The Brothers Karamazov (135 page)

“Although the court has decided to get the case over with as quickly as possible, I would still like to make a few comments, for instance, concerning the public prosecutor’s brilliant character sketch of the late Smerdyakov. While I admire the talent of the author of the sketch, I cannot possibly go along with the essence of the portrayal. I met Smerdyakov. I went to see him and spoke to him, but the impression he made on me was altogether different. I agree that he was weak physically and that his health was poor. But in character, in spirit, he was no weakling, as the prosecutor wishes us to believe. Particularly, I found none of that peculiar timidity in him that the prosecutor so vividly described. Nor was there anything open about him; indeed, I found a tremendous distrust, concealed behind a mask of open-hearted simplicity; and I also found in him an intelligence capable of seeing through a great many things. I submit that the prosecutor was rather naive in concluding that Smerdyakov was feeble-minded. I left him with the definite conviction that he was a malicious, morbidly vain, vengeful, and spitefully envious creature. And after some investigation, I discovered that he hated the story of his parentage, that he was ashamed of it, and would gnash his teeth when reminded that he was the son of Reeking Lizaveta. He never treated Gregory and Martha, who had looked after him throughout his childhood, with respect. He hated and cursed Russia, and his dream was to go to France and become a Frenchman. Many people heard him say so and, also, that one day he would find enough money to carry out his plan. I don’t believe he loved anyone but himself, and he also had a very inflated opinion of his own talents. To him, the symbols of enlightenment were good clothes, clean linen, and polished boots. Knowing he was an illegitimate son of Fyodor Karamazov—and we have evidence that he knew it—Smerdyakov was bitter about his position as compared with that of Fyodor Karamazov’s legitimate sons, who, he felt, had everything while he had nothing, who would inherit their father’s money while he, Smerdyakov, was doomed to remain a cook all his life. He also told me that he had helped Fyodor Karamazov put the hundred-ruble bills into that envelope. It stands to reason that he hated the thought of where the money was to go, a sum that would have been enough to change his own future. Furthermore, he saw the three thousand rubles in brand new, bright, rainbow-colored bills (I deliberately asked him about that). Oh, if you want a piece of good advice, never allow a conceited, envious man to see a large sum of money in your hand! It was the first time in his life that Smerdyakov had seen a large sum in Fyodor Karamazov’s hand! The many rainbow-colored bills must have made a violent impression on his imagination, although, at that point, without disastrous consequences. My talented friend the prosecutor drew up for us a list of all the pros and cons of the possibility of Smerdyakov’s guilt and, among other things, asked: What possible reason could Smerdyakov have for shamming an epileptic seizure? Why, perhaps he didn’t sham it at all; the attack could have occurred naturally. But after it, the sick man could have regained consciousness. He needn’t have recovered completely. He could just have come to, as patients afflicted with the falling sickness usually do. The prosecutor asks us: At what moment could Smerdyakov have committed the crime? It would be very easy to answer that question for him. Smerdyakov could have woken from his deep sleep—because he was actually simply asleep, for epileptic seizures are usually followed by a deep sleep—woken just at the second that old Gregory seized Dmitry Karamazov’s foot, as it dangled from the garden fence, and screamed, ‘Father-killer!’ at the top of his voice. That cry resounded deafeningly through the stillness of the night and could very well have awakened Smerdyakov, whose sleep, by that time, was not necessarily all that deep, for he could have been coming gradually to for an hour or so by then. So Smerdyakov could have gotten up and almost unthinkingly, without anything precise in mind, gone to see what was happening. He’s still feeling very vague and confused in the head, but, without noticing what he is doing, he crosses the garden, walks over to the lighted windows, and hears from his master—who, of course, is very pleased to see him—what has just happened. All at once, the idea flashes through his head. His frightened master tells him everything in great detail, and gradually a plan of action appears in Smerdyakov’s aching, throbbing head—a dangerous but very tempting opportunity, one that logic tells him is the best and safest opportunity he will ever have: he could kill his master, take the three thousand rubles, and have the master’s son take the blame for it all, because, obviously, no one other than that son would be suspected, with all the evidence of his presence. His tremendous yearning for that money could have taken his breath away, and it was strengthened by his deep conviction that now he could do it with complete impunity. Oh, such sudden, irresistible impulses often occur at the right moment to potential murderers who, a few seconds previously, would never have thought that they would want to kill! And so Smerdyakov was in a position to get into the house and to carry out his plan. As to the weapon—well, it could have been, for instance, a rock, as long as it was heavy enough; he could have picked it up in the garden before going in. And what was his motive? Why, three thousand rubles would take care of his entire future career. Oh, I am not really contradicting myself, for that money could have existed, after all. And it is possible that no one except Smerdyakov knew where Fyodor Karamazov had hidden it. And as for the torn envelope on the floor, let me go back to what the prosecutor had to say on that subject: he developed a very subtle theory to the effect that only an inexperienced thief such as my client would have left it there, but that never would a man like Smerdyakov think of leaving behind such a piece of incriminating evidence against himself. Well, gentlemen of the jury, when I heard him say that, it somehow sounded awfully familiar to me, and just imagine—I had heard that same assumption, that Dmitry Karamazov would do precisely that with the envelope, from none other than Smerdyakov himself. I was even struck by the falsely naive tone in which he tried to implant that idea in my head, trying to get me to say it without realizing that he had put it in my mind in the first place. Now, I just wonder whether he didn’t quietly intimate that theory to the talented prosecutor during the preliminary investigation. In other words, I wonder whether the whole idea did not originate with him.

