. You'll have a twenty-year strip to the mines, not less, while our peasants have stood firm and have done for our Mitya. And of Book Twelve. Epilogue, Chapter 1. Plans for Mitya's Escape Very early at nine o'clock in the morning, five days after the trial. Aliyosha went to Katarina Ivanovna's to talk over a matter of great importance to both of them, and to give her a message. She sat and talked to him in the very room in which she had once received Gruschenka. In the next room, Ivan Theodorovitch lay unconscious in a high fever. Katarina Ivanovna, had immediately, after the scene at the trial, ordered the sick and unconscious man to be carried to her house, disregarding the inevitable gossip and general disapproval of the public. One of two relations who lived with her had departed to Moscow immediately after the scene in court. The other remained. But if both had gone away, Katarina Ivanovna would have adhered to a resolution and would have gone on nursing this sick man and sitting by him day and night. Varvinsky and Harrison Stuba were attending him. The famous doctor had gone back to Moscow, refusing to give an opinion as to the probable end of the illness. Though the doctors encouraged Katarina Ivanovna and Elyosha, it was evident that they could not yet give them positive hopes of recovery. Elyosha came to see his sick brother twice a day. But this time he had specially urgent business, and he foresaw how difficult it would be to approach the subject, yet he was in great haste. He had another engagement that could not be put off for that same morning, and there was need of haste. They had been talking for a quarter of an hour. Katarina Ivanovna was pale and terribly fatigued, yet at the same time in a state of hysterical excitement. She had a presentiment of the reason why Elyosha had come to her. "Don't worry about his decision," she said with confident emphasis to Elyosha. One way or another he is bound to come to it. He must escape. That unhappy man. That hero of honor and principle. Not he, not Demetri Fiedorovich, but the man lying the other side of that door, who has sacrificed himself for his brother. Katya added with flashing eyes, "Told me the whole plan of escape long ago. You know he has already entered into negotiations. I have told you something already. You see, it will probably come off at the third attack from here, when the party of prisoners is being taken to Siberia. Oh, it's a long way off yet." Ivan Fiedorovich has already visited the superintendent of the third attack, but we don't know yet who will be in charge of the party, and it's impossible to find that out so long we forehand. Tomorrow perhaps I will show you in detail the whole plan which Ivan Fiedorovich left me on the eve of the trial in case of need. That was when, do you remember? You found us quarreling. He had just gone downstairs, but seeing you I made him come back. Do you remember? Do you know what we were quarreling about then? "No I don't," said Aliyosha. Of course he did not tell you. It was about that plan of escape. He had told me the main idea three days before and we began quarreling about it at once and quarreled for three days. We quarreled because, when he told me that if Dimitri Fiedorovich were convicted, he would escape abroad with that creature. I felt furious at once. I can't tell you why. I don't know myself why. "Oh, of course I was furious then about that creature, and that she too should go abroad with Dimitri," Katerina even opened and explained suddenly, her lips quivering with anger. As soon as Ivan Fiedorovich saw that I was furious about that woman, he instantly imagined I was jealous of Dimitri and that I still loved Dimitri. That is how our first quarrel began. I would not give an explanation. I could not ask forgiveness. I could not bear to think that such a man could suspect me of still loving that. And when I myself had told him long before that I did not love Dimitri, that I loved no one but him, it was only resentment against that creature that made me angry with him. Three days later, on the evening you came, he brought me a sealed envelope, which I was to open at once if anything happened to him. Oh, he foresaw his illness. He told me that the envelope contained the details of the escape, and that if he died, or was taken dangerously ill, I was to save Mitya alone. Then he left me money. Nearly ten thousand. Those notes to which the prosecutor referred in his speech, having learnt from someone that he had sent them to be changed. I was tremendously impressed to find that Ivan Fiedorovich had not given up his idea of saving his brother, and was confiding this plan of escape to me, though he was still jealous of me, and still convinced that I love Mitya. Oh, that was a sacrifice. No, you cannot understand the greatness of such self-sacrifice, Alexey Fiedorovich. I wanted to fall at his feet in reverence, but I thought at once that he would take it only for my joy at the thought of Mitya's being saved. And he certainly would have imagined that. And I was so exasperated at the mere possibility of such an unjust thought on his part, that I lost my temper again. And instead of kissing his feet, flew into a fury again. Oh, I am unhappy. It's my character, my awful, unhappy character. Oh, you will see, I shall end by driving him, too, to abandon me for another with whom he can get on better, like Demetri. But no, I could not bear it. I should kill myself. And when you came in then, and when I called to you and told him not to come back, I was so enraged by the look of contempt and hatred he turned on me, that--do you remember? I cried out to you that it was he, he alone who had persuaded me that his brother Demetri was a murderer. I said that malicious thing on purpose to wound him again. He had never, never persuaded me that his brother was a murderer. On the contrary, it was I who persuaded him. Oh, my vile temper was the cause of everything. I paved the way to that hideous scene of the trial. He wanted to show me that he was an honorable man, and that, even if I loved his brother, he would not ruin him for revenge or jealousy. So he came to the court. I am the cause of it all. I alone am to blame. Kateya had never made such confessions to Alyosha before, and he felt that she was now at that stage