The Karamazov Brothers

by Fyodor Dostoevsky

  I am not recounting every question in detail, but am merely giving the essential content of her testimony.

  ‘I was always firmly convinced that he would post the three thousand as soon as he received the money from his father,’ she continued in reply to the questions. ‘I was always convinced of his generosity and honesty… absolute honesty… in financial matters. He was firmly convinced he was going to receive three thousand roubles from his father, and he mentioned it to me several times. I knew that he was in dispute with his father, and I have always been and am still convinced that his father wronged him. I cannot recall any threats he might have made against his father. He never said anything at all about threats—at least not in my presence. Had he come to me at the time, I’d immediately have set his mind at rest about the miserable three thousand that he owed me, but he didn’t come to see me any more… and I myself… I was placed in such a position… that I couldn’t ask him to come and see me… Anyway,’ she added suddenly with a very determined note in her voice, ‘I had no right to make any demands on him regarding this debt. He once lent me even more than three thousand roubles, and I accepted it in spite of the fact that at the time I couldn’t even foresee that I’d ever be in a position to repay it…’

  One could detect a certain note of a challenge in her voice. Now it was Fetyukovich’s turn to cross-examine her.

  ‘Would this have been at the start of your relationship, before you moved to this town?’ asked Fetyukovich, immediately sensing a possible advantage and treading carefully. (I shall observe in passing that though Katerina Ivanovna herself had summoned him specially from St Petersburg, he nevertheless knew nothing of the five thousand roubles which Mitya had given her at that time, nor of that obeisant curtsy. She had not told him about this secret! That was astonishing. It can safely be assumed that she herself had not known right up to the last moment whether she would mention this episode in court, and had been waiting for some kind of inspiration.)

  No, I shall never forget that moment! She described everything—the whole of the episode that Mitya had recounted to Alyosha, including the curtsy, the reasons for it all, and about her father—she recounted everything about going to see Mitya, but not a word, not the slightest hint, that Mitya himself had suggested that her sister ‘send Katerina Ivanovna to him to borrow the money’. She magnanimously concealed this, and fearlessly disclosed the fact that it was she, she herself, who at that time had come running to the young officer of her own volition, hoping for something… to beg him for some money. The effect was quite shattering. Shivers ran down my spine as I listened, one could have heard a pin drop in the courtroom as everyone strained to catch each word. Here was something quite unexpected; even from such a wilful, arrogantly proud young girl, one could hardly have expected such candid testimony, such sacrifice, such total self-immolation. And to what end, for whom? In order to save the man who had betrayed and wronged her, in order to contribute, in however small a way, to his salvation by showing him in a good light! And of course the image of the officer giving away his last five thousand roubles—all his worldly possessions—bowing respectfully before the innocent girl, turned out to be very moving and appealing, but… my heart shuddered painfully! I felt that it could lead to malicious gossip, as indeed it did! The whole town soon began to laugh spitefully and to say that the story was maybe not altogether accurate, especially when the officer had let the young girl go, allegedly with ‘just a respectful bow’. It was hinted that something had been ‘omitted’. And, even if nothing had been omitted, if everything was true, said the most respectable of our ladies, even then it was far from certain whether it was ‘proper for a girl to do such a thing, even to save her father’. And how could Katerina Ivanovna with her intelligence, her sharp acumen, not have foreseen that there would be such gossip? She must have foreseen it, but she had decided to reveal everything all the same! Of course, all these malicious speculations about the truth of the story only arose later, and the initial effect was stupendous. As for the bench, they listened to Katerina Ivanovna in deferential, one might almost say embarrassed, silence. The prosecutor did not permit himself a single further question on this matter. Fetyukovich bowed deeply to her. Oh, he was almost triumphant! A great victory had been won: that a man would give away his last five thousand roubles on a noble impulse, and that the same man would then go, in the night, to kill his father and rob him of three thousand—that was, to say the least, inconsistent. If nothing else, Fetyukovich could now dismiss robbery as a motive. The case suddenly appeared in quite a new light. There was a wave of sympathy for Mitya. It was said that once or twice during Katerina Ivanovna’s statement he jumped to his feet and then finally slumped back on the seat and buried his face in his hands. But after she had finished he suddenly cried out in a despairing voice, his hands outstretched towards her:

  ‘Katya, why have you done this to me!’ and started to sob loudly. However, he checked himself instantly and again cried out:

  ‘Now there’s no hope for me!’

  With that, he clenched his teeth, folded his arms, and sat perfectly still. Katerina Ivanovna remained in the hall, sitting on one of the reserved chairs. She was pale and she gazed down. Those who were near her remembered that she was shaking for a long time, as though suffering from a fever. Grushenka now took the stand.

  I shall soon be coming to the tragedy which, occurring as unexpectedly as it did, was in all probability responsible for Mitya’s downfall. For I, like everyone else, am convinced—and all the lawyers subsequently agreed on this point—that had it not been for a certain incident, the accused would at least have received a lighter sentence. But I am coming to that. Only first, a couple of words about Grushenka.

  She too entered the courtroom dressed all in black, her exquisite black shawl draped around her shoulders. Smoothly and noiselessly, with the slightly swaying gait that buxom women sometimes have, she approached the barrier with her eyes firmly fixed on the president and looking neither to the right nor to the left. I thought she looked very beautiful at that moment, and not at all pale, as some ladies subsequently asserted. They said, too, that she wore a hard and malicious expression. What I believe is that she was merely agitated and felt deeply uncomfortable under the contemptuously curious stare of our prurient public. Hers was a proud nature which could not tolerate disdain, one of those natures which, the moment they suspect they are being regarded with contempt, immediately flare up in anger and adopt an aggressive stance. There was at the same time, of course, an element of timidity as well as an inner shame at this timidity, so that it was hardly surprising that her delivery was uneven—now angry, now contemptuous, now deliberately offensive, followed suddenly by a sincere, heartfelt note of self-reproach, self-castigation. Occasionally she spoke as though she were falling headlong into an abyss: ‘Come what may, whatever happens, ‘I’ll have my say all the same…’ As regards her relationship with the late Fyodor Pavlovich, she commented brusquely: ‘It’s all a load of nonsense. It’s hardly my fault if he wouldn’t leave me alone!’ And a minute later she added: ‘I’m to blame for everything, I was leading them both on—the old boy, and him—and it went too far. It was all because of me that it happened.’ Samsonov’s name cropped up at one stage. ‘Why don’t people mind their own business?’ she immediately snapped back, insolent and vicious. ‘He was my benefactor, he took me in when I was running around barefoot, when my own family threw me out.’ The president reminded her, albeit very politely, that she should reply to the questions without going into unnecessary detail. Grushenka flushed and her eyes flashed angrily.

  No, she had not seen the envelope with the money, she had only heard from ‘that evil man’ that Fyodor Pavlovich had got some kind of envelope with three thousand roubles in it. ‘Only it’s all a load of nonsense, I just laughed, I never had any intention of going there…’

  ‘Who did you mean just now by “that evil man”?’ enquired the prosecutor.

  ‘The flunkey Smerdyakov,
who killed his master and hanged himself yesterday.’

  Of course she was immediately asked what grounds she had for such a deliberate accusation, and it transpired that she had no grounds at all.

  ‘That’s what Dmitry Fyodorovich himself told me, he’s the one you should believe. If you ask me, it’s that mischief-maker who’s ruined him, she’s the cause of it all, that’s what,’ Grushenka added, practically shaking with hatred and with a note of malice ringing in her voice.

  She was asked whom she had in mind.

  ‘The young lady, that Katerina Ivanovna. She invited me to her place that time and gave me chocolate, she’s a sly one. She doesn’t know the meaning of the word shame, she doesn’t…’

  At this point the president stopped her and told her strictly to moderate her language. But the jealous woman’s rage was such that she was prepared to go to any length, to plunge headlong into an abyss, if necessary…

  ‘During the arrest in the village of Mokroye,’ the prosecutor said, ‘everyone saw you run out of the other room and heard you shout: ‘I’m guilty of everything, we’ll both go to Siberia together!” Would this not indicate that you too were convinced at that moment that he had killed his father?’

  ‘I can’t remember my feelings at the time,’ replied Grushenka. ‘Everybody was shouting that he had killed his father, and I felt it was my fault and he had killed him because of me. But as soon as he said he was innocent, I believed him straight away, and I still believe him, and will always believe him. He’s not the sort of man who would lie.’

  She was now cross-examined by Fetyukovich. Incidentally, I remember him asking about Rakitin and about the twenty-five roubles ‘for bringing Aleksei Fyodorovich Karamazov to you’.

  ‘What’s so surprising about him taking the money?’ Grushenka smirked with contemptuous malice. ‘He was always coming to me begging for money, sometimes he’d get as much as thirty roubles out of me in a month and, more often than not, he’d just fritter it away; he always had enough to eat and drink, though, without having to come to me.’

  ‘What was the reason for your generosity towards Mr Rakitin?’ interjected Fetyukovich, despite the fact that the judge was showing signs of great unease.

  ‘He’s my cousin, he is. My mother and his mother are sisters. It’s just that he always begged me not to tell anyone around here about that, he was too ashamed of me.’

  This new information came as a total surprise to everyone, for up to this time no one in the whole town had known anything about it, not even in the monastery, not even Mitya. It was said that Rakitin, sitting in his place, blushed as red as a beetroot with shame. Even before coming into the courtroom Grushenka had found out somehow that he had testified against Mitya, and that is what had made her angry. The whole of Rakitin’s former speech, with all its airs and graces, with all its censure of the serf laws and the lack of civil organization in Russia—all this was, once and for all, reduced to naught in the eyes of the public. Fetyukovich was pleased—another gift from heaven! On the whole Grushenka was not questioned for very long and, in any case, she did not of course have anything to say that was particularly new. The impression she made in the public mind was very unpleasant. Hundreds of opprobrious gazes were directed at her when, having finished testifying, she sat down at a considerable distance from Katerina Ivanovna. Mitya had not said a word throughout her testimony, but had sat as though petrified, his eyes lowered.

