XIV. The Peasants Stood Their Ground

So Fetyukovich ended, and the rapture of the listeners that burst out this time was irrepressible, like a storm. It was no longer even thinkable to restrain it: women wept, many of the men wept too, even two dignitaries shed tears. The presiding judge submitted and even put off ringing his bell: “To encroach upon such enthusiasm would have been to encroach upon a sacred thing,” as our ladies cried afterward. The orator himself was sincerely moved. And it was at just such a minute that our Ippolit Kirillovich rose once more “to exchange rebuttals.” He was looked upon with hatred: “What? What is this? Does he still dare to object?” the ladies babbled. But even if the ladies of the whole world had started babbling, and at their head the prosecutor’s wife herself, Ippolit Kirillovich’s spouse, even then it would have been impossible to restrain him at that instant. He was pale, he was shaking with agitation; his first words, the first phrases he uttered, were even unintelligible; he was gasping for breath, pronouncing badly, getting confused. However, he soon recovered. But from this second speech of his I will quote only a few phrases.

“…We are reproached with having created a pile of novels. But what has the defense counsel given us, if not novel upon novel? Only verses were lacking. Fyodor Pavlovich, waiting for his mistress, tears open the envelope and throws it on the floor. We are even told what he said on this remarkable occasion. Why, is this not a poem? And where is the proof that he took out the money, who heard what he said? The feeble-minded idiot Smerdyakov, transformed into some sort of Byronic hero avenging himself on society for his illegitimate birth—is this not a poem in the Byronic taste? And the son who broke in on his father, killed him, and at the same time did not kill him, that is no longer even a novel, not a poem, it is a sphinx setting riddles which, of course, it will not solve itself. If he killed, then he killed, but how can it be that if he killed, then he did not kill—who can understand that? Next we are informed that our tribune is a tribune of truth and of sound ideas, and so from this tribune of ‘sound ideas’ there resounds, with an oath, the axiom that to call the murder of a father parricide is nothing but a prejudice! But if parricide is a prejudice, and if every child is going to question his father, ‘Father, why must I love you?’—then what will become of us, what will become of the foundations of society, where will the family go? Parricide—that, you see, is only the ‘brimstone’ of a Moscow merchant’s wife. The most precious, the most sacred precepts concerning the purpose and the future of the Russian court are presented perversely and frivolously, only in order to attain the goal, to attain the acquittal of what cannot be acquitted. ‘Oh, crush him with mercy,’ the defense counsel exclaims, but that is all the criminal needs, and tomorrow everyone will see how crushed he is! And is the defense counsel not too modest in demanding only the acquittal of the defendant? Why not demand the founding of a scholarship in the parricide’s name, to immortalize his great deed for posterity and for the young generation? The Gospel and religion are being corrected: all that, they say, is mysticism, but here with us is only true Christianity, already verified by the analysis of reason and of sound ideas. And so they raise up before us a false likeness of Christ! With the measure you measure, it will be measured to you, the defense counsel exclaims, and at that very instant deduces that Christ commanded us to measure in the same measure with which we are measured—and this from the tribune of truth and of sound ideas! We look into the Gospel only on the eve of our speeches, in order to shine with our acquaintance with what is, after all, a rather original composition, which may come in handy and serve for a certain effect, according to the measure of need, all according to the measure of need! But Christ commands us precisely not to do so, to beware of doing so, because the wicked world does so, while we must forgive and turn our cheek, and not measure out in the same measure with which our offenders measure to us. That is what our God taught us, and not that to forbid children to kill their fathers is a prejudice. And we will not correct from the rostrum of truth and of sound ideas the Gospel of our God, whom the defense counsel deigns to call only ‘the crucified lover of mankind,’ in contrast to all Orthodox Russia, which calls out to him: ‘For you are our God!…’”

