The Brothers Karamazov (137 page)

“And now the life of my client is in your hands, and also in your hands is the future of Russian justice! You must save it, defend it. You must prove to the world at large that there are men ready to uphold it, and that it is in good hands!”

Chapter 14: Our Good Old Peasants Stand Their Ground

FETYUKOVICH ENDED his speech and this time the enthusiasm of the audience broke all bounds and burst forth in an uncontrollable storm. It would have been unthinkable to try to interfere with it: the women were in tears, so were many men. Even two of the important old dignitaries shed a few tears. The presiding judge gave in and put off ringing his little bell as long as he could, for he may have felt, as our ladies later insisted, that “interfering with such enthusiasm would have been tantamount to interfering with something sacred.” The orator himself was genuinely moved.

And it was during this moment of exaltation that our prosecutor rose to his feet to “object to some points brought up by the defense.” He was met with cold glares of hatred. “What does he want now? What is he up to? Who does he think he is?” the ladies protested in whispers. But even if the ladies of the entire world had joined their protest, even if they had been headed by the prosecutor’s own wife, even then they would have failed to stop him at that moment. He was so pale, tense, and trembling that his first words were quite unintelligible: he gasped for breath, mispronouncing and misplacing words. Soon enough, however, he took hold of himself.

I would like to quote only a few brief passages of that second speech of his.

“. . . I have been accused here of making up a whole novel. And what about the defense? What has it offered us if not a romance based on another romance? There was everything in it, short of verse. Awaiting his mistress, Fyodor Karamazov tears open the envelope and throws it on the floor. We are even told the words he mutters as he does so. Isn’t that a poem in itself? But what proof is there that he took that money out of the envelope? And who heard him mutter those words? And then we have that feeble-minded idiot Smerdyakov presented to us as a Byronic hero out to avenge himself on society for his illegitimate birth—isn’t that a poem in the Byronic style? And then there is the son breaking into his father’s house, killing him and, at the same time, not killing him. No, this is no longer a novel; this is a riddle of the sphinx, a riddle that he himself cannot possibly solve. One would think that, if he killed him, he did it. But not here: he killed him, but he didn’t do it! Just try to make sense out of that! And after that, having announced that this courtroom must be a platform for justice, for a sound, rational approach, we hear the counsel for the defense announce under oath that parricide is nothing but an obsolete prejudice. But just imagine what would happen to the family, the mainstay of our society, if, as he suggests, every child started by asking his father, ‘Tell me why I should love you’? The word ‘parricide’ is simply one of those words that frighten us because we have not grasped its meaning and so find ourselves in the position of Ostrovsky’s ignorant characters.

“The defense presents the most sacred and treasured precepts of Russian justice, which guide it today and will do so in its future development, irresponsibly in a completely distorted way, just to serve his immediate purpose—to obtain the acquittal of a criminal who has no right to be acquitted. ‘Oh, please, smother him with mercy!’ the defense counsel exclaims; ‘this is all the murderer needs, and he will show you soon enough how smothered he is!’ Perhaps the defense counsel is even too modest when he asks you simply to acquit his client? Couldn’t he, for instance, suggest the creation of a scholarship grant bearing the name of this parricide, so that his fine deed would be properly remembered by our young and our descendants?

“And the counsel goes on to put straight the Gospels and established religion as a whole. ‘It’s all mysticism,’ he tells us, ‘for it is I who possess the secret of true Christianity; I have subjected it to the analysis of my reason and verified it against sound rational concepts.’ So a false picture of Christ is waved before our eyes. ‘With what measure ye mete, it shall be measured to you again!’ the defense counsel exclaims and, without blinking an eye, goes on to conclude that Christ teaches us to mete out to others as others mete out to us, and he does so from what he himself describes as a platform for justice and for sane, healthy ideas! I can see him glancing at the Gospels as he prepares one of his speeches—oh, only then—for it may be quite useful to show off his knowledge of this work, which is quite original and contains many passages likely to produce an effect on the audience, whenever such an effect is required. But here his interpretation is just the opposite of Christ’s commandment: Christ commands us precisely not to mete out to others as is meted out to us, which is the way of the wicked world. He wants us to forgive and to offer the other cheek. That is what our Lord taught us, and He did not teach us that it is only a prejudice to believe that children should not kill their parents! Let us not presume to correct, from this platform of justice and sanity, the precepts given us in the Gospels by our Lord, to whom the counsel condescendingly refers as ‘the crucified humanitarian,’ whereas to our Russian Orthodox Church He is ‘the Lord, our God’!”

