The Brothers Karamazov
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 exclaim.
“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 a great and
loving action, it will melt and mount upwards. There are souls which,
in their limitation, blame the whole world. But subdue 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 am more unworthy than all.’ With
tears of penitence and poignant, tender anguish, he will exclaim:
‘Others are better than I, they wanted 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, he
is guilty.’
“Better 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 the meaning—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 troikas from
which all the nations stand aside in disgust. Not a runaway troika, 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!”
Chapter XIV.
The Peasants Stand Firm
This was how Fetyukovitch concluded his speech, and the enthusiasm of
the audience burst like an irresistible storm. It was out of the
question to stop it: the women wept, many of the men wept too, even 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 Ippolit Kirillovitch got up to make
certain objections. People looked at him with hatred. “What? What’s the
meaning of it? He positively dares 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 for breath, could hardly speak clearly, 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 the top of another? All that was lacking
was poetry. Fyodor Pavlovitch, while waiting for his mistress, tears
open the envelope and throws it on the floor. We are even told what he
said while engaged in this strange act. Is not this a flight of fancy?
And what proof have we that he had taken out the money? Who heard what
he said? The weak-minded idiot, Smerdyakov, transformed into a Byronic
hero, avenging society for his illegitimate birth—isn’t this a romance
in the Byronic 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 tail of this?
“Then we are admonished that our tribune is a tribune of true and sound
ideas and from this tribune of ‘sound ideas’ is heard a solemn
declaration that to call the murder of a father ‘parricide’ is nothing
but a prejudice! But if parricide is a prejudice, and if every child is
to ask his father why he is to love him, what will become of us? What
will become of the foundations of society? What will become of the
family? Parricide, it appears, is only a bogy 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 counsel for the defense; but that’s all the criminal wants, and
to-morrow it will be seen how much he is crushed. And is not the
counsel for the defense too modest in asking only for the acquittal of
the prisoner? Why not found a charity in the honor of the parricide to
commemorate his exploit among future generations? Religion and the
Gospel are corrected—that’s all mysticism, we are told, 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 semblance
of Christ! ‘What measure ye mete so it shall be meted unto you again,’
cried the counsel for the defense, and instantly deduces that Christ
teaches us to measure as it is measured to us—and this from the tribune
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—all to serve the purpose! But what
Christ commands us is something very different: He bids us 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 counsel for the defense deigns to call only ‘the
crucified lover of humanity,’ in opposition to all orthodox Russia,
which calls to Him, ‘For Thou art our God!’”
At this the President intervened and checked the over-zealous 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.
Fetyukovitch did not so much as reply; he only mounted the tribune to
lay his hand 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 Ippolit Kirillovitch
was by no means like Jupiter. Then, _à propos_ of the accusation that
he was teaching the young generation to murder their fathers,
Fetyukovitch observed, with great dignity, that he would not even
answer. As for the prosecutor’s charge of uttering unorthodox opinions,
Fetyukovitch 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
President pulled him up, too, and Fetyukovitch concluded his speech
with a bow, amid a hum of approbation in the court. And Ippolit
Kirillovitch was, in the opinion of our ladies, “crushed for good.”
Then the prisoner was allowed to speak. Mitya 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 hand 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 thank 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 thank my counsel, too.
I cried listening to him; but it’s 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 will condemn me, I’ll break my sword over
my head 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. An 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
pleased, others frowned, while some were simply dejected, not wanting
him to be acquitted. Fetyukovitch himself was confident of his success.
He was surrounded by people congratulating him and fawning upon him.
“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 won. Set your mind at rest.”
“What will our peasants say now?” said one stout, cross-looking,
pock-marked gentleman, a landowner of the neighborhood, approaching a group
of gentlemen engaged in conversation.
“But they are not all peasants. There are four government clerks among
them.”
“Yes, there are clerks,” said a member of the district council, joining
the group.