Here the presiding judge intervened and checked the man who had been carried away, asking him not to exaggerate, to keep within proper bounds, and so on, and so on, as presiding judges usually say in such cases. And the hall too was restless. The public stirred, even exclaimed in indignation. Fetyukovich did not even object; he mounted the rostrum only to say, with his hand pressed to his heart, a few words full of dignity in an offended voice. He touched only slightly and mockingly on the “novels” and the “psychology” again, and in one place slipped in apropos: “Jupiter, you are angry, therefore you are wrong,” which provoked an approving and widespread titter in the public, for Ippolit Kirillovich was by now not in the least like Jupiter. Then, to the accusation that he was supposedly permitting the young generation to kill their fathers, Fetyukovich remarked with profound dignity that he would not even reply. As for the “false likeness of Christ,” and his not having deigned to call Christ God but having called him only “the crucified lover of mankind,” which “was contrary to Orthodoxy, they say, and could not have been uttered from the tribune of truth and of sound ideas,” Fetyukovich hinted at “insinuation” and at the fact that, when getting ready to come here, he had at least counted on the tribune here being secure from accusations “dangerous to my person as a citizen and a loyal subject…” But at these words the presiding judge checked him too, and Fetyukovich, bowing, concluded his reply, accompanied by a general approving murmur in the hall. As for Ippolit Kirillovich, in the opinion of our ladies, he had been “crushed forever.”

Then the floor was given to the defendant himself. Mitya stood up, but said little. He was terribly exhausted both in body and in spirit. The look of independence and strength with which he had appeared in the hall that morning had almost vanished. It was as if he had lived through something that day that would last him all his life, something that had taught him and brought home to him something very important which he had not understood before. His voice had grown weak, he no longer shouted as he had earlier. In his words there could be heard something new, humbled, vanquished, and cowed.

“What am I to say, gentlemen of the jury! My judgment has come, I feel the right hand of God upon me. An end to a dissolute man! But as though confessing to God, I say to you too: ‘Of my father’s blood—no, I am not guilty!’ For the last time I repeat: ‘It was not I who killed.’ I was dissolute, but I loved the good. Every moment I strove to reform, but I lived like a wild beast. My thanks to the prosecutor, he told me many things about myself that I didn’t even know, but it isn’t true that I killed my father, the prosecutor was mistaken! My thanks to the defense counsel too, I wept listening to him, but it isn’t true that I killed my father, and there was no need even to suppose it! And don’t believe the doctors, I am in my right mind, only my soul is heavy. If you spare me, if you let me go—I will pray for you. I will become better, I give my word, before God I give it. And if you condemn me—I will break the sword over my head myself, and having broken it, I will kiss the pieces! But spare me, do not deprive me of my God, I know myself: I will murmur against him! My soul is heavy, gentlemen… spare me!”

He almost fell back into his place, his voice broke off, he barely got out the last phrase. Then the court proceeded to frame the questions and began to ask the parties for their conclusions. But I will not describe the details. At last the jurors stood up to withdraw for their deliberations. The presiding judge was very tired, and therefore he gave them a very feeble parting address: “Be impartial, he said, do not be swayed by the eloquent words of the defense, but, however, weigh, remember that a great obligation lies upon you,” and so on, and so on. The jurors withdrew, and the session went into recess. One could get up, walk about, exchange the impressions that had piled up, have a bite at the buffet. It was very late, already about one o’clock in the morning, but no one went home. Everyone was so tense and keyed up that there was no thought of rest. Everyone waited with sinking heart, though not everyone, however, waited with sinking heart. The ladies were only in hysterical impatience, but their hearts were at ease: “Acquittal is inevitable,” they said. They were all preparing for the effective minute of general enthusiasm. I confess that in the men’s half of the hall too there were extremely many who were convinced of an inevitable acquittal. Some rejoiced, others frowned, and some simply hung their noses: they did not want an acquittal! Fetyukovich himself was firmly confident of success. He was surrounded, he received congratulations, people fawned on him.

“There are,” he said in one group, as was reported afterward, “there are these invisible threads that bind the defense counsel to the jurors. They are tied and sensed even during the speech. I felt them, they exist. The case is ours, rest assured.”

“And I wonder what our peasants will say now?” said a frowning, fat, pockmarked gentleman, a landowner from near town, coming up to a group of gentlemen who were talking.

“But it isn’t only peasants. There are four officials there.”

“Yes, officials, there you are,” said a member of the zemstvo board, coming up.

“And do you know Nazaryev, Prokhor Ivanovich, that merchant with the medal, the juror?”

“What about him?”

“A head full of brains.”

“But he never says anything.”

“He doesn’t say anything, sure, but that’s all the better. It’s not for the one from Petersburg to teach him, he could teach all Petersburg himself. Twelve children, just think!”