  The next witness was Ivan Fyodorovich.

  5

  UNEXPECTED CATASTROPHE

  I SHOULD point out that he had been called even before Alyosha. But the usher had informed the president that, due to a sudden illness or incapacity of some kind, the witness was unable to appear immediately, but that as soon as he recovered he would be available to testify when required. This incidentally had passed unnoticed somehow, and it was only later that it came to light. At first his appearance created a stir; the principal witnesses, especially the two rivals, had already been questioned, and curiosity had been adequately satisfied for the time being. There was even a feeling of fatigue among the public. They still had to listen to the testimony of a number of other witnesses who, in view of all that had already been revealed, could in all probability not contribute anything particularly new. Time was passing, however. Ivan Fyodorovich entered the courtroom surprisingly hesitantly, not looking at anyone, his head bowed, and with a sombre and preoccupied air. He was dressed immaculately, but his face made a shocking impression—on me, at any rate; there was something ashen about it, something reminiscent of one about to die. His eyes were dull and lifeless; he raised them and slowly surveyed the entire hall. Alyosha leapt to his feet with a groan. I remember this. But this too passed almost unnoticed.

  The president began by telling him that, as an unsworn witness,* he could remain silent, but that of course any statements he did make must be made in good faith, and so on and so forth. Ivan Fyodorovich listened and gazed impassively at him; but suddenly a smile began to spread slowly over his face, and no sooner had the astonished president finished speaking than he burst out laughing.

  ‘Well, and what else?’ he enquired at the top of his voice.

  A silence fell on the hall, there was tension in the air. The president became uneasy.

  ‘Perhaps… you’re still feeling unwell?’ he suggested, looking around for the court usher.

  ‘Don’t worry, your honour,’ Ivan Fyodorovich replied very calmly and courteously, ‘I’m well enough, and can tell you something rather interesting.’

  ‘You have something new to communicate?’ said the president, still somewhat sceptical.

  Ivan Fyodorovich lowered his gaze, hesitated for a few seconds and, looking up again, said haltingly:

  ‘N-no… I haven’t. Nothing in particular.’

  Questions followed. He replied most reluctantly and very curtly, even with a kind of ever-increasing resentment, but sensibly all the same. He prevaricated on many points, claiming ignorance. No, he knew nothing of the dealings between his father and Dmitry Fyodorovich. ‘They were no concern of mine,’ he remarked. He had heard the accused threaten to kill his father. He had heard about the money in the envelope from Smerdyakov…

  ‘It’s all the same old story,’ he suddenly stopped, looking exhausted. ‘There’s nothing in particular that I can tell the court.’

  ‘I can see you are ill, and I understand your feelings…’, began the president. He was on the point of inviting both the prosecution and defence to state whether they needed to ask any questions, when Ivan Fyodorovich suddenly requested in an exhausted voice:

  ‘Would you please excuse me, your honour, I don’t feel at all well.’ So saying, and without waiting for permission, he turned and headed for the exit. However, after taking a few steps, he stopped as though he had suddenly reconsidered something, smiled faintly, and returned to his former place. ‘I’m like that peasant girl, your honour… how does it go now? “If I want to put it on—I will, if I don’t—I won’t.” They are following her with a sarafan* or a panyova,* or something, and they want to dress her for her wedding, and all she says is: “If I want to put it on—I will, if I don’t—I won’t…” It’s a custom belonging to one of our ethnic groups…’

  ‘What are you driving at?’ asked the president sharply.

  ‘Just this,’ Ivan Fyodorovich suddenly produced a wad of money, ‘here’s the money for which my father was murdered.… the same money that was in that envelope,’ he nodded at the table on which lay the exhibits. ‘Where shall I put it? Mr Usher, sir, would you kindly take it?’

  The court usher took the money and handed it to the president.

  ‘How could this money have come to be in your possession?…’ the president asked with surprise, and added, ‘if indeed it is the same money!’

  ‘I got it from Smerdyakov, the murderer, yesterday. I went to see him before he hanged himself. It was he who killed my father, not my brother. He killed him, and I put him up to it… Who woul
dn’t like to kill his father?…’

  ‘Are you in your right mind, or not?’ the president could not help interjecting.

  ‘That’s just it, I am in my right mind. I’ve got a foul mind, the same sort as you and all these ugly m-mugs!’ he suddenly turned towards the public. ‘A father has been killed and they pretend to be shocked,’ he hissed, seething with contemptuous rage. ‘They’re just putting on a show in front of one another. Hypocrites! Everyone wants his father dead. Let dog eat dog… If it wasn’t a case of patricide, they’d all be disappointed and go home furious… They want a circus! “Bread and circuses!”* Come to think of it, I’m no better! Have you got any water, give me a glass of water, for Christ’s sake!’ and he suddenly buried his head in his hands.