The presiding judge interfered at this point, warning the prosecutor that he was going rather too far, that he must remain within the bounds of the argument, and so on and so forth—the usual things that presiding magistrates say in these cases. Besides, the spectators were growing restive. Fetyukovich did not bother to answer the objections. He merely stood up, placed his hand on his heart, and said a few words in a tone of offended dignity. He made a few more ironic comments on the prosecutor’s “romances” and his “psychological approach,” and managed to slip in the saying, “Jupiter, thou art irate, this shows thou art wrong,” which evoked some laughter, for no one could be more unlike Jupiter than our prosecutor. Then, with great dignity, Fetyukovich declared that he would not honor with a comment the remark that he was encouraging members of the young generation to kill their fathers. As to the accusation that he had distorted the image of Christ and referred to Him as “the crucified humanitarian,” which allegedly clashed with the view of Russia’s official church and therefore should not have been uttered in a Russian court, which was a platform of justice and sane beliefs, Fetyukovich considered it “a hostile insinuation”; he said that when he had decided to come to this town, he had felt confident that the court would offer him protection from “slurs on my reputation as a good citizen and a loyal subject of His Majesty the Tsar.” At this point, the presiding judge called him to order too. Fetyukovich bowed, said he had finished, and went back to his seat, accompanied by an approving hum from the spectators. At that moment, every woman among them had no doubt whatever that our prosecutor had been crushed so thoroughly that he would never recover.

The accused was asked if he had anything to say to the jurors, and Mitya stood up. But he did not say much. He was terribly tired, both physically and mentally. The air of strength and self-reliance he had had in the morning, when he had first entered the courtroom, had evaporated. It was as though what he had experienced that day had made him understand something of the utmost importance that would stay with him for the rest of his life, something that had been quite beyond him until then. He no longer spoke loudly as he had before; his voice was weak now; there was defeat and resignation in it, and also a new kind of understanding.

“What can I tell you, gentlemen? My hour of judgment has come and I am now in the hands of God. This is the end of the wayward man I used to be. But, confessing as if to God, I say to you: ‘No, I am not guilty of my father’s blood!’ For the last time, I tell you: ‘I did not kill him!’ I was dissolute, but I loved goodness. I wanted to mend my ways all the time, but I continued to live like a wild animal. I want to thank the prosecutor for telling me many things about myself that I did not know, but when he says I killed my father, the prosecutor is wrong! I want to thank my defender, too. I wept as he was speaking. But he did not have to assume that I killed my father, since I did not kill him—he shouldn’t even have assumed it. And you must not believe the doctors: I am completely normal; I just feel a terrible weight on my heart. If you show mercy and acquit me, I will pray for you, and I will become a better man than I was before. I give you my word that I will, as God is my witness. If you condemn me, I will break my sword over my head with my own hands and kiss the two halves. But have mercy, gentlemen. Please, do not deprive me of my God now, for knowing myself, I am afraid I will rise against him. I feel deeply unhappy, gentlemen of the jury, spare me . . .”

He almost fell as he sank back into his chair. His voice faltered and he hardly managed to articulate the last words.

The presiding judge then read off the questions that the jurors were to answer and asked both sides to make their final statements. I will pass over all these details. At last the jurors rose, ready to retire. The presiding judge was very tired by now, so his address to the jury was quite weak; it contained all the usual exhortations, such as, “Be impartial,” “Don’t allow yourselves to be swayed by the eloquence of the defense counsel,” “Remember, however, the great burden of responsibility you bear,” etc., etc. The jurors retired and the court was adjourned.