of unbearable suffering when even the proudest heart painfully crushes its pride and falls vanquished by grief. Oh, Alyosha knew another terrible reason of her present misery, though she had carefully concealed it from him during those days since the trial. But it would have been, for some reason, too painful to him if she had been brought so low as to speak to him now about that. She was suffering for her treachery at the trial, and Alyosha felt that her conscious was impelling her to confess it to him—to him, Alyosha, with tears and cries and hysterical writings on the floor. But he dreaded that moment, and long to spare her. It made the commission on which he had come even more difficult. He spoke of Mita again. "It's all right. It's all right. Don't be anxious about him. She began again sharply and stubbornly. All that is only momentary. I know him. I know his heart only too well. You may be sure he will consent to escape. It's not as though it would be immediately. He will have time to make up his mind to it. Ivan Fiedorovich will be well by that time, and will manage it all himself, so that I shall have nothing to do with it. Don't be anxious. He will consent to run away. He has agreed already. Do you suppose he would give up that creature? And they won't let her go to him. So he is bound to escape. It's you he's most afraid of. He is afraid you won't approve of his escape on moral grounds. But you must generously allow it. If your sanction is so necessary, Keke added viciously. She paused and smiled. He talks about some hymn, she went on again. Some cross he has to bear, some duty. I remember Ivan Fiedorovich told me a great deal about it. And if you knew how he talked, Keke you cried suddenly with feeling she could not repress. If you knew how he loved that wretched man at the moment he told me. And how he hated him, perhaps at the same moment. And I heard his story and his tears with sneering disdain. "Brute! Yes, I am a brute. I am responsible for his fever. But that man in prison is incapable of suffering," Keke concluded irritably. "Can such a man suffer?" Men like him never suffer. There was a note of hatred and contemptuous repulsion in her words. And yet it was she who had betrayed him. Perhaps because she feels how she's wronged him she hates him at moments, Aliyosha thought to himself. He hoped that it was only at moments. In Keke's last words he detected a challenging note, but he did not take it up. "I sent for you this morning to make you promise to persuade him yourself. Or do you, too, consider that to escape would be dishonorable, cowardly or something. UnChristian, perhaps?" Keke added even more defiantly. "Oh, no, I'll tell him everything," muttered Aliyosha. "He asked you to come and see him today," he blurtered out suddenly, looking her steadily in the face. She started and drew back a little from him on the sofa. "Me? Can that be?" she faltered, turning pale. "It can and ought to be," Aliyosha began emphatically, growing more animated. "He needs you particularly just now. I would not have opened the subject and worried you, if it were not necessary. He is ill. He is beside himself. He keeps asking for you. It is not to be reconciled with you that he wants you, but only that you would go and show yourself at his door. So much has happened to him since that day. He realizes that he has injured you beyond all reckoning. He does not ask your forgiveness. It's impossible to forgive me," he says himself, "but only that you would show yourself in his doorway." "It's so sudden," faltered Keke, "I've had a presentiment all these days that you would come with that message. I knew you would ask me to come. It's impossible. Let it be impossible, but do it." Only think, he realizes for the first time how he has wounded you, the first time in his life. He had never grasped it before so fully. He said, "If she refuses to come, I shall be unhappy all my life. You hear?" Though he is condemned to penal servitude for twenty years, he is still planning to be happy. "Is that not piteous?" "Think. You must visit him." Though he is ruined, he is innocent, broke like a challenge from Aliyosha. His hands are clean. There is no blood on them. For the sake of his infinite sufferings in the future, visit him now. "Go! Greed him on his way into the darkness. Stand at his door. That is all." "You ought to do it. You ought to," Aliyosha concluded, laying immense stress on the word "ought." "I ought to, but I cannot." "Kitya moaned. He will look at me. I can't." Your eyes ought to meet. How will you live all your life, if you don't make up your mind to do it now? "Better suffer all my life. You ought to go. You ought to go," Aliyosha repeated with merciless emphasis. "But why today? Why at once?" "I can't leave our patient." "You can for a moment. It will only be a moment. If you don't come, he will be in delirium by tonight. I would not tell you a lie. Have pity on him." "Have pity on me," Kitya said, with bitter reproach, and she burst into tears. "Then you will come," said Aliyosha firmly, seeing her tears. "I'll go and tell him you will come directly." "No. Don't tell him so on any account," cried Kitya in alarm. "I will come, but don't tell him beforehand. For perhaps I may go, but not go in. I don't know yet." Her voice failed. She gasped for breath. Aliyosha got up to go. "And what if I meet anyone?" She said suddenly, in a low voice, turning white again. "That's just why you must go now, to avoid meeting anyone. There will be no one there. I can tell you that for certain. We will expect you," he concluded emphatically, and went out of the room. End of Chapter 1 of Epilog. Epilog, Chapter 2, for a moment the lie becomes truth. He hurried to the hospital where Mitchell was lying now. The day after his fate was determined, Mitchell had fallen ill with nervous fever, and was sent to the prison division of the town hospital. But at the request of several persons, Aliyosha, Madame Holokov, Lise, etc., Dr. Vavinsky had put Mitchell not with the other prisoners, but in a separate little room, the one where Smirjikov had been. It is true that there was a sentinel at the other end of the corridor, and there was a grating over the window so that Vavinsky could be at ease about the indulgence he had shown, which was not