The president intervened here, cutting short the overenthusiastic orator and asking him not to exaggerate, to keep within reasonable bounds, and so on and so forth, as is usual for chairmen in such instances. There was unrest in the hall, too. The public were restive, some even letting out cries of indignation. Fetyukovich did not bother to reply directly, he merely came forward, placed his hand on his heart and, in offended tones, said a few dignified words. He touched lightly and derisively upon ‘fiction’ and ‘psychology’ and at one point let slip the apt quotation: ‘Jupiter, you are angry, that means you are in the wrong’,* which caused a ripple of appreciative laughter in the audience, seeing that Ippolit Kyrillovich bore not the slightest resemblance to Jupiter. Then, as regards the allegation that he was condoning patricide by the younger generation, Fetyukovich retorted full of dignity that he was not even going to argue the point. As to the ‘false likeness of Christ’ and his reference to Christ not as God, but merely as the ‘crucified philanthropist’, which is contrary to the tenets of the Orthodox faith and quite inappropriate for a ‘forum of truth and common sense’, Fetyukovich hinted that this was in the nature of ‘character assassination’, and that when he had set out to come here he had hoped that in taking on this case he would at least be spared allegations that could ‘slander me personally as a citizen and a loyal subject…’ But the president ruled him out of order too on this point, and Fetyukovich, to the accompaniment of a universally approbatory murmur from the hall, bowed to all sides and concluded his response. As for Ippolit Kyrillovich, he was, in the opinion of the ladies, ‘really done for’.
After that, the defendant himself was asked if he wished to say anything. Mitya rose to his feet, but said very little. He was exhausted both physically and mentally. The air of strength and defiance with which he had entered the courtroom in the morning had all but vanished. He seemed to have undergone an experience that would remain with him all his life and which had taught him, made him understand, something very important which he had not comprehended hitherto. His voice had grown weak, and he no longer shouted as he had before. There was a new element present in his words, something cowed, vanquished, and humbled.
‘What am I to say, gentlemen of the jury? My hour of reckoning has come; I feel the hand of God upon me. A fitting end to a profligate life! But I swear to you before God that I am not guilty of my father’s blood! I repeat for the last time: I did not kill him. I have been reckless, but I have loved virtue. I have striven to mend my ways every moment of my life, and yet I have lived like a wild beast. My thanks to the prosecutor; he has told me a lot about myself that I didn’t know, but it is not true that I killed my father, that’s where he’s wrong! My thanks also to my defence counsel; I wept as I listened to him, but it is not true that I killed my father, and he ought not to have even suspected me of that! And don’t believe what the doctors say; I am quite sane, it’s just that my heart is so heavy. If you show mercy, if you acquit me, I’ll pray for you. I’ll strive to become better, you have my word on it, as God is my witness. But if you convict me, I’ll break my sword over my own head and, having done so, I’ll kiss the fragments! Spare me, though, don’t deprive me of my God, I know what I’m like: I shall rebel! My heart is heavy, gentlemen… have mercy!’
He slumped down on his seat, his voice broke; it was all he could do to finish the sentence. Then the bench summarized the issues, and both the defence and prosecution were invited to make their final submissions. I shall not, however, relate this in detail. Finally, the jury rose to leave the courtroom and to commence their deliberations. The president was exhausted, and his voice was weak as he delivered his final words of guidance. ‘Be impartial, do not be influenced by the eloquent speech of the defence, but deliberate carefully, remember that a huge responsibility rests on your shoulders…’, and so on and so forth. The jury withdrew and the proceedings were adjourned. This was the chance to leave one’s seat, to take a stroll, to exchange opinions with other people, to have a bite to eat at the buffet. It was very late, about one o’clock in the morning, but no one was in a hurry to leave. Everyone was so tense and wound-up that they could not relax. They were all waiting with bated breath—though, come to think of it, not all of them. The ladies outwardly were in a state of hysterical impatience, but at heart they were calm: ‘He’s bound to be acquitted.’ They were enthusiastically anticipating a not guilty verdict. It has to be admitted that, among the men too, there were a great many who were convinced that an acquittal was inevitable. Some were glad, some frowned, and yet others looked dejected: they did not want an acquittal. Fetyukovich himself was firmly convinced that he would win. He was surrounded on all sides by people offering congratulations and trying to ingratiate themselves with him.
He was later said to have told one group: ‘There are invisible bonds uniting the defence counsel with the members of the jury. They exist and manifested themselves even in the course of my address. I was aware of them, they really do exist. You can rest assured, the case is as good as won.’
‘So what are our peasants going to say?’ said a fat, freckled, fierce-looking gentleman, approaching one group of men engrossed in a discussion; he was a landowner whose estate was on the outskirts of the town.
They’re not all peasants, you know. There are four clerks amongst them.’
‘Yes, clerks,’ said a member of the rural council, also coming to join the group.
‘I say, do you happen to know Prokhor Ivanovich Nazaryev, that merchant chap with the medal, who’s on the jury?’
‘What about him?’
‘Awfully clever.’
‘But he hasn’t said a word.’
‘Neither has he, so much the better. He could run rings round the fellow from St Petersburg, or anybody else from there, for that matter. He’s got twelve children, would you believe it!’
‘Look here, is he really not going to get off?’ trumpeted one of our young clerks in another group.
‘Of course he is,’ came a decisive voice.
‘It would be a crying shame, a disgrace, not to acquit him!’ the clerk persisted. ‘So he murdered him, but there are fathers and fathers! And after all, he was in such a frenzy… Perhaps he just brandished the pestle, but didn’t mean to fell the old fellow. Pity they had to drag the lackey into all this, though. It’s all turned out to be a bit of a farce. If I’d been counsel for the defence, I’d have told them straight out: he committed the murder, but he isn’t guilty, and to hell with you!’
‘But that’s exactly what he did; the only thing he didn’t say was “to hell with you”.’
‘But he very nearly said it, Mikhail Semyonych,’ chirped a third voice.
‘Have a heart, gentlemen, didn’t they acquit that actress last Passiontide, the one who slit her lover’s wife’s throat?’
‘Yes, but she didn’t make a good job of it.’
‘So what, she made a start!’
‘What about that bit of his about the children? That was splendid, wasn’t it?’
‘Absolutely.’
‘And all that stuff about mysticism, how about that, eh?’
‘Look, never mind mysticism,’ exclaimed someone else, ‘you’d do better to worry about what’s going to happen to Ippolit after today! Come tomorrow, his missis is going to scratch his eyes out for what he said about Mitenka.’
‘Is she here?’
‘Of course not! If she’d been here, she’d have scratched them out on the spot. She’s at home with toothache. He-he-he!’
‘He-he-he!’
In a third group:
‘If you ask me, Mitenka will probably get off scot-free.’
‘I wouldn’t be surprised if he had a real knees-up in the Stolichny Gorod tomorrow, and spent the next ten days blind drunk.’
‘He’s the very devil!’
‘You may well say that—the devil must have had a hand in this. Where else would he be, if not here?’
‘Gentlemen, you must admit he was eloquent. Only th
ing is, people can’t go around smashing their fathers’ skulls. Otherwise where’ll it all end?’
‘And that coach, remember the coach?’
‘Yes, he turned a peasant’s cart into a coach.’
‘And tomorrow he’ll turn the coach back into a cart, “if the need arises, if the need arises,” as the man said.’
‘No flies on some people these days. Is there truth in Russia, gentlemen, or have we lost it altogether?’
Just then the bell sounded. The jury had been conferring for exactly one hour; no more, no less. An audible silence descended as soon as the public had taken their seats. I well remember the jury returning to the hall. At last! I shall not quote the counts one by one—I have forgotten them, in any case. I only remember the answer to the president’s first and principal question, that is, ‘Did he kill with the premeditated intention of stealing the money?’ (I do not recall the exact wording.) There was a deathly hush. The foreman of the jury, a clerk and the youngest member, proclaimed in a loud and clear voice in the deathly silence:
‘Yes, guilty!’
And then it was the same story on all the other charges: guilty again and again, and with no mitigating circumstances! This was something that no one had expected; nearly everyone had been convinced that there were mitigating circumstances. The deathly hush in the hall remained unbroken, it was as if everyone—those eager for a guilty verdict, and those eager for an acquittal—had been turned to stone. But that was only the initial response. Then a terrible chaos ensued. Amongst the menfolk were many who were delighted. Some were even rubbing their hands with glee. Those who were disappointed seemed downcast, they shrugged their shoulders, whispered, and seemed not quite to have taken it in. But, my God, how the ladies carried on! I thought there would be a riot. At first they seemed not to believe their ears. And then suddenly there was an outcry in the hall: ‘What’s all this? What do they think they’re up to?’ They all leapt to their feet. They probably imagined that the verdict could be quashed and changed. At that instant Mitya got up suddenly and, stretching forth his arms, cried out in a heart-rending voice:
‘I swear by God and His dread judgement that I am not guilty of my father’s blood! Katya, I forgive you! My brothers, my friends, have pity on the other one!’
He broke down and burst into loud sobs, wailing unintelligibly in a terrible, unrecognizable, inhuman voice. From the back row of the gallery came a piercing shriek: it was Grushenka. Before the start of the judicial pleadings, she had persuaded someone to let her back into the courtroom. Mitya was led away. Sentencing was postponed until the next day. The whole courtroom rose in confusion, but I did not stay to listen. I remember only a few comments overheard on the steps at the exit.
‘Twenty years down the mines.’*
‘At least.’
‘Trust the peasants!’
‘They really did for poor old Mitenka!’
The end of the fourth and last part.
EPILOGUE
1
PLANS FOR MITYA’S ESCAPE
FIVE days after the trial, very early in the morning, shortly after eight o’clock, Alyosha went to Katerina Ivanovna’s to finalize some details concerning a matter of considerable importance to them both, and also to enlist her help. She sat and talked to him in that same room where she had once received Grushenka; Ivan Fyodorovich lay feverish and unconscious in the next room. Straight after that scene in the courtroom, ignoring the inevitable gossip and condemnation of society, Katerina Ivanovna had asked them to transfer the sick and unconscious Ivan Fyodorovich to her house. One of the two relatives with whom she lived had left for Moscow directly after the scene in court; the other was still there. But even if they had both gone away, Katerina Ivanovna would not have decided otherwise, and would have continued to care for the invalid and to sit with him day and night. Varvinsky and Herzenstube were treating him; the doctor from Moscow had returned, having refused to give a prognosis of Ivan’s illness. The two remaining doctors had done their best to reassure Katerina Ivanovna and Alyosha, but it was obvious that they could not hold out any firm hope. Alyosha visited his sick brother twice a day. But this time he was on a particularly delicate mission, and he anticipated that it would be very difficult to broach the subject. Meanwhile, he was in a hurry; he had another urgent matter to deal with elsewhere that same morning, and speed was essential. They had already been talking for a quarter of an hour. Katerina Ivanovna was pale, exhausted, and at the same time desperately agitated; she already sensed why Alyosha had come.
‘Don’t worry about his reservations,’ she told Alyosha firmly. ‘One way or another, he’ll realize it’s the only solution; he must escape! That unhappy, heroic man, that man of honour and conscience—not him, no, not Dmitry Fyodorovich, but the one in the next room who’s sacrificed himself for his brother,’ added Katya, her eyes sparkling, ‘he told me all about the escape plan long ago. You know, he was already making arrangements… I’ve told you something about it… You see, it’ll probably happen during the third stage of the march* when the exiles are being taken to Siberia. But that’s a long way off yet. Ivan Fyodorovich went to see the commandant who’ll be in charge of the third stage. The only thing we don’t know is who’ll be in overall charge of the march; it’s impossible to find out in advance. Tomorrow, perhaps, I’ll tell you in detail the whole plan that Ivan Fyodorovich described to me the night before the trial, in case anything… That was the time, you’ll recall, when you found us quarrelling; he was already going down the stairs, and when I saw you I made him come back—do you remember? Do you know what we’d been quarrelling about?’
‘No, I don’t,’ said Alyosha.
