II. Dangerous Witnesses

I do not know whether the presiding judge had divided the witnesses for the prosecution and for the defense into groups of some kind, or in what order exactly it was intended to call them. Probably all that was done. I know only that the witnesses for the prosecution began to be called first. I repeat, I do not intend to describe all the examinations, step by step. Besides, my description would be partly superfluous, because in the speeches of the prosecutor and the defense counsel, when it came to the closing arguments, the whole course and meaning of all the testimony given and heard was brought together, as it were, into one point, in a bright and characteristic light, and these two remarkable speeches I wrote down in full, at least in places, and will convey in due course, as well as one extraordinary and quite unexpected episode of the trial, which broke out suddenly even before the closing arguments and undoubtedly influenced its terrible and fateful outcome. I will remark only that from the very first minutes of the trial a certain particular characteristic of this “case” stood out vividly, noticed by everyone, namely: the extraordinary strength of the prosecution in comparison with the means at the disposal of the defense. Everyone understood this at the first moment, when in that terrible courtroom the facts began to gather and group themselves, concentrating, and all that horror and all that blood gradually began to stand out into the open. It became clear to everyone, perhaps, from the very first steps, that this was not even a disputed case at all, that there were no doubts here, that in essence there would be no need for any arguments at all, that the arguments would be only for form’s sake, and that the criminal was guilty, guilty manifestly, guilty conclusively. I even think that all the ladies, every last one of them, who thirsted so impatiently for the acquittal of the interesting defendant, were at the same time perfectly convinced of his complete guilt. More than that, it seems to me that they would even have been disappointed if his guilt had not been so well confirmed, for then there would not have been such an effect in the denouement, when the criminal is acquitted. And that he would be acquitted—of that, strange to say, all the ladies were conclusively convinced almost to the very last minute: “he’s guilty, but they will acquit him out of humaneness, out of the new ideas, out of the new feelings that are going around now,” and so on, and so on. That was why they had come running here with such impatience. The men, on the other hand, were most interested in the battle between the prosecutor and the glorious Fetyukovich. Everyone wondered and asked himself: what could even such a talent as Fetyukovich make of such a lost case, of such an empty eggshell?—and so they followed his exploits step by step with strained attention. But Fetyukovich remained a riddle to everyone to the very end, up to his very speech. Experienced people had a presentiment that he had a system, that something had already taken shape in his mind, that he had an aim before him, but what it was, it was almost impossible to guess. His confidence and self-assurance, however, were striking. Besides that, everyone noticed at once with pleasure that in such a short stay among us, in only some three days perhaps, he had managed to familiarize himself with the case amazingly and had “studied it to the finest point.” People related with relish afterward, for instance, how he had managed to “trip up” all the prosecution witnesses in good time and, as far as possible, to throw them off, and above all to besmirch their moral reputation, and so, of itself, to besmirch their testimony too. It was supposed, however, that he did this at most for the game, so to speak, for a certain legal brilliance, so that none of the accepted lawyers’ devices would be forgotten: for everyone was convinced that he could not achieve any great and decisive advantage by all these “besmirchings” and, probably, understood this himself better than anyone, having some idea of his own in reserve, some weapon of the defense still hidden for the time being, which he would suddenly bring out when its time arrived. But for now, all the same, aware of his strength, he was, as it were, playing and frolicking. So, for example, when Grigory Vasilyev, Fyodor Pavlovich’s former valet, who gave the most crucial testimony about “the door into the garden standing open,” was questioned, the defense counsel fairly seized on him when his turn came to put questions. It must be noted that Grigory Vasilyevich came into the hall not in the least abashed either by the majesty of the court or by the presence of the enormous public listening to him, with a calm and almost majestic air. He gave his testimony with as much assurance as if he had been chatting in private with his Marfa Ignatyevna, only perhaps more respectfully. It was impossible to throw him off. First the prosecutor questioned him at length about all the particulars of the Karamazov family. The family picture stood out vividly. One heard, one saw, that the witness was simple-hearted and impartial. With all his most profound respect for the memory of his former master, he nevertheless declared, for instance, that the master had been unjust to Mitya and “didn’t bring up his children right. Without me, the lice would have eaten him up when he was a little boy,” he added, telling of Mitya’s childhood years. “And it wasn’t fitting for a father to wrong his son over his mother’s estate, his family estate.” But to the prosecutor’s question as to what grounds he had for asserting that Fyodor Pavlovich had wronged his son in the settlement, Grigory Vasilyevich, to everyone’s surprise, presented no sound data whatever, but still insisted that the settlement with the son had been “not right” and that he really “should have been paid several thousand more.” I will remark, by the way, that this question—whether Fyodor Pavlovich had really underpaid Mitya anything?—the prosecutor afterward put with particular insistence to all the witnesses to whom he could put it, not excepting either Alyosha or Ivan Fyodorovich, but from none of the witnesses did he receive any precise information; everyone asserted the fact, and no one could present even the slightest clear proof. After Grigory had described the scene at the table, when Dmitri Fyodorovich burst in and beat his father, threatening to come back and kill him, a gloomy impression swept through the hall, all the more so because the old servant told it calmly, without superfluous words, in his own peculiar language, and it came out terribly eloquent. As for the injury done him by Mitya, who had struck him in the face that time and knocked him off his feet, he remarked that he bore no grudge and had long since forgiven it. Of the late Smerdyakov he said, crossing himself, that the fellow had ability, but was stupid and oppressed by his illness, and above all a godless man, and that Fyodor Pavlovich and the eldest son had taught him his godlessness. But he confirmed Smerdyakov’s honesty almost warmly, and right then told how Smerdyakov, in times gone by, finding money his master had dropped, had not hidden it but brought it to his master, and the master had “given him a gold piece” for it and from then on began to trust him in everything. The open door into the garden he confirmed with stubborn insistence. However, he was questioned so much that I cannot remember it all. At last the questioning passed to the defense counsel, and he first of all began to inquire about the envelope in which Fyodor Pavlovich had “supposedly” hidden three thousand rubles for “a certain person.” “Did you see it yourself—you, a man who had been so many years close to your master?” Grigory answered that he had not seen it, and had not even heard of any such money at all from anyone, “until the very time when everybody started talking about it now.” This question about the envelope Fetyukovich for his part also put to all the witnesses he could ask about it, with the same insistence as the prosecutor his question about the division of the estate, and from all he likewise received only the one answer, that no one had seen the envelope, though a great many had heard of it. Everyone noticed from the very beginning the defense counsel’s insistence on this question.

