Dangerous Witnesses





I do not know whether the witnesses for the defense and for the

prosecution were separated into groups by the President, and whether it

was arranged to call them in a certain order. But no doubt it was so. I

only know that the witnesses for the prosecution were called first. I

repeat I don’t intend to describe all the questions step by step.

Besides, my account would be to some extent superfluous, because in the

speeches for the prosecution and for the defense the whole course of

the evidence was brought together and set in a strong and significant

light, and I took down parts of those two remarkable speeches in full,

and will quote them in due course, together with one extraordinary and

quite unexpected episode, which occurred before the final speeches, and

undoubtedly influenced the sinister and fatal outcome of the trial.



I will only observe that from the first moments of the trial one

peculiar characteristic of the case was conspicuous and observed by

all, that is, the overwhelming strength of the prosecution as compared

with the arguments the defense had to rely upon. Every one realized it

from the first moment that the facts began to group themselves round a

single point, and the whole horrible and bloody crime was gradually

revealed. Every one, perhaps, felt from the first that the case was

beyond dispute, that there was no doubt about it, that there could be

really no discussion, and that the defense was only a matter of form,

and that the prisoner was guilty, obviously and conclusively guilty. I

imagine that even the ladies, who were so impatiently longing for the

acquittal of the interesting prisoner, were at the same time, without

exception, convinced of his guilt. What’s more, I believe they would

have been mortified if his guilt had not been so firmly established, as

that would have lessened the effect of the closing scene of the

criminal’s acquittal. That he would be acquitted, all the ladies,

strange to say, were firmly persuaded up to the very last moment. “He

is guilty, but he will be acquitted, from motives of humanity, in

accordance with the new ideas, the new sentiments that had come into

fashion,” and so on, and so on. And that was why they had crowded into

the court so impatiently. The men were more interested in the contest

between the prosecutor and the famous Fetyukovitch. All were wondering

and asking themselves what could even a talent like Fetyukovitch’s make

of such a desperate case; and so they followed his achievements, step

by step, with concentrated attention.



But Fetyukovitch remained an enigma to all up to the very end, up to

his speech. Persons of experience suspected that he had some design,

that he was working towards some object, but it was almost impossible

to guess what it was. His confidence and self‐reliance were

unmistakable, however. Every one noticed with pleasure, moreover, that

he, after so short a stay, not more than three days, perhaps, among us,

had so wonderfully succeeded in mastering the case and “had studied it

to a nicety.” People described with relish, afterwards, how cleverly he

had “taken down” all the witnesses for the prosecution, and as far as

possible perplexed them and, what’s more, had aspersed their reputation

and so depreciated the value of their evidence. But it was supposed

that he did this rather by way of sport, so to speak, for professional

glory, to show nothing had been omitted of the accepted methods, for

all were convinced that he could do no real good by such disparagement

of the witnesses, and probably was more aware of this than any one,

having some idea of his own in the background, some concealed weapon of

defense, which he would suddenly reveal when the time came. But

meanwhile, conscious of his strength, he seemed to be diverting

himself.



So, for instance, when Grigory, Fyodor Pavlovitch’s old servant, who

had given the most damning piece of evidence about the open door, was

examined, the counsel for the defense positively fastened upon him when

his turn came to question him. It must be noted that Grigory entered

the hall with a composed and almost stately air, not the least

disconcerted by the majesty of the court or the vast audience listening

to him. He gave evidence with as much confidence as though he had been

talking with his Marfa, only perhaps more respectfully. It was

impossible to make him contradict himself. The prosecutor questioned

him first in detail about the family life of the Karamazovs. The family

picture stood out in lurid colors. It was plain to ear and eye that the

witness was guileless and impartial. In spite of his profound reverence

for the memory of his deceased master, he yet bore witness that he had

been unjust to Mitya and “hadn’t brought up his children as he should.

He’d have been devoured by lice when he was little, if it hadn’t been

for me,” he added, describing Mitya’s early childhood. “It wasn’t fair

either of the father to wrong his son over his mother’s property, which

was by right his.”



