 Section ninety-two of the Brothers Karamazov by Fyodor Dostoyevsky. Translated by Constance Garnett. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Bruce Peary. Book twelve, chapter thirteen. A Corruptor of Thought. It's not only the accumulation of facts that threatens my client with ruin, gentlemen of the jury. He began. What is really damning for my client is one fact, the dead body of his father. Had it been an ordinary case of murder you would have rejected the charge in view of the triviality, the incompleteness, and the fantastic character of the evidence, if you examine each part of it separately. Or at least you would have hesitated to ruin a man's life simply from the prejudice against him which he has alas only too well deserved. But it's not an ordinary case of murder. It's a case of parasite. That impresses men's minds, and to such a degree that the very triviality and incompleteness of the evidence becomes less trivial and less incomplete even to an unprejudiced mind. How can such a prisoner be acquitted? What if he committed the murder and gets off unpunished? That is what everyone, almost involuntarily, instinctively feels at heart. Yes, it's a fearful thing to shed a father's blood. The father who has begotten me, loved me, not spared his life for me, grieved over my illnesses from childhood up, troubled all his life for my happiness, and has lived in my joys in my successes. To murder such a father, that's inconceivable. Gentlemen of the jury, what is a father, a real father? What is the meaning of that great word? What is the great idea in that name? We have just indicated in part what a true father is and what he ought to be. In the case in which we are now so deeply occupied and over which our hearts are aching, in the present case the father, Fyodor Pavlovich Karamazov, did not correspond to that conception of a father to which we have just referred. It's the misfortune, and indeed some fathers are a misfortune. Let us examine this misfortune rather more closely. We must shrink from nothing, gentlemen of the jury, considering the importance of the decision you have to make. It's our particular duty not to shrink from any idea like children or frightened women, as the talented prosecutor happily expresses it. But in the course of his heated speech, my esteemed opponent, and he was my opponent before I opened my lips, exclaimed several times, O I will not yield the defence of the prisoner to the lawyer who has come down from Petersburg, I accuse but I defend also. He exclaimed that several times, but forgot to mention that if this terrible prisoner was for twenty-three years so grateful for a mere pound of nuts given him by the only man who had been kind to him as a child in his father's house, might not such a man well have remembered, for twenty-three years, how he ran in his father's backyard without boots on his feet and with his little trousers hanging by one button, to use the expression of the kind-hearted Dr. Herzenstuba. O gentlemen of the jury, why need we look more closely at this misfortune? Why repeat what we all know already? What did my client meet with when he arrived here at his father's house, and why depict my client as a heartless egoist and monster? He is uncontrolled, he is wild and unruly, we are trying him now for that. But who is responsible for his life? Who is responsible for his having received such an unseemly bringing up, in spite of his excellent disposition and his grateful and sensitive heart? Did anyone train him to be reasonable? Was he enlightened by study? Did anyone love him ever so little in his childhood? My client was left to the care of Providence, like a beast of the field. He thirsted perhaps to see his father after long years of separation. A thousand times perhaps he may, recalling his childhood, have driven away the loathsome phantoms that haunted his childish dreams, and with all his heart he may have longed to embrace and to forgive his father. And what awaited him? He was met by cynical taunts, suspicions and wrangling about money. He heard nothing but revolting talk and vicious precepts uttered daily over the brandy, and at last he saw his father seducing his mistress from him with his own money. Oh, gentlemen of the jury, that was cruel and revolting! And that old man was always complaining of the disrespect and cruelty of his son. He slandered him in society, injured him, columnated him, bought up his unpaid debts to get him thrown into prison. Gentlemen of the jury, people like my client, who are fierce, unruly and uncontrolled on the surface, are sometimes, most frequently indeed, exceedingly tender-hearted, only they don't express it. Don't laugh, don't laugh at my idea. The talented prosecutor laughed mercilessly just now at my client for loving Schiller, loving the sublime and beautiful. I should not have laughed at that in his place. Yes, such natures. Oh, let me speak in defence of such natures, so often and so cruelly misunderstood. These natures often thirst for tenderness, goodness and justice, as it were in contrast to themselves, their unrulyness, their ferocity, they thirst for it unconsciously. Passionate and fierce on the surface, they are painfully capable of loving woman, for instance, and with a spiritual and elevated love. Again, do not laugh at me. This is very often the case in such natures, but they cannot hide their passions, sometimes very coarse, and that is conspicuous and is noticed, but the inner man is unseen. Their passions are quickly exhausted, but, by the side of a noble and lofty creature, that seemingly coarse and rough man seeks a new life, seeks to correct himself, to be better, to become noble and honourable, sublime and beautiful, however much the expression has been ridiculed. I said just now that I would not venture to touch upon my client's engagement, but I may say half a word. What we heard just now was not evidence, but only the scream of a frenzied and revengeful woman, and it was not for her—oh, not for her—to reproach him with treachery, for she has betrayed him. If she had had but a little time for reflection, she would not have given such evidence. Oh, do not believe her. No, my client is not a monster, as she called him. The lover of mankind on the eve of his crucifixion said, I am the good shepherd, the good shepherd lays down his life for his sheep, so that not one of them might be lost. Let not a man's soul be lost through us. I asked just now, what does father mean, and exclaimed that it was a great word, a precious name. But one must use words honestly, gentlemen, and I venture to call things by their right names. Such a father as old Karamazov cannot be called a father, and does not deserve to be. Filial love for an unworthy father is an absurdity, an impossibility. Love cannot be created from nothing. Only God can create something from nothing. Father's provoke not your children to wrath, the apostle writes, from a heart glowing with love. It's not for the sake of my client that I quote these sacred words. I mention them for all fathers. Who has authorized me to preach to fathers? No one. But as a man and a citizen I make my appeal. We will swuckle. We are not long on earth. We do many evil deeds and say many evil words. So let us all catch a favourable moment when we are all together to say a good word to each other. That's what I am doing. While I am in this place, I take advantage of my opportunity. Not for nothing is this tribune given us by the highest authority. All Russia hears us. I am not speaking only for the fathers here present. I cry aloud to all fathers. Fathers provoke not your children to wrath. Yes, let us first fulfil Christ's injunction ourselves, and only then venture to expect it of our children. Otherwise we are not fathers, but enemies of our children. And they are not our children, but our enemies, and we have made them our enemies ourselves. What measure ye meet it shall be measured unto you again. It's not I who say that. It's the gospel precept. Measure to others according as they measure to you. How can we blame children if they measure us according to our measure? Not long ago a servant girl in Finland was suspected of having secretly given birth to a child. She was watched and a box of which no one knew anything was found in the corner of the loft behind some bricks. It was opened and inside was found the body of a newborn child which she had killed. In the same box were found the skeletons of two other babies, which according to her own confession she had killed at the moment of their birth. Gentlemen of the jury, was she a mother to her children? She gave birth to them indeed, but was she a mother to them? Would anyone venture to give her the sacred name of mother? Let us be bold, gentlemen. Let us be audacious even. It's our duty to be so at this moment, and not to be afraid of certain words and ideas like the Moscow women in Ostrovsky's play, who are scared at the sound of certain words. No, let us prove that the progress of the last few years has touched even us, and let us say plainly, the father is not merely he who begets the child, but he who begets it and does his duty by it. Oh, of course, there is the other meaning, there is the other interpretation of the word father, which insists that any father, even though he be a monster, even though he be the enemy of his children, still remains my father simply because he begot me. But this is, so to say, the mystical meaning which I cannot comprehend with my intellect, but can only accept by faith, or better to say, on faith, like many other things which I do not understand, but which religion bids me believe. But in that case, let it be kept outside the sphere of actual life, in the sphere of actual life which has indeed its own rights, but also lays upon us great duties and obligations. In that sphere, if we want to be humane, Christian, in fact, we must or ought to act only upon convictions justified by reason and experience which have been passed through the crucible of analysis. In a word, we must act rationally, and not as though in dream and delirium, that we may not do harm, that we may not ill-treat and ruin a man. Then it will be real Christian work, not only mystic, but rational and philanthropic. There was violent applause at this passage from many parts of the court, but Fechikovic waved his hands as though imploring them to let him finish without interruption. The