quite legal indeed. But he was a kind-hearted and compassionate young man. He knew how hard it would be for a man like Mitchell to pass at once so suddenly into the society of robbers and murderers, and that he must get used to it by degrees. The visits of relations and friends were informally sanctioned by the doctor and overseer, and even by the police captain. But only Aliyosha and Grushenko had visited Mitchell. Rakuten had tried to force his way in twice, but Mitchell persistently begged for Vavinsky not to admit him. Aliyosha found him sitting on his bed in a hospital dressing gown, rather feverish with a towel soaked in vinegar and water on his head. He looked at Aliyosha as he came in with an undefined expression, but there was a shade of something like dread discernible in it. He had become terribly preoccupied since the trial. Sometimes he would be silent for half an hour together, and seemed to be pondering something heavily and painfully oblivious to everything about him. If he roused himself from his brooding and began to talk, he always spoke with a kind of abruptness and never of what he really wanted to say. He looked sometimes with a face of suffering at his brother. He seemed to be more at ease with Grushenko than with Aliyosha. It is true he scarcely spoke to her at all, but as soon as she came in, his whole face lighted up with joy. Aliyosha sat down beside him on the bed in silence. This time, Mitchell was waiting for Aliyosha in suspense, but he did not dare ask him a question. He felt it almost unthinkable that Kacho would consent to come, and at the same time he felt if she did not come, something inconceivable would happen. Aliyosha understood his feelings. Trifan Borisovich, Mitchia began nervously, has pulled his whole end to pieces, I am told. He's taken up the flooring, pulled apart the planks, split up the gallery, I am told. He is seeking treasure all the time, the fifteen hundred rubles which the prosecutors said I'd hid in there. He began playing these tricks, they say, as soon as he got home. Serves him right, the swindler. The guard here told me yesterday. He comes from there. Listen, began Aliyosha. She will come, but I don't know when. Perhaps today, perhaps in a few days, that I can't tell, but she will come. She will, that certain. Mitchia started, would have said something, but was silent. The news had a tremendous effect on him. It was evident that he would have liked terribly to know what had been said, but he was again afraid to ask. Something cruel and contemptuous from Katcha would have cut him like a knife at that moment. This was what she said, among other things, that I must be sure to set your conscience at rest about escaping. If Ivan is not well by then, she will see to it all herself. We've spoken of that already, Mitchia observed musingly. And you have repeated it to Grusha, observed Aliyosha. Yes, Mitchia admitted. She won't come this morning. He looked timidly at his brother. She won't come till the evening. When I told her yesterday that Katcha was taking measures, she was silent, but she set her mouth. She only whispered, "Let her." She understood that it was important. I did not dare to try her further. She understands now, I think, that Katcha no longer cares for me, but loves Ivan. Does she, broke from Aliyosha? Perhaps she does not. Only she is not coming this morning, Mitchia hastened to explain again. I ask to do something for me. You know Ivan is superior to all of us. He ought to live, not us. He will recover. You would believe it, though Katcha is alarmed about him. She scarcely doubts of his recovery, said Aliyosha. That means she is convinced he will die. It's because she's frightened, she's so sure he will get well. Ivan has a strong constitution, and I, too, believe there is every hope that he will get well, Aliyosha observed anxiously. Yes, he will get well, but she is convinced that he will die. She has a great deal of sorrow to bear. A silence followed. A grave anxiety was fretting, Mitchia. Aliyosha, I love Grusha terribly, he said suddenly, in a shaking voice full of tears. They won't let her go out there to you, Aliyosha put in at once. And there's something else I wanted to tell you, Mitchia went on, with a sudden ring in his voice. If they beat me on the way or out there, I won't submit to it. I shall kill someone, and I shall be shot for it. And this will be going on for twenty years. They speak to me rudely as it is. I've been lying here all night passing judgment on myself. I'm not ready. I'm not able to resign myself. I wanted to sing a hymn, but if a guard speaks rudely to me, I have not the strength to bear it. For Grusha, I would bear anything. Anything except blows, but she won't be allowed to come there. Aliyosha smiled gently. "Listen, brother, once for all," he said, "this is what I think about it. And you know that I would not tell you Aliy. Listen, you are not ready, and such a cross is not for you. What's more, you don't need such a martyr's cross when you are not ready for it. If you had murdered our father, it would grieve me that you should reject your punishment, that you are innocent, and such a cross is too much for you. You wanted to make yourself another man by suffering. I say, only remember that other man always, all your life, and wherever you go, and that will be enough for you. Your refusal of that great cross will only serve to make you feel all your life, even greater duty, and that constant feeling will do more to make you a new man, perhaps, than if you went there. For there you would not endure it, and would repine, and perhaps at last would say, "I am quits." The lawyer was right about that. Such heavy burdens are not for all men, for some they are impossible. These are my thoughts about it, if you want them so much. If other men would have to answer for your escape, officers or soldiers, then I would not have allowed you, smiled Aliyosha. But they declare, the superintendent of that Atape told Ivan himself, that if it's all well-managed, there will be no great inquiry, and they can get off easily. Of course, bribing is dishonest, even in such a case. But I can't undertake to judge about it, because if Ivan and Kacha commissioned me to act for you, I know I should go and give bribes. I must tell you the truth, and