In reply to the prosecutor’s question what grounds he had for asserting

that Fyodor Pavlovitch had wronged his son in their money relations,

Grigory, to the surprise of every one, had no proof at all to bring

forward, but he still persisted that the arrangement with the son was

“unfair,” and that he ought “to have paid him several thousand roubles

more.” I must note, by the way, that the prosecutor asked this question

whether Fyodor Pavlovitch had really kept back part of Mitya’s

inheritance with marked persistence of all the witnesses who could be

asked it, not excepting Alyosha and Ivan, but he obtained no exact

information from any one; all alleged that it was so, but were unable

to bring forward any distinct proof. Grigory’s description of the scene

at the dinner‐table, when Dmitri had burst in and beaten his father,

threatening to come back to kill him, made a sinister impression on the

court, especially as the old servant’s composure in telling it, his

parsimony of words and peculiar phraseology, were as effective as

eloquence. He observed that he was not angry with Mitya for having

knocked him down and struck him on the face; he had forgiven him long

ago, he said. Of the deceased Smerdyakov he observed, crossing himself,

that he was a lad of ability, but stupid and afflicted, and, worse

still, an infidel, and that it was Fyodor Pavlovitch and his elder son

who had taught him to be so. But he defended Smerdyakov’s honesty

almost with warmth, and related how Smerdyakov had once found the

master’s money in the yard, and, instead of concealing it, had taken it

to his master, who had rewarded him with a “gold piece” for it, and

trusted him implicitly from that time forward. He maintained

obstinately that the door into the garden had been open. But he was

asked so many questions that I can’t recall them all.



At last the counsel for the defense began to cross‐examine him, and the

first question he asked was about the envelope in which Fyodor

Pavlovitch was supposed to have put three thousand roubles for “a

certain person.” “Have you ever seen it, you, who were for so many

years in close attendance on your master?” Grigory answered that he had

not seen it and had never heard of the money from any one “till

everybody was talking about it.” This question about the envelope

Fetyukovitch put to every one who could conceivably have known of it,

as persistently as the prosecutor asked his question about Dmitri’s

inheritance, and got the same answer from all, that no one had seen the

envelope, though many had heard of it. From the beginning every one

noticed Fetyukovitch’s persistence on this subject.



“Now, with your permission I’ll ask you a question,” Fetyukovitch said,

suddenly and unexpectedly. “Of what was that balsam, or, rather,

decoction, made, which, as we learn from the preliminary inquiry, you

used on that evening to rub your lumbago, in the hope of curing it?”



Grigory looked blankly at the questioner, and after a brief silence

muttered, “There was saffron in it.”



“Nothing but saffron? Don’t you remember any other ingredient?”



“There was milfoil in it, too.”



“And pepper perhaps?” Fetyukovitch queried.



“Yes, there was pepper, too.”



“Etcetera. And all dissolved in vodka?”



“In spirit.”



There was a faint sound of laughter in the court.



“You see, in spirit. After rubbing your back, I believe, you drank what

was left in the bottle with a certain pious prayer, only known to your

wife?”



“I did.”



“Did you drink much? Roughly speaking, a wine‐glass or two?”



“It might have been a tumbler‐full.”



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



Grigory did not answer. He seemed to see what was meant.



“A glass and a half of neat spirit—is not at all bad, don’t you think?

You might see the gates of heaven open, not only the door into the

garden?”



Grigory remained silent. There was another laugh in the court. The

President made a movement.



“Do you know for a fact,” Fetyukovitch persisted, “whether you were

awake or not when you saw the open door?”



“I was on my legs.”



“That’s not a proof that you were awake.” (There was again laughter in

the court.) “Could you have answered at that moment, if any one had

asked you a question—for instance, what year it is?”



“I don’t know.”



“And what year is it, Anno Domini, do you know?”



Grigory stood with a perplexed face, looking straight at his tormentor.

Strange to say, it appeared he really did not know what year it was.



“But perhaps you can tell me how many fingers you have on your hands?”



“I am a servant,” Grigory said suddenly, in a loud and distinct voice.

“If my betters think fit to make game of me, it is my duty to suffer

it.”



Fetyukovitch was a little taken aback, and the President intervened,

reminding him that he must ask more relevant questions. Fetyukovitch

bowed with dignity and said that he had no more questions to ask of the

witness. The public and the jury, of course, were left with a grain of

doubt in their minds as to the evidence of a man who might, while

undergoing a certain cure, have seen “the gates of heaven,” and who did

not even know what year he was living in. But before Grigory left the

box another episode occurred. The President, turning to the prisoner,

asked him whether he had any comment to make on the evidence of the

last witness.



“Except about the door, all he has said is true,” cried Mitya, in a

loud voice. “For combing the lice off me, I thank him; for forgiving my

blows, I thank him. The old man has been honest all his life and as

faithful to my father as seven hundred poodles.”



“Prisoner, be careful in your language,” the President admonished him.



“I am not a poodle,” Grigory muttered.



“All right, it’s I am a poodle myself,” cried Mitya. “If it’s an

insult, I take it to myself and I beg his pardon. I was a beast and

cruel to him. I was cruel to Æsop too.”



“What Æsop?” the President asked sternly again.



“Oh, Pierrot ... my father, Fyodor Pavlovitch.”



The President again and again warned Mitya impressively and very

sternly to be more careful in his language.



“You are injuring yourself in the opinion of your judges.”



