‘Apart from the door, everything he said was true,’ Mitya said loudly. ‘For combing out my fleas—I thank him. For forgiving me for assaulting him—I thank him. The old man has been honest all his life and as loyal to my father as seven hundred poodles.’
‘Defendant, choose your words more carefully,’ the president said sternly.
‘I’m not a poodle,’ grunted Grigory.
‘So I am the poodle then, what does it matter!’ shouted Mitya. ‘If it offends him, I accept responsibility, and I ask his forgiveness. I was a wild beast and I was cruel to him! I was cruel to Aesop, too.’
‘What Aesop?’ the president intervened again sternly.
‘Well, to Pierrot… to my father, Fyodor Pavlovich.’
The president repeatedly warned him, in the strictest and most emphatic tone, to choose his words more carefully:
‘You’re only doing yourself harm thereby in the eyes of your judges.’
The counsel for the defence dealt with the witness Rakitin just as skilfully. I should point out that Rakitin was one of the most important and valuable of the prosecution’s witnesses. It turned out that he knew everything, an astonishing amount, he had met everyone, had seen everything, had spoken to everyone, had the most detailed knowledge of Fyodor Pavlovich’s life and of all the other Karamazovs. True, as regards the envelope containing the three thousand, he had only heard about it from Mitya himself. On the other hand, he gave a detailed account of Mitya’s exploits in the Stolichny Gorod tavern, recounted all his compromising words and gestures, and repeated the story of Staff Captain Snegiryov’s ‘Loofah’. When it came to the particular point of whether Fyodor Pavlovich had swindled Mitya when settling the estate, even Rakitin was unable to contribute anything, and he avoided the issue with a few general remarks of a disparaging nature: how could anyone possibly sort out who had been the guilty party amongst that lot, and establish who owed what to whom in such a Karamazovian mess, where no one could understand anything or decide what was what? He saw the whole tragedy of this crime as a product of the archaic morality of the serf law and of a Russia wallowing in disorder and suffering from a lack of adequate institutions. In a word, he was allowed to have his say. This trial gave Rakitin his first opportunity to shine and make an impression; the prosecutor knew that the witness was preparing an article on the crime in question for a magazine, and he subsequently quoted a few ideas from this article in his speech (as we shall see later), thus showing that he was already familiar with it. The picture drawn by the witness was depressing and damning, and went a long way to substantiate the charge. On the whole, Rakitin’s testimony made a favourable impression upon the public because of the independence of thought and the exalted sweep of its ideas. There were even one or two isolated outbursts of applause, especially when he came to talk of serfdom and the disorder afflicting the Russian state. However Rakitin, on account of his youthful inexperience, made one small blunder which the counsel for the defence immediately managed to exploit to the full. While replying to certain questions about Grushenka, seduced by his success, of which he was of course already aware, and also by the position of moral superiority to which he aspired, he allowed himself to refer to Agrafena Aleksandrovna somewhat disparagingly as ‘Samsonov’s kept woman’. He would have given anything to retract this subsequently, since in his cross-examination Fetyukovich seized upon these words to trap him, and all because Rakitin had not reckoned on his having had time to study the case in such intimate detail.
‘Would you be kind enough to confirm’, began the counsel for the defence with the most cordial and even deferential smile when it was his turn to ask the questions, ‘that you are, of course, the selfsame Mr Rakitin whose pamphlet, “The Life of Starets Father Zosima, resting in the Lord”, I read recently with such pleasure—that treatise with its excellent and pious dedication to the bishop, published by the episcopal office, and replete with profound religious sentiment?’
‘I didn’t write it for publication… that came later,’ muttered Rakitin, suddenly nonplussed and almost as though ashamed of something.
‘Ah, wonderful! A thinker like yourself can, and indeed should, manifest the most detached response to any social phenomenon. Under the patronage of His Grace, your most valuable pamphlet has received a wide circulation and brought considerable overall benefit… But what I would be most curious to know from you is this: you stated just now, didn’t you, that you were very closely acquainted with Miss Svetlova?’ (The reader should note that Grushenka’s surname happened to be ‘Svetlova’. I discovered this only for the first time that day during the trial.)
‘I cannot be held responsible for all my acquaintances!’ Rakitin simply exploded. ‘I’m a young man… anyway, how can anyone be held responsible for all those whom one happens to meet?’