“There is still the old woman Martha, who is supposed to have heard Smerdyakov moaning all night behind the partition. Well, she may have heard him, but even so, the reliability of her testimony remains very questionable. I once knew a lady who complained that she couldn’t sleep at night because of the barking of a neighbor’s lap-dog. But it was later established that the poor little beast yelped only two or three times in the course of the whole night. And this is quite natural. For a person could be asleep, then suddenly hear a moan, wake up furious at being awakened, and then at once fall asleep again. Two hours later, he is woken up by another moan, and again goes to sleep. And once more, two hours later, his sleep is interrupted for the third time. In the morning the sleeper will complain that someone’s moaning prevented him from sleeping all night. But that is a very natural reaction, for since he slept through the two-hour periods, he forgets about them, but he remembers clearly the brief spells when he was awake.

“‘But why,’ the prosecution cries, ‘didn’t Smerdyakov confess his guilt in his suicide note? Why did he have sufficient scruples to be concerned that no one should be accused of his death, but not enough to stop an innocent man from being accused of his crime?’ But isn’t there a confusion of issues here? Scruples involve repentance, and Smerdyakov never felt repentant—he was filled with despair. Repentance and despair are two very different things. Despair may be combined with irreconcilable resentment, and, at the moment of perishing by his own hand, a suicide may find his hatred doubled for those he envied during his life.

“Gentlemen of the jury, do not allow justice to miscarry in this case. There is absolutely nothing in what I have told you that could not have happened. Just try and find any absurdity in the versions I have suggested, try and prove them wrong or impossible! And as long as there is a shadow of a possibility that things might have happened the way I have suggested, you may not declare my client guilty as charged! I swear to you, by everything I hold sacred, that I sincerely believe what I have just told you about the murder. And more than anything else, I am disturbed and outraged by the thought that, out of all the mass of facts piled up by the prosecution, there is not a single one that is unanswerable and final, and that my unhappy client is threatened only by the accumulation of those facts. Yes, the total weight of the facts is terrifying: there is that blood dripping from his fingers, staining his linen; there is that dark night interrupted by the piercing cry of ‘Father-killer!’ as the man crying out those words is felled, his skull broken; and then there is a stream of phrases, statements, gestures, and exclamations, all of which could bias people’s opinions, sway their feelings. But should you, gentlemen of the jury, allow your feelings and opinions to be swayed like this? Remember, you have been entrusted with a tremendous power, the power to decide. But, as you must know, the greater the power, the more frightening is the responsibility of wielding it! I won’t retreat one inch from what I have said here, but even if I did, for one second, agree that my client’s hands had really been covered with his father’s blood—again, it would be only an assumption, for I have no doubt whatever of his innocence—but if, for argument’s sake, I went along with the prosecution and agreed that my client was guilty of parricide, even so I beg you to hear what I have to say. I feel very strongly impelled to say something more to you, because I can see the great inner struggle taking place in your hearts and minds . . . Please forgive me for mentioning your hearts and minds, gentlemen of the jury, but I want to be truthful and sincere to the very end. So let us be sincere, all of us! . . .”