The counsel for the defense was equally clever in dealing with the

evidence of Rakitin. I may remark that Rakitin was one of the leading

witnesses and one to whom the prosecutor attached great significance.

It appeared that he knew everything; his knowledge was amazing, he had

been everywhere, seen everything, talked to everybody, knew every

detail of the biography of Fyodor Pavlovitch and all the Karamazovs. Of

the envelope, it is true, he had only heard from Mitya himself. But he

described minutely Mitya’s exploits in the “Metropolis,” all his

compromising doings and sayings, and told the story of Captain

Snegiryov’s “wisp of tow.” But even Rakitin could say nothing positive

about Mitya’s inheritance, and confined himself to contemptuous

generalities.



“Who could tell which of them was to blame, and which was in debt to

the other, with their crazy Karamazov way of muddling things so that no

one could make head or tail of it?” He attributed the tragic crime to

the habits that had become ingrained by ages of serfdom and the

distressed condition of Russia, due to the lack of appropriate

institutions. He was, in fact, allowed some latitude of speech. This

was the first occasion on which Rakitin showed what he could do, and

attracted notice. The prosecutor knew that the witness was preparing a

magazine article on the case, and afterwards in his speech, as we shall

see later, quoted some ideas from the article, showing that he had seen

it already. The picture drawn by the witness was a gloomy and sinister

one, and greatly strengthened the case for the prosecution. Altogether,

Rakitin’s discourse fascinated the public by its independence and the

extraordinary nobility of its ideas. There were even two or three

outbreaks of applause when he spoke of serfdom and the distressed

condition of Russia.



But Rakitin, in his youthful ardor, made a slight blunder, of which the

counsel for the defense at once adroitly took advantage. Answering

certain questions about Grushenka, and carried away by the loftiness of

his own sentiments and his success, of which he was, of course,

conscious, he went so far as to speak somewhat contemptuously of

Agrafena Alexandrovna as “the kept mistress of Samsonov.” He would have

given a good deal to take back his words afterwards, for Fetyukovitch

caught him out over it at once. And it was all because Rakitin had not

reckoned on the lawyer having been able to become so intimately

acquainted with every detail in so short a time.



“Allow me to ask,” began the counsel for the defense, with the most

affable and even respectful smile, “you are, of course, the same Mr.

Rakitin whose pamphlet, _The Life of the Deceased Elder, Father

Zossima_, published by the diocesan authorities, full of profound and

religious reflections and preceded by an excellent and devout

dedication to the bishop, I have just read with such pleasure?”



“I did not write it for publication ... it was published afterwards,”

muttered Rakitin, for some reason fearfully disconcerted and almost

ashamed.



“Oh, that’s excellent! A thinker like you can, and indeed ought to,

take the widest view of every social question. Your most instructive

pamphlet has been widely circulated through the patronage of the

bishop, and has been of appreciable service.... But this is the chief

thing I should like to learn from you. You stated just now that you

were very intimately acquainted with Madame Svyetlov.” (It must be

noted that Grushenka’s surname was Svyetlov. I heard it for the first

time that day, during the case.)



“I cannot answer for all my acquaintances.... I am a young man ... and

who can be responsible for every one he meets?” cried Rakitin, flushing

all over.



“I understand, I quite understand,” cried Fetyukovitch, as though he,

too, were embarrassed and in haste to excuse himself. “You, like any

other, might well be interested in an acquaintance with a young and

beautiful woman who would readily entertain the _élite_ of the youth of

the neighborhood, but ... I only wanted to know ... It has come to my

knowledge that Madame Svyetlov was particularly anxious a couple of

months ago to make the acquaintance of the younger Karamazov, Alexey

Fyodorovitch, and promised you twenty‐five roubles, if you would bring

him to her in his monastic dress. And that actually took place on the

evening of the day on which the terrible crime, which is the subject of

the present investigation, was committed. You brought Alexey Karamazov

to Madame Svyetlov, and did you receive the twenty‐five roubles from

Madame Svyetlov as a reward, that’s what I wanted to hear from you?”



“It was a joke.... I don’t see of what interest that can be to you....

I took it for a joke ... meaning to give it back later....”



“Then you did take— But you have not given it back yet ... or have

you?”



“That’s of no consequence,” muttered Rakitin, “I refuse to answer such

questions.... Of course I shall give it back.”



The President intervened, but Fetyukovitch declared he had no more

questions to ask of the witness. Mr. Rakitin left the witness‐box not

absolutely without a stain upon his character. The effect left by the

lofty idealism of his speech was somewhat marred, and Fetyukovitch’s

expression, as he watched him walk away, seemed to suggest to the

public “this is a specimen of the lofty‐minded persons who accuse him.”