so I can't judge of your own action. But let me assure you, that I shall never condemn you, and it will be a strange thing if I could judge you in this. Now I think I've gone into everything. "But I do condemn myself," cried Micha. I shall escape. That was settled apart from you. Could Micha, Karamatsav, do anything but run away? But I shall condemn myself, and I will pray for my sin forever. "That's how the Jesuits talk, isn't it, just as we are doing?" "Yes," smiled Aliyosha gently. "I love you, for always telling the whole truth in never hiding anything," cried Micha, with a joyful laugh. "So I've caught my Aliyosha, being Jesuitical. I must kiss you for that. Now listen to the rest. I'll open the other side of my heart to you." This is what I planned and decided. If I run away, even with money and passport, even to America, I should be cheered up by the thought that I am not running away for pleasure, not for happiness, but to another exile as bad, perhaps, as Siberia. It is as bad Aliyosha. It is. I hate that America. Damn it already. Even though Grusia will be with me, just look at her. Is she an American? She is Russian, Russian to the morrow of her bones. She will be homesick for the mother country, and I shall see every hour that she is suffering from my sake, and she has taken up that cross for me. In what harm has she done? And how shall I, too, put up with the rabble out there, though they may be better than I, every one of them? I hate that America already! And though they may be wonderful at machinery, every one of them, damn them, are not of my soul. "I love Russia, Aliyosha. I love the Russian God, though I am a scoundrel myself. I shall choke there," he exclaimed, his eyes suddenly flashing, his voice was trembling with tears. So this is what I have decided, Aliyosha. Listen, he began again, mastering his emotion. As soon as I arrive there with Grusha, we will set to work at once, on the land, in solitude somewhere very remote, with wild bears. There must be some remote parts, even there. I am told there are still redskins there, somewhere, on the edge of the horizon. So to the country of the last of the Mohicans, and there we'll tackle the grammar at once, Grusha and I. Back in grammar, that's how we'll spend three years, and by that time we shall speak English like any Englishman, and as soon as we've learned it, goodbye to America, we'll run here to Russia as American citizens. Don't be uneasy, we would not come to this little town. We'd hide somewhere, a long way off, in the north or in the south. I shall be changed by that time, and she will, too, in America. The doctors shall make some sort of wort on my face. What's the use of there being so mechanical? Or else I'll put out one eye and let my beard grow yard, and I shall turn grey, fretting for Russia. I dare say they won't recognize us, and if they do, let them send us to Siberia. I don't care, it will show it's our fate. We'll work on the land here, too, somewhere in the wild, and I'll make up as an American all my life, but we shall die on our own soil. That's my plan, and it shouldn't be altered. "Do you approve?" "Yes," said Aliyosha, not wanting to contradict him. Mitch had paused for a minute, and said suddenly, "Ah, and how they worked it up at the trial. Didn't they work it up?" "If they had not, you would have been convicted just the same," said Aliyosha, with a sigh. "Yes, people are sick of me here. God bless them, but it's hard," Mitch had moaned miserably. "Again, there was silence for a minute." "Aliyosha, put me out of my misery at once," he exclaimed suddenly. "Tell me, is she coming now or not? Tell me, what did she say? How did she say it?" She said she would come, but I don't know whether she will come today. "It's hard for her, you know," Aliyosha looked timidly. At his brother. "I should think it is hard for her. Aliyosha, it would drive me out of my mind. Grusha keeps looking at me. She understands." "My God, calm my heart. What is it I want? I want Kaccha. Do I understand what I want? It's the headstrong, evil Karamatsov spirit. No. I am not fit for suffering. I am scoundrel. That's all one can say." "Here she is," cried Aliyosha. At that instant, Kaccha appeared in the doorway. For a moment, she stood still, gazing at Misha with a dazed expression. He leapt, pulsively to his feet, and a scared look came into his face. He turned pale, but a timid, pleading smile appeared on his lips at once, and with an irresistible impulse he held out both hands to Kaccha. Seeing it, she flew impetuously to him. She seized him by the hands, and almost by force made him sit down on the bed. She sat down beside him, and keeping his hands pressed them violently. Several times, they both strove to speak, but stopped short and again gaze speechless, with a strange smile, their eyes fastened on one another. So past two minutes, have you forgiven me? Misha faltered at last, and at the same moment turning to Aliyosha, his face working with joy he cried, "Do you hear what I am asking? Do you hear?" "That's what I loved you for. You are generous at heart," broke Kaccha. My forgiveness is no good to you, nor yours to me. Whether you forgive me or not, you will always be a sore place in my heart as I am yours. So it must be. She stopped to take a breath. "What have I come for?" she began again with nervous haste. To embrace your feet, to press your hands like this, till it hurts, you remember how in Moscow I used to squeeze them, to tell you again that you are my God, my joy, to tell you that I love you madly," she moaned in anguish, and suddenly pressed his hand greedily to her lips, tears streamed from her eyes. Aliyosha stood speechless and confounded. He had never expected what he was seeing. Love is over, Misha, Kaccha began again, "But the past is painfully dear to me. Know that you will always be so. But now let what might have been come true for one minute," she faltered, with a drawn smile, looking into his face joyfully again. "You love another woman, and I love another man. Yet I shall love you for ever, and you will love me. Do you know that? Do you hear? Love me. Love me all your life," she cried, with a quiver almost of menace in her voice. "I shall love you, and do you know, Kaccha," Misha began, drawing a deep breath at each word. "Do you know, five days ago, the same evening, I loved you, when you fell down and were carried out, all my life, so it will be, so it will always be." So they murmured to one another frantic words almost meaningless, perhaps not even true. But at that moment, it was all true, and they both believed what they said implicitly. "Kaccha," cried Misha suddenly, "Do you believe I murdered him? I know you don't believe it now, but then, when you gave evidence, surely, surely you did not believe it." I did not believe it then, I never believed it, I hated you, and for a moment I persuaded myself. While I was giving evidence, I persuaded myself and believed it, but when I'd finished speaking, I left off believing it at once. "Don't doubt that. I have forgotten that I came here to punish myself," she said, with a new expression in her voice, "quite unlike the loving tones of a moment before." "Woman, yours is a heavy burden, broke as it were, involuntarily from it, yeah. Let me go," she whispered. "I'll come again. It's more than I can bear now." She was getting up from her place, but suddenly uttered a loud scream and staggered back. Gruschinka walked suddenly and noiselessly into the room. No one had expected her. Kaccha moved swiftly to the door, but when she reached Gruschinka, she stopped suddenly, turned as white as chalk, and moaned softly, almost in a whisper. "Forgive me." Gruschinka stared at her and, pausing for an instant, in a vindictive, venomous voice answered, "We are full of hatred, my girl, you and I. We are both full of hatred, as though we could forgive one another. Save him, and I'll worship you all my life." "He won't forgive her," cried Miccha, with frantic reproach. "Don't be anxious. I'll save him for you," Kaccha whispered rapidly as she ran out of the room. And you could refuse to forgive her when she begged your forgiveness herself. Miccha exclaimed bitterly again. "Mitcha, don't dare to blame her. You have no right to," Aliyosha cried hotly. Her proud lips spoke, not her heart. Gruschinka brought out in a tone of disgust. "If she saves you, I'll forgive her everything. She stopped speaking." As though suppressing something, she could not yet recover herself. She had come in as it appeared afterwards, accidentally, with no suspicion of what she would meet. "Aliyosha, run after her," Miccha cried to his brother. "Tell her. I don't know. Don't let her go away like this." "I'll come to you again at nightfall," said Aliyosha, and he ran after Kaccha. He overtook her outside the hospital grounds. She was walking fast, but as soon as Aliyosha caught her up, she said quickly, "No." Before that woman, I can't punish myself. I asked her forgiveness because I wanted to punish myself to the bitter end. She would not forgive me. I like her for that. She added, in an unnatural voice, "Into her eyes flashed with fierce resentment." My brother did not expect this in the least muttered Aliyosha. He was sure she would not come. "No doubt. Let us leave that," she snapped. "Listen. I can't go with you to the funeral now. I've sent them flowers. I think they still have money. If necessary, tell them I'll never abandon them. Now leave me. Leave me, please. You are late as it is. The bells are ringing for the service. Leave me, please." End of chapter two of Epilogue. Epilogue, chapter three, Ilyosha's funeral, the speech at the stone. He really was late. They had waited for him and had already decided to bear the pretty flower-decked little coffin to the church without him. It was the coffin of poor little Ilyosha. He had died two days after Mitya was sentenced. At the gate of the house, Ilyosha was met by the shouts of the boys, Ilyosha's school fellows. They had all been impatiently expecting him, and were glad that he had come at last. There were about twelve of them. They all had their school bags or satchels on their shoulders. "Father will cry, be with Father," Ilyosha had told them, as he lay dying. And the boys remembered it. Koliya Krasotkin was the foremost of them. "How glad I am you've come, Karamazov," he cried, holding out his hand to Ilyosha. "It's awful here. It's really horrible to see it. Snigeria of it's not drunk. We know for a fact he's had nothing to drink today, but he seems as if he were drunk. I am always manly, but this is awful. Karamazov, if I am not keeping you, one question before you go in." "What is it, Koliya?" said Ilyosha. "Is your brother innocent or guilty? Was it he killed your father, or was it the valet? As you say, so it will be. I haven't slept for the last four nights for thinking of it." "The valet killed him. My brother is innocent," answered Ilyosha. "That's what I said," cried Smurov. "So he will perish an innocent victim," exclaimed Koliya. "Though he is ruined, he is happy. I could envy him." "What do you mean? How can you? Why?" cried Ilyosha, surprised. "Oh, if I, too, could sacrifice myself some day for truth," said Koliya with enthusiasm. "But not in such a cause, not with such disgrace and such horror," said Ilyosha. "Of course, I should like to die for all humanity, and as for disgrace, I don't care about that. Sometimes may perish. I respect your brother." "And so do I," the boy, who had once declared that he knew who had founded Troy, cried suddenly and unexpectedly, and he blushed up to his ears like a peony as he had done on that occasion. Ilyosha went into the room; Ilyosha lay with his hands folded, and his eyes closed in a blue coffin with a white frill round it. His thin face was hardly changed at all, and strange to say there was no smell of decay from the corpse. The expression of his face was serious, and, as it were, thoughtful. His hands, crossed over his breast, looked particularly beautiful, as though chiseled in marble. There were flowers in his hands and the coffin, with flowers, which had been sent early in the morning by Lee's Holocaust. But there were flowers, too, from Katarina Ivanovna, and when Ilyosha opened the door, the captain had a bunch in his trembling hands, and was stirring them again over his dear boy. He scarcely glanced at Ilyosha when he came in, and he would not look at anyone, even at his crazy weeping wife, Mama, who kept trying to stand on her crippled legs to get a nearer look at her dead boy. Nina had been pushed in her