court relapsed into silence at once. The orator went on. Do you suppose, gentlemen, that our children, as they grow up and begin to reason, can avoid such questions? No, they cannot, and we will not impose on them an impossible restriction. The sight of an unworthy father involuntarily suggests tormenting questions to a young creature, especially when he compares him with the excellent fathers of his companions. The conventional answer to this question is, he begot you, and you are his flesh and blood, and therefore you are bound to love him. The youth involuntarily reflects. But did he love me when he begot me? He asks, wondering more and more. Was it for my sake he begot me? He did not know me, not even my sex, at that moment, at the moment of passion, perhaps inflamed by wine, and he has only transmitted to me a propensity to drunkenness. That's all he's done for me. Why am I bound to love him simply for begetting me, when he has cared nothing for me all my life after? Oh, perhaps these questions strike you as coarse and cruel, but do not expect an impossible restraint from a young mind. Drive nature out of the door, and it will fly in at the window, and above all let us not be afraid of words, but decide the question according to the dictates of reason and humanity, and not of mystic ideas. How shall it be decided? Why like this? Let the son stand before his father, and ask him, Father, tell me, why must I love you? Father, show me that I must love you. And if that father is able to answer him and show him good reason, we have a real, normal, parental relation, not resting on mystical prejudice, but on a rational, responsible, and strictly humanitarian basis. But if he does not, there's an end to the family tie. He is not a father to him, and the son has a right to look upon him as a stranger, and even an enemy. Our tribune, gentlemen of the jury, ought to be a school of true and sound ideas. Here the orator was interrupted by irrepressible and almost frantic applause. Of course it was not the whole audience, but a good half of it applauded. The fathers and mothers present applauded. Shrieks and exclamations were heard from the gallery where the ladies were sitting. Henkerchiefs were waved. The President began ringing his bell with all his might. He was obviously irritated by the behavior of the audience, but did not venture to clear the court as he had threatened. Even persons of high position, old men with stars on their breasts, sitting on specially reserved seats behind the judges, applauded the orator, and waved their Henkerchiefs. So that when the noise died down, the President confined himself to repeating his stern threat to clear the court, and Fetyakovich, excited and triumphant, continued his speech. Gentlemen of the jury, you remember that awful night of which so much has been said today, when the son got over the fence and stood face to face with the enemy and persecutor who had begotten him. I insist, most emphatically, it was not for money he ran to his father's house. The charge of robbery is an absurdity, as I proved before. And it was not to murder him he broke into the house. Oh, no! if he had had that design, he would at least have taken the precaution of arming himself beforehand. The brass pestle he caught up instinctively, without knowing why he did it. Granted that he deceived his father by tapping at the window. Granted that he made his way in, I've said already that I do not for a moment believe that legend, but let it be so let us suppose it for a moment. Gentlemen, I swear to you by all that's holy, if it had not been his father but an ordinary enemy, he would, after running through the rooms and satisfying himself that the woman was not there, have made off post-haste, without doing any harm to his rival. He would have struck him, pushed him away perhaps, nothing more, for he had no thought and no time to spare for that. What he wanted was to know where she was. But his father, his father, the mere sight of the father who had hated him from his childhood, had been his enemy, his persecutor, and now his unnatural rival, was enough. A feeling of hatred came over him involuntarily, irresistibly, clouding his reason. It all surged up in one moment. It was an impulse of madness and insanity, but also an impulse of nature, irresistibly and unconsciously, like everything in nature, avenging the violation of its eternal laws. But the prisoner even then did not murder him. I maintain that, I cry that aloud. No, he only brandished the pestle in a burst of indignant disgust, not meaning to kill him, not knowing that he would kill him. Had he not had this fatal pestle in his hand, he would have only knocked his father down perhaps, but would not have killed him. As he ran away he did not know whether he had killed the old man. Such a murder is not a murder. Such a murder is not a parasite. No, the murder of such a father cannot be called parasite. Such a murder can only be reckoned parasite by prejudice. But I appeal to you, again and again, from the depths of my soul, did this murder actually take place? Gentlemen of the jury, if we convict and punish him, he will say to himself, these people have done nothing for my bringing up, for my education, nothing to improve my lot, nothing to make me better, nothing to make me a man. These people have not given me to eat and to drink, have not visited me in prison and nakedness, and here they have sent me to penal servitude. I am quits, I owe them nothing now, and owe no one anything for ever. They are wicked and I will be wicked. They are cruel and I will be cruel. That is what he will say, gentlemen of the jury. And I swear, by finding him guilty, you will only make it easier for him. You will ease his conscience. He will curse the blood he has shed and will not regret it. At the same time you will destroy in him the possibility of becoming a new man, for he will remain in his wickedness and blindness all his life. But do you want to punish him fearfully, terribly, with the most awful punishment that could be imagined, and at the same time to save him and regenerate his soul? If so, overwhelm him with your mercy. You will see, you will hear how he will tremble and be horror struck. How can I endure this mercy? How can I endure so much love? Am I worthy of it? That's what he will exclaim. Oh, I know, I know that heart, that wild but grateful heart, gentlemen of the jury. It will bow before your mercy. It thirsts for a great and loving action. It will melt and mount upwards. There are souls which in their limitation blame the whole world, but subdue such a soul with mercy, show it love, and it will curse its past, for there are many good impulses in it. Such a heart will expand and see that God is merciful and that men are good and just. He will be horror stricken, he will be crushed by remorse and the vast obligation laid upon him, henceforth. And he will not say then, I am quits, but will say, I am guilty in the sight of all men and am more unworthy than all. With tears of penitence and poignant tender anguish, he will exclaim, Others are better than I. They wanted to save me, not to ruin me. Oh, this act of mercy is so easy for you, for in the absence of anything like real evidence, it will be too awful for you to pronounce yes, he is guilty. Better acquit ten guilty men than punish one innocent man. Do you hear, do you hear that majestic voice from the past century of our glorious history? It is not for an insignificant person like me to remind you that the Russian court does not exist for the punishment only, but also for the salvation of the criminal. Let other nations think of retribution and the letter of the law. We will cling to the spirit and the meaning, the salvation and the reformation of the lost. If this is true, if Russia and her justice are such, she may go forward with good cheer. Do not try to scare us with your frenzied troikas from which all the nations stand aside in disgust. Not a runaway troika, but the stately chariot of Russia will move calmly and majestically to its goal. In your hands is the fate of my client, in your hands is the fate of Russian justice. You will defend it, you will save it, you will prove that there are men to watch over it, that it is in good hands. End of Section 92 Section 93 of the Brothers Karamazov by Theodor Dostoevsky, translated by Constance Garnet. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain, recording by Bruce Peary. Book 12, Chapter 14. The Peasants Stand Firm This was how Fechakovich concluded his speech, and the enthusiasm of the audience burst like an irresistible storm. It was out of the question to stop it. The women wept, many of the men wept too, even two important personages shed tears. The President submitted, and even postponed, ringing his bell. The suppression of such an enthusiasm would be the suppression of something sacred, as the ladies cried afterwards. The orator himself was genuinely touched. And it was at this moment that Ipalit Karilevich got up to make certain objections. People looked at him with hatred. What? What's the meaning of it? He positively dares to make objections? The ladies babbled. But if the whole world of ladies, including his wife, had protested, he could not have been stopped at that moment. He was pale, he was shaking with emotion. His first phrases were even unintelligible. He gasped for breath, could hardly speak clearly, lost the thread. But he soon recovered himself. Of this new speech of his, I will quote only a few sentences. I am reproached with having woven a romance, but what is this defence, if not one romance, on the top of another? All that was lacking was poetry. Fyodor Pavlovich, while waiting for his mistress, tears open the envelope and throws it on the floor. We are even told what he said while engaged in this strange act. Is not this a flight of fancy? And what proof have we that he had taken out the money? Who heard what he said? The weak-minded idiot Smirjakov transformed into a bironic hero, a venging society for his illegitimate birth. Isn't this a romance in the bironic style? And the son who breaks into his father's house and murders him without murdering him is not even a romance. This is a sphinx setting us a riddle which he cannot solve himself. If he murdered him, he murdered him, and what's the meaning of his murdering him without having murdered him? Who can make head or tail of