12 CHAPTER XII. And there was no murder either. Allow me, gentlemen of the jury. To remind you that a man's life is at stake, and that you must be careful. We have heard the prosecutor himself admit that until today he hesitated to accuse the prisoner of a fall and conscious pre-meditation of the crime. He hesitated till he saw that fatal drunken letter which was produced in court today. The role was done and written, but I repeat again. He was running to her, to seek her, solely to find out where she was. That's a fact that can't be disputed. Had she been at home, he would not have run away, but would have remained at her side, and so would not have done what he promised in the letter. He ran unexpectedly and accidentally. And by that time, very likely, he did not even remember his drunken letter. He snatched up the pestle, they say, and you will remember how a whole edifice of psychology was built on that pestle, why he was bound to look at that pestle as a weapon, to snatch it up, and so on, and so on. A very commonplace idea occurs to me at this point. But if that pestle had not been in sight, had not been lying on the shelf from which it was snatched by that prisoner, but had been put away in a cupboard, it would not have caught the prisoner's eye, and he would have run away without a weapon, with empty hands, and then he would certainly not have killed anyone. How then can I look upon the pestle as a proof of premeditation? Yes, but he talked in the caverns of murdering his father, and two days before, on the evening, when he wrote his drunken letter, he was quiet and only quarreled with a shopman in the tavern, because Ikaramazov could not help quarreling, forsooth. But my answer to that is that if he was planning such a murder in accordance with his letter, he certainly would not have quarreled even with a shopman, and probably would not have gone into the tavern at all, because a person plotting such a crime seeks quiet and retirement, seeks to efface himself, to avoid being seen and heard, and that not from calculation, but from instinct. Gentlemen of the jury, the psychological method is a two-edged weapon, and we too can use it. As for all this shouting in taverns throughout the month, don't we often hear children, or drunkards, coming out of taverns, shout, I'll kill you. But they don't murder anyone. And that fatal letter isn't that simply drunken irritability, too?  Why not? Why could it not be that? What reason have we to call that letter fatal, rather than absurd? Because his father has been found murdered, because he witness saw the prisoner running out of the garden with a weapon in his hand, and was knocked down by him. Therefore we are told everything was done as he had planned in writing, and the letter was not absurd, but fatal. Now thank God we've come to the real point. Since he was in the garden, he must have murdered him. In those few words, since he was, then he must, lies the whole case for the prosecution. He was there, so he must have. And what if there is no must about it? Even if he was there? Oh, I admit that the chain of evidence, the coincidences, are really suggestive. But examine all these facts separately, regardless of their connection. Why, for instance, does the prosecution refuse to admit the truth of the prisoner's statement that he ran away from his father's window? Remember the sarcasms in which the prosecutor indulged at the expense of the respectful and pious statements which suddenly came over the murderer? But what if there was something of the sort, a feeling, a religious awe, if not a filial respect? My mother must have been praying for me at that moment, with the prisoner's words at the preliminary inquiry. And so he ran away as soon as he convinced himself that Madame Svierklöv was not in his father's house. But he could not convince himself by looking through the window, the prosecutor objects. But why couldn't he? Why, the window opened at the signals given by the prisoner. Some words might have been uttered by Fyodor Pavlovich, some exclamation which showed the prisoner that she was not there. Why should we assume everything as we imagine it? As we make up our minds to imagine it? A thousand things may happen in reality which elude the supplest imagination. Yes, but Gregory saw the door open and so the prisoner certainly was in the house, therefore he killed him. Now about that door, gentlemen of the jury. We have that we have only the statement of one witness as to that door. And he was at the time in such a condition that, but supposing the door was open, supposing the prisoner has lied in denying it, from an instinct of self-defense, natural in his position, supposing he did go into the house. Well what then? How does it follow that because he was there he committed the murder? He might have dashed in, run through the rooms, might have pushed his father away, might have struck him. But as soon as he had made sure Madame Svietlov was not there, he may have run away rejoicing that she was not there, and that he had not killed his father. And it was perhaps just because he had escaped from the temptation to kill his father, because he had a clear conscience and was rejoicing at not having killed him, that he was capable of a pure feeling, the feeling of pity and compassion, and leapt off defense a minute later to the assistance of Gregory after he had, in his excitement, knocked him down. With terrible eloquence, the prosecutor has described to us the dreadful state of the prisoner's mind at Mokro, when love again lay before him, calling him to new life. While love was impossible for him, because he had his father's bloodstain's corpse behind him, and beyond that corpse, retribution. And yet the prosecutor allowed him to love, which he explained, according to his method, talking about his drunken condition, about a criminal being taken to execution, about it being still far off, and so on, and so on. But again I ask, Mr. Prosecutor, have you not invented a new personality? Is the prisoner so coarse and heartless as to be able to think at that moment of love and of dodges, to escape punishment, if his hands were really stained with his father's blood? No, no, no. As soon as it was made plain to him that she loved him, and called him to her side, promising him new happiness, oh, then I protest. He must have felt the impulse to suicide doubled, troubled, and must have killed himself, if he had his father's murder on his conscience. Oh, no, he would not have forgotten where his pistols lay. I know the prisoner, the savage, stony heartlessness ascribed to him by the prosecutor is inconsistent with his character. He would have killed himself, that's certain. He did not kill himself, just because his mother's prayers saved him. And he was innocent of his father's blood. He was troubled, he was grieving that night at Makro, only about old Grigori, and praying to God that the old man would recover, that his blow had not been fatal, and that he would not have to suffer for it. Why not accept such an interpretation of the facts? What trustworthy proof have we that the prisoner is lying? But we shall be told at once again, there is his father's corpse. If he ran away without murdering him, who did murder him? Here I repeat, you have the whole logic of the prosecution. Who murdered him, if not he? There's no one to put in his place. Gentlemen of the jury, is that really so? Is it positively, actually sure, that there is no one else at all? We've heard the prosecutor count on his fingers all the persons who were in that house that night. They were five in number. Three of them, I agree, could not have been responsible. The murdered man himself, old Grigori, and his wife. They are left then, the prisoner, and Smeltiakov. And the prosecutor dramatically exclaims that the prisoner pointed to Smeltiakov because he had no one else to fix on. That had there been a sixth person, even a phantom