chair by the boy's close up to the coffin. She sat with her head pressed to it, and she, too, was no doubt quietly weeping. Snigger-Yov's face looked eager, yet bewildered and exasperated. There was something crazy about his gestures and the words that broke from him. Old man, dear old man, he exclaimed every minute, gazing at Ilyosha. It was his habit to call Ilyosha "old man," as a term of affection when he was alive. "Father, give me a flower, too. Take that white one out of his hand and give it me," the crazy mother begged, whimpering. Either because the little white rose in Ilyosha's hand had caught her fancy, or that she wanted one from his hand to keep in memory of him, she moved restlessly, stretching out her hands for the flower. "I won't give it to anyone, I won't give you anything," Snigger-Yov cried callously. "They are his flowers, not yours. Everything is his. Nothing is yours." "Father, give mother a flower," said Nina, lifting her face wet with tears. "I won't give away anything, and to her less than anyone, she didn't love Ilyosha. She took away his little cannon, and he gave it to her." The captain broke into loud sobs at the thought of how Ilyosha had given up his cannon to his mother. The poor, crazy creature was bathed in noiseless tears, hiding her face in her hands. The boys, seeing that the father would not leave the coffin, and that it was time to carry it out, stood round it in a close circle, and began to lift it up. "I don't want him to be buried in the churchyard," Snigger-Yov wailed suddenly. "I'll bury him by the stone, by our stone," Ilyosha told me to. "I won't let him be carried out." He had been saying for the last three days that he would bury him by the stone. But Ilyosha, Chrisottkin, the landlady, her sister, and all the boys interfered. "What an idea! Bury him by an unholy stone, as though he had hanged himself," the old landlady said sternly. "There in the churchyard the ground has been crossed, he'll be prayed for there. One can hear the singing and church, and the deacon reads so plainly and verbally that it will reach him every time, just as though it were read over his grave. "At last the captain made a gesture of despair, as though to say, 'Take him where you will.' The boys raised the coffin, but as they passed the mother they stopped for a moment and lowered it that she might say goodbye to Ilyosha. But on seeing that precious little face, which for the last three days she had only looked at from a distance, she trembled all over, and her grey head began twitching spasmodically over the coffin. "Mother, make the sign of the cross over him. Give him your blessing. Kiss him," Nina cried to her. But her head still twitched like an automaton, and with a face contorted with bitter grief, she began, without a word, beating her breast with her fist. They carried the coffin past her. Nina pressed her lips to her brothers for the last time as they bore the coffin by her. As Ilyosha went out of the house, he begged the landlady to look after those who were left behind, but she interrupted him before he had finished. "To be sure I'll stay with them. We are Christians, too," the old woman wept as she said it. They had not far to carry the coffin to the church, not more than three hundred paces. It was a still clear day, with a slight frost. The church bells were still ringing. Snigaryov ran fussing and distracted after the coffin, in his short, old summer overcoat, with his head bare and his soft, old, wide-brimmed hat in his hand. He seemed in the state of bewildered anxiety. At one minute he stretched out his hand to support the head of the coffin, and only hindered the bearers. At another he ran alongside and tried to find a place for himself there. A flower fell on the snow, and he rushed to pick it up, as though everything in the world depended on the loss of that flower. "And the crust of bread we've forgotten the crust," he cried suddenly in dismay. But the boys reminded him at once that he had taken the crust of bread already and that it was in his pocket. He instantly pulled it out and was reassured. "Ilyosha told me to, Ilyosha," he explained at once to Ilyosha. I was sitting by him one night, and he suddenly told me, "Father, when my grave is filled up, crumble a piece of bread on it, so that the sparrows may fly down. I shall hear, and it will cheer me up, not to be lying alone." "That's a good thing," said Ilyosha. "We must often take some." "Every day, every day," said the captain quickly, seeming cheered at the thought. They reached the church at last, and set the coffin in the middle of it. The boys surrounded it and remained reverently standing so, all through the service. It was an old and rather poor church. Many of the icons were without settings, but such churches are the best for praying in. During the mass, Nagaryov became somewhat calmer, though at times he had outbursts of the same unconscious and, as it were, incoherent anxiety. At one moment he went up to the coffin to set straight the cover or the wreath. When a candle fell out of the candlestick he rushed to replace it and was a fearful time fumbling over it, then he subsided and stood quietly by the coffin with a look of blank uneasiness and perplexity. After the epistle he suddenly whispered to Ilyosha, who was standing beside him, that the epistle had not been read properly, but did not explain what he meant. During the prayer, like the cherubim, he joined in the singing, but did not go on to the end. Falling on his knees he pressed his forehead to the stone floor, and lay so for a long while. At last came the funeral service itself, and candles were distributed. The distracted father began fussing about again, but the touching and impressive funeral prayers moved and roused his soul. He seemed suddenly to shrink together and broke into rapid, short sobs, which he tried at first to smother, but at last he sobbed aloud. When they began taking leave of the dead and closing the coffin he flung his arms about as though he would not allow them to cover Ilyosha, and began greedily and persistently kissing his dead boy on the lips. At last they succeeded in persuading him to come away from the step, but suddenly he impulsively stretched out his hand and snatched a few flowers from the coffin. He looked at