‘I understand, of course I understand!’ exclaimed Fetyukovich, as though embarrassed himself and apparently anxious to make amends. ‘You, like any young man, could well have been interested in a young and beautiful woman who readily entertained in her home the flower of the local youth, but… I merely wished to raise one point: we are informed that, about two months ago, Miss Svetlova was extremely anxious to make the acquaintance of the youngest Karamazov, Aleksei Fyodorovich, and that just for bringing him to her, in his monk’s habit—that was most important—she promised to give you twenty-five roubles on the spot. This, as we know, took place on the evening of the day that ended in the tragic event that led up to the present case. You took Aleksei Karamazov to Miss Svetlova and—did you then receive that twenty-five roubles as remuneration from Miss Svetlova? That’s what I would like you to tell the court.’
‘That was a joke… I don’t see why it should interest you. I took the money in jest… fully intending to return it later…’
‘So you took the money. And, let’s face it, you haven’t returned it to this day… or have you?’
‘That’s ludicrous…,’ mumbled Rakitin, ‘I can’t answer such questions… Of course I shall return it.’
The president intervened, but the counsel for the defence announced that he had no more questions for Mr Rakitin. Rakitin stepped down, his escutcheon slightly blotted. The impression of moral superiority conveyed by his speech had been dented, and Fetyukovich, following him with his gaze, appeared to say to the public: ‘Well, if that’s the type of prosecution witness you’re relying on…!’ I remember that the incident did not pass without intervention from Mitya either. Enraged by the tone in which Rakitin referred to Grushenka, he suddenly shouted from his seat: ‘Bernard!’ And then, after Rakitin’s cross-examination had been completed, as the president turned to the accused to see if he wished to make any comments, Mitya called out loudly:
‘Even after my arrest he was asking me for money! Bloody Bernard! Careerist! He doesn’t even believe in God, he’s pulled a fast one on his grace!’
Of course, Mitya was called to order again for his outrageous remarks, but Rakitin was now discredited. Staff Captain Snegiryov fared equally badly, but for quite a different reason in this case. He presented himself in clothes that were filthy and in tatters, his boots were covered in dirt, and despite all precautions and a preparatory ‘rehearsal’ he was quite tipsy. In response to questions relating to the humiliation he had suffered at the hands of Mitya, he suddenly refused to answer.
‘Good luck to him. Ilyushechka told me not to say anything. God will repay me for it.’
‘Who told you not to say anything? Who are you referring to?’
‘Ilyushechka, my little boy: “Daddy, daddy, he really humiliated you!” He said that by the stone. Now he’s dying…’
The Staff Captain suddenly began to sob, and threw himself flat on the floor at the president’s feet. He was hastily ushered out, accompanied by laughter from the audience. The impression that the prosecutor had wanted to create had been ruined.
The counsel for the defence continued to use every possible trick and to create ever more surprise by his knowledge of
the case, down to the minutest detail. For example, Trifon Borisovich’s statement made a very strong impression, and was of course highly prejudicial to Mitya. Trifon Borisovich did a quick calculation on his fingers and pronounced that, on his first visit to Mokroye almost a month before the murder, Mitya could not have spent less than three thousand, or as near as makes no difference. ‘The amount he frittered away on gypsy girls alone! He didn’t just fling fifty-kopeck coins at our lousy yokels, he was doling out at least twenty-rouble notes to them, nothing less. And the amount of money that was simply stolen! You see, the thieving rogues never left a trace behind, so how on earth could you catch them, especially the way he chucked his money around! I tell you, our people are nothing short of thieves, what do they care for the salvation of their souls. And the money that went on the girls! God Almighty! They’re rolling in it now, they didn’t even have two kopecks to rub together before, and that’s the truth.’ In a word, he remembered every item of expenditure and was able to account for every kopeck. Thus, the proposition that only fifteen hundred roubles had been spent and that the other half had been put away in the makeshift purse was becoming untenable. ‘I saw it myself, I saw three thousand roubles if it was a kopeck in his hands, with my own eyes, do you think I don’t know money when I see it!’ Trifon Borisych continued to vociferate, making every effort to ingratiate himself with the ‘authorities’. But the counsel for the defence, when he took over, made hardly any attempt to refute this evidence, and unexpectedly began to talk about the hundred roubles that the driver Timofei and the muzhik Akim had picked up off the floor in the entrance hall in Mokroye during Mitya’s first binge there, about a month before his arrest; he had dropped it, in his drunken state, and they had handed it over to Trifon Borisych, who had then given them a rouble each for their honesty. ‘Well then, did you return this one hundred roubles to Mr Karamazov or not?’ No matter how hard Trifon Borisych tried to evade the issue, he eventually had to admit that he had been handed the hundred-rouble note, adding, however, that he had faithfully returned everything to Dmitry Fyodorovich there and then, ‘handed it all back to him, honestly I did, but him being very much under the influence at the time, he can probably hardly remember any of it now.’ Nevertheless, since before the muzhiks’ testimony he had denied finding the hundred roubles, his claim of having returned the money to the tipsy Mitya was treated with a great deal of scepticism. Hence, one of the most dangerous of the prosecution witnesses left the stand under a cloud of suspicion and with his reputation severely tarnished. The same fate befell the Poles, who strutted in proudly and confidently. They announced at the top of their voices that, firstly, they were both ‘servants of the crown’, and that, secondly, ‘Pan Mitya’ had offered them three thousand roubles to buy their honour, and that they themselves had seen a lot of money in his hands. Pan Mussjalowicz began by including a lot of Polish words in his answers, and then, noticing that this only increased his standing in the eyes of the president and the prosecutor, abandoned all restraint and spoke entirely in Polish. But Fetyukovich caught them too in his snares; no matter how much Trifon Borisych, who had been called yet again to give evidence, dissembled, he nevertheless had to admit in the end that Pan Wrublewski had substituted his own pack of cards for the pack provided, and that Pan Mussjalowicz in dealing from the pack had deliberately withheld a card. Kalganov confirmed this when it was his turn to take the stand, and both Poles left rather shamefacedly, even accompanied by some laughter from the public.