of a sixth person. He would have abandoned the charge against Smeltiakov at once in shame and have accused the other. But gentlemen of the jury, why may I not draw the very opposite conclusion? There are two persons, the prisoner and Smeltiakov. And why can I not say that you accuse my client simply because you have no one else to accuse? And you have no one else only because you have determined to exclude Smeltiakov from all suspicion. It's true indeed Smeltiakov is accused only by the prisoner, his two brothers, and Madame Svietlov. But there are others who accuse him. There are vague rumours of a question, of a suspicion, an obscure report, a feeling of expectation. Finally, we have the evidence of a combination of facts very suggestive, though I admit inconclusive. In the first place, we have precisely on the day of the catastrophe that fit for the genuineness of which the prosecutor, for some reason, has felt obliged to make a careful defence. Then Smeltiakov sudden suicide on the eve of the trial, then the equally startling evidence given in court today by the elder of the prisoner's brothers, who had believed in his guilt, but has today produced a bundle of notes and proclaimed Smeltiakov as the madra. Oh, I fully share the courts and the prosecutor's conviction that Ivan Karamazov is suffering from brain fever, that his statement may really be a desperate effort, planned in delirium, to save his brother by throwing the guilt on the dead man. But again Smeltiakov's name is pronounced. Then there is a suggestion of mystery. There is something unexplained, incomplete, and perhaps it may one day be explained. But we won't go into that now. Of that later, the court has resolved to go on with the trial. But meantime I might make a few remarks about the character sketch of Smeltiakov drawn with subtlety and talent by the prosecutor. But while I admire his talent, I cannot agree with him. I have visited Smeltiakov. I have seen him and talked to him, and he made a very different impression on me. He was weak in health, it is true, but in character, in spirit. He was, by no means, the weak man the prosecutor has made him out to be. I found in him no trace of timidity on which the prosecutor so insisted. There was no simplicity about him, either. I found in him, on the contrary, an extreme mistrustfulness concealed under a mask of naivety, and an intelligence of considerable range. The prosecutor was too simple in taking him for weak-minded. He made a very definite impression on me. I left him with the conviction that he was a distinctly spiteful creature, excessively ambitious, vindictive, and intensely envious. I made some inquiries. He resented his parentage, was ashamed of it, and would clench his teeth when he remembered that he was the son of stinking Lisaveta. He was disrespectful to the servant Grigory and his wife, who had cared for him in his childhood. He cursed and jeered at Russia. He dreamed of going to France and becoming a Frenchman. He used often to say that he hadn't the means to do so. I fancy. He loved no one but himself, and had a strange high opinion of himself. His conception of culture was limited to good clothes, clean shirt fronts, and polished boots. Believing himself to be the illegitimate son of Yodok Pavlovich, there is evidence of this. He might well have resented his position, compared with that of his master's legitimate sons. They had everything. He nothing. They had all the rights. They had the inheritance, while he was only the cook. He told me himself that he had helped Yodok Pavlovich to put the notes in the envelope. The destination of that sum, a sum which would have made his career, must have been hateful to him. Moreover, he saw three thousand rubles in new rainbow-colored notes. I asked him about that on purpose. Oh, beware of showing an ambitious and envious man a large sum of money at once. And it was the first time he had seen so much money in the hands of one man. The sight of the rainbow-colored notes may have made a morbid impression on his imagination, but with no immediate results. The talented prosecutor, with extraordinary subtlety, sketched for us all the arguments for and against the hypothesis of Smirnyakov's guilt, and asked us in particular what motive he had in feigning a fit. But he may not have been feigning at all. The fit may have happened quite naturally, but it may have passed off quite naturally, and the sick man may have recovered not completely perhaps, but still regaining consciousness as happens with epileptics. The prosecutor asked at what moment could Smirnyakov have committed the murder. But it is very easy to point out that moment. He might have waked up from deep sleep, for he was only asleep, and epileptic fit is always followed by a deep sleep. At that moment, when the old Grigory shouted at the top of his voice, Parasite. That shout in the dark and stillness may have waked Smirnyakov, whose sleep may have been less sound at that moment. He might naturally have waked up an hour before. Getting out of bed, he goes almost unconsciously and with no definite motive towards the sound to see what's the matter. His head is still crowded with the attack. His faculties are half asleep. But once in the garden, he walks to the lighted windows, and he hears terrible news from his master, who would be, of course, glad to see him. His mind sets to work at once. He hears all the details from his frightened master, and gradually, in his disordered brain, there shapes itself an idea, terrible, but seductive, and irresistibly logical. To kill the old man, take the three thousand, and throw all the blame on to his young master. A terrible lust of money, of booty, might seize upon him as he realized his security from detection. Oh, these sudden and irresistible impulses come so often when there is a favorable opportunity, and especially with murderers, who have had no idea of committing a murder beforehand. And Smerdiakov may have gone in and carried out his plan with what weapon, why, with any stone picked up in the garden, but what for, with what object, why the three thousands, which means a career for him. Oh, I am not contradicting myself. The money may have existed, and perhaps Smerdiakov alone knew where to find it, where his master kept it, and the covering of the money that wore an envelope on the floor, just now, when the prosecutor was explaining his subtle theory that only an inexperienced thief like Karamazov would have left the envelope on the floor, and not one like Smerdiakov who would have avoided leaving a piece of evidence against himself. I thought, as I listened, that I was hearing something very familiar, and would you believe it? I have heard that very argument, that very conjecture, of how Karamazov would have behaved precisely two days before, from Smerdiakov himself. What's more, it struck me at the time. I fancied that there was an artificial simplicity about him, that he was, in a hurry, to suggest this idea to me, that I might fancy it was my own. He insinuated it as it were. Did he not insinuate the same idea at the inquiry, and suggest it to the talented prosecutor? I shall be asked, what about the old woman, Grigory's wife?  