them, and a new idea seemed to dawn upon him, so that he apparently forgot his grief for a minute. Gradually he seemed to sink into brooding, and did not resist when the coffin was lifted up and carried to the grave. It was an expensive one in the churchyard, close to the church, Katarina Ivanovna had paid for it. After the customary rites the grave diggers lowered the coffin. Snigaryov, with his flowers in his hands, bent down so low over the open grave that the boys caught hold of his coat in alarm and pulled him back. He did not seem to understand fully what was happening. When they began filling up the grave he suddenly pointed anxiously at the falling earth and began trying to say something, but no one could make out what he meant, and he stopped suddenly. Then he was reminded that he must crumble the bread, and he was awfully excited, snatched up the bread, and began pulling it to pieces and flinging the morsels on the grave. Come fly down, birds fly down sparrows, he muttered anxiously. One of the boys observed that it was awkward for him to crumble the bread with the flowers in his hands, and suggested he should give them to someone to hold for a time. But he would not do this, and seemed, indeed, suddenly alarmed for his flowers, as though they wanted to take them from him altogether. And after looking at the grave, and as it were satisfying himself that everything had been done, and the bread had been crumbled, he suddenly, to the surprise of everyone, turned quite compulsively even, and made his way homewards. But his steps became more and more hurried; he almost ran; the boys in Al-Yosha kept up with him. The flowers are for mama; the flowers are for mama; I was unkind to mama, he began exclaiming suddenly. Someone called to him to put on his hat as it was cold, but he flung the hat in the snow as though he were angry and kept repeating, "I won't have the hat; I won't have the hat." Smirov picked it up and carried it after him. All the boys were crying, and Colia and the boy who had discovered about Troy, most of all. Those Smirov, with the captain's hat in his hand, was crying bitterly, too. He managed, as he ran, to snatch up a piece of red brick that lay on the snow of the path, to fling it at the flock of sparrows that was flying by. He missed them, of course, and went on crying, as he ran. Halfway, Smirov suddenly stopped, stood still for half a minute, as though struck by something, and suddenly turning back to the church, ran towards the deserted grave. But the boys instantly overtook him and caught hold of him on all sides. Then he fell helpless on the snow as though he had been knocked down and struggling, sobbing, and wailing. He began crying out, "Alasha, old man, dear old man!" Al-Yosha and Colia tried to make him get up, soothing and persuading him. "Captain, give over, a brave man must show fortitude," muttered Colia. "You'll spoil the flowers," said Al-Yosha, "and mama is expecting them. She is sitting crying because he would not give her any before; Alasha's little bed is still there." "Yes, yes, mama," Smirov suddenly recollected. "They'll take away the bed, they'll take it away," he added, as though alarmed that they really would. He jumped up and ran homewards again. But it was not far off, and they all arrived together. Snigaryov opened the door hurriedly, and called to his wife with whom he had so cruelly quarrel just before. "Mama, poor crippled darling, Alasha has sent you these flowers," he cried, holding out to her a little bunch of flowers that had been frozen and broken while he was struggling in the snow. But at that instant he saw in the corner by the little bed, Alasha's little boots, which the land-lady had put tidily side by side. Seeing the old, patched, rusty-looking, stiff boots, he flung up his hands and rushed to them, fell on his knees, snatched up one boot, and pressing his lips to it, began kissing it greedily, crying, "Alasha, old man, dear old man, where are your little feet? Where have you taken him away? Where have you taken him?" The lunatic cried in a heart-rending voice. Nina, too, broke into sobs. Colia ran out of the room. The boys followed him. At last Alyosha, too, went out. "Let them weep," he said to Colia. "It's no use trying to comfort them just now. Let's wait a minute and then go back." "No, it's no use. It's awful," Colia assented. "Do you know Karamazov?" he dropped his voice so that no one could hear them. I feel dreadfully sad, and if it were only possible to bring him back, I'd give anything in the world to do it. "Ah, so would I," said Alyosha. "What do you think Karamazov? Had we better come back here tonight? He'll be drunk, you know." "Perhaps he will. Let us come together. You and I. It'll be enough to spend an hour with them, with the mother and Nina. If we all come together we shall remind them of everything again," Alyosha suggested. The landlady is laying the table for them now. There'll be a funeral dinner or something. The priest is coming. "Shall we go back to it, Karamazov?" "Of course," said Alyosha. "It's also strange, Karamazov, such sorrow, and then pancakes after it. It all seems so unnatural in our religion." "They are going to have salmon, too," the boy who had discovered about Troy observed in a loud voice. "I beg you most earnestly, Karamazov, not to interrupt again with your idiotic remarks, especially when one is not talking to you and doesn't care to know whether you exist or not," Kolya snapped out irritably. The boy flushed Crimson but did not dare to reply. Meanwhile they were strolling slowly along the path, and suddenly Smirov exclaimed, "There's a luscious stone under which they wanted to bury him." They all stood still by the big stone. Alyosha looked, and the whole picture of what Snigariov had described to him that day. How Alosha, weeping and hugging his father, had cried, "Father, Father, how he insulted you!" rose at once before his imagination. A sudden impulse seemed to come into his soul. With a serious and earnest expression, he looked from one to another of the bright, pleasant faces of Alosha's school fellows, and suddenly said to them, "Boys, I should like to say one word to you, here at this place." The boy stood round him, and at once bent attentive and expectant eyes upon him. "Boys, we shall soon part. I