The same thing happened to practically all the most dangerous witnesses. Fetyukovich succeeded in impeaching the morals of every one of them, and they all left with their reputations somewhat in tatters. Habitual trial-goers and the lawyers could not help but marvel, and yet they were at a loss to explain what ultimate grand scheme it could all serve, because, I repeat, everyone sensed the irrefutability of the charge, the tragic nature of which was becoming increasingly apparent. However, everyone could see by the self-assurance of the ‘great magician’ that he was unperturbed, and they watched and waited; ‘such a man’ would not have come all the way from St Petersburg for nothing, nor would such a man leave empty-handed.
3
MEDICAL EVIDENCE AND A POUND OF NUTS
THE medical evidence did not help the accused to any great extent either. Fetyukovich himself, it turned out later, did not pin much hope on it. As a matter of fact, it had been gathered solely on the insistence of Katerina Ivanovna, who had summoned a famous doctor from Moscow expressly for the trial. The defence could not be disadvantaged by it, of course, and if anything stood to gain. The final result turned out to be somewhat comical, and all because of a divergence of opinion amongst the doctors. The medical panel consisted of the famous doctor from Moscow, our local doctor Herzenstube, and, lastly, the young physician Varvinsky. The last two also appeared as ordinary witnesses for the prosecution.* The first to be called to give evidence as an expert was Herzenstube. He was a strongly built seventy-year-old man of medium height, grey-haired, and with a bald patch. He was greatly admired and respected in the town. He was a conscientious doctor, an admirable person and very religious—a Herrnhuter* of some kind, or a Moravian Brother—I can no longer remember which. He had been living in our town for a very long time, and behaved with extraordinary dignity. He was kind and humane, he treated the poor and the peasants free, attended to them personally in their hovels and huts, and would give them money to buy medicine, but at the same time he was as stubborn as a mule. Once he had got an idea into his head, it was impossible to shift it. Incidentally, it was already well known in the town that, in the two or three days that he had been with us, the doctor from Moscow had made a number of extremely derogatory remarks regarding Doctor Herzenstube’s professional competence. The situation was that, even though the Moscow doctor charged not less than twenty-five roubles for a consultation, some of our townspeople were glad of his visit, did not begrudge the money, and rushed to him for advice. All these patients were, of course, previously being treated by Doctor Herzenstube, and the famous doctor had been going around openly and severely criticizing the latter’s methods. In the end, arriving at a patient’s house, he would ask outright: ‘Well, so who’s been at work here? Herzenstube?’ Doctor Herzenstube had found out about all this, of course. Well, all three doctors took the stand one after the other. Doctor Herzenstube declared straight away that ‘the abnormality of the mental faculties of the accused is self-evident’. Then, having presented his reasons, which I shall omit, he added that not only could this abnormality be demonstrated in much of the previous behaviour of the accused but that it was evident even now, at that very instant, and when he was asked to explain how it manifested itself at that very instant, the old doctor, with the utmost professional integrity, pointed out the peculiar and, under the circumstances, unexpected manner in which the accused had entered the hall, striding in like a soldier and keeping his eyes fixed straight ahead, whereas one might have expected him to look to the left, ‘where there are ladies sitting among the public, because he is a great admirer of the fair sex, and has much to consider what the ladies of him now might say,’ concluded the old man in his own peculiar style. I must add that he spoke Russian fluently and volubly, but that all his sentences ended up sounding Germanic, which incidentally never perturbed him in the least, since during the whole of his life he had insisted on regarding his Russian as exemplary, ‘better even than that of the Russians’, and was even very fond of quoting Russian proverbs, maintaining that Russian proverbs were the best and most expressive in the world. I should also mention that in conversation, possibly due to some kind of absent-mindedness, he often forgot the most ordinary words, which he knew perfectly well but which for some reason would suddenly escape him. The same thing would happen, incidentally, when he spoke German; he would gesticulate in front of his face with his hand, as though seeking to take hold of the missing word, and no one would be able to persuade him to continue speaking until he had found it. His remark about
having expected the accused, on entering the hall, to glance at the ladies provoked a ripple of whispering and giggling amongst the public. All the ladies in our town were very fond of the dear old doctor, and they knew that, as a confirmed bachelor, he had led a pious and chaste life and that he had an exalted, idealized view of women. Hence his unexpected remark struck everyone as extremely odd.