‘Of course, he didn’t let on to you, but it was in fact about the escape plan. He had already explained the main part to me three days before—that’s when we started quarrelling, and we quarrelled for the whole three days. The reason was that when he told me that in the event of his being convicted Dmitry Fyodorovich would flee abroad with that slut, I lost my temper—I’m not going to tell you why, I don’t know why myself… Oh, of course, I was angry about that slut, and especially about her fleeing abroad with Dmitry!’ Katerina Ivanovna burst out, her lips trembling with fury. ‘As soon as Ivan Fyodorovich saw that I was angry about that creature he immediately thought I was jealous of her because of Dmitry, and that I probably still loved Dmitry. That’s when the first row started. I didn’t want to explain, nor could I bring myself to apologize; it was hard for me to accept that such a man could suspect me of having loved that… And all this, you realize, after I had told him myself outright long before that I didn’t love Dmitry, that I loved only him! I only lost my temper with him because I was so angry about that creature! Three days later, that same evening you arrived, he brought me a sealed envelope that I was to open in case anything happened to him. Somehow he knew he was going to fall ill! He told me that the detailed arrangements for the escape were in the envelope, and that if he died or became seriously ill I should rescue Mitya myself. He left some money with me at the same time, almost ten thousand—the same money that the prosecutor, who heard from someone or other that he had cashed it, mentioned in his speech. I was quite overwhelmed by the fact that Ivan Fyodorovich had not abandoned the idea of rescuing his brother, and that although he still suspected me of loving Dmitry, I was the very one in whom he had confided his plans for the escape! That was a sacrifice! You won’t really understand just what a sacrifice it was, Aleksei Fyodorovich! I wanted to fall at his feet in admiration, but it suddenly occurred to me that he would think I was simply overjoyed to know that Mitya was going to be rescued (and he certainly would have thought that), and the very possibility of such an unjustified idea infuriated me so much that, instead of kissing his feet, I made another scene! Oh, I’m so miserable! That’s what I’m like—I have such a dreadful, perverse character! Oh, you’ll see: I shall continue to be like that until he deserts me for someone else who’s easier to live with, like Dmitry did, but then… no,
I shan’t be able to bear it, I shall kill myself! And when you came that time and I invited you in and called him back, and he came, I was seized with such anger at the look of hatred he gave me, as if he despised me, that I shouted out—remember?—that it was he, he alone that told me that his brother Dmitry was the murderer! I deliberately slandered him so as to hurt him once more; he had never, never told me that his brother was the murderer—on the contrary, it was I who told him! Oh, my rage is the cause of all this! And it was I who caused that damned scene at the trial. He wanted to show me his nobility of spirit, and that even if I did love his brother, he wouldn’t destroy him out of revenge and jealousy. So that’s why he came and spoke out at the trial… It was me, I’m the cause of everything, I alone am guilty!’
Katya had never made such an admission to Alyosha before, and he felt that she had reached that unbearable degree of suffering when the proudest of hearts, racked by pain, abandons its pride and is overcome by sorrow. Alyosha knew of another dreadful reason for her present misery, however hard she had tried to conceal it from him since Mitya’s conviction; but for some reason he would have found it too painful if she were to humble herself to such an extent as to discuss it with him now. She was suffering for her ‘betrayal’ at the trial, and Alyosha felt that her conscience was driving her to confess to him—especially to him, Alyosha—with tears, with weeping, with hysterics, and beating her breast. But he feared that moment, and wanted to spare the sufferer. It was becoming all the more difficult to raise the matter of what he had come to ask of her. He began to speak of Mitya again.
‘It’s all right, it’s all right, don’t worry about him!’ Katya interrupted sharply and firmly. ‘This is just a passing phase, I know him, I know him only too well. You can be sure he’ll agree to escape. The main thing is he doesn’t need to do anything immediately; he’s still got plenty of time to make up his mind. By then, Ivan Fyodorovich will be better and will arrange everything, so it’ll be off my shoulders. Don’t you worry, he’ll agree to escape. Well, he’s agreed already; you don’t think he’d leave his woman behind, do you? And they won’t let her go to the penal colony with him, so he’ll have to make a break for it, won’t he? The main problem is that he’s afraid of you, he’s afraid you won’t approve of his escaping—from a moral point of view, that is—but you must be magnanimous and say it’s all right, since your approval is absolutely vital,’ she added venomously. She stopped for a moment, and her lips twisted into a smile.
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