“Now may I address a question to you, if you will only permit me,” Fetyukovich suddenly and quite unexpectedly asked, “what was that balsam made of, or, so to speak, that tincture, with which, that evening, before going to bed, as is known from the preliminary investigation, you rubbed your aching lower back, hoping to cure it thereby?”

Grigory looked dully at his questioner and, after a short silence, muttered:

“There was sage in it.”

“Only sage? Can you recall anything else?”

“There was plantain too.”

“And pepper, perhaps?” Fetyukovich inquired.

“There was pepper too.”

“And so on. And all of it in vodka?”

“In spirits.”

A faint ripple of laughter passed through the hall.

“You see, in spirits even. Having rubbed your back, you then were pleased to drink the remaining contents of the bottle, with a certain pious prayer known only to your spouse, isn’t that so?”

“I drank it.”

“About how much did you drink? Roughly? A little glass or two?”

“About a tumblerful.”

“A tumblerful, even. Perhaps a tumbler and a half?”

Grigory fell silent. He seemed to have understood something.

“A tumbler and a half of nice pure spirits—that’s not at all bad, you know, what do you think? One might see ‘the doors of paradise opened wide,’ let alone a door into the garden?”

Grigory still kept silent. Again a ripple of laughter passed through the hall. The presiding judge stirred.

“Do you not know for certain,” Fetyukovich went on, fastening on him more and more, “whether you were asleep or not at the moment when you saw the door into the garden standing open?”

“I was standing on my feet.”

“That is not yet proof that you were not asleep (more and more laughter in the hall). Could you, for instance, have answered at that moment, if someone had asked you something—well, for instance, what year it is now?”

“That I don’t know.”

“And what year is it now, of our era, since the birth of Christ, don’t you know?”

Grigory stood with a baffled look, staring point-blank at his tormentor. It seemed strange, evidently, that he really did not know what year it was now.

“Perhaps, however, you know how many fingers you have on your hand?”

“I’m a man under orders,” Grigory suddenly said, loudly and distinctly. “If the authorities are pleased to make mock of me, I must bear it.”

Fetyukovich seemed a little taken aback, but the presiding judge intervened too and reminded the defense counsel edifyingly that he ought to ask more relevant questions. Fetyukovich, having listened, bowed with dignity and announced that he had finished his questions. Of course, both in the public and in the jury a little worm of doubt could have remained about the testimony of a man who had had the opportunity “to see the doors of paradise” in a certain state of treatment and, besides, did not even know what year it was since the birth of Christ; so the defense counsel had achieved his aim all the same. But before Grigory withdrew, there was one more episode. The presiding judge, turning to the defendant, asked whether he had anything to remark concerning the testimony given.

“Except for the door, he told the truth in everything,” Mitya shouted loudly. “For combing the lice out of me—thank you; for forgiving me the beating—thank you; the old fellow’s been honest all his life and faithful to my father like seven hundred poodles.”

“Defendant, choose your words,” the presiding judge said sternly.

“I’m not a poodle,” Grigory grumbled too.

“Well, then I’m the poodle, I am!” Mitya shouted. “If it’s offensive, I take it on myself, and I ask his forgiveness: I was a beast and cruel to him! I was cruel to Aesop too.”

“What Aesop?” the presiding judge took him up sternly again.

“Well, Pierrot… my father, Fyodor Pavlovich.”

The presiding judge again and again impressively and now most sternly enjoined Mitya to choose his expressions more carefully.

“You are only harming yourself thereby in the opinion of your judges.”

The defense counsel managed things just as cleverly in the questioning of the witness Rakitin. I will remark that Rakitin was one of the most important witnesses and one whom the prosecutor undoubtedly valued. It turned out that he knew everything, knew an astonishing amount, he had been everywhere, had seen everything, had talked with everyone, knew the biography of Fyodor Pavlovich and all the Karamazovs in the greatest detail. True, about the envelope with the three thousand he too had heard only from Mitya himself. On the other hand, he described in detail Mitya’s exploits in the Metropolis tavern, all his compromising words and gestures, and told the story of Staff Captain Snegiryov’s “wisp of bast.” As to that particular point, however, whether Fyodor Pavlovich had remained owing Mitya anything in the settlement of the estate, even Rakitin himself could point to nothing and got off with commonplaces of a contemptuous character: “who, you see, could make out which of them was to blame and reckon up who remained owing whom, amid the muddle-headed Karamazovism in which no one could either understand or define himself?” The whole tragedy of the crime under trial he depicted as the product of the inveterate customs of serfdom and of a Russia sunk in disorder, suffering from the lack of appropriate institutions. In a word, he was allowed to express himself somewhat. With this trial Mr. Rakitin made himself known for the first time and became noticed; the prosecutor knew that the witness was preparing an article on the present crime for a journal, and later, in his speech (as we shall see below), he quoted several thoughts from this article, which means that he was already acquainted with it. The picture drawn by the witness came out gloomy and fateful and greatly strengthened “the prosecution.” In general, Rakitin’s exposition captivated the public by its independence of thought and the extraordinary nobility of its flight. There were even two or three sudden outbursts of applause, precisely at the places where serfdom and Russia suffering from disorder were spoken of. But Rakitin, being still a young man, made a small slip, of which the defense counsel at once managed to take excellent advantage. Answering certain questions concerning Grushenka, carried away by his success, of which he was of course already aware himself, and by the height of nobility to which he had soared, he allowed himself to speak of Agrafena Alexandrovna somewhat contemptuously, as “the kept woman of the merchant Samsonov.” He would have given a great deal afterward to take back that little word of his, for it was precisely on it that Fetyukovich at once caught him. And all because Rakitin had not at all reckoned on the man’s having been able, in so short a time, to acquaint himself with the case down to such intimate details.

“Allow me to inquire,” the defense counsel began with the most amiable and even respectful smile, when his turn came to put questions, “you are, of course, that very Mr. Rakitin whose pamphlet, published by the diocesan authorities, The Life of the Elder Father Zosima, Departed in God, full of profound and religious thoughts, with an excellent and pious dedication to His Grace the bishop, I recently read with such pleasure?”

“I didn’t write it for publication… they published it afterward,” Rakitin muttered, as though suddenly taken aback by something, and almost with shame.

“Oh, that is excellent! A thinker like you can, and even must, take a very broad view of every social phenomenon. Under His Grace’s patronage your most useful pamphlet has circulated widely and done relative good… But here is what I chiefly wished to be curious about: you have just declared that you were very closely acquainted with Miss Svetlova? (Nota bene. Grushenka’s surname turned out to be ‘Svetlova.’ I learned this for the first time only on that day, in the course of the trial.)”

“I cannot answer for all my acquaintances… I’m a young man… and who can answer for everyone he meets,” Rakitin flared up all over.

“I understand, I understand only too well!” Fetyukovich exclaimed, as if embarrassed himself and as if hastening headlong to apologize. “You, like anyone else, could in your turn have been interested in the acquaintance of a young and beautiful woman who readily received the flower of the local youth, but… I only wished to ascertain: we know that about two months ago Svetlova extremely wished to make the acquaintance of the youngest Karamazov, Alexei Fyodorovich, and merely for your bringing him to her, and precisely in his monastic dress of that time, she promised to give you twenty-five rubles, as soon as you brought him to her. This, as is known, took place precisely on the evening of the day that ended in the tragic catastrophe that has given rise to the present case. You brought Alexei Karamazov to Miss Svetlova and—did you receive those twenty-five rubles from Svetlova then as a reward, that is what I would like to hear from you?”

“It was a joke… I don’t see why that can interest you. I took it as a joke… and meaning to give it back later…”

“So you took it. But you have not given it back to this day… or have you?”

“This is trivial…” Rakitin muttered. “I can’t answer questions like that… Of course I shall give it back.”

The presiding judge intervened, but the defense counsel announced that he had finished his questions to Mr. Rakitin. Mr. Rakitin left the stage somewhat smeared. The impression of the lofty nobility of his speech had been spoiled after all, and Fetyukovich, following him with his eyes, seemed to be saying, pointing him out to the public, “there, you see, that is what your noble accusers are like!” I remember that here too there was an episode on Mitya’s part: enraged by the tone in which Rakitin had spoken of Grushenka, he suddenly shouted from his place, “Bernard!” And when the presiding judge, at the end of the whole questioning of Rakitin, turned to the defendant to ask whether he wished to remark anything on his part, Mitya shouted in a booming voice:

“He was cadging loans from me, from me, when I was already the defendant! A contemptible Bernard and a careerist, and he doesn’t believe in God, he swindled His Grace!”

Mitya, of course, was again called to order for the violence of his expressions, but Mr. Rakitin was finished off. The testimony of Staff Captain Snegiryov did not go well either, but for quite a different reason. He appeared all in tatters, in dirty clothes, in dirty boots, and, in spite of all precautions and a preliminary “examination,” suddenly turned out to be quite tipsy. To questions about the insult inflicted on him by Mitya he suddenly refused to answer.

“God be with them, sir. Ilyushechka told me not to. God will repay me there, sir.”

“Who told you not to speak? Whom are you referring to?”