The Moscow doctor, when his turn came to testify, confirmed brusquely and confidently that he considered the mental condition of the accused to be impaired, ‘very much so, in fact’. He spoke at length and very learnedly of ‘mental impairment’ and ‘mania’, and argued that, according to all the available information, the accused had undoubtedly been suffering from temporary insanity for several days before his arrest, that even if he had committed the crime it had been almost involuntary, and that even though he had been aware of it, he had been totally incapable of resisting the pathological urge which had overcome him. But apart from temporary insanity, the doctor also detected signs of mania, which, according to him, directly presaged total insanity. (NB. I am retelling this in my own words, whereas the doctor expressed himself very cleverly, using medical terminology.) ‘All his actions are contrary to sound sense and logic,’ he went on. ‘I’m not talking about what I did not see, that is, about the actual crime and this whole tragedy, but even during his conversation with me the day before yesterday he had an inexplicably staring look in his eyes. He kept laughing unexpectedly and totally inappropriately. He manifested a constant and irrational irritation, and he used strange words such as “Bernard”, “ethics”, and others which were quite inappropriate.’ But, in the doctor’s view, the chief symptom of this mania was the inability of the accused to talk about the three thousand roubles of which he considered himself to have been cheated, without somehow becoming excessively irritated, whereas he spoke fairly coherently when recalling any of his other grievances and misfortunes. Towards the end, every time the subject of the three thousand roubles was raised during questioning, he would invariably lapse into a kind of frenzy, and yet he was said to be unselfish and generous. ‘As regards my learned colleague’s opinion’, the doctor from Moscow added, in passing, at the end of his speech, ‘that the accused, on entering the courtroom, could have been expected to glance at the ladies rather than to look straight ahead, I shall only say that, quite apart from being frivolous, such a conclusion is also fundamentally erroneous, for though I quite agree that, on entering the place where his fate was to be decided, the accused should not have been staring straight ahead, and that this could in fact have been interpreted at that particular moment as a sign of his disturbed mental state, I would maintain with respect that rather than looking to the left at the ladies he might instead have been expected to look in precisely the opposite direction, namely to the right, in an attempt to make eye-contact with his counsel, whose advocacy represents his only hope and on whose skill the whole of his fate now hangs.’ The doctor expressed his opinion in a decisive and forthright manner. But it was Doctor Varvinsky, the last to give evidence, who advanced an unexpected deduction that lent a particularly comical element to the divergence of opinion between the two learned experts. In his view the accused had been—and indeed still was—perfectly sane, and the fact that prior to his arrest he had been in a nervous and extremely agitated state could be attributed to a large number of perfectly obvious causes: jealousy, anger, his constant state of inebriation, and so on. Under no circumstances, however, could this nervous state have been symptomatic of any particular ‘mental impairment’ such as had just been referred to. As to the question of whether the accused should have looked left or right on entering the courtroom, it was his ‘humble opinion’ that the accused should have looked straight ahead, as in actual fact he did, to where the president and the rest of the bench were sitting, for it was on them that his whole fate now depended, ‘hence it was precisely by looking straight ahead that he proved he was perfectly sane at that particular juncture,’ concluded the young physician. He had delivered his ‘humble’ opinion with some fervour.
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