shall be for some time with my two brothers, of whom one is going to Siberia and the other is lying at death's door. But soon I shall leave this town, perhaps for a long time, so we shall part. Let us make a compact here, and Alosha's stone, that we will never forget Alosha and one another. And whatever happens to us later in life, if we don't meet for twenty years afterwards, let us always remember how we buried the poor boy at whom we once threw stones. Do you remember, by the bridge? And afterwards we all grew so fond of him. He was a fine boy, a kind-hearted, brave boy. He felt for his father's honor, and resented the cruel insult to him, and stood up for him. And so in the first place we will remember him, boys, all our lives. And even if we are occupied with most important things, if we attain to honor or fall into great misfortune, still let us remember how good it was once here, when we were all together, united by a good and kind feeling which made us, for the time we were loving that poor boy, better perhaps than we are. My little doves, let me call you so, for you are very like them, those pretty blue birds at this minute as I look at your good-dear faces. My dear children, perhaps you won't understand what I am saying to you, because I often speak very unintelligibly. But you'll remember all the same, and will agree with my words some time. You must know that there is nothing higher and stronger and more wholesome and good for life in the future than some good memory, especially a memory of childhood, of home. People talk to you a great deal about your education, but some good, sacred memory preserved from childhood is perhaps the best education. If a man carries many such memories with him into life, he is safe to the end of his days, and if one has only one good memory left in one's heart, even that may some time be the means of saving us. Perhaps we may even grow wicked later on, maybe unable to refrain from a bad action, may laugh at men's tears, and at those people who say as Kolya did just now, I want to suffer for all men, and may even jeer spitefully at such people. But however bad we may become, which God forbid, yet, when we recall how we buried Elisha, how we loved him in his last days, and how we have been talking like friends altogether at this stone, the cruelest and most mocking of us, if we do become so, will not dare to laugh inwardly at having been kind and good at this moment. What's more, perhaps, that one memory may keep him from great evil, and he will reflect and say, "Yes, I was good and brave and honest, then." Let him laugh to himself, that's no matter, a man often laughs at what's good and kind. That's only from thoughtlessness, but I assure you, boys, that as he laughs he will say at once in his heart, "No, I do wrong to laugh, for that's not a thing to laugh at." It will be so, I understand you, Karamazov, cried kolia, with flashing eyes. The boys were excited, and they, too, wanted to say something, but they restrained themselves, looking with intentness and emotion at the speaker. "I say this in case we become bad," Elisha went on, "but there's no reason why we should become bad. Is there boys? Let us be, first and above all, kind, then honest, and then let us never forget each other. I say that again, I give you my word for my part that I'll never forget one of you. Every face looking at me now I shall remember, even for thirty years." Just now kolia said to Karamazov that we did not care to know whether he exists or not, but I cannot forget that Karamazov exists and that he is not blushing now as he did when he discovered the founders of Troy, but is looking at me with his jolly, kind, dear little eyes. Boys, my dear boys, let us all be generous and brave like Elisha, clever, brave, and generous like kolia, though he will be ever so much cleverer when he is grown up, and let us all be as modest as clever and sweet as kartashov. But why am I talking about those two? You are all dear to me, boys, from this day forth I have a place in my heart for you all, and I beg you to keep a place in your hearts for me. Well and who is united us in this kind good feeling which we shall remember and intend to remember all our lives? Who, if not Elisha, the good boy, the dear boy, precious to us for ever, let us never forget him, may his memory live forever in our hearts from this time forth? Yes, yes, forever, forever, the boys cried in their ringing voices with softened faces. Let us remember his face and his clothes and his poor little boots, his coffin and his unhappy sinful father, and how bold he stood up for him alone against the whole school. "We will remember, we will remember," cried the boys, "he was brave, he was good." "Ah, how I loved him!" exclaimed Kolya. "Ah, children, aww dear friends, don't be afraid of life, how good life is when one does something good and just." "Yes, yes!" the boys repeated enthusiastically. "Karamazov, we love you," a voice, probably kartashovs, cried impulsively. "We love you, we love you!" they all caught it up, there were tears in the eyes of many of them. "Hara, for Karamazov," Kolya shouted ecstatically, "and may the dead boys' memory live forever," Al-Yosha added, again with feeling. "Forever, the boys chimed in again." "Karamazov," cried Kolya, "can it be true what's taught us in religion, that we shall all rise again from the dead and shall live and see each other again, all illasha too?" "Certainly we shall all rise again, certainly we shall see each other, and shall tell each other with joy and gladness all that has happened," Al-Yosha answered, half-lapping, half-enthusiastic. "Ah, how splendid it will be!" broke from Kolya. "Well, now we will finish talking and go to his funeral dinner. Don't be put out at our eating pancakes, it's a very old custom, and there's something nice in that," laughed Al-Yosha, "well, let us go. And now we go hand in hand. And always so, all our lives hand in hand, Hera for Karamazov," Kolya cried once more rapturously, "and once more the boys took up his exclamation. Hera for Karamazov," end of the Brother's Karamazov by Theodore Dostayevsky. Hey Amazon Prime members, why pay more for groceries when you can save big on thousands of items at Amazon Fresh? 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