this? Then we are admonished that our Tribune is a Tribune of true and sound ideas, and from this Tribune of sound ideas is heard a solemn declaration that to call the murder of a father Parasite is nothing but a prejudice. But if Parasite is a prejudice, and if every child is to ask his father why he is to love him, what will become of us? What will become of the foundations of society? What will become of the family? Parasite, it appears, is only a bogey of Moscow merchant's wives. The most precious, the most sacred guarantees for the destiny and future of Russian justice are presented to us in a perverted and frivolous form, simply to attain an object, to attain the justification of something which cannot be justified. Oh, crush him by mercy! cries the Council for the Defence, but that's all the criminal wants, and to-morrow it will be seen how much he is crushed. And is not the Council for the Defence too modest in asking only for the acquittal of the prisoner? Why not found a charity in the honour of the Parasite to commemorate his exploit among future generations? Religion and the Gospel are corrected. That's all mysticism we are told, and ours is the only true Christianity which has been subjected to the analysis of reason and common sense, and so they set up before us a false semblance of Christ. What measure ye meet so it shall be meted unto you again? cried the Council for the Defence, and instantly deduces that Christ teaches us to measure as it is measured to us, and this from the Tribune of Truth and Sound Sense. We peep into the Gospel, only on the eve of making speeches, in order to dazzle the audience by our acquaintance with what is, anyway, a rather original composition, which may be of use to produce a certain effect, all to serve the purpose. But what Christ commands us is something very different. He bids us beware of doing this, because the wicked world does this, but we ought to forgive and to turn the other cheek, and not to measure to our persecutors as they measure to us. This is what our God has taught us, and not that to forbid children to murder their fathers is a prejudice. And we will not, from the Tribune of Truth and Good Sense, correct the Gospel of our Lord, whom the Council for the Defence deans to call only the Crucified Lover of Humanity, in opposition to all Orthodox Russia, which calls to him for thou art our God. At this the President intervened and checked the overzealous speaker, begging him not to exaggerate, not to overstep the bounds, and so on, as Presidents always do in such cases. The audience, too, was uneasy. The public was restless. There were even exclamations of indignation. Fechakovich did not so much as reply. He only mounted the Tribune to lay his hand on his heart, and, with an offended voice, utter a few words, full of dignity. He only touched again, lightly and ironically, on romancing and psychology. And in an appropriate place, quoted, Jupiter you are angry, therefore you are wrong, which provoked a burst of approving laughter in the audience, for Ipalit Kurilovich was by no means like Jupiter. Then apropos of the accusation that he was teaching the young generation to murder their fathers, Fechakovich observed, with great dignity, that he would not even answer. As for the prosecutor's charge of uttering unorthodox opinions, Fechakovich hinted that it was a personal insinuation that he had expected in this court to be secure from accusations damaging to my reputation as a citizen and a loyal subject. But at these words the President pulled him up, too, and Fechakovich concluded his speech with a bow amid a hum of approbation in the court. And Ipalit Kurilovich was, in the opinion of our ladies, crushed for good. Then the prisoner was allowed to speak. Mitche stood up but said very little. He was fearfully exhausted, physically and mentally. The look of strength and independence with which he had entered in the morning had almost disappeared. He seemed as though he had passed through an experience that day which had taught him for the rest of his life something very important he had not understood till then. His voice was weak. He did not shout as before. In his words there was a new note of humility, defeat, and submission. What am I to say, gentlemen of the jury? The hour of judgment has come for me. I feel the hand of God upon me. The end has come to an airing man. But before God I repeat to you I am innocent of my father's blood. For the last time I repeat it wasn't I killed him. I was airing, but I loved what is good. Every instant I strove to reform, but I lived like a wild beast. I thank the prosecutor. He told me many things about myself that I did not know. But it's not true that I killed my father. The prosecutor is mistaken. I thank my counsel too. I cried listening to him, but it's not true that I killed my father and he needn't have supposed it. And don't believe the doctors. I am perfectly sane. Only my heart is heavy. If you spare me, if you let me go, I will pray for you. I will be a better man. I give you my word before God. I will. And if you will condemn me, I'll break my sword over my head myself and kiss the pieces. But spare me. Do not rob me of my God. I know myself. I shall rebel. My heart is heavy, gentlemen. Spare me. He almost fell back in his place. His voice broke. He could hardly articulate the last phrase. Then the judges proceeded to put the questions and began to ask both sides to formulate their conclusions. But I will not describe the details. At last the jury rose to retire for consultation. The president was very tired, and so his last charge to the jury was rather feeble. Be impartial. Don't be influenced by the eloquence of the defence, but yet weigh the arguments. Remember that there is a great responsibility laid upon you. And so on and so on. The jury withdrew, and the court adjourned. People could get up, move about, exchange their accumulated impressions, refresh themselves at the buffet. It was very late, almost one o'clock in the night, but nobody went away. The strain was so great that no one could think of repose. All waited with sinking hearts. Though that is perhaps too much to say, for the ladies were only in a state of hysterical impatience, and their hearts were untroubled. An acquittal, they thought, was inevitable. They all prepared themselves for a dramatic moment of general enthusiasm. I must own there were many among the men, too, who were convinced that an acquittal was inevitable. Some were pleased, others frowned, while some were simply dejected, not wanting him to be acquitted. Fechikovich himself was confident of his success. He was surrounded by people congratulating him and thawning upon him. There are, he said to one group, as I was told afterwards, there are invisible threads, binding the counsel for the defense with the jury. One feels, during one's speech, if they are being formed. I was aware of them. They exist. Our cause is one. Set your mind at rest. What will our peasants say now? said one stout, cross-looking, pockmarked gentleman, a landowner of the neighborhood, approaching a group of gentlemen engaged in conversation. But they are not all peasants. There are four government clerks among them. Yes, there are clerks, said a member of the district council joining the group. And do you know that Nazarev, the merchant with the medal, a jury man? What of him? He is a man with brains. But he never speaks. He's no great talker, but so much the better. There's no need for the Petersburg man to teach him. He could teach all Petersburg himself. He's the father of twelve children. Think of that. Upon my word you don't suppose they won't acquit him, one of our young officials exclaimed in another group. They'll acquit him for certain, said a resolute voice. It would be shameful, disgraceful not to acquit him, cried the official. Suppose he did murder him. There are fathers and fathers. And besides, he was in such a frenzy. He really may have done nothing but swing the pestle in the air, and so knocked the old man down. But it was a pity they dragged the valet in. That was simply an absurd theory. If I'd been in Fechikova's place, I should simply have said straight out, he murdered him, but he is not guilty. Hang it all. That's what he did, only without saying hang it all. No, Mihail Semionovich, he almost said that, too, put in a third voice. Why, gentlemen, in Lent an actress was acquitted in our town who had cut the throat of her lover's lawful wife. Oh, but she did not finish cutting it. That makes no difference. She began cutting it. What did you think of what he said about children? Splendid, wasn't it? Splendid. And about mysticism, too. Oh, drop mysticism, do, cried someone else. Think of Ippolitan, his fate from this day forth, his wife will scratch his eyes out to-morrow for Mitch's sake. Is she here? What an idea. If she'd been here, she'd have scratched the moat in court. She is at home with toothache. In a third group. I daresay they will acquit Mutenka after all. I should not be surprised if he turns the metropolis upside down to-morrow. He will be drinking for ten days. Oh, the devil. The devil's bound to have a hand in it. Where should he be, if not here? Well, gentlemen, I admit it was eloquent. But still, it's not the thing to break your father's head with a pestle, or what are we coming to? The chariot. Do you remember the chariot? Yes, he turned a cart into a chariot. And to-morrow he will turn a chariot into a cart just to suit his purpose. What cunning chaps there are nowadays. Is there any justice to be had in Russia? But the bell rang. The jury deliberated for exactly an hour, neither more nor less. A profound silence reigned in the court as soon as the public had taken their seats. I remember how the jurymen walked into the court. At last. I won't repeat the questions in order, and indeed I have forgotten them. I remember only the answer to the President's first and chief question. Did the prisoner commit the murder, for the sake of robbery, and with premeditation? I don't remember the exact words. There was a complete hush. The foreman of the jury, the youngest of the clerks, pronounced in a clear, loud voice amidst the deathlike stillness of the court. Yes, guilty. And the same answer was repeated to every question. Yes, guilty. And without the slightest extenuating comment, this no one had expected. Almost everyone had reckoned upon a