Yes, she heard it, but that evidence is extremely unreliable. I knew a lady, who complained bitterly, that she had been kept awake all night by a dog in the yard. Yet, the poor beast, it appeared, had only yelped once or twice in the night. And that's natural. If any one is asleep, and hears a groan, he wakes up, annoyed at being waked, but instantly falls asleep again. Two hours later, again a groan, he wakes up, and falls asleep again. And the same thing again two hours later, three times altogether in the night. Next morning the sleeper wakes up and complains that someone has been groaning all night and keeping him awake. And it is bound to seem so to him. The intervals of two hours of sleep he does not remember. He only remembers the moment of waking. So he feels he has been waked up all night. But why? Why? asked the prosecutor, did not Smerdiakov confess in his last letter. Why did his conscience prompt him to one step and not to both? But, excuse me, my conscience implies penitence, and the suicide may not have felt penitence, but only despair. Despair and penitence are two very different things. Despair may be vindictive and irreconcilable, and the suicide laying his hands on himself, may well have felt redoubled hatred for those whom he had envied all his life. Gentlemen of the jury, beware of a miscarriage of justice. What is there unlikely in all I have put before you just now? Can the error in my reasoning find the impossibility, the absurdity? And if there is but a shade of possibility, but a shade of probability in my propositions do not condemn him. And is there only a shade? I swear by all that is sacred I fully believe in the explanation of the murder I have just put forward. What troubles me and makes me indignant is that all the mass of facts heaped up by the prosecution against the prisoner. There is not a single one certain and irrefutable, and yet the unhappy man is to be ruined by the accumulation of these facts. Yes, the accumulated effect is awful. The blood, the blood dripping from his fingers, the bloodstained shirt, the dark night resounding with the shout to parasite, and the old man falling with a broken head. And then the mass of phrases, statements, gestures, shouts, oh, this has so much influence, it can so bias the mind. Gentlemen of the jury, can it bias your minds? Remember, you have been given absolute power to bind and to lose, but the greater the power, the more terrible its responsibility. I do not draw back one iota from what I have said just now, but suppose for one moment I agreed with the prosecution that my luckless client had stained his hands with his father's blood. This is only hypothesis, I repeat. I never for one instant doubt of his innocence. But so be it, I assume that my client is guilty of parasite. Even so, hear what I have to say. I have it in my heart to say something more to you. For I feel that there must be a great conflict in your hearts and minds. Forgive my referring to your hearts and minds, gentlemen of the jury. But I want to be truthful and sincere to the end. Let us all be sincere. At this point, the speech was interrupted by rather loud applause. The last words, indeed, were pronounced with a note of such sincerity, that everyone felt that he really might have something to say, and that what he was about to say would be of the greatest consequence. But the president, hearing the applause in a loud voice, threatened to clear the court if such an incident were repeated. Every sound was hushed, and Vitukovich began in a voice full of feeling quite unlike the tone he had used either to. End of Chapter 12 of Book 12, Recording by J. C. Guan, Montreal, May 2009. Book 12, Chapter 13. A Corruptor of Thought. It's not only the accumulation of facts that threatens my client with ruin, gentlemen of the jury. He began. What is really downing for my client is one fact, the dead body of his father. Had it been an ordinary case of murder, you would have rejected the charge in view of the triviality, the incompleteness, and the fantastic character of the evidence. If you examine each part of it separately, or at least, you would have hesitated to ruin a man's life simply from the prejudice against him, which he has, alas, only too well deserved. But it's not an ordinary case of murder. It's a case of parasite. That impresses men's minds. And to such a degree that the very triviality and incompleteness of the evidence becomes less trivial and less incomplete, even to an unprejudiced mind. How can such a prisoner be acquitted? What if he committed the murder and gets off unpunished? That is what everyone, almost involuntarily, instinctively feels at heart. Yes, it's a fearful thing to shed a father's blood. The father, who has begotten me, loved me, not spared his life for me, grieved over my illnesses from childhood up, troubled all his life with my happiness, and has lived in my joys, in my successes. To murder such a father, that's inconceivable. Gentlemen of the jury, what is a father, a real father? What is the meaning of that great word? What is the great idea in that name? We have just indicated, in part, what a true father is, and what he ought to be. In the case in which we are now so deeply occupied, and over which our hearts are aching, in the present case, the father, Fyodor Pavlovich Karamasov, did not correspond to that conception of a father, to which we have just referred. That's the misfortune. And indeed, some fathers are a misfortune. Let us examine this misfortune rather more closely. We must shrink from nothing, gentlemen of the jury, considering the importance of the decision you have to make. It's our particular duty not to shrink from any idea, like children or frightened women, as the talented prosecutor happily expresses it. But in the course of his heated speech, my esteemed opponent, and he was my opponent before I opened my lips, exclaimed several times, oh, I will not yield the defence of the prisoner to the lawyer who has come down from Petersburg. I accuse, but I defend also. He exclaimed that several times, but forgot to mention that if this terrible prisoner was for twenty-three years so grateful for a mere pound of nuts given him by the only man who had been kind to him as a child in his father's house, might not such a man well have remembered for twenty-three years how he ran in his father's backyard without boots on his feet and with his little trousers hanging by one button to use the expression of the kind-hearted doctor, Helsenstuber. Oh, gentlemen of the jury, why need we look more closely at this misfortune? Why, repeat, what we all know already. What did my client do and meet with when he arrived here at his father's house? And why depict my client as a heartless egoist and monster? He is uncontrolled. He is wild and unruly. We are trying him now for that. But who is responsible for his life? Who is responsible for his having received such an unseemly bringing up in spite of his excellent disposition and his grateful and sensitive heart? Did anyone train him to be reasonable? Was he enlightened by study? Did anyone love him ever so little in his childhood? My client was left to the care of Providence like a beast of the field. He thirsted, perhaps, to see his father after long years of separation. A thousand times, perhaps, he may, recalling his childhood, have driven away the love to some phantoms that haunt his childhood's dreams and with all his heart, he may have longed to embrace and to forgive his father. And what awaited him? He was met by cynical taunts, suspicions, and wrangling about money. He had nothing but revolting talk and vicious precepts uttered daily over the brandy. And at last he saw his father seducing his mistress from him with his own money. Oh, gentlemen of the jury, that was cruel and revolting. And that old man was always complaining of the disrespect and cruelty of his son. He slandered him in society, injured him, culminated him, brought up his unpaid debts to get him thrown into prison. Gentlemen of the jury, people like my client, who are fierce, unruly and uncontrolled on the surface, are sometimes, most frequently indeed, exceedingly tender hearted, only they don't express it. Don't laugh, don't laugh at my idea. The talented prosecutor laughed mercilessly, just now at my client, for loving Sheila, loving the sublime and beautiful, I should not have laughed at that in his place. Yes, such natures. Oh, let me speak in defence of such natures, so often and so cruelly misunderstood. These natures often thirst for tenderness, goodness and justice, as it were, in contrast to themselves. Their unruliness, their ferocity, they thirst for it unconsciously. Passionate and fierce on the surface, they are painfully capable of loving women, for instance, and with his peritual and elevated love. Again, do not laugh at me. This is very often the case in such natures. But they cannot hide their passions, sometimes very coarse, and that is conspicuous and is noticed. But the inner man is unseen. Their passions are quickly exhausted. But the side of a noble and lofty creature, that seemingly coarse and rough man, seeks a new life, seeks to correct himself, to be better, to become noble and honourable, sublime and beautiful. However much the expression has been ridiculed. I said just now that I would not venture to touch upon my client's engagement. But I may say half a word. What we heard just now was not evidence, but only the scream of a frenzied and revengeful woman. And it was not for her. Oh, not for her. To reproach him with sweatery. For she has betrayed him. If she had had but a little time for reflection, she would not have given such evidence. Oh, do not believe her. My client is not a monster. As she called him, the lover of mankind on the eve of his crucifixion said, I am the good shepherd. The good shepherd lays down his life for his sheep, so that not one of them might be lost. Let not a man's soul be lost through us. I asked just now, what does father mean? And exclaimed that it was a great word, a precious name. But one must use word honestly, gentlemen, and venture to call things by their right names, such a father as old Karamazov cannot be called a father and does not deserve to be. Feel your love for a nonworthy father is an absurdity and impossibility. Love cannot be created from nothing. Only God can create something from nothing. Fathers, provoked not your children to wrath, the apostle writes, from a heart glowing with love. It's not for the sake of my client that I quote these sacred words. I mention them for all fathers. Who has authorized me to preach to fathers? No one. But as a man and a citizen, I make my appeal. Viva Spoko. We are not long on earth, and we do many evil deeds and say many evil words. So let us all catch a favorable moment when we are all together to say a good word to each other. That's what I'm doing. While I am in this place, I take advantage of my opportunity. Not for nothing is this tribune given us by the highest authority. All Russia hears us. I am not speaking only for the fathers here present.  Fathers, provoked not your children to wrath. Yes, let us first fulfill Christ's injunction ourselves and only then venture to expect it of our children. Otherwise, we are not fathers, but enemies of our children. And they are not our children, but our enemies. And we have made them our enemies ourselves. What measure ye meet? It shall be measured on to you again. It's not I who said that. It's the Gospel precept. Measure to others according as they measure to you. How can we blame children if they measure us according to our measure? Not long ago, a servant's girl in Finland was suspected of having secretly given birth to a child. She was watched, and a box of which no one knew anything was found in the corner of the loft, behind some bricks. It was opened, and inside was found the body of a newborn child which she had killed. In the same box were found the skeletons of two other babies which, according to her own confession, she had killed at the moment of their birth. Gentlemen of the jury, was she a mother to her children? She gave birth to them, indeed, but was she a mother to them? Would any one venture to give her the sacred name of mother? Let us be bold, gentlemen. Let us be audacious, even. It's our duty to be so at this moment and not be afraid of certain words and ideas like the Moscow women in Otrowsky's play who are scared of the sound of certain words. No, let us prove that the progress of the last few years has touched even us, and let us say plainly the father is not merely he who begets the child, but he who begets it and does his duty by it. Oh, of course, there is the other meaning. There is the other interpretation of the word father, which insists that any father, even though he be a monster, even though he be the enemy of his children, still remains my father, simply because he begot me. But this is, so to say, the mystical meaning which I cannot comprehend with my intellect, but can only accept by faith, or, better to say, unfaith, like many other things which I do not understand, but which religion fits me believe. But in that case, let it be kept outside the sphere of actual life, in the sphere of actual life which has, indeed, its own rights, but also lays upon us great duties and obligations in that sphere if we want to be humane, Christian in fact. We must, or ought to, act only upon convictions justified by reasoning and experience which have been passed through the crucible of analysis. In a word, we must act rationally, and not as though in dream and delirium, that we may not do harm, that we might not ill-treat and ruin a man. Then it will be real Christian work, not only mystic, but rational and philanthropic. There was a violent applause at this passage from many parts of the court, but Vityokovich waved his hands as though imploring them to let him finish without interruption. The court relapsed into silence at once. The orator went on. Do you suppose, gentlemen, that our children, as they grow up and begin to reason, can avoid such questions? No, they cannot, and we will not impose on them an impossible restriction. The sight of an unworthy father involuntarily suggests tormenting questions to a young creature, especially when he compares him with the excellent fathers of his companions. The controversial answer to this question is, He begot you, and you are his flesh and blood, and therefore you are bound to love him. The youth involuntarily reflects, but did he love me when he begot me? He asks, wondering more and more, was it for my sake? He begot me. He did not know me, not even my sex, at that moment, at the moment of passion, perhaps, inflamed by wine, and he has only transmitted to me a propensity to drunkenness. That's all he's done for me. Why am I bound to love him, simply for begetting me, when he has cared nothing for me all my life after? Or perhaps those questions strike you as cause and cruel, but do not expect an impossible restraint from a young mind. Drive nature out of the door, and it will fly in at a window. And above all, let us not be afraid of words, but decide the question according to the dictates of reason and humanity, and not of mystic ideas. How shall it be decided? Why, like this, let this son stand before his father, and ask him, Father, tell me why must I love you? Father, show me that I must love you, and if that father is able to answer him and show him good reason, we have a real, normal, parental relation, not resting on mystical prejudice, but on irrational, responsible, and strictly humanitarian basis. But if he does not, there's an end to the family tie. He is not a father to him, and the son has a right to look upon him as a stranger, and even an enemy. Our tribune, gentlemen of the jury, ought to be a school of true and sound ideas. Here the orator was interrupted by irrepressible and almost frantic applause. Of course it was not the whole audience, but a good half of it applauded. The fathers and mothers present applauded. Shrieks and exclamations were heard from the gallery, where the ladies were sitting. Handkerchiefs were waved. The president began ringing his bell with all his might. He was obviously irritated by the behavior of the audience, but did not venture to clear the court as he had threatened. Even persons of high position, old men with stars and their breasts, sitting on specially reserved seats behind the judges, applauded the orator and waved their handkerchiefs. So that, when the noise died down, the president confined himself to repeating his turn threat to clear the court. And Vychukovych, excited and triumphant, continued his speech, gentlemen of the jury, you remember that awful night of which so much has been said to-day, when the son got over the fence and stood face to face with the enemy and persecutor who had begotten him. I insist most emphatically it was not for money he ran to his father's house. The charge of robbery is an absurdity, as I proved before. And it was not to murder him he broke into the house. Oh no! If he had had that design, he would at least have taken the precaution of arming himself beforehand. The brass pestle he caught up instinctively without knowing why he did it. Granted that he deceived his father by tapping out the window. Granted that he made his way in. I've said already that I do not for a moment believe that legend. But let it be so. Let us suppose it for a moment, gentlemen. I swear to you, by all that's holy. If it had not been his father, but an ordinary enemy, he would, after running through the rooms and satisfying himself that the woman was not there, have made off, post-haste, without doing any harm to his rival. He would have struck him, pushed him away perhaps, nothing more. For he had no thought and no time to spare for that. What he wanted to know was where she was. But his father, his father, the mere sight of the father who had hated him from his childhood, had been his enemy, his persecutor, and now his unnatural rival was enough. A feeling of hatred came over him involuntarily, irresistibly, clouding his reason. It all searched up in one moment. It was an impulse of madness and insanity, but also an impulse of nature, irresistibly and unconsciously, like everything in nature, avenging the violation of its eternal laws. But the prisoner even then did not murder him. I maintained that. I cried that aloud. No, he only brandished the pestle in the burst of indignant disgust, not meaning to kill him, but knowing that he would kill him. Had he not had this fatal pestle in his hand, he would have only knocked his father down perhaps, but would not have killed him. As he ran away, he did not know whether he had killed the old man. Such a murder is not a murder. Such a murder is not a parasite. No, the murder of such a father cannot be called parasite. Such a murder can only be reckoned as a parasite by prejudice. But I appeal to you again and again from the depths of my soul. Did this murder actually take place? Gentlemen of the jury, if we convict and punish him, he will say to himself, these people have done nothing for my bringing up, for my education, nothing to improve my lot, nothing to make me better, nothing to make me a man. These people have not given me to eat and to drink, have not visited me in prison and nakedness, and here they have sent me to penal servitude. I am quits, I owe them nothing now, and owe no one anything for ever. They are wicked, and I will be wicked. They are cruel, and I will be cruel. That is what he will say, gentlemen of the jury, and I swear, by finding him guilty, you will only make it easier for him. You will ease his conscience. He will curse the blood he has shed and will not regret it. At the same time, you will destroy in him the possibility of becoming a new man, for he will remain in his wickedness and blindness all his life. But do you want to punish him beautifully, terribly, with the most awful punishment that could be imagined, and at the same time to save him and regenerate his soul? If so, overwhelm him with your mercy. You will see, you will hear, how he will tremble and be horror struck. How can I endure this mercy? How can I endure so much love? Am I worthy of it? That's what he will explain. Oh, I know, I know that heart, that world, but grateful heart, gentlemen of the jury. It will bow before your mercy. It thirsts for great and loving action. It will melt and mount upwards. There are souls which, in their limitation, blame the whole world. But subdue such a soul with mercy. Show it love, and it will curse its past, for there are many good impulses in it. Such a heart will expand and see that God is merciful, and that men are good and just. He will be horror-stricken. He will be crushed by remorse, and the vast obligation laid upon him hands-forth. And he will not say then, I am quits, but will say, I am guilty, in the sight of all men, and I am more unworthy than all. With tears of penitence and poignance tend to anguish, he will exclaim, Others are better than I. They wanted to save me, not to ruin me. Oh, this act of mercy is so easy for you. For in the absence of anything like real evidence, it will be too awful for you to pronounce, Yes, he is guilty. Better to acquit ten guilty men than punish one innocent man. Do you hear? Do you hear that majestic voice from the past century of our glorious history? It is not for an insignificant person like me to remind you that the version court does not exist for the punishment only, but also for the salvation of the criminal. Let other nations think of retribution and the letter of the law. We will cling to the spirit and the meaning, the salvation and the reformation of the lost. If this is true, if Russia and her justice are such, she may go forward with good cheer. Do not try to scare us with your frenzied droikas from which all the nations stand aside in disgust. Not a runaway droika, but the stately chariot of Russia will move calmly and majestically to its goal. In your hands is the fate of my client. In your hands is the fate of Russian justice. You will defend it. You will save it. You will prove that there are men to watch over it. That it is in good hands. End of Chapter 13 of Book 12, Recording by J. C. Guan, Montreal, May 2009 Book 12, Chapter 14 of The Brothers Karamazov This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by J. C. Guan, The Brothers Karamazov by Fyodor Dostoyevsky, translated by Constance Garnet. Book 12, Chapter 14. The Peasants Stand Firm This was how Fetyukovich concluded his speech, and the enthusiasm of the audience burst like an irresistible storm. It was out of the question to stop it. The women wept. Many of the men wept too. Even two important personages shed tears. The president submitted, and even postponed ringing his bell. The suppression of such an enthusiasm would be the suppression of something sacred, as the ladies cried afterwards. The orator himself was genuinely touched. And it was at this moment that the Politkerilovich got up to make certain objections. People looked at him with hatred. What? What's the meaning of it? He positively dares to make objections. The ladies babbled. But if the whole world of ladies, including his wife, had protested, he could not have been stopped at that moment. He was pale. He was shaking with emotion. His first phrases were even unintelligible. He gasped for breath, could hardly speak clearly, lost the thread. But he soon recovered himself. Of this new speech, of his, I will quote only a few sentences. I am reproached with having woven a romance. But what is this defense, if not one romance on top of another? All that was lacking was poetry. Fyodor Pavlovich, while waiting for his mistress, tears opened the envelope and throws it on the floor. We're even told what he said while engaged in this strange act. Is not this a flight of fancy? And what proof have we that he had taken out the money? Who heard what he said?  Isn't this a romance in the bironic style? And the son, who breaks into his father's house and murders him without murdering him, is not even a romance. This is a sphinx, setting us a riddle which he cannot solve himself. If he murdered him, he murdered him. And what's the meaning of his murdering him without having murdered him? Who can make head or tail of this? Then we are admonished that our Tribune is a Tribune of true and sound ideas. And from this Tribune of sound ideas is heard a solemn declaration that to call the murder of a father parasite is nothing but a prejudice. But if parasite is a prejudice, and if every child is to ask his father what he is to love him, what will become of us? What will become of the foundations of society? What will become of the family? Parasite, it appears, is only a boggy of Moscow merchant's wives. The most precious, the most sacred guarantees for the destiny and future of Russian justice are presented to us in a perverted and frivolous form, simply to attain an object, to obtain the justification of something which cannot be justified. Oh, crush him by mercy, cries the counsel for the defense. But that's all the criminal wants, and tomorrow it will be seen how much he is crushed. And is not the counsel for the defense too modest in asking only for the acquittal of the prisoner? Why not found a charity in the honour of the parasite to commemorate his exploits among future generations? Religion and the Gospel are corrected. That's all mysticism we are told, and ours is the only true Christianity which has been subjected to the analysis of reason and common sense. And so they set up before us a false resemblance of Christ. What measure ye meet so it shall be meted unto you again? Cried the counsel for the defense, and instantly deduces that Christ teaches us to measure as it is measured to us, and this from the tribune of truth and sound sense. We peep into the Gospel only on the eve of making speeches in order to dazzle the audience by our acquaintance with what is, anyway, a rather original composition which may be of use to produce a certain effect or to serve the purpose. But what Christ commends us is something very different. He bids us beware of doing this, because the wicked world does this, but we ought to forgive and to turn the other cheek, and not to measure to our persecutors as they measure to us.  And we will not, from the tribune of truth and good sense, correct the Gospel of our Lord, whom the counsel for the defense deigns to call only the crucified lover of humanity in a position to all Orthodox Russia, which calls him for thou art our God. At this the president intervened and checked the overzealous speaker, begging him not to exaggerate, not to overstep the bounds, and so on, as presidents always do in such cases. The audience, too, was uneasy. The public was restless. There were even exclamations of indignation. Fetyukovich did not so much as reply. He only mounted the tribune to lay his hands on his heart, and, with an offended voice, uttered a few words full of dignity. He only touched again, lightly and ironically, on romancing and psychology, and, in an appropriate place, quoted, Jupiter, you are angry, therefore you are wrong, which provoked a burst of approving laughter in the audience. For Ipolit Kyrilovich was by no means like Jupiter. Then, a proposal of the accusation that he was teaching the young generation to murder their fathers, Fetyukovich observed, with great dignity, that he would not even answer. As for the prosecutor's charge of uttering unorthodox opinions, Fetyukovich hinted that it was a personal insinuation, and that he had expected in this court to be secure from accusations damaging to my reputation as a citizen and a loyal subject. But at these words the president pulled him up, too, and Fetyukovich concluded his speech with a bow amid a hum of approbation in the court. And Ipolit Kyrilovich was, in the opinion of our ladies, crushed for good. Then the prisoner was allowed to speak. Mitya stood up, but said very little. He was fearfully exhausted, physically and mentally. The look of strength and independence with which he had entered in the morning had almost disappeared. He seemed as though he had passed through an experience that day, which had taught him for the rest of his life something very important he had not understood till then. His voice was weak. He did not shout as before. In his words there was a new note of humility, defeat and submission. What am I to say, gentlemen of the jury? The hour of judgment has come for me. I feel the hands of God upon me. The end has come to an airing man. But, before God, I repeat to you, I am innocent of my father's blood. For the last time I repeat, it wasn't I killed him. I was airing, but I loved what is good. Every instant I strove to reform, but I lived like a wild beast. I thank the prosecutor. He told me many things about myself that I did not know. But it's not true that I killed my father. The prosecutor is mistaken. I thank my counsel too. I cried listening to him. But it is not true that I killed my father. And he needn't have supposed it. And don't believe the doctors. I am perfectly sane. Only my heart is heavy. If you spare me, if you let me go, I will pray for you. I will be a better man. I give you my word. Before God, I will. And if you condemn me, I'll break my sword over my hand myself and kiss the pieces. But spare me. Do not rub me of my God. I know myself. I shall rebel. My heart is heavy, gentlemen. Spare me. He almost fell back in his place. His voice broke. He could hardly articulate the last phrase. Then the judges proceeded to put the questions and began to ask both sides to formulate their conclusions. But I will not describe the details. At last the jury rose to retire for consultation. The president was very tired. And so his last charge to the jury was rather feeble. Be impartial. Don't be influenced by the eloquence of the defense. But yet weigh the arguments. Remember that there is a great responsibility laid upon you. And so on and so on. The jury withdrew and the court adjourned. People could get up, move about, exchange their accumulated impressions, refresh themselves at the buffet. It was very late. Almost one o'clock in the night. But nobody went away. The strain was so great that no one could think of repose. All waited with sinking hearts. Though that is perhaps too much to say, for the ladies were only in a state of hysterical impatience and their hearts were untroubled. An acquittal, they thought, was inevitable. They all prepared themselves for a dramatic moment of general enthusiasm. I must own there were many among the men, too, who were convinced that an acquittal was inevitable. Some were pleased. Others frowned. While some were simply dejected, not wanting him to be acquitted. Fetyukovich himself was confident of his success. He was surrounded by people congratulating him and fawning upon him. There are, he said to one group, as I was told afterwards, there are invisible threats binding the counsel for the defense with the jury. One feels, during one's speech, if they are being formed. I was aware of them. They exist. Our cause is one, said your mind at rest. What will our presence say now? said one stout, cross-looking, pockmarked gentleman, a landowner of the neighborhood, approaching a group of gentlemen engaged in conversation. But there are not all peasants. There are four government clerks among them. Yes, there are clerks, said a member of the district counsel joining the group. And do you know that Nazaryev, the merchant with the middle, a juryman? What of him? He is a man with brains, but he never speaks. He is no great talker, but so much the better. There is no need for the Petersburg man to teach him. He could teach all Petersburg himself. He is the father of twelve children. Think of that. Upon my word, you don't suppose they want to quit him? One of our young officials exclaimed in another group. They'll acquit him for certain, said the resolute voice. It would be shameful, disgraceful not to acquit him, cried the official. Suppose he did murder him. They are fathers and fathers. And besides, he wasn't such a frenzy. He really may have done nothing but swing the pestle in the air, and so knocked the old man down. But it was a pity they dragged the valet in. That was simply an absurd theory. If I'd been in Vityukovitch's place, I should simply have said straight out, he murdered him. But he is not guilty. Hang it all. That's what he did, only without saying, hang it all. No, Mikhail Semyonovich. He almost had that, too, put in a third voice. Why, gentlemen, in Lent an actress was acquitted in our town who had cut the throat of her lover's lawful wife. Oh, but she did not finish cutting it. That makes no difference. She began cutting it. What did you think of what he said about children? Splendid, wasn't it? Splendid. And about mysticism, too. Oh, drop of mysticism, too, cried someone else. Think of he put it in his fate from this day forth. His wife will scratch his eyes out tomorrow for Mitya's sake. Is she here? What an idea. If she'd been here, she'd have scratched him out in court. She is at home with two take. He-he-he. He-he-he. In a third group. I daresay they will acquit Mitenka, after all. I shall not be surprised if he turns the metropolis upside down tomorrow. He will be drinking for ten days. Oh, the devil. The devil's bound to have a hand in it. Where should he be, if not here? Well, gentlemen, I admit it was eloquent. But still, it's not the thing to break your father's head with a pestle. Or what are we coming to? The chariot. Do you remember the chariot? Yes, he turned the cart into a chariot. And tomorrow he will turn a chariot into a cart, just to suit his purpose. What cunning chaps there are nowadays. Is there any justice to be had in Russia? But the bell rang. The jury deliberated for exactly an hour. Neither more nor less. A prevent silence reigned in the court as soon as the public had taken their seats. I remember how the jury men walked into the court. At last I won't repeat the questions in order, and indeed I have forgotten them. I remember only the answer to the president's first and chief question. Did the prisoner commit the murder for the sake of robbery and whisper meditation? I don't remember the exact words. There was a complete hush. The foreman of the jury, the youngest of the clerks, pronounced in a clear, loud voice, amidst the desk-like stillness of the court. Yes, guilty. And the same answer was repeated to every question. Yes, guilty. And without the slightest extenuating comment. This no one had expected. Almost everyone had reckoned upon a recommendation to Massey, at least. The desk-like silence in the court was not broken. All seemed petrified. Those who desired his conviction, as well as those who had been eager for his acquittal. But that was only for the first instant. And it was followed by a fearful hubbub. Many of the men in the audience were pleased. Some were rubbing their hands with no attempt to conceal their joy. Those who disagreed with the verdict seemed crushed, shrugged their shoulders, whispered. But still seemed unable to realize this. But how shall I describe the state the ladies were in? I thought they would create a riot. At first they could scarcely believe their ears. Then suddenly the whole court rang with exclamations. What's the meaning of it? What next? They leapt up from their places. They seemed too fancy that it might be at once reconsidered and reversed. At that instant, Mitya suddenly stood up and cried, in a heart-rending voice, stretching his hands out before him. I swear by God, and the dreadful day of judgment, I am not guilty of my father's blood. Katya, I forgive you. Brothers, friends, have pity on the other woman. He could not go on. He broke into a terrible sobbing wail that was heard all over the court, in a strange, unnatural voice, unlike his own. From the farthest corner at the back of the gallery came a piercing shriek. It was Gurushenka. She had succeeded in begging admittance to the court again before the beginning of the lawyer's speeches. Mitya was taken away. The passing of the sentence was deferred till next day. The whole court was in a hubbub, but I did not wait to hear. I only remember a few exclamations I heard on the steps as I went out. He'll have a twenty-year's trip to the mines. Not less. Well, our peasants have stood firm. And have done for our Mitya. End of Book 12. End of Part 4 of the Brothers Karamazov. Recording by J. C. Guan, May 2009. Chapter 1 of Epilogue of the Brothers Karamazov. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Glenn Simonson. The Brothers Karamazov by Fyodor Dostoyevsky. Translated by Constance Garnet. Epilogue, Chapter 1. Plans for Mitya's Escape. Very early at nine o'clock in the morning. Five days after the trial. Yosha went to Katarina Ivanovna's to talk over a matter of great importance to both of them. And to give her a message. She sat and talked to him in the very room in which she had once received Gushenka. In the next room. Ivan Fyodorovich lay unconscious in a high fever. Katarina Ivanovna had immediately after the scene at the trial ordered the sick and unconscious man to be carried to her house. Disregarding the inevitable gossip and general disapproval of the public. One of two relations who lived with her had departed to Moscow immediately after the scene in court. The other remained. But if both had gone away, Katarina Ivanovna would have adhered to a resolution.  Varvinsky and Herson Stuba were attending him. The famous doctor had gone back to Moscow. Refusing to give an opinion as to the probable end of the illness. Though the doctors encouraged Katarina Ivanovna and Alyosha, it was evident that they could not yet give them positive hopes of recovery. Alyosha came to see his sick brother twice a day. But this time he had specially urgent business and he foresaw how difficult it would be to approach the subject. Yet he was in great haste. He had another engagement that could not be put off for that same morning. And there was need of haste. They had been talking for a quarter of an hour. Katarina Ivanovna was pale and terribly fatigued, yet at the same time in a state of hysterical excitement. She had a presentiment of the reason why Alyosha had come to her. Don't worry about his decision, she said with confident emphasis to Alyosha. One way or another he is bound to come to it. He must escape. That unhappy man. That hero of honor and principle. Not he, not Dmitri Fyodorovich, but the man lying the other side of that door, who has sacrificed himself for his brother, Katya added with flashing eyes, told me the whole plan of escape long ago. You know he has already entered into negotiations. I've told you something already. You see, it will probably come off at the third attack from here, when the party of prisoners is being taken to Siberia. Oh, it's a long way off yet. Ivan Fyodorovich has already visited the superintendent of the third attack. But we don't know yet who will be in charge of the party, and it's impossible to find that out so long beforehand. Tomorrow perhaps I will show you in detail the whole plan which Ivan Fyodorovich left me on the eve of the trial in case of need. That was when, do you remember, you found us quarreling. He had just gone downstairs, but seeing you I made him come back. Do you remember? Do you know what we were quarreling about then? No, I don't, said Alyosha. Of course he did not tell you. It was about that plan of escape. He had told me the main idea three days before, and we began quarreling about it at once, and quarrelled for three days. We quarrelled because, when he told me that if Dimitri Fyodorovich were convicted, he would escape abroad with that creature. I felt furious at once. I can't tell you why. I don't know myself why. Oh, of course I was furious then about that creature, and that she too should go abroad with Dimitri. Katerina Ivanova and exclaimed suddenly, her lips quivering with anger. As soon as Ivan Fyodorovich saw that I was furious about that woman, he instantly imagined I was jealous of Dimitri, and that I still loved Dimitri. That is how our first quarrel began. I would not give an explanation. I could not ask forgiveness. I could