I remember that this incident, too, did not pass off without an

outbreak from Mitya. Enraged by the tone in which Rakitin had referred

to Grushenka, he suddenly shouted “Bernard!” When, after Rakitin’s

cross‐ examination, the President asked the prisoner if he had anything

to say, Mitya cried loudly:



“Since I’ve been arrested, he has borrowed money from me! He is a

contemptible Bernard and opportunist, and he doesn’t believe in God; he

took the bishop in!”



Mitya, of course, was pulled up again for the intemperance of his

language, but Rakitin was done for. Captain Snegiryov’s evidence was a

failure, too, but from quite a different reason. He appeared in ragged

and dirty clothes, muddy boots, and in spite of the vigilance and

expert observation of the police officers, he turned out to be

hopelessly drunk. On being asked about Mitya’s attack upon him, he

refused to answer.



“God bless him. Ilusha told me not to. God will make it up to me

yonder.”



“Who told you not to tell? Of whom are you talking?”



“Ilusha, my little son. ‘Father, father, how he insulted you!’ He said

that at the stone. Now he is dying....”



The captain suddenly began sobbing, and plumped down on his knees

before the President. He was hurriedly led away amidst the laughter of

the public. The effect prepared by the prosecutor did not come off at

all.



Fetyukovitch went on making the most of every opportunity, and amazed

people more and more by his minute knowledge of the case. Thus, for

example, Trifon Borissovitch made a great impression, of course, very

prejudicial to Mitya. He calculated almost on his fingers that on his

first visit to Mokroe, Mitya must have spent three thousand roubles,

“or very little less. Just think what he squandered on those gypsy

girls alone! And as for our lousy peasants, it wasn’t a case of

flinging half a rouble in the street, he made them presents of

twenty‐five roubles each, at least, he didn’t give them less. And what

a lot of money was simply stolen from him! And if any one did steal, he

did not leave a receipt. How could one catch the thief when he was

flinging his money away all the time? Our peasants are robbers, you

know; they have no care for their souls. And the way he went on with

the girls, our village girls! They’re completely set up since then, I

tell you, they used to be poor.” He recalled, in fact, every item of

expense and added it all up. So the theory that only fifteen hundred

had been spent and the rest had been put aside in a little bag seemed

inconceivable.



“I saw three thousand as clear as a penny in his hands, I saw it with

my own eyes; I should think I ought to know how to reckon money,” cried

Trifon Borissovitch, doing his best to satisfy “his betters.”



When Fetyukovitch had to cross‐examine him, he scarcely tried to refute

his evidence, but began asking him about an incident at the first

carousal at Mokroe, a month before the arrest, when Timofey and another

peasant called Akim had picked up on the floor in the passage a hundred

roubles dropped by Mitya when he was drunk, and had given them to

Trifon Borissovitch and received a rouble each from him for doing so.

“Well,” asked the lawyer, “did you give that hundred roubles back to

Mr. Karamazov?” Trifon Borissovitch shuffled in vain.... He was

obliged, after the peasants had been examined, to admit the finding of

the hundred roubles, only adding that he had religiously returned it

all to Dmitri Fyodorovitch “in perfect honesty, and it’s only because

his honor was in liquor at the time, he wouldn’t remember it.” But, as

he had denied the incident of the hundred roubles till the peasants had

been called to prove it, his evidence as to returning the money to

Mitya was naturally regarded with great suspicion. So one of the most

dangerous witnesses brought forward by the prosecution was again

discredited.



The same thing happened with the Poles. They took up an attitude of

pride and independence; they vociferated loudly that they had both been

in the service of the Crown, and that “Pan Mitya” had offered them

three thousand “to buy their honor,” and that they had seen a large sum

of money in his hands. Pan Mussyalovitch introduced a terrible number

of Polish words into his sentences, and seeing that this only increased

his consequence in the eyes of the President and the prosecutor, grew

more and more pompous, and ended by talking in Polish altogether. But

Fetyukovitch caught them, too, in his snares. Trifon Borissovitch,

recalled, was forced, in spite of his evasions, to admit that Pan

Vrublevsky had substituted another pack of cards for the one he had

provided, and that Pan Mussyalovitch had cheated during the game.

Kalganov confirmed this, and both the Poles left the witness‐box with

damaged reputations, amidst laughter from the public.



Then exactly the same thing happened with almost all the most dangerous

witnesses. Fetyukovitch succeeded in casting a slur on all of them, and

dismissing them with a certain derision. The lawyers and experts were

lost in admiration, and were only at a loss to understand what good

purpose could be served by it, for all, I repeat, felt that the case

for the prosecution could not be refuted, but was growing more and more

tragically overwhelming. But from the confidence of the “great

magician” they saw that he was serene, and they waited, feeling that

“such a man” had not come from Petersburg for nothing, and that he was

not a man to return unsuccessful.