recommendation to mercy, at least. The deathlike silence in the court was not broken. All seemed petrified, those who desired his conviction as well as those who had been eager for his acquittal. But that was only for the first instant, and it was followed by a fearful hubbub. Many of the men in the audience were pleased, some were rubbing their hands with no attempt to conceal their joy. Those who disagreed with the verdict seemed crushed, shrugged their shoulders, whispered, but still seemed unable to realize this. But how shall I describe the state the ladies were in? I thought they would create a riot. At first they could scarcely believe their ears. Then, suddenly, the whole court rang with exclamations. What's the meaning of it? What next? They leapt up from their places. They seemed to fancy that it might be at once reconsidered and reversed. At that instant, Mitcha suddenly stood up and cried in a heart-rending voice, stretching his hands out before him. I swear by God and the dreadful day of judgment I am not guilty of my father's blood. Catcher, I forgive you. Brothers, friends, have pity on the other woman. He could not go on and broke into a terrible sobbing wail that was heard all over the court in a strange unnatural voice, unlike his own. From the farthest corner at the back of the gallery came a piercing shriek. It was Krushanka. She had succeeded in begging admittance to the court again before the beginning of the lawyer's speeches. Mitcha was taken away. The passing of the sentence was deferred till next day. The whole court was in a hubbub, but I did not wait to hear. I only remember a few exclamations I heard on the steps as I went out. He'll have a twenty years trip to the mines. Not less. Well, our peasants have stood firm. And have done for our Mitcha. End of Section 93 Section 94 of the Brothers Karamazov by Fyodor Dostoevsky, translated by Constance Garnet. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Bruce Peary. Epilogue, Chapter 1 Plans for Mitcha's Escape Very early, at nine o'clock in the morning, five days after the trial, Alyosha went to Katarina Ivanovna's to talk over a matter of great importance to both of them and to give her a message. She sat and talked to him in the very room in which she had once received Krushanka. In the next room Ivan Fyodorovich lay unconscious in a high fever. Katarina Ivanovna had immediately, after the scene of the trial, ordered the sick and unconscious man to be carried to her house, disregarding the inevitable gossip and general disapproval of the public. One of the two relations who lived with her had departed to Moscow immediately after the scene in court. The other remained. But if both had gone away, Katarina Ivanovna would have adhered to her resolution and would have gone on nursing the sick man and sitting by him day and night. Vervinsky and Herzenshtuba were attending him. The famous doctor had gone back to Moscow, refusing to give an opinion as to the probable end of the illness. Though the doctors encouraged Katarina Ivanovna and Alyosha, it was evident that they could not yet give them positive hopes of recovery. Alyosha came to see his sick brother twice a day. But this time he had specially urgent business and he foresaw how difficult it would be to approach the subject, yet he was in great haste. He had another engagement that could not be put off for that same morning and there was need of haste. They had been talking for a quarter of an hour. Katarina Ivanovna was pale and terribly fatigued, yet at the same time in a state of hysterical excitement, she had a presentiment of the reason why Alyosha had come to her. Don't worry about his decision, she said, with confident emphasis to Alyosha. One way or another he is bound to come to it. He must escape. That unhappy man, that hero of honour and principle, not he, not Dmitry Fyodorovich, but the man lying the other side of that door who has sacrificed himself for his brother, Katya added with flashing eyes, told me the whole plan of escape long ago. You know he has already entered into negotiations. I've told you something already. You see it will probably come off at the third etap from here, when the party of prisoners is being taken to Siberia. Oh, it's a long way off yet. Yvon Fyodorovich has already visited the superintendent of the third etap, but we don't know yet who will be in charge of the party, and it's impossible to find that out so long beforehand. Tomorrow perhaps I will show you in detail the whole plan which Yvon Fyodorovich left me on the eve of the trial in case of need. That was when, do you remember, you found us quarrelling. He had just gone downstairs, but seeing you, I made him come back. Do you remember? Do you know what we were quarrelling about then? No, I don't, said Alyosha. Of course he did not tell you. It was about that plan of escape. He had told me the main idea three days before, and we began quarrelling about it at once, and quarrelled for three days. We quarrelled because, when he told me that, if Dmitri Fyodorovich were convicted, he would escape abroad with that creature, I felt furious at once. I can't tell you why. I don't know myself why. Oh, of course! I was furious then about that creature, and that she too should go abroad with Dmitri. Katerina Ivanovna exclaimed suddenly, her lips quivering with anger. As soon as Yvon Fyodorovich saw that I was furious about that woman, he instantly imagined I was jealous of Dmitri, and that I still loved Dmitri. That is how our first quarrel began. I would not give an explanation. I could not ask forgiveness. I could not bear to think that such a man could suspect me of still loving that. And when I myself had told him long before that I did not love Dmitri, that I loved no one but him, it was only resentment against that creature that made me angry with him. Three days later, on the evening you came, he brought me a sealed envelope, which I was to open at once, if anything happened to him. Oh, he foresaw his illness. He told me that the envelope contained the details of the escape, and that if he died, or was taken dangerously ill, I was to save Mitcha alone. Then he left me money, nearly ten thousand, those notes to which the prosecutor referred in his speech, having learnt from someone that he had sent them to be changed. I was tremendously impressed to find that Yvon Fyodorovich had not given up his idea of saving his brother, and was confiding this plan of escape to me, though he was still jealous of me, and still convinced that I loved Mitcha. Oh, that was a sacrifice. No, you cannot understand the greatness of such self-sacrifice, Alexei Fyodorovich. I wanted to fall at his feet in reverence, but I thought at once that he would take it only for my joy at the thought of Mitcha's being saved, and he certainly would have imagined that. And I was so exasperated at the mere possibility of such an unjust thought on his part that I lost my temper again, and instead of kissing his feet flew into a fury again. Oh, I am unhappy. It's my character, my awful, unhappy character. Oh, you will see, I shall end by driving him too to abandon me for another with whom he can get on better, like Dimitri. But no, I could not bear it. I should kill myself. And when you came in then, and when I called to you and told him to come back, I was so enraged by the look of contempt and hatred he turned on me that, do you remember, I cried out to you that it was he, he alone, who had persuaded me that his brother Dimitri was a murderer. I said that malicious thing on purpose to wound him again. He had never, never persuaded me that his brother was a murderer. On the contrary, it was I who persuaded him. Oh, my vile temper was the cause of everything. I paved the way to that hideous scene at the trial. He wanted to show me that he was an honourable man, and that even if I loved his brother he would not ruin him for revenge or jealousy. So he came to the court. I am the cause of it all. I alone am to blame. Katchen never had made such confessions to Alyosha before, and he felt that she was now at that stage of unbearable suffering when even the proudest heart painfully crushes its pride and falls vanquished by grief. Oh, Alyosha knew another terrible reason of her present misery, though she had carefully concealed it from him during those days since the trial. But it would have been for some reason too painful to him if she had been brought so low as to speak to him now about that. She was suffering for her treachery at the trial, and Alyosha felt that her conscience was impelling her to confess it to him, to him Alyosha, with tears and cries and hysterical writhings on the floor, but he dreaded that moment and longed to spare her. It made the commission on which he had come even more difficult. He spoke of Mitcha again. It's all right. It's all right. Don't be anxious about him. She began again sharply and stubbornly. All that is only momentary. I know him. I know his heart only too well. You may be sure he will consent to escape. It's not as though it would be immediately. He will have time to make up his mind to it. Yvon Fyodorovich will be well by that time and will manage it all himself, so that I shall have nothing to do with it. Don't be anxious. He will consent to run away. He has agreed already. Do you suppose he would give up that creature? And they won't let her go to him, so he is bound to escape. It's you he's most afraid of. He is afraid you won't approve of his escape on moral grounds. But you must generously allow it if your sanction is so necessary, Katcha added viciously. She paused and smiled. He talks about some him, she went on again, some cross he has to bear, some duty. I remember Yvon Fyodorovich told me a great deal about it. And if you knew how he talked, Katcha cried suddenly, with feelings she could not repress. If you knew how he loved that wretched man at the moment he told me, and how he hated him, perhaps at the same moment. And I heard his story and his tears with sneering disdain. Brute. Yes, I am a brute. I am responsible for his fever. But that man in prison is incapable of suffering. Katcha concluded irritably, Can such a man suffer? Men like him never suffer. There was a note of hatred and contemptuous repulsion in her words, and yet it was she who had betrayed him. Perhaps because she feels how she's wronged him, she hates him at moments, Alyosha thought to himself. He