People could now stand up, stretch their legs, have a snack at the buffet, exchange impressions. It was very late, well past 1 a.m., but no one even thought of going home. They were all much too tense and excited to think of sleep. Some people’s hearts pounded wildly as they waited, while the hearts of others continued beating quite calmly. The ladies were hysterically impatient, but they were not actually worried about the verdict: “There is not the slightest doubt—he will be acquitted!” They were all waiting for the dramatic announcement. I must say that, by then, many of the men were also convinced that the accused would be acquitted; some of them were pleased about it, while others frowned gloomily. Indeed, some looked quite sad and despondent. An acquittal, they felt, would be scandalous! Fetyukovich himself was sure of success. He was surrounded by people, congratulating him and showering him with flattery. Later I was told that he said to those around him:

“Certain invisible ties must be established between the defender and the jurors during the defender’s speech. I felt that the contact was made. I don’t think you need worry—we’ve won.”

“I wonder what our good peasants will say now?” said a fat, pockmarked local landowner, joining one of the groups discussing the trial.

“But they aren’t actually peasants, are they? Four of them are civil servants.”

“Some civil servants!” remarked a member of the local agricultural board, coming up.

“Tell me, Prokhor Nazaryev, do you know that big merchant on the jury, the one with the medal?”

“Yes. Why do you ask?”

“He has plenty of brains. Let me tell you that.”

“He never says much though.”

“True, he doesn’t say much, but that’s lucky for that Petersburg fellow, because if he opened his mouth he could teach that lawyer and all his Petersburg friends a lesson. Just think, he’s the father of twelve children!”

“What are you talking about? How can they fail to acquit him!” cried someone in a group of young civil servants.

“I’m certain they’ll acquit him,” a voice answered him, brooking no contradiction.

“It would be a real shame and a disgrace if they didn’t!” the first civil servant cried. “Even if he did kill him—there are fathers and fathers. Besides, he was in such a frantic state when it happened and, as the defender said, it could be that he simply swung the pestle and the other just fell. It’s a shame they felt they had to drag that flunkey into it. It’s just too ridiculous. If I were the defender, I would have said straight out, he killed him but he is not guilty, and the hell with all the rest!”

“That’s exactly what he did, except for saying, ‘The hell with all the rest.’ ”

“And he almost said that,” a third voice butted in.

“But listen, after all, they acquitted that actress, during Lent, who cut the throat of her lover’s legitimate wife, didn’t they?”

“But she didn’t cut it all the way . . .”

“What’s the difference? She had a good go at it!”

“Don’t you think it was marvelous what he said about fathers and children?”

“Yes, it was really great!”

“And the way he spoke about mysticism. What did you think of that?”

“Ah, forget about mystics and think of our prosecutor! Why, I bet you his wife will scratch his eyes out tomorrow for the things he said about dear Mitya-boy!”

“Isn’t she here now?”

“Of course not. If she’d been here, she’d have scratched his eyes out right now! No, she’s at home with a toothache, ha-ha-ha!”

“He-he-he!”

In a third group:

“Why, looks like Mitya-boy will get away with it.”

“I bet he’ll tear the Capital City Inn to pieces tomorrow, and he’ll go on a drunken binge for at least ten days!”

“Ah, the devil!”

“You’re right there—the devil must be in on it too. He’d never have been able to carry it off without the devil’s help, and that’s the devil’s proper place!”

“All right, gentlemen, eloquence is a great thing, but I ask you now—should people really be encouraged to bash their fathers’ heads in with blunt implements?”

“Speaking of eloquence, do you remember how he brought that chariot in?”

“Yes, he managed to make a chariot out of a cart!”

“But tomorrow he’ll make a cart out of the chariot, if it’ll help him win his case. It just depends on what’s needed!”

“There are so many clever people about these days! Makes me wonder whether there is still such a thing as justice left in Russia.”

The bell rang. The jurors had been out for exactly an hour, no more, no less. As soon as the public was seated, there was complete silence. I remember the jurors filing back into the courtroom. At last! I will skip the formal questions and answers on the various points—they have slipped my memory. But I remember clearly the first answer to the crucial question asked by the presiding judge: “Is the accused guilty or not guilty of the charge of premeditated murder with robbery?” (I have forgotten the exact wording.) A dead silence followed, after which the foreman of the jury—the youngest of the four civil servants—spoke out loudly and clearly in the stillness of the courtroom: