 Section 82 of the Brothers Karamazov by Fyodor Dostoevsky, translated by Constance Garnet, this LibriVox recording is in the public domain, recording by Bruce Peary, Book XII, Chapter III. The Medical Experts and a Pound of Nuts. The evidence of the medical experts, too, was of little use to the prisoner, and it appeared later that Fetchakovich 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 Herzin Stuba, 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. Herzin Stuba. He was a gray and bald old man of seventy, 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 hern-guter or 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. Most everyone 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 allusions to Dr. Herzin Stuba's qualifications. Though the Moscow doctor asked twenty-five rubles 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. Herzin Stuba, and the celebrated doctor had criticised 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, Herzin Stuba, heh heh! Dr. Herzin Stuba, of course, heard all this. And now all the three doctors made their appearance, one after another, to be examined. Dr. Herzin Stuba roundly declared that the abnormality of the prisoner's mental faculties was self-evident. Then, giving his grounds for this opinion, which I omit 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 with simple-hearted directness pointed out that the prisoner on entering the court had an extraordinary air remarkable in the 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 saying 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, better indeed than Russians, 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 absent-mindedness, he often forgot the most ordinary words, which sometimes went out of his head, though he knew 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 roused a whisper of amusement in the audience. All our ladies were very fond of our old doctor. They knew, too, that having been all his life a bachelor and a 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 length and with erudition 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 of 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 and 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, Bernard, ethics, and others 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 other misfortunes and grievances. According to all accounts, he had, even in the past, whenever the subject of the three thousand rubles was touched on, flown 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 on entering the court have naturally looked at the ladies and not straight before him, I will only say that, apart from the playfulness of this 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 really be a sign of his abnormal mental condition, at the same time I maintain that he 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, were 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 Mitcher from his seat. Just so! Mitcher, 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. Herzenstuba, when called as a witness, was quite unexpectedly of use to Mitcher. As an old resident in the town who had known the Karamasa family for years, he furnished 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 prizing his flat dull and always gleefully 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 wits, and his wits went. Where did they go? I've forgotten the word. He went on, passing his hand before his eyes. Oh, yes, spaziren. 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 note of feeling and tenderness suddenly came into the honest old man's voice. Fetcher Kovic positively started, as though senting 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 every one. Apples? Oh, no, no. You have a dozen of apples, not a pound. No, there are a lot of them, and all little. You put them in the mouth, and crack. Nuts? Quite so, nuts, I say so. The doctor repeated in the calmest way as though he had been at no loss for a word. And I bought him a pound of nuts, for no one had ever bought the boy a pound of nuts before, and I lifted my finger, and said to him, Boy, got der Vater. He laughed and said, Got der Vater. Got der Son. He laughed again, and lisped, Got der Son. Got der Heilige Geist. Then he laughed and said as best he could, Got der Heilige Geist. I went away in two days after I happened to be passing, and he shouted to me of himself, Uncle, Got der Vater, Got der Son, and he had only forgotten, Got der Heilige Geist. 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 passed. I am sitting one morning in my study, a white-haired old 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 der Vater, Got der Son, and Got der Heilige 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. And 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 him and blessed him, and I shed tears. He laughed, but he shed tears, too, for the Russian often laughs when he ought to be weeping. But he did weep. I saw it. And now alas! And I am weeping now, German, I am weeping now, too, you saintly man, Mitchell cried suddenly. In any case, the anecdote made a certain favorable impression on the public. But the chief sensation in Mitchell's favor was created by the evidence of Katerina Ivanovna, which I will describe directly. Indeed, when the witnesses at Deschards, that is, called by the defense, began giving evidence, fortune seemed all at once markedly more favorable to Mitchell, and what was particularly striking, this was a surprise even to the council for the defense. But before Katerina Ivanovna was called, Alyosha was examined, and he recalled a fact which seemed to furnish positive evidence against one important point made by the prosecution. End of Section 82 Section 83 of The Brothers Karamazov by Fyodor Dostoevsky translated by Konstantin Skarnet. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Bruce Peary. Book 12, Chapter 4. Fortune Smiles on Mitchell 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 honourable, proud, and generous, capable of self-sacrifice if necessary. He admitted, however, that through his passion for Grushanka and his rivalry 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 murder for the sake of gain, though he recognised that the three thousand rubles had become almost an obsession with Misha, that he looked upon them as part of the inheritance he had been cheated of by his father, and that, indifferent as he was to money as a rule, 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 Grushanka and Katya, 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 Al-Yasha. 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'm afraid to say that I did, but I never doubted that some higher feeling would always save him at the fatal moment, as it has indeed saved him, for it was not he who killed my father, Al-Yasha 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 identify 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 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 Al-Yasha, slowly and calmly. I made no accusation against Smarjakov of myself. Yet you gave evidence against him. I was led to do so by my brother Dmitri's words. I was told what took place at his arrest and how he had pointed to Smarjakov before I was examined. I believe absolutely that my brother is innocent, and if he didn't commit the murder, then... Then Smarjakov? Why Smarjakov? 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 the proof you have? I have no other proof. And of Smarjakov'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 Al-Yasha's evidence on the public was most disappointing. There had been talk about Smarjakov before the trial. Someone had heard something, someone had pointed out something else, and it was said that Al-Yasha had gathered together some extraordinary proofs of his brother's innocence and Smarjakov's guilt. And after all there was nothing, no evidence except certain moral convictions so natural in a brother. But Fitchikovitch began his cross-examination. On his asking Al-Yasha 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, Al-Yasha 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 Misha that evening under the tree, on the road to the monastery, Misha 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 honour, that that means was here, here, on his breast. I thought when he struck himself on the breast he meant that it was in his heart, Al-Yasha 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 dare confess even to me. I must confess that 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 rubles. Just so, Misha cried from his place, that's right, Al-Yasha, it was the little bag I struck with my fist. Fetchakovich flew to him in hot haste in treating him to keep quiet, and at the same instant pounced on Al-Yasha. Al-Yasha 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 Katarina 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 Krushanka if she consented. It is so, it must be so, exclaimed Al-Yasha, in sudden excitement. My brother cried several times that half of the disgrace, half of it, he said half, several times, he could free himself from at once, but that he was so unhappy in his weakness of will that he wouldn't do it, that he knew beforehand he was incapable of doing it. And you clearly confidently remember that he struck himself just on this part of the breast? Fitchakovich 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 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? It was that little bag he meant when he said he had the means but wouldn't give back that fifteen hundred. And when he was arrested at Makro 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, he yet 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 debt has been to him! Alyosha exclaimed, in conclusion. The prosecutor, of course, intervened. He asked Alyosha 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 Alyosha. 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 Mitcher what he had to say to the last witness's evidence. Mitcher 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 whole life, cried Mitcher. 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 are right, Alyosha. Thanks, Alyosha. So Alyosha'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 Makro that those fifteen hundred rubles were his own. Alyosha was glad. With 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 larnettes and opera glasses. There was a stir among the men. Some stood up to get a better view. Everybody alleged afterwards that Mitcha had turned white as a 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 chords and showing consideration for her great unhappiness. But in answer to one of the first questions Katerina Ivanovna replied firmly that she had been formerly betrothed 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 Mitcha 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 cared to. There was no need for him to worry himself about that debt afterwards. I will not repeat all the questions asked her and all her 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 threat 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 that Fetchakovich began his cross-examination. Did that take place not here but at the beginning of your acquaintance? Fetchakovich suggested cautiously, feeling his way, instantly sensing something favourable. I must mention in parenthesis that though Fetchakovich had been brought from Petersburg partly at the insistence of Katerina Ivanovna herself, he knew nothing about the episode of the four thousand rubles given her by Metsha 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 should speak of that episode in the court and waited for the inspiration of the moment. Now I can never forget those moments. She began telling her story. She told everything, the whole episode that Metsha had told Alyosha and her bowing to the ground, and her reason. She told about her father and her going to Metsha, and did not in one word in a single hint suggest that Metsha had himself, through her sister, proposed they should send him Katerina 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 avowal, 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 favour. And indeed, the figure of the young officer who, with a respectful 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 painful misgiving at heart. I felt that Calumny might come of it later, and it did, in fact it did. It was repeated all over the town afterwards, with spiteful laughter, that the story 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's very doubtful whether it was creditable for a young girl to behave in that way, even for the sake of saving her father. And can Catarina Ivanovna, with her intelligence, her morbid sensitiveness, have failed to understand that people would talk like that? She must have understood it, yet 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 reverent, almost shame-faced silence to Catarina Ivanovna. The prosecutor did not venture upon even one question on the subject. Fechikovich 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 incongruous. Fechikovich 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 Mitcher. As for him, I was told that once or twice while Catarina Ivanovna was giving her evidence, he jumped up from his seat, sank back again, and hid his face in his hands. But when she had finished, he suddenly cried in a sobbing voice. Catarina, why have you ruined me? And his sobs were audible all over the court. But he instantly restrained himself and cried again. Now I am condemned. Then he sat rigid in his place with his teeth clenched and his arms across his chest. Catarina 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 though in a fever. Grushanka was called. I am approaching the sudden catastrophe which was perhaps the final cause of Mitcher'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 Grushanka. 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 tread, with the slightly swaying gate common in women of full figure. She looked steadily at the president, turning her eyes neither to the right nor to the left. To my thinking she looked very handsome at that moment, and not at all pale as the ladies alleged afterwards. They declared too that she had a 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 self-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. Apropos of her acquaintance with Fyodor Pavlovich, she remarked, crickly, 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 I brought both of them to this. It was all on account of me, it happened. Samsonov's name came up somehow. That's nobody's business, she snapped at once, with a sort of insolent defiance. He was my benefactor, he took me when I hadn't a shoe to my foot when my family had turned me out. The President reminded her, though very politely, that she must answer the questions directly without going off into irrelevant details. Grushenko crimson'd, and her eyes flashed. The envelope with the notes in it, she had not seen, but had only heard, from that wicked wretch that Fyodor Pavlovich had an envelope with notes for 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 the prosecutor? The lackey Smirjakov, who murdered 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. Dmitry Fyodorovitch 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. Grushenko 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, Katarina Ivanovna there, she sent for me, offered me chocolate, tried to fascinate me. There's not much true 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 Makrow, 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 Grushenko. 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. Fechakovich began his cross-examination. I remember that, among other things, he asked about Raketan, and the twenty-five rubles you paid him for bringing Alexei Feodorovich Karamazov to see you. It was nothing strange about his taking the money, sneered Grushenko with angry contempt. He was always coming to me for money. He used to get thirty rubles 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. Raketan? Fechakovich asked, in spite of an uneasy movement on the part of the President. Why, he is my cousin. His mother was my mother's sister. But he's always besought me not to tell anyone here of it. He is so dreadfully ashamed of me. This fact was a complete surprise to everyone. No one in the town nor in the monastery, not even Mitcha, knew of it. I was told that Raketan turned purple with shame where he sat. Grushka had somehow heard before she came into the court that he had given evidence against Mitcha, and so she was angry. The whole effect on the public of Raketan's speech of his noble sentiments, of his attacks upon Serfdom and the political disorder of Russia, was, this time, finally ruined. Fechakovich was satisfied. It was another godsend. Grushka'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 Katerina Ivanovna. Mitcha 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. Section 84 of the Brothers Karamazov by Fyodor Dostoevsky, translated by Constance Garnett, this LibriVox recording is in the public domain, recording by Bruce Peary. Book 12, Chapter 5, A Sudden Catastrophe I may note that he had been called before Alyosha, 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, and probably had little information to give after all that had been given. Time was passing. Ivan walked up with extraordinary slowness, looking at no one and with his head bowed as though plunged in gloomy thought. He was irreproachably 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 lusterless. He raised them and looked slowly round the court. Alyosha jumped up from his seat and moaned, Ah! 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 blankly, 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 court. There was a feeling of something strange. The president showed signs of uneasiness. You are perhaps still unwell? 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 the sort of disgust which grew more and more marked, though he answered rationally. To many questions he answered that he did not know. He knew nothing of his father's money relations with Dmitry. 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 Smirjakov. 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 council 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 sarah fan 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 possession if it is the same money? The president asked, wonderingly. I got them from Smegikov, 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 mind, broken voluntarily from the president? I should think I am in my right mind, in the same nasty mind as all of you, as all 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 with one another, liars. They all desire the 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, panam et kirkences. 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. Al-Yasha jumped up and cried, he is ill. Don't believe him. He has brain fever. Katarina Ivanovna rose impulsively from her seat, and, rigid with horror, gazed at Iván. Mitcha 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. Iván began again. You can't expect 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. Fechiković pricked up his ears as he listened. The hall 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 statement, if indeed you are not delirious? That's just it. I have no proof. That curse Medjikov won't send you proofs from the other world in an envelope. You think of nothing but envelopes. One is enough. I've no witnesses, except one, perhaps, he smiled thoughtfully. Who is your witness? He has a tale, your excellency, and that would be irregular. The devilen exist when? Don't pay attention. He is a paltry 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. Idiocy. Come, release the monster. He's been singing a hymn. That's because his heart is light. It's like a drunken man in the street bawling how vonca went to Petersburg, and I would give a quadrillion quadrillions for two seconds of joy. You don't know me. Oh, how stupid all this business is. Come, take me, instead of him. I didn'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 excitement by now. Alyosha 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 well, 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 talked 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. Catarina 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 at once, at once. Here is a document, a letter. Take it, read it, quickly, quickly. It's a letter from that monster, that man, there, there. She pointed to Mitza. It was he killed his father. You will see that directly. He wrote to me how he would 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 Mitza 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, Mitza might have escaped his doom, or at least that doom would have been less terrible. It was, I 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, and 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 contemptibly, and was running after that creature, and because he owed 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 to me one morning. I knew he was in want of money, and what he wanted it for. Yes, yes, to win that creature, and carry her off. I knew then that he had been false 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 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 false 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 honour 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 honour 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 catcher, Mitchell Roard, suddenly. I looked into your eyes, and I knew that you were dishonouring me, and yet I took your money. Despise me as a scoundrel. Despise me, all of you. I've deserved it. Prisoner cried the President another word, and I will order you to be removed. That money was a torment to him, catcher went on with the 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 see 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. So he thought it all out beforehand how he would kill him. Caterina Yvonne have now 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 to me. But look, everything is written there beforehand just as he committed the murder after, a complete programme 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 Mitchell whether he admitted having written the letter. It's mine, mine, cried Mitchell. I shouldn't have written it if I hadn't been drunk. We've hated each other for many things, catcher, 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, ringing his hands in despair. The prosecutor and counsel for the defence 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 honour and my conscience, but I wanted to save him, for he has hated and despised me so. Catcher cried madly. Oh, he has despised me horribly. He has always despised me, and 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 everyone was like himself. Catch a hist, 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 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 to 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 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 overwrought states, how Yvonne 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 honour to be his only friend. She cried suddenly with a sort of defiance, and her eyes flashed. He had been twice to see Smirjakov. One day he came to me and said, if it was not my brother but Smirjakov committed the murder, for the legend was circulating everywhere that Smirjakov had done it, perhaps I, too, am guilty, for Smirjakov 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 to 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 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 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 Smirjakov 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 Mitch'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 Mitcha? That was the question. No, she had not intentionally slandered him when she cried that Mitcha despised her for bowing down to him. She believed it herself. She had been firmly convinced, perhaps ever since that bow, that the simple-hearted Mitcha, 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 catch alonged for nothing more than that, but Mitcha'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 Mitcha, 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 Grushanka, with a wail, rushed towards Mitcha before they had time to prevent her. Mitcha! 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 Mitcha. Mitcha 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 Katarina 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 Katarina 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. Fechiković was obviously shaken by Katarina 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 Ipalit Korilević began his speech. CHAPTER VI. THE PROSECUTOR'S SPEECH. Ipalit Korilević 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'oeuvre, the chef d'oeuvre 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 Ipalit Korilević 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 the genuine passion for the security of society. Even the ladies in the audience, though they remained hostile to Ipalit Korilević, 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 questions. Nevertheless they are disturbing, and every citizen not only must but ought to be harassed by them. Our 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, of things beside 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 outset 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 think like him, and is as dishonorable in soul. In silence, alone with his conscience, he asks himself perhaps, what is honour, and isn't the condemnation of bloodshed a prejudice? Perhaps people will cry out against me that I am morbid, hysterical, 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 profligates. Fyodor Pavlovich, 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 worth it, but this study will come later, at leisure, when all the tragic topsy-turvy-dom 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 tickle our cynical, pampered idleness. Or, like little children, we brush the dreadful ghosts away and hide our heads in the pillow so as to return 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 of the last epoch, comparing Russia to a swift Troika galloping to an unknown goal, exclaims, O Troika, bird-like Troika, who invented thee, and adds, in proud ecstasy, that all the peoples of the world stand 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 access 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, Noshtriyov, Chichakov, it would reach no rational goal, whoever might be driving it, and those were the heroes of an older generation. Ours are worse specimens still. At this point, Ipalit Kurilevich's speech was interrupted by applause. The liberal significance of this simile was appreciated. The applause was its true of brief duration, so that the president did not think it necessary to caution the public, and only looked severely in the direction of the offenders. But Ipalit Kurilevich 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 Karamazov family, which has gained such an unenviable notoriety 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 birth, but in a poor, dependent position, through an unexpected marriage he came into a small fortune. A petty knave, a tody, and buffoon, of fairly good though undeveloped intelligence, he was above all a moneylender, 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 sensual 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, après moi, le deluge. He was an example of everything that is opposed to civic duty, of the most complete and malignant individualism. The world may burn, for ought 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 maternal 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 paid 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 say 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 cursorily. The elder is one 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 Karamazov family. Another personage 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 Pavlovich, Smerjakov. At the preliminary inquiry he told me with hysterical tears how the young Ivan Karamazov 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 this 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 would 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 Pavlovich in character, it is Ivan Fyodorovich. 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 independent thought. Then the third son. Oh, he is a devout and modest youth who does not share his elder brother's gloomy and destructive theory of life. He has sought 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, and 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 dread cynicism and its corrupting influences, and mistakenly 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 forever, only to escape the horrors that terrify them. For my part I wish the excellent and gifted young man every success. I trust that his youthful idealism and impulse towards the ideas of the people may never degenerate, as often happens on the moral side into gloomy mysticism, and on the political into blind 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 clapped their hands at the mention of chauvinism and mysticism. Ipalid Kurilovich 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 sickly 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 Ivan, because the latter had on one or two occasions got the better of him in argument, and Ipalid Kurilovich, 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 on to more direct consideration of the case. But to return to the eldest son, Ipalid Kurilovich 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 seem to stand for Europeanism and the principles of the people, he seems to represent Russia as she is. Oh, not all Russia, not all! God preserve us, 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 chiller, yet he brawls in taverns and plucks out the beards of his boon 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's 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 of filthy lucre, 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 the backyard without boots on his feet as our worthy and esteemed fellow citizen of foreign origin, alas, expressed it just now. I repeat it again. I yield to no one the defence 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 dual 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 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 the payment of this six thousand. Then came his meeting with a young girl of losty 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 a lofty 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. The same 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 girls betrothed, 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 endure everything from 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, will you take it or not? Are you so lost to shame? was the dumb question in her scrutinizing eyes. He looked at her, saw 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 farthing in a noble impulse of generosity and doing reference to virtue, or this other, revolting picture? As a rule 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 Karamazov character, that's