“Ilyushechka, my little son: ‘Papa, Papa, how he humiliated you!’ He said it by the stone. Now he’s dying, sir…”

The staff captain suddenly burst into sobs and flung himself headlong at the presiding judge’s feet. He was quickly led out, amid the laughter of the public. The impression the prosecutor had prepared did not come off at all.

The defense counsel, meanwhile, went on making use of every means and astonished people more and more by his familiarity with the case down to the minutest details. Thus, for example, the testimony of Trifon Borisovich had made a very strong impression and, of course, was extremely unfavorable to Mitya. He calculated precisely, almost on his fingers, that Mitya, on his first visit to Mokroye, almost a month before the catastrophe, could not have spent less than three thousand, or “maybe short by only the tiniest bit. On those Gypsy girls alone, how much was thrown away! It wasn’t just that our lousy peasants ‘had fifty-kopeck pieces flung at them in the street,’ he made them presents of twenty-five-ruble notes at the very least, he didn’t give any less. And how much was simply stolen from him then, sir! Whoever stole didn’t leave his hand behind, so how are you to catch him, the thief, sir, when he was throwing it around for nothing himself! Our folk are robbers, you know, they don’t look after their souls. And the girls, our village girls, what they got! They’ve grown rich here since that time, that’s what, sir, before there was poverty.” In a word, he recalled every expenditure and worked it all out exactly as on an abacus. Thus the supposition that only fifteen hundred had been spent and the rest put aside in the pouch was becoming unthinkable. “I saw it myself, I saw three thousand in his hands like a single kopeck, I beheld it with my own eyes, who should understand counting if not us, sir!” Trifon Borisovich exclaimed, trying with all his might to please “the authorities.” But when the questioning passed to the defense counsel, he, almost without even attempting to refute the testimony, suddenly began to talk of how the coachman Timofei and another peasant, Akim, had picked up a hundred rubles on the floor of the entryway in Mokroye, during that first spree, a whole month before the arrest, dropped by Mitya while he was drunk, and had handed them to Trifon Borisovich, and he had given them a ruble each for it. “Well, then, did you return those hundred rubles to Mr. Karamazov at the time or not?” However Trifon Borisovich wriggled, after the peasants were questioned he admitted to the hundred-ruble note that had been found, adding only that he had religiously returned it all to Dmitri Fyodorovich at the time and handed it to him “in all honesty, and only that he himself, being at the time quite drunk, sir, can hardly remember it.” But since, before the peasant witnesses were called, he had nevertheless denied finding the hundred rubles, his testimony about returning the sum to the tipsy Mitya was naturally subjected to great doubt. Thus one of the most dangerous witnesses put forward by the prosecution went away, again, under suspicion and badly smeared in his reputation. The same thing happened with the Poles: they appeared proudly and independently. They testified loudly that, in the first place, both had “served the Crown,” that “Pan Mitya” had offered them three thousand as the price of their honor, and that with their own eyes they had seen large sums of money in his hands. Pan Mussyalovich stuck a frightful number of Polish words into his phrases and, noticing that this only raised him in the eyes of the presiding judge and the prosecutor, at last raised his spirit altogether and began speaking entirely in Polish. But Fetyukovich caught them in his nets too: however the recalled Trifon Borisovich wriggled, he had to admit all the same that his pack of cards had been replaced by Pan Vrublevsky with one of his own, and that Pan Mussyalovich, while dealing at faro, had cheated with a card. This was confirmed by Kalganov when he gave his testimony in turn, and both pans withdrew in some disgrace, even amid the laughter of the public.

Then the very same thing happened with almost all the most dangerous witnesses. Fetyukovich managed to smear each one of them morally and to send him off with his nose somewhat out of joint. The amateurs and the lawyers could only admire, and only wondered, again, what great and decisive purpose all this could serve, for, I repeat, everyone felt the irresistibility of the prosecution, which kept growing ever more tragically. But the assurance of the “great magician” showed them that he was calm, and they waited: not for nothing had “such a man” come from Petersburg, and he was not the sort of man to go back with nothing.