Considerable applause interrupted the counsel for the defense. Indeed, he had uttered the last words with such sincerity that the audience felt he was really about to say something of the greatest importance. But, hearing the clapping, the presiding judge loudly called the spectators to order, threatening to “clear the courtroom” if such an “incident” occurred again. Everything was quiet after that, and Fetyukovich began in a new, penetrating voice, quite different from the one in which he had spoken up till then.

Chapter 13: Corrupters Of Thought

IT IS not just the accumulation of facts that is crushing my client,” Fetyukovich announced, “there is actually one single fact that dooms him—the fact that the dead body is that of his father! Had this been an ordinary murder case, with the shaky evidence, sweeping assumptions, and lack of positive proof, when every available fact is considered in turn, you would have refused, gentlemen of the jury, to ruin a man’s life, just because of biased feelings against him, which may well, alas, have been justified. But this is not just murder that we are dealing with here, it is parricide! The idea of it shocks and impresses us so much that the inadequate proof ceases to appear inadequate and the questionable facts cease to appear questionable, even to the least prejudiced persons! How could such a man be acquitted, for suppose he did kill his father? How could such a monster be allowed to go unpunished? Yes, that is what everyone must feel deep down, instinctively as it were. Yes, it is the most terrible thing there is, to shed the blood of one’s father, the blood of the man who gave you life, who loved you, who would have given his life for you when you were a small child, who suffered through all your misery, who was unhappy through your unhappiness, and who rejoiced only in your joy and success! Oh, it is impossible to conceive what it would mean to kill such a father! Gentlemen of the jury, what is a father, a real father? What does that word mean? What great thought is contained in that name—‘father’? What I have just said is only part of what a true father ought to be. But in the case we are now faced with, that has shocked us so painfully, the father—Fyodor Karamazov—bore no resemblance whatever to the type of father we have just described. He was a disgrace. Indeed, such a father was a complete disgrace, and I suggest we examine this more closely. You must not shirk anything, gentlemen of the jury, because you will have to make a decision of the utmost importance. Above all, we have no right, now, to be afraid of certain ideas, to brush them aside, as if we were coy women or little children, as my talented opponent put it so eloquently.

“But in his ardent plea my highly esteemed opponent—who disagreed with me before I had even uttered a word—declared several times that he refused to yield the right of defending the accused to anyone, particularly to the counsel who had come all the way from Petersburg to defend him, because, he exclaimed, ‘I am both accuser and defender!’ But, after several such exclamations, he somehow forgot to make the point that, if an abominable man like the accused was capable of remembering with gratitude, for twenty-three years, the pound of nuts given to him by the only person who ever treated him with kindness while he lived in his father’s house, it stands to reason that this same accused could not have forgotten that twenty-three years ago he was running about loose in his father’s backyard, barefoot and with his trousers held up by one remaining button, as the kind Dr. Herzenstube described the scene to us.

“Ah, gentlemen of the jury, is there any need to go more deeply into the disgrace that such a father represents? Must I repeat again things that everyone already knows? Must I describe the sort of welcome my client received when he came to this town to see his father? What need was there, I ask you, to represent my client as an insensitive monster? I grant you that he is impulsive, wild, and violent—that is why he is in the dock at this moment. But whose responsibility is it that he became like that? Whose fault is it that this man, with his naturally good inclinations and his responsive and sensitive heart, was brought up in such a preposterous way? Did anyone ever teach him to behave sensibly? Did anyone concern himself with his education? Did anyone love him, even a little, while he was a small child? My client grew up under no one’s protection but God’s, which means he grew up as wild animals do. Perhaps, after his long absence, he was anxious to see his father; perhaps, before he came, he recalled his childhood many, many times, seeing it like a distant dream, dismissing the ugly ghosts of his early years and longing to rehabilitate his father’s image in his own eyes and to embrace the old man. But what did he find? He was met with cynical sneers, suspicious glares, and evasive quibbling about money that he considered his. He sees his father leading a life that revolts him; every day he hears the disgusting conversation his father indulges in, while sipping his brandy; and finally he realizes that this man, his own father, is trying to take away from him the woman he loves and money he feels is his own! Isn’t this both cruel and unspeakably revolting, gentlemen of the jury? And on top of that, the old man goes about complaining that his son is unkind and fails to show him proper respect, slanders him in society, and buys up his son’s IOU’s in order to have him put in debtor’s prison!