The Brothers Karamazov
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, together 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. Every one realized it
from the first moment that the facts began to group themselves round a
single point, and the whole horrible and bloody crime was gradually
revealed. Every one, 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 defense was only a matter of form,
and that the prisoner was guilty, obviously and conclusively guilty. I
imagine that even the ladies, who were so impatiently longing for the
acquittal of the interesting prisoner, were at the same time, without
exception, convinced of his guilt. What’s more, I believe they would
have been mortified if his guilt had not been so firmly established, as
that would have lessened the effect of the closing scene of the
criminal’s acquittal. That he would be acquitted, all the ladies,
strange to say, were firmly persuaded up to the very last moment. “He
is guilty, but he will be acquitted, from motives of humanity, in
accordance with the new ideas, the new sentiments that had come into
fashion,” and so on, and so on. And that was why they had crowded into
the court so impatiently. The men were more interested in the contest
between the prosecutor and the famous Fetyukovitch. All were wondering
and asking themselves what could even a talent like Fetyukovitch’s make
of such a desperate case; and so they followed his achievements, step
by step, with concentrated attention.
But Fetyukovitch remained an enigma to all up to the very end, up to
his speech. Persons of experience suspected that he had some design,
that he was working towards some object, but it was almost impossible
to guess what it was. His confidence and self-reliance were
unmistakable, however. Every one noticed with pleasure, moreover, that
he, after so short a stay, not more than three days, perhaps, among us,
had so wonderfully succeeded in mastering the case and “had studied it
to a nicety.” People described with relish, afterwards, how cleverly he
had “taken down” all the witnesses for the prosecution, and as far as
possible perplexed them and, what’s more, had aspersed their reputation
and so depreciated the value of their evidence. But it was supposed
that he did this rather by way of sport, so to speak, for professional
glory, to show nothing had been omitted of the accepted methods, for
all were convinced that he could do no real good by such disparagement
of the witnesses, and probably was more aware of this than any one,
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, Fyodor Pavlovitch’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 hall with a composed and almost stately air, not the least
disconcerted by the majesty of the court or the vast audience listening
to him. He gave evidence with as much confidence as though he had been
talking with his Marfa, only perhaps more respectfully. It was
impossible to make him contradict himself. The prosecutor questioned
him first in detail about the family life of the Karamazovs. The family
picture stood out in lurid colors. It was plain to ear and eye that the
witness was guileless and impartial. In spite of his profound reverence
for the memory of his deceased master, he yet bore witness that he had
been unjust to Mitya and “hadn’t brought up his children as he should.
He’d have been devoured by lice when he was little, if it hadn’t been
for me,” he added, describing Mitya’s early childhood. “It wasn’t fair
either of the father to wrong his son over his mother’s property, which
was by right his.”
In reply to the prosecutor’s question what grounds he had for asserting
that Fyodor Pavlovitch had wronged his son in their money relations,
Grigory, to the surprise of every one, had no proof at all to bring
forward, but he still persisted that the arrangement with the son was
“unfair,” and that he ought “to have paid him several thousand roubles
more.” I must note, by the way, that the prosecutor asked this question
whether Fyodor Pavlovitch had really kept back part of Mitya’s
inheritance with marked persistence of all the witnesses who could be
asked it, not excepting Alyosha and Ivan, but he obtained no exact
information from any one; all alleged that it was so, but were unable
to bring forward any distinct proof. Grigory’s description of the scene
at the dinner-table, when Dmitri had burst in and beaten his father,
threatening to come back to kill him, made a sinister impression on the
court, especially as the old servant’s composure in telling it, his
parsimony of words and peculiar phraseology, were as effective as
eloquence. He observed that he was not angry with Mitya for having
knocked him down and struck him on the face; he had forgiven him long
ago, he said. Of the deceased Smerdyakov he observed, crossing himself,
that he was a lad of ability, but stupid and afflicted, and, worse
still, an infidel, and that it was Fyodor Pavlovitch and his elder son
who had taught him to be so. But he defended Smerdyakov’s honesty
almost with warmth, and related how Smerdyakov had once found the
master’s money in the yard, and, instead of concealing it, had taken it
to his master, who had rewarded him with a “gold piece” for it, and
trusted him implicitly from that time forward. He maintained
obstinately that the door into the garden had been open. But he was
asked so many questions that I can’t recall them all.