hoped that it was only at moments. In Katcha's last words he detected a challenging note, but he did not take it up. I sent for you this morning to make you promise to persuade him yourself, or do you too consider that to escape would be dishonourable, cowardly, or something un-Christian, perhaps? Katcha added, even more defiantly. Oh no, I'll tell him everything, muttered Alyosha. He asks you to come and see him today. He blurted out suddenly, looking her steadily in the face. She started and drew back a little from him on the sofa. Me? Can that be? She faltered, turning pale. It can and ought to be, Alyosha began emphatically, growing more animated. He needs you particularly just now. I would not have opened the subject and worried you if it were not necessary. He is ill, he is beside himself, he keeps asking for you. It is not to be reconciled with you that he wants you, but only that you would go and show yourself at his door. So much has happened to him since that day. He realises that he has injured you beyond all reckoning. He does not ask your forgiveness. It's impossible to forgive me, he says himself, but only that you would show yourself in his doorway. It's so sudden, faltered Katcha. I've had a presentiment all these days that you would come with that message. I knew he would ask me to come. It's impossible. Let it be impossible, but do it. Only think he realises for the first time how he has wounded you the first time in his life. He had never grasped it before, so fully. He said, if she refuses to come, I shall be unhappy all my life. Do you hear? Though he is condemned to penal servitude for twenty years, he is still planning to be happy. Is not that piteous? Think! You must visit him. Though he is ruined, he is innocent. Broke like a challenge from Al-Yasha. His hands are clean. There is no blood on them. For the sake of his infinite sufferings in the future, visit him now. Go, greet him on his way into the darkness. Stand at his door. That is all. You ought to do it. You ought to, Al-Yasha concluded, laying immense stress on the word ought. I ought to, but I cannot. Catch a moaned. He will look at me. I can't. Your eyes ought to meet. How will you live all your life if you don't make up your mind to do it now? Better suffer all my life. You ought to go. You ought to go, Al-Yasha repeated, with merciless emphasis. But why today? Why at once? I can't leave our patient. You can, for a moment. It will only be a moment. If you don't come, he will be in delirium by to-night. I would not tell you a lie. Have pity on him. Have pity on me! Catches said, with bitter reproach, and she burst into tears. Then you will come, said Al-Yasha firmly, seeing her tears. I'll go and tell him you will come directly. No, don't tell him so on any account, cried Catcha in alarm. I will come, but don't tell him beforehand, for perhaps I may go, but not go in. I don't know yet. Her voice failed her. She gasped for breath. Al-Yasha got up to go. And what if I meet any one? She said suddenly, in a low voice, turning white to gain. That's just why you must go now, to avoid meeting any one. There will be no one there. I can tell you that for certain. We will expect you. He concluded emphatically, and went out of the room. End of Section 94 Section 95 of the Brothers Karamazov by Fyodor Dostoevsky. Translated by Constance Garnet. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Bruce Peary. Epilogue. Chapter 2 For a moment the lie becomes truth. He hurried to the hospital where Misha was lying now. The day after his fate was determined Misha had fallen ill with nervous fever, and was sent to the prison division of the town hospital. But at the request of several persons, Al-Yasha, Madame Holokov, please, etc., Dr. Varvinsky had put Misha not with other prisoners, but in a separate little room, the one where Smirjakov had been. It is true that there was a sentinel at the other end of the corridor, and there was a grating over the window so that Varvinsky could be at ease about the indulgence he had shown, which was not quite legal indeed, but he was a kind-hearted and compassionate young man. He knew how hard it would be for a man like Misha to pass at once so suddenly into the society of robbers and murderers, and that he must get used to it by degrees. The visits of relations and friends were informally sanctioned by the doctor and overseer, and even by the police captain. But only Al-Yasha and Grushanka had visited Misha. Raketen had tried to force his way in twice, but Misha persistently begged Varvinsky not to admit him. Al-Yasha found him sitting on his bed in a hospital dressing-gown, rather feverish, with a towel soaked in vinegar and water on his head. He looked at Al-Yasha as he came in, with an undefined expression, but there was a shade of something like dread discernible in it. He had become terribly preoccupied since the trial. Sometimes he would be silent for half an hour together, and seemed to be pondering something heavily and painfully oblivious of everything about him. If he roused himself from his brooding and began to talk, he always spoke with a kind of abruptness and never of what he really wanted to say. He looked sometimes with a face of suffering at his brother. He seemed to be more at ease with Grushanka than with Al-Yasha. It is true, he scarcely spoke to her at all, but as soon as she came in his whole face lighted up with joy. Al-Yasha sat down beside him on the bed in silence. This time Misha was waiting for Al-Yasha in suspense, but he did not dare ask him a question. He felt it almost unthinkable that Katcha would consent to come, and at the same time he felt that if she did not come something inconceivable would happen. Al-Yasha understood his feelings. Trifon Borisovich, Misha began nervously, has pulled his whole in to pieces, I am told. He's taken up the flooring, pulled apart the planks, split up all the gallery, I am told. He is seeking treasure all the time, the fifteen hundred rubles which the prosecutor said, I'd hidden there. He began playing these tricks, they say, as soon as he got home. Serve him right, the swindler. The guard here told me yesterday. He comes from there. Listen, began Al-Yasha, she will come, but I don't know when. Perhaps today, perhaps in a few days, that I can't tell, but she will come, she will, that's certain. Misha started, would have said something, but was silent. The news had a tremendous effect on him. It was evident that he would have liked terribly to know what had been said, but he was again afraid to ask. Something cruel and contemptuous from Katcho would have cut him like a knife at that moment. This was what she said, among other things, that I must be sure to set your conscience at rest about escaping. If Yvonne is not well by then, she will see to it all herself. You've spoken of that already, Misha observed musingly. And you have repeated it to Grusha, observed Al-Yasha. Yes, Misha admitted, she won't come this morning. He looked timidly at his brother. She won't come till the evening. When I told her yesterday that Katcho was taking measures, she was silent, but she set her mouth. She only whispered, let her. She understood that it was important. I did not dare to try her further. She understands now, I think, that Katcho no longer cares for me, but loves Yvonne. Does she? Broke from Al-Yasha. Perhaps she does not. Only she is not coming this morning, Misha hastened to explain again. I asked her to do something for me. You know, Yvonne is superior to all of us. He ought to live, not us. He will recover. Would you believe it? Though Katcho is alarmed about him, she scarcely doubts of his recovery, said Al-Yasha. That means that she is convinced he will die. It's because she is frightened, she's so sure he will get well. Yvonne has a strong constitution, and I too believe there's every hope that he will get well, Al-Yasha observed anxiously. Yes, he will get well, but she is convinced that he will die. She has a great deal of sorrow to bear. A silence followed. A grave anxiety was fretting, Misha. Al-Yasha, I love Grusha terribly, he said suddenly, in a shaking voice, full of tears. They won't let her go out there to you, Al-Yasha put in at once. And there is something else I wanted to tell you, Misha went on, with a sudden ring in his voice. If they beat me on the way or out there, I won't submit to it. I shall kill someone, and shall be shot for it. And this will be going on for twenty years. They speak to me rudely as it is. I've been lying here all night, passing judgment on myself. I am not ready. I am not able to resign myself. I wanted to sing a hymn, but if a guard speaks rudely to me, I have not the strength to bear it. For Grusha I would bear anything, anything except blows, but she won't be allowed to come there. Al-Yasha smiled gently. Listen, brother, once for all, he said, This is what I think about it, and you know that I would not tell you a lie. Listen, you are not ready, and such a cross is not for you. What's more, you don't need such a martyr's cross when you are not ready for it. If you had murdered our father, it would grieve me that you should reject your punishment. But you are innocent, and such a cross is too much for you. You wanted to make yourself another man by suffering. I say, only remember that other man, always, all your life and wherever you go, and that will be enough for you. Your refusal of that great cross will only serve to make you feel all your life an even greater duty, and that constant feeling will do more to make you a new man, perhaps, than if you went there. For there you would not endure it, and would repine, and perhaps at last would say I am quits. The lawyer was right about that. Such heavy burdens are not for all men, for some they are impossible. These are my thoughts about it, if you want them so much. If other men would have to answer for your escape, officers or soldiers, then I would not have allowed you, smiled Al Yasha. But they declare, the superintendent of that atap told Yvon himself, that if it's well managed, there will be no great inquiry, and that they can get off easily. Of course bribing is dishonest, even in such a case, but I can't undertake to judge about it, because if Yvon and Katya commissioned me to act for you, I know I should go and give bribes. I must tell you the truth. And so I can't judge of your own action. But let me assure you that I