The Brothers Karamazov
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 to me; but, look,
everything is written there beforehand, just as he committed the murder
after. A complete program of it!” she exclaimed frantically.
She was reckless now of all consequences to herself, though, no doubt,
she had foreseen them even a month ago, for 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 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 sank back on his seat, wringing his hands in despair. The prosecutor
and counsel for the defense began cross-examining her, chiefly to
ascertain what had induced her to conceal such a document and to give
her evidence in quite a different tone 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, for he has 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 bowed 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 it.
How often I have read it in his eyes, ‘You came of yourself, though.’
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 every
one was like himself!” Katya hissed furiously, in a perfect frenzy.
“And he only wanted to marry me, because I’d 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 for ever 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
hysteria and of listening to such avowals. I remember hearing them say
to her, “We understand how hard it is for you; be sure we are able to
feel for you,” and so on, and so on. And yet they dragged the evidence
out of the raving, hysterical woman. She described at last with
extraordinary clearness, which is so often seen, though only for a
moment, in such over-wrought states, how Ivan had been nearly driven
out of his mind during the last two months trying to save “the monster
and murderer,” his brother.
“He tortured himself,” she exclaimed, “he was always trying to minimize
his brother’s guilt and confessing to me that he, too, had never loved
his father, and perhaps desired his death 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 to be his only friend!” she cried
suddenly with a sort of defiance, and her eyes flashed. “He had been
twice to see Smerdyakov. One day he came to me and said, ‘If it was not
my brother, but Smerdyakov committed the murder’ (for the legend was
circulating everywhere that Smerdyakov had done it), ‘perhaps I too am
guilty, for Smerdyakov 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 entirely 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 parricide! 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 seen muttering 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, on
account of this monster! And last night he learnt that Smerdyakov was
dead! It was such a shock that it drove him out of his mind ... and all
through this monster, all for the sake of saving the 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 was in Katya’s character, and it was such a moment in
her life. It was the same impetuous 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 Mitya’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 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 Mitya?—that was the question.
No, she had not intentionally slandered him when she cried that Mitya
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 Katya longed for nothing more than that, but
Mitya’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 breast 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. Hysterics began
again: she fell on the floor, sobbing and screaming. She was carried
out. At that moment Grushenka, with a wail, 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.
At a signal 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. Then 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 certainly 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 Katerina 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 Katerina 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. Every one was
excited, every one was electrified by the late catastrophe, and all
were awaiting the speeches for the prosecution and the defense with
intense impatience. Fetyukovitch was obviously shaken by Katerina
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, Ippolit Kirillovitch, began his speech.
Chapter VI.
The Prosecutor’s Speech. Sketches Of Character
Ippolit Kirillovitch 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
_chef-d’œuvre_, the _chef-d’œuvre_ of his whole life, as his swan-song.
He died, it is true, nine months later of rapid consumption, so that he
had the right, 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 Ippolit Kirillovitch unexpectedly revealed that
at least some feeling for the public welfare and “the eternal 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 Ippolit
Kirillovitch, 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.
“Gentlemen 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, ominous 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 youth? Is it 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