just what I'm leading up to, capable of combining the most incongruous contradictions and capable of the greatest heights and of the greatest depths. Remember the brilliant remark made by a young observer who has seen the Karamazov family at close quarters, Mr. Raketen. The sense of their own degradation is as essential to those reckless unbridled 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, wide as 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 setting apart half that sum, that very day, and sewing 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 and 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, did 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 wherewithal to take her. But that first reason, in the prisoner's own words, was of little weight 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 betrothed, and laying down half the sum I have fraudulently appropriated, I can always say to her, you see, I've squandered half your money and shown I am a weakened 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 marvellous 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 analysed? No. And I venture to tell you how the real Dmitry Karamazov would have behaved in such circumstances if he really had brought himself to put away the money. 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's really not worthwhile to give back one hundred, let's spend that too. That's how the real Dmitry Karamazov, as we know him, would have behaved. One cannot imagine anything more incongruous 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, Ipolit Karelovich passed to the evidence of the medical experts, in reference to Mitch's fixed idea about the three thousand owing him. Section 86 of the Brothers Karamazov by Fyodor Dostoevsky, translated by Constance Garnet. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain, recording by Bruce Peary, Book 12, Chapter 7, an historical survey. The medical experts have striven to convince us that the prisoner is out of his mind, and in fact a maniac. 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. 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 Ipolit Karelovich described at length the prisoner's fatal passion for Grushanka. 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 Karamazov's 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 rubles as a 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. Send me to Siberia with him, I have brought him to this, I am most to blame, the woman herself cried, in genuine remorse at the moment of his arrest. The talented young man to whom I have referred already, Mr. Raketen, characterized this heroine in brief and impressive terms. She was disillusioned early in life, deceived and ruined by a betrothed, 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 was embittered 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 betrothed and appropriated money and trusted 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 head, and illustrated his theory with facts. At first he only talked about it in taverns. He was talking about it all that month. 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, enter into 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 the tavern. Then followed the anecdote about Captain Snagiriov. 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 Alyosha, 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, and his own words. I confess, gentlemen 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 is 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, for he eight hours before the perpetration of his 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 hear that? So he had thought everything out, weighing 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. Afterwards 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 shopman out of his seat, but that was done almost unconsciously, because he could never enter a 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 star, 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 everyone as he writes in his peculiar language, and if they won't give it to me there will be bloodshed. Here Ipalit Kareelovich passed to a detailed description of all Mitch's efforts to borrow the money. He described his visit to Samsonov, his journey to Leagofy. Harassed, jeered at, hungry after selling his watch to pay for the journey, though he tells us he had fifteen hundred rubles 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 Fyodor Pavlovich 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 Samsonov, which is psychologically interesting. Then he hastens back to his ambush in the back gardens and there learns that Smirjakov is in a fit, that the other servant is ill. The coast is clear, and he knows the signals. What a temptation! Still, he resists it. He goes off to a lady who has for some time been residing in the town and who is highly esteemed among us, Madame Holakoff. 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 pothouse 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 result of this conversation and the moment when the prisoner learnt that Grushanka 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, Ipolit Karelovich concluded by dwelling upon the fatal influence of chance. Had the maid told him that her mistress was at Makro 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. But note, frantic as he 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 realised for a month past that any object of the kind would serve as a weapon, so he instantly, without hesitation, recognised 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, and perhaps laughing at him at that moment, took his breath away. And it was not mere suspicion. The deception was open, obvious. She must be there, in that lighted room. She must be behind the screen. And the unhappy man would have us believe 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 the moment, and that he knew the signals by which he could at once enter the house. At this point, Ipalit Korilevich broke off to discuss exhaustively the suspected connection of Smerjikov with the murder. He did this very circumstantially, and everyone realised that, though he professed to despise that suspicion, he thought the subject of great importance. End of section 86