shall never condemn you, and it would be a strange thing if I could judge you in this. Now I think I've gone into everything. But I do condemn myself, cried Misha. I shall escape, that was settled apart from you. Could Misha Karamazov do anything but run away? But I shall condemn myself, and I will pray for my sin forever. That's how the Jesuits talk, isn't it, just as we are doing? Yes, Al Yasha smiled gently. I love you for always telling the whole truth and never hiding anything, cried Misha, with a joyful laugh. So I've caught my Al Yasha being Jesuitical. I must kiss you for that. Now listen to the rest. I'll open the other side of my heart to you. This is what I planned and decided. If I run away, even with money and a passport, and even to America, I should be cheered up by the thought that I am not running away for pleasure, not for happiness, but to another exile, as bad perhaps as Siberia. It is as bad, Al Yasha, it is. I hate that America, damn it, already. Even though Grisha will be with me. Just look at her. Is she an American? She is Russian, Russian to the marrow of her bones. She will be homesick for the mother country, and I shall see every hour that she is suffering for my sake, that she has taken up that cross for me. And what harm has she done? And how shall I, too, put up with the rabble out there, though they may be better than I, every one of them? I hate that America, already. And, though they may be wonderful at machinery, every one of them, damn them they are not of my soul. I love Russia, Al Yasha. I love the Russian God, though I am a scoundrel myself. I shall choke there, he exclaimed, his eyes suddenly flashing, his voice was trembling with tears. So this is what I have decided, Al Yasha. Listen. He began again, mastering his emotion. As soon as I arrive there with Grisha, we will set to work at once on the land in solitude, somewhere very remote, with wild bears. There must be some remote parts even there. I am told there are still redskins there, somewhere on the edge of the horizon. So, to the country of the last of the Mohicans, and there we'll tackle the grammar at once, Grisha and I, work and grammar. That's how we'll spend three years. And by that time we shall speak English like any Englishman. And as soon as we've learnt it, goodbye to America. We'll run here to Russia as American citizens. Don't be uneasy, we would not come to this little town. We'd hide somewhere, a long way off in the north or in the south. I shall be changed by that time, and she will, too, in America. The doctors shall make me some sort of wart on my face, what's the use of their being so mechanical. Or else I'll put out one eye, let my beard grow a yard, and I shall turn gray, fretting for Russia. I dare say they won't recognize us, and if they do, let them send us to Siberia. I don't care, it will show it's our fate. We'll work on the land here, too, somewhere in the wilds, and I'll make up as an American all my life, but we shall die on our own soil. That's my plan, and it shan't be altered. Do you approve? Yes, said Al-Yasha, not wanting to contradict him. Misha paused for a minute, and said suddenly, and how they worked it up at the trial. Didn't they work it up? If they had not, you would have been convicted just the same, said Al-Yasha with a sigh. Yes, people are sick of me here. God bless them, but it's hard, Misha moaned miserably. Again there was silence for a minute. Al-Yasha put me out of my misery at once, he exclaimed suddenly. Tell me, is she coming now, or not? Tell me, what did she say? How did she say it? She said she would come, but I don't know whether she will come today. It's hard for her, you know. Al-Yasha looked timidly at his brother. I should think it is hard for her. Al-Yasha, it will drive me out of my mind. Grusha keeps looking at me. She understands. My God, calm my heart. What is it I want? I want Katya. Do I understand what I want? It's the headstrong evil Karamazov spirit. No, I am not fit for suffering. I am a scoundrel, that's all one can say. Here she is, cry Al-Yasha. At that instant Katya appeared in the doorway. For a moment she stood still, gazing at Betcha with the dazed expression. He leapt impulsively to his feet, and a scared look came into his face. He turned pale, but a timid, pleading smile appeared on his lips at once, and with an irresistible impulse he held out both hands to Katya. Seeing it, she flew impetuously to him. She seized him by the hands, and almost by force made him sit down on the bed. She sat down beside him, and, still keeping his hands, pressed them violently. Several times they both strove to speak, but stopped short, and again gazed speechless with a strange smile, their eyes fastened on one another. So passed two minutes. Have you forgiven me? Mitcha faltered at last, and at the same moment, turning to Al-Yasha, his face working with joy, he cried, Do you hear what I am asking? Do you hear? That's what I loved you for, that you are generous at heart, broke from Katya. My forgiveness is no good to you, nor yours to me. Whether you forgive me or not, you will always be a sore place in my heart, and I in yours, so it must be. She stopped to take breath. What have I come for? she began again with nervous haste. To embrace your feet, to press your hands like this till it hurts. You remember how in Moscow I used to squeeze them, to tell you again that you are my God, my joy, to tell you that I love you madly? She moaned in anguish, and suddenly pressed his hand greedily to her lips. Tears streamed from her eyes. Al-Yasha stood speechless and confounded. He had never expected what he was seeing. Love is over, Mitcha, Katya began again, but the past is painfully dear to me. Know that you will always be so. But now let what might have been come true for one minute. She faltered, with a drawn smile, looking into his face joyfully again. You love another woman, and I love another man, and yet I shall love you forever, and you will love me. Do you know that? Do you hear? Love me, love me all your life. She cried, with a quiver almost of menace in her voice. I shall love you, and do you know, Katya? Mitcha began, drawing a deep breath at each word. Do you know, five days ago, that same evening, I loved you, when you fell down and were carried out, all my life. So it will be, so it will always be. So they murmured to one another, frantic words, almost meaningless, perhaps not even true, but at that moment it was all true, and they both believed what they said implicitly. Katya cried Mitcha suddenly. Do you believe I murdered him? I know you don't believe it now, but then, when you gave evidence, surely, surely you did not believe it. I did not believe it even then. I've never believed it. I hated you, and for a moment I persuaded myself. While I was giving evidence, I persuaded myself and believed it. But when I'd finished speaking, I left off believing it at once. Don't doubt that. I have forgotten that I came here to punish myself. She said, with a new expression in her voice, quite unlike the loving tones of a moment before. Woman, yours is a heavy burden, broke, as it were, involuntarily, from Mitcha. Let me go, she whispered. I'll come again. It's more than I can bear now. She was getting up from her place, but suddenly uttered a loud scream and staggered back. Rushanka walked suddenly and noiselessly into the room. No one had expected her. Kaccha moved swiftly to the door, but when she reached Rushanka, she stopped. Suddenly, turned as white as chalk and moaned softly, almost in a whisper. Forgive me. Rushanka stared at her and, pausing for an instant, in a vindictive, venomous voice, answered, We are full of hatred, my girl, you and I. We are both full of hatred, as though we could forgive one another. Save him, and I'll worship you all my life. You won't forgive her, cried Mitcha, with frantic reproach. Don't be anxious. I'll save him for you. Kaccha whispered rapidly, and she ran out of the room. And you could refuse to forgive her when she begged your forgiveness herself? Mitcha exclaimed bitterly again. Mitcha, don't dare to blame her. You have no right to. Alyasha cried hotly. Her proud lips spoke, not her heart, Rushanka brought out in a tone of disgust. If she saves you, I'll forgive her everything. She stopped speaking as though suppressing something. She could not yet recover herself. She had come in, as appeared afterwards, accidentally, with no suspicion of what she would meet. Alyasha, run after her, Mitcha cried to his brother. Tell her, I don't know, don't let her go away like this. I'll come to you again at nightfall, said Alyasha, and he ran after Kaccha. He overtook her outside the hospital grounds. She was walking fast, but as soon as Alyasha caught her up, she said quickly, No, before that woman I can't punish myself. I asked her forgiveness because I wanted to punish myself to the bitter end. She would not forgive me. I like her for that. She added, in an unnatural voice, and her eyes flashed with fierce resentment. My brother did not expect this in the least, uttered Alyasha. He was sure she would not come. No doubt, let us leave that, she snapped. Listen, I can't go with her to the funeral now. I sent them flowers. I think they still have money. If necessary, tell them I'll never abandon them. Now, leave me, leave me, please. You are late as it is. The bells are ringing for the service. Leave me, please. End of section ninety-five Section ninety-six of the Brothers Karamazov by Fyodor Dostoevsky. Translated by Constance Garnet. This Slibervox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Bruce Peary. Epilogue. Chapter three. Ilyusha's funeral. The speech at the stone. He really was late. They had waited for him and had already decided to bear the pretty flower-decked little coffin to the church without him. It was the coffin of poor little Ilyusha. He had died two days after Misha was sentenced. At the gate of the house Alyasha was met by the shouts of the boys, Ilyusha's school fellows. They had all been impatiently expecting him and were glad that he had come at last. There were about twelve of them. They all had their school bags or satchels on their shoulders. Father will cry, be with father, Ilyusha had told them as he lay dying, and the boys remembered it. Kolia Krasotkin was the foremost of them. How glad I am you've come Karamazov, he cried, holding out his hand to Alyasha. It's