At last the counsel for the defense began to cross-examine him, and the
first question he asked was about the envelope in which Fyodor
Pavlovitch was supposed to have put three thousand roubles for “a
certain person.” “Have you ever seen it, you, who were for so many
years in close attendance on your master?” Grigory answered that he had
not seen it and had never heard of the money from any one “till
everybody was talking about it.” This question about the envelope
Fetyukovitch put to every one who could conceivably have known of it,
as persistently as the prosecutor asked his question about Dmitri’s
inheritance, and got the same answer from all, that no one had seen the
envelope, though many had heard of it. From the beginning every one
noticed Fetyukovitch’s persistence on this subject.
“Now, with your permission I’ll ask you a question,” Fetyukovitch said,
suddenly and unexpectedly. “Of what was that balsam, or, rather,
decoction, made, which, as we learn from the preliminary inquiry, you
used on that evening to rub your lumbago, in the hope of curing it?”
Grigory looked blankly at the questioner, and after a brief silence
muttered, “There was saffron in it.”
“Nothing but saffron? Don’t you remember any other ingredient?”
“There was milfoil in it, too.”
“And pepper perhaps?” Fetyukovitch queried.
“Yes, there was pepper, too.”
“Etcetera. And all dissolved in vodka?”
“In spirit.”
There was a faint sound of laughter in the court.
“You see, in spirit. After rubbing your back, I believe, you drank what
was left in the bottle with a certain pious prayer, only known to your
wife?”
“I did.”
“Did you drink much? Roughly speaking, a wine-glass or two?”
“It might have been a tumbler-full.”
“A tumbler-full, even. Perhaps a tumbler and a half?”
Grigory did not answer. He seemed to see what was meant.
“A glass and a half of neat spirit—is not at all bad, don’t you think?
You might see the gates of heaven open, not only the door into the
garden?”
Grigory remained silent. There was another laugh in the court. The
President made a movement.
“Do you know for a fact,” Fetyukovitch persisted, “whether you were
awake or not when you saw the open door?”
“I was on my legs.”
“That’s not a proof that you were awake.” (There was again laughter in
the court.) “Could you have answered at that moment, if any one had
asked you a question—for instance, what year it is?”
“I don’t know.”
“And what year is it, Anno Domini, do you know?”
Grigory stood with a perplexed face, looking straight at his tormentor.
Strange to say, it appeared he really did not know what year it was.
“But perhaps you can tell me how many fingers you have on your hands?”
“I am a servant,” Grigory said suddenly, in a loud and distinct voice.
“If my betters think fit to make game of me, it is my duty to suffer
it.”
Fetyukovitch was a little taken aback, and the President intervened,
reminding him that he must ask more relevant questions. Fetyukovitch
bowed with dignity and said that he had no more questions to ask of the
witness. The public and the jury, of course, were left with a grain of
doubt in their minds as to the evidence of a man who might, while
undergoing a certain cure, have seen “the gates of heaven,” and who did
not even know what year he was living in. But before Grigory left the
box another episode occurred. The President, turning to the prisoner,
asked him whether he had any comment to make on the evidence of the
last witness.
“Except about the door, all he has said is true,” cried Mitya, in a
loud voice. “For combing the lice off me, I thank him; for forgiving my
blows, I thank him. The old man has been honest all his life and as
faithful to my father as seven hundred poodles.”
“Prisoner, be careful in your language,” the President admonished him.
“I am not a poodle,” Grigory muttered.
“All right, it’s I am a poodle myself,” cried Mitya. “If it’s an
insult, I take it to myself and I beg his pardon. I was a beast and
cruel to him. I was cruel to Æsop too.”
“What Æsop?” the President asked sternly again.
“Oh, Pierrot ... my father, Fyodor Pavlovitch.”
The President again and again warned Mitya impressively and very
sternly to be more careful in his language.
“You are injuring yourself in the opinion of your judges.”
The counsel for the defense was equally clever in dealing with the
evidence of Rakitin. I may remark that Rakitin was one of the leading
witnesses and one to whom the prosecutor attached great significance.
It appeared that he knew everything; his knowledge was amazing, he had
been everywhere, seen everything, talked to everybody, knew every
detail of the biography of Fyodor Pavlovitch and all the Karamazovs. Of
the envelope, it is true, he had only heard from Mitya himself. But he
described minutely Mitya’s exploits in the “Metropolis,” all his
compromising doings and sayings, and told the story of Captain
Snegiryov’s “wisp of tow.” But even Rakitin could say nothing positive
about Mitya’s inheritance, and confined himself to contemptuous
generalities.
“Who could tell which of them was to blame, and which was in debt to