“Good heavens, surely they won’t fail to acquit?” one of our young officials was shouting in another group.

“They’ll acquit for sure,” a resolute voice was heard.

“It would be shameful, disgraceful not to acquit!” the official exclaimed. “Suppose he did kill, but there are fathers and fathers! And finally, he was in such a frenzy… He really may have just swung the pestle, and the other one keeled over. The only bad thing is that they dragged the lackey into it. That’s simply a ridiculous episode. In the defense counsel’s place I would have said straight out: he killed, but he’s not guilty, and the devil take you all!”

“But that’s just what he did, only he didn’t say ‘the devil take you all.’”

“No, Mikhail Semyonych, he almost did say it,” a third little voice chimed in.

“Good heavens, gentlemen, why, during Lent here they acquitted an actress who cut the throat of her lover’s lawful wife.”

“But she didn’t finish cutting it.”

“Never mind, never mind, she began cutting!”

“And how about what he said about children? Magnificent!”

“Magnificent.”

“Well, and about mysticism, about mysticism, eh?”

“Oh, enough of your mysticism,” someone else cried out, “think about Ippolit, about his fate from this day on! Why, tomorrow his wife will scratch his eyes out over Mitenka.”

“Is she here?”

“What do you mean, here? If she were here, she’d have scratched them out here. She’s sitting at home, she has a toothache. Heh-heh-heh!”

“Heh-heh-heh!”

In a third group:

“And they may very well acquit Mitenka, you know.”

“For all we know, tomorrow he’ll smash up the whole Metropolis, he’ll go on drinking for ten days.”

“Ah, the devil!”

“The devil, sure, the devil had a hand in it, where else should he be, if not here.”

“Gentlemen, eloquence, granted. But all the same, one can’t go breaking fathers’ heads with steelyards. Otherwise what will we come to?”

“The chariot, the chariot, remember?”

“Yes, he made a chariot out of a cart.”

“And tomorrow a cart out of the chariot, ‘according to the measure of need, all according to the measure of need.’”

“Clever people nowadays. Is there any truth in Russia, gentlemen, or none at all?”

But the bell rang. The jurors had deliberated exactly an hour, neither more nor less. A deep silence reigned as soon as the public had taken their seats again. I remember how the jurors came into the hall. At last! I will not quote the questions point by point, and anyway I have forgotten them. I remember only the answer to the presiding judge’s first and main question, that is, “did he kill for the purpose of robbery, with premeditation?” (I do not remember the text). Everything froze. The foreman of the jury, precisely that official who was the youngest of them all, proclaimed loudly and clearly, in the deathly silence of the hall:

“Yes, guilty!”

And then on all the points it went the same: guilty and guilty, and this without the slightest leniency! This no one had expected; of leniency at least almost everyone had been sure. The deathly silence of the hall was not broken; literally everyone seemed to have turned to stone—both those who had longed for a conviction and those who had longed for an acquittal. But this was only in the first minutes. Then a terrible chaos arose. Among the male public many turned out to be very pleased. Some even rubbed their hands, not hiding their joy. The displeased seemed crushed, shrugged their shoulders, whispered, but as if they still had not taken it in. But, my God, what became of our ladies! I thought they would start a rebellion. At first they seemed not to believe their ears. And suddenly, through the whole hall, exclamations were heard: “What is this? What on earth is this?” They jumped up from their seats. It probably seemed to them that all this could be changed and redone again at once. At that instant Mitya suddenly stood up and, stretching out his hands before him, shouted in a sort of heartrending howl:

“I swear by God and by his Last Judgment, I am not guilty of my father’s blood! Katya, I forgive you! Brothers, friends, spare the other one!”

He did not finish and burst into sobs for the whole hall to hear, loudly, terribly, in a sort of voice not his own, a new, unexpected voice that had suddenly appeared in him God knows from where. In the gallery, up above, in the very farthest corner, there was a piercing female wail: it was Grushenka. She had begged someone earlier, and they had let her into the hall again before the closing arguments began. Mitya was led away. The pronouncing of the sentence was put off until the next day. The whole hall rose in commotion, but I no longer waited or listened. I remember only a few exclamations, already on the porch, on the way out.

“He’ll get a whiff of the mines for twenty years.”

“No less.”

“Yes, sir, our peasants stood their ground.”

“And finished off our Mitenka!”