awful here. It's really horrible to see it. Snigiryev is not drunk. We know for a fact he's had nothing to drink today, but he seems as if he were drunk. I am always manly, but this is awful. Karamazov, if I am not keeping you, one question before you go in. What is it, Kolia? said Alyasha. Is your brother innocent or guilty? Was it he killed your father, or was it the valet? As you say, so it will be, I haven't slept for the last four nights for thinking of it. The valet killed him. My brother is innocent, answered Alyasha. That's what I said, cried Snirov. So he will perish an innocent victim, exclaimed Kolia, though he is ruined, he is happy. I could envy him. What do you mean? How can you? Why? cried Alyasha, surprised. Oh, if I too could sacrifice myself some day for truth, said Kolia, with enthusiasm. But not in such a cause, not with such disgrace and such horror, said Alyasha. Of course I should like to die for all humanity, and as for disgrace I don't care about that. Our names may perish. I respect your brother. And so do I, the boy who had once declared that he knew who had founded Troy, cried suddenly and unexpectedly, and he blushed up to his ears like a peony, as he had done on that occasion. Alyasha went into the room. Alyusha lay with his hands folded and his eyes closed, in a blue coffin with a white frill round it. His thin face was hardly changed at all, and, strange to say, there was no smell of decay from the corpse. The expression of his face was serious and, as it were, thoughtful. His hands crossed over his breast, looked particularly beautiful, as though chiseled in marble. There were flowers in his hands, and the coffin inside and out was decked with flowers, which had been sent early in the morning by Lee's holocoff. But there were flowers, too, from Katerina Ivanovna, and when Alyusha opened the door, the captain had a bunch in his trembling hands, and was screwing them again over his dear boy. He scarcely glanced at Alyusha when he came in, and he would not look at any one, even at his crazy, weeping wife, Mama, who kept trying to stand on her crippled legs to get a nearer look at her dead boy. Nina had been pushed in her chair by the boys, close up to the coffin. She sat with her head pressed to it, and she, too, was no doubt quietly weeping. Snigiryev's face looked eager yet bewildered and exasperated. There was something crazy about his gestures and the words that broke from him. Old man, dear old man, he exclaimed every minute gazing at Alyusha. It was his habit to call Alyusha old man as a term of affection when he was alive. Father, give me a flower, too. Take that white one out of his hand and give it me, the crazy mother begged, whimpering. Either because the little white rose in Alyusha's hand had caught her fancy, or that she wanted one from his hand to keep in memory of him, she moved restlessly, stretching out her hands for the flower. I won't give it to any one, I won't give you anything, Snigiryev cried callously. They are his flowers, not yours. Everything is his, nothing is yours. Father, give mother a flower, said Nina, lifting her face wet with tears. I won't give away anything, and to her less than any one. She didn't love Alyusha. She took away his little cannon, and he gave it to her. The captain broke into loud sobs at the thought of how Alyusha had given up his cannon to his mother. The poor crazy creature was bathed in noiseless tears, hiding her face in her hands. The boys, seeing that the father would not leave the coffin and that it was time to carry it out, stood round it in a close circle and began to lift it up. I don't want him to be buried in the churchyard. Snigiryev wailed suddenly. I'll bury him by the stone, by our stone. Alyusha told me to. I won't let him be carried out. He had been saying for the last three days that he would bury him by the stone, but Alyusha Krasotkin, the landlady, her sister, and all the boys interfered. What an idea, bury him by an unholy stone as though he had hanged himself, the old landlady said sternly. There in the churchyard the ground has been crossed. He'll be prayed for there. One can hear the singing in church, and the deacon reads so plainly and verbally that it will reach him every time, just as though it were read over his grave. At last the captain made a gesture of despair, as though to say, take him where you will. The boys raised the coffin, but as they passed the mother, they stopped for a moment and lowered it that she might say goodbye to Alyusha. But on seeing that precious little face, which for the last three days she had only looked at from a distance, she trembled all over and her gray head began twitching spasmotically over the coffin. Mother, make the sign of the cross over him. Give him your blessing. Kiss him. Nina cried to her. But her head still twitched like an automaton, and with the face contorted with bitter grief, she began, without a word, beating her breast with her fist. They carried the coffin past her. Nina pressed her lips to her brothers for the last time as they bore the coffin by her. As Alyusha went out of the house, he begged the landlady to look after those who were left behind, but she interrupted him before he had finished. To be sure I'll stay with them, we are Christians too. The old woman wept as she said it. They had not far to carry the coffin to the church, not more than three hundred paces. It was a still clear day with a slight frost. The church bells were still ringing. Snigiryev ran fussing and distracted after the coffin in his short old summer overcoat with his head bare and his soft old wide-brimmed hat in his hand. He seemed in a state of bewildered anxiety. At one minute he stretched out his hand to support the head of the coffin, and only hindered the bearers. At another he ran alongside and tried to find a place for himself there. A flower fell on the snow, and he rushed to pick it up, as though everything in the world depended on the loss of that flower. And the crust of bread! We've forgotten the crust! He cried suddenly in dismay. But the boys reminded him at once that he had taken the crust of bread already, and that it was in his pocket. He instantly pulled it out and was reassured. Ilyusha told me to. Ilyusha, he explained at once to Alyusha. I was sitting by him one night, and he suddenly told me, Father, when my grave is filled up, crumble a piece of bread on it, so that the sparrows may fly down. I shall hear, and it will cheer me up, not to be lying alone. That's a good thing, said Alyusha. We must often take some. Every day, every day, said the captain quickly, seeming cheered at the thought. They reached the church at last and set the coffin in the middle of it. The boys surrounded it and remained reverently standing so, all through the service. It was an old and rather poor church. Many of the icons were without settings, but such churches are the best for praying in. During the mass, Snigiryev became somewhat calmer, though at times he had outbursts of the same unconscious and, as it were, incoherent anxiety. At one moment he went up to the coffin to set straight the cover or the wreath. When a candle fell out of the candlestick he rushed to replace it, and was a fearful time fumbling over it. Then he subsided and stood quietly by the coffin with a look of blank uneasiness and perplexity. After the epistle he suddenly whispered to Alyusha, who was standing beside him, that the epistle had not been read properly, but did not explain what he meant. During the prayer, like the cherubim, he joined in the singing but did not go on to the end. Falling on his knees he pressed his forehead to the stone floor and lay so for a long while. At last came the funeral service itself and candles were distributed. The distracted father began fussing about again, but the touching and impressive funeral prayers moved and roused his soul. He seemed suddenly to shrink together and broke into rapid, short sobs, which he tried at first to smother, but at last he sobbed aloud. When they began taking leave of the dead and closing the coffin, he flung his arms about as though he would not allow them to cover Alyusha, and began greedily and persistently kissing his dead boy on the lips. At last they succeeded in persuading him to come away from the step, but suddenly he impulsively stretched out his hand and snatched a few flowers from the coffin. He looked at them, and a new idea seemed to dawn upon him, so that he apparently forgot his grief for a minute. Gradually he seemed to sink into brooding and did not resist when the coffin was lifted up and carried to the grave. It was an expensive one in the churchyard close to the church. Katarina Ivanovna had paid for it. After the customary rites, the grave-diggers lowered the coffin. Snagiriov, with his flowers in his hands, bent down so low over the open grave that the boys caught hold of his coat in alarm and pulled him back. He did not seem to understand fully what was happening. When they began filling up the grave, he suddenly pointed anxiously at the falling earth and began trying to say something, but no one could make out what he meant, and he stopped suddenly. Then he was reminded that he must crumble the bread, and he was awfully excited, snatched up the bread, and began pulling it to pieces and flinging the morsels on the grave. Come, fly down, birds, fly down, sparrows! He muttered anxiously. One of the boys observed that it was awkward for him to crumble the bread with the flowers in his hands and suggested he should give them to someone to hold for a time, but he would not do this and seemed indeed suddenly alarmed for his flowers as though they wanted to take them from him altogether. And after looking at the grave and, as it were, satisfying himself that everything had been done and the bread had been crumbled, he suddenly, to the surprise of everyone, turned, quite composately even, and made his way homewards. But his steps became more and more hurried he almost ran. The boys in Balyasha kept up with him. The flowers are for Mama. The flowers are for Mama. I was unkind to Mama. He began exclaiming suddenly. Someone called to him to put on his hat as it was cold, but he flung the hat in the snow as though he were angry and kept repeating, I won't have the hat, I won't have the hat. Smirov picked it up and carried it after him. All the boys were crying, and Kolia and the boy who discovered about Troy, most of all. Though Smirov, with the captain's hat in his hand, was crying bitterly too, he managed, as he ran, to snatch up a piece of red brick that lay on the snow of the path to fling it at the flock of sparrows that was flying by. He missed them, of course, and went on crying as he ran. Halfway Snigiryev suddenly stopped, stood still for half a minute as though struck by something, and suddenly turning back to the church ran towards the deserted grave. But the boys instantly overtook him and caught hold of him on all sides. Then he fell helpless on the snow, as though he had been knocked down, and, struggling, sobbing and wailing, he began crying out, Helusia, old man, dear old man. Alyasha and Kolia tried to make him get up, soothing and persuading him. Captain, give over. A brave man must show fortitude, muttered Kolia. You'll spoil the flowers, said Alyasha, and Mama is expecting them. She is sitting crying because you would not give her any before. Helusia's little bed is still there. Yes, yes, Mama, Snigiryev suddenly recollected. They'll take away the bed, they'll take it away, he added, as though alarmed that they really would. He jumped up and ran homewards again. But it was not far off, and they all arrived together. Snigiryev opened the door hurriedly, and called to his wife, with whom he had so cruelly quarreled just before. Mama, poor crippled darling, Helusia has sent you these flowers, he cried, holding out to her a little bunch of flowers that had been frozen and broken while he was struggling in the snow. But at that instant he saw, in the corner, by the little bed, Helusia's little boots, which the landlady had put tidally side by side. Seeing the old, patched, rusty-looking, stiff boots, he flung up his hands and rushed to them. Fell on his knees, snatched up one boot, and, pressing his lips to it, began kissing it greedily, crying, Helusia, old man, dear old man, where are your little feet? Where have you taken him away? Where have you taken him? The lunatic cried, in a heart-rending voice. Nina, too, broke into sobs. Kolia ran out of the room. The boys followed him. At last Alyosha, too, went out. Let them weep, he said to Kolia. It's no use trying to comfort them just now. Let us wait a minute, and then go back. No, it's no use. It's awful. Kolia assented. Do you know, Karamazov? He dropped his voice so that no one could hear them. I feel dreadfully sad, and if it were only possible to bring him back, I'd give anything in the world to do it. Ah, so would I, said Alyosha. What do you think, Karamazov? Had we better come back here tonight? He'll be drunk, you know. Perhaps he will. Let us come together, you and I, that will be enough, to spend an hour with them, with the mother and Nina. If we all come together, we shall remind them of everything again, Alyosha suggested. The landlady is laying the table for them now. There'll be a funeral dinner or something. The priest is coming. Shall we go back to it, Karamazov? Of course, said Alyosha. It's also strange, Karamazov, such sorrow, and then pancakes after it. It all seems so unnatural in our religion. They're going to have salmon, too, the boy who had discovered about Troy, observed in the loud voice. I beg you most earnestly, Kartashov, not to interrupt again with your idiotic remarks, especially when one is not talking to you and doesn't care to know whether you exist or not, Kolya snapped out irritably. The boy flushed crimson, but did not dare to reply. Meantime they were strolling slowly along the path, and suddenly Smirov exclaimed, There's Alyosha's stone under which they wanted to bury him. They all stood still by the big stone. Alyosha looked, and the whole picture of what Sniguryev had described to him that day, how Alyosha, weeping and hugging his father, had cried, Father, Father, how he insulted you, rose at once before his imagination. A sudden impulse seemed to come into his soul. With a serious and earnest expression, he looked from one to another of the bright, pleasant faces of Alyosha's school fellows, and suddenly said to them, Boys, I should like to say one word to you, here at this place. The boy stood round him, and at once bent attentive and expectant eyes upon him. Boys, we shall soon part. I shall be for some time with my two brothers, of whom one is going to Siberia and the other is lying at death's door. But soon I shall leave this town, perhaps for a long time, so we shall part. Let us make a compact here, at Alyosha's stone, that we will never forget Alyosha, and one another. And whatever happens to us later in life, if we don't meet for twenty years afterwards, let us always remember how we buried the poor boy, at whom we once threw stones, do you remember, by the bridge? And afterwards we all grew so fond of him. He was a fine boy, a kindhearted, brave boy. He felt for his father's honour, and resented the cruel insult to him, and stood up for him. And so, in the first place, we will remember him, boys, all our lives. And even if we are occupied with most important things, if we attain to honour or fall into great misfortune, still let us remember how good it was once here, when we were all together, united by a good and kind feeling, which made us, for the time we were loving that poor boy, better, perhaps, than we are. My little doves, let me call you so, for you are very like them, those pretty blue birds, at this minute as I look at your good dear faces. My dear children, perhaps you won't understand what I am saying to you, because I often speak very unintelligibly, but you'll remember it all the same, and will agree with my words some time. You must know that there is nothing higher and stronger and more wholesome and good for life in the future than some good memory, especially a memory of childhood, of home. People talk to you a great deal about your education, but some good, sacred memory, preserved from childhood, is perhaps the best education. If a man carries many such memories with him into life, he is safe to the end of his days, and if one has only one good memory left in one's heart, even that may sometime be the means of saving us. Perhaps we may even grow wicked later on, may be unable to refrain from a bad action, may laugh at men's tears, and at those people who say as Colia did just now, I want to suffer for all men, and may even cheer spitefully at such people. But however bad we may become, which God forbid, yet when we recall how we buried Ilusia, how we loved him in his last days, and how we have been talking like friends altogether at this stone, the cruelest and most mocking of us, if we do become so, will not dare to laugh inwardly at having been kind and good at this moment. What's more, perhaps, that one memory may keep him from great evil, and he will reflect and say, yes, I was good and brave and honest then. Let him laugh to himself, that's no matter, a man often laughs at what's good and kind, that's only from thoughtlessness. But I assure you, boys, that as he laughs, he will say at once in his heart, no, I do wrong to laugh, for that's not a thing to laugh at. That will be so, I understand you, Karamazov, cried Colia with flashing eyes. The boys were excited, and they too wanted to say something, but they restrained themselves, looking with intentness and emotion at the speaker. I say this in case we become bad, Alyosha went on, but there's no reason why we should become bad, is there, boys? Let us be, first and above all, kind, then honest, and then let us never forget each other. I say that again. I give you my word for my part, that I'll never forget one of you. Every face looking at me now, I shall remember, even for thirty years. Just now Colia said to Kartashov that we did not care to know whether he exists or not. But I cannot forget that Kartashov exists, and that he is not blushing now, as he did when he discovered the Founders of Troy, but is looking at me with his jolly kind, dear little eyes. Boys, my dear boys, let us all be generous and brave, like Alyosha. Clever, brave and generous, like Colia, though he will be ever so much cleverer when he is grown up, and let us all be as modest, as clever, and sweet as Kartashov. But why am I talking about those two? You are all dear to me, boys. From this day forth I have a place in my heart for you all, and I beg you to keep a place in your hearts for me. Well, and who has united us in this kind, good feeling, which we shall remember and intend to remember all our lives? Who, if not Alyosha, the good boy, the dear boy, precious to us forever? Let us never forget him. May his memory live forever in our hearts, from this time forth. Yes, yes, forever, forever, the boys cried in their ringing voices with softened faces. Let us remember his face and his clothes, and his poor little boots, his coffin, and his unhappy sinful father, and how boldly he stood up for him alone, against the whole school. We will remember, we will remember, cried the boys. He was brave, he was good. Ah, how I loved him, exclaimed Kolya. Ah, children, ah, dear friends, don't be afraid of life. How good life is when one does something good and just. Yes, yes, the boys repeated enthusiastically. Karamazov, we love you. A voice, probably Kartyshov's, cried impulsively. We love you, we love you. They all caught it up. There were tears in the eyes of many of them. Hurrah for Karamazov! Kolya shouted ecstatically. And may the dead boy's memory live forever! Alyosha added again, with feeling. Forever, the boys chimed in again. Karamazov cried Kolya, can it be true what's taught us in religion that we shall all rise again from the dead and shall live and see each other again? All? Alyosha, too? Certainly we shall all rise again. Certainly we shall see each other and shall tell each other with joy and gladness all that has happened. Alyosha answered, half laughing, half enthusiastic. Ah, how splendid it will be! broke from Kolya. Well, now we will finish talking and go to his funeral dinner. Don't be put out at our eating pancakes. It's a very old custom, and there's something nice in that. Laughed Alyosha. Well, let us go. And now we go hand in hand. And always so, all our lives, hand in hand. Hurrah for Karamazov! Kolya cried once more rapturously, and once more the boys took up his exclamation. Hurrah for Karamazov! End of Section 96 End of The Brothers Karamazov by Fyodor Dostoyevsky Translated by Konstantz Garnet