not bear to think that such a man could suspect me of still loving that. And when I myself had told him long before that I did not love Dimitri, that I loved no one but him, it was only resentment against that creature that made me angry with him. Three days later, on the evening you came, he brought me a sealed envelope, which I was to open at once, if anything happened to him. Oh, he foresaw his illness. He told me that the envelope contained the details of the escape, and that if he died, or was taken dangerously ill, I was to save Mitya alone. Then he left me money, nearly ten thousand, those notes to which the prosecutor referred in his speech, having learnt from someone that he had sent them to be changed. I was tremendously impressed to find that Ivan Fyodorovich had not given up his idea of saving his brother, and was confiding this plan of escape to me, though he was still jealous of me, and still convinced that I love Mitya. Oh, that was a sacrifice. No, you cannot understand the greatness of such self-sacrifice, Alexei Fyodorovich. I wanted to fall at his feet in reverence, but I thought at once that he would take it only for my joy at the thought of Mitya's being saved. And he certainly would have imagined that. And I was so exasperated at the mere possibility of such an unjust thought on his part, that I lost my temper again. And instead of kissing his feet, flew into a fury again. Oh, I am unhappy. It's my character, my awful, unhappy character. Oh, you will see. I shall end by driving him, too, to abandon me for another with whom he can get on better, like Dmitri. But, no, I could not bear it. I should kill myself.  I cried out to you that it was he, he alone who had persuaded me that his brother Dmitri was a murderer. I said that malicious thing on purpose to wound him again. He had never, never persuaded me that his brother was a murderer. On the contrary, it was I who persuaded him. Oh, my vile temper was the cause of everything. I paved the way to that hideous scene at the trial. He wanted to show me that he was an honorable man, and that, even if I loved his brother, he would not ruin him for revenge or jealousy. So he came to the court. I am the cause of it all. I alone am to blame. Katie had never made such confessions to Alyosha before, and he felt that she was now at that stage of unbearable suffering, when even the proudest heart painfully crushes its pride and falls vanquished by grief. Oh, Alyosha knew another terrible reason of her present misery, though she had carefully concealed it from him during those days since the trial. But it would have been, for some reason, too painful to him if she had been brought so low as to speak to him now about that. She was suffering for her treachery at the trial, and Alyosha felt that her conscience was impelling her to confess it to him. To him, Alyosha, with tears and cries and hysterical writhings on the floor. But he dreaded that moment, and longed to spare her. It made the commission on which he had come even more difficult. He spoke of Mitya again. It's all right. It's all right. Don't be anxious about him. She began again sharply and stubbornly. All that is only momentary. I know him. I know his heart only too well. You may be sure he will consent to escape. It's not as though it would be immediately. He will have time to make up his mind to it. Ivan Fyodorovich will be well by that time, and will manage it all himself, so that I shall have nothing to do with it. Don't be anxious. He will consent to run away. He has agreed already. Do you suppose he would give up that creature? And they won't let her go to him. So he is bound to escape. It's you he's most afraid of. He is afraid you won't approve of his escape on moral grounds. But you must generously allow it. If your sanction is so necessary, Kate you added viciously. She paused and smiled. He talks about some him, she went on again. Some cross he has to bear, some duty. I remember Ivan Fyodorovich told me a great deal about it. And if you knew how he talked, Kate you cried suddenly with feeling she could not repress. If you knew how he loved that wretched man at the moment he told me. And how he hated him, perhaps at the same moment. And I heard his story and his tears with sneering disdain. Brute. Yes, I am a brute. I am responsible for his fever. But that man in prison is incapable of suffering. Kate you concluded irritably. Can such a man suffer? Men like him never suffer. There was a note of hatred and contemptuous repulsion in her words. And yet it was she who had betrayed him. Perhaps because she feels how she's wronged him she hates him at moments. Aleosha thought to himself. He hoped that it was only at moments. In Kate's last words he detected a challenging note. But he did not take it up. I sent for you this morning to make you promise to persuade him yourself. Or do you too consider that to escape would be dishonorable, cowardly or something? Un-Christian, perhaps? Kate you added even more defiantly. Oh no, I'll tell him everything, muttered Aleosha. He asked you to come and see him today. He blurted out suddenly, looking her steadily in the face. She started and drew back a little from him on the sofa. Me? Can that be? She faltered, turning pale. It can and ought to be. Aleosha began emphatically, growing more animated. He needs you particularly just now. I would not have opened the subject and worried you if it were not necessary. He is ill. He is beside himself. He keeps asking for you. It is not to be reconciled with you that he wants you, but only that you would go and show yourself at his door. So much has happened to him since that day. He realizes that he has injured you beyond all reckoning. He does not ask your forgiveness. It's impossible to forgive me, he says himself, but only that you would show yourself in his doorway. It's so sudden, faltered Kate you. I've had a presentiment all these days that you would come with that message. I knew you would ask me to come. It's impossible. Let it be impossible, but do it. Only think. He realizes for the first time how he has wounded you, the first time in his life. He had never grasped it before so fully. He said, If she refuses to come, I shall be unhappy all my life. You hear? Though he has condemned to penal servitude for twenty years, he is still planning to be happy. Is that not piteous? Think. You must visit him. Though he is ruined, he is innocent. Broke like a challenge from Alyosha. His hands are clean. There is no blood on them. For the sake of his infinite sufferings in the future, visit him now. Go. Greet him on his way into the darkness. Stand at his door. That is all. You ought to do it. You ought to, Alyosha concluded, laying immense stress on the word ought. I ought to, but I cannot. Ketchamon. He will look at me. I can't.  How will you live all your life if you don't make up your mind to do it now?  You ought to go.  But why today? Why at once? I can't leave our patient. You can for a moment. Ketchamon. He will be in delirium by tonight.  Have pity on him. Have pity on me, Ketchamon said with bitter reproach. And she burst into tears. Then you will come, said Alyosha firmly, seeing her tears. I'll go and tell him you will come directly. No. Don't tell him so on any account, cried Ketchamon in alarm. I will come, but don't tell him beforehand. I don't know yet. Her voice failed. She gasped for breath. Alyosha got up to go. And what if I meet anyone? She said suddenly, in a low voice, turning white again. That's just why you must go now to avoid meeting anyone. There will be no one there. I can tell you that for certain. We will expect you, he concluded emphatically and went out of the room. Chapter 2 This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Niki Salavan. The Brothers Karamatsav by Fyodor Dostoyevsky, translated by Constance Garnett. Epilogue Chapter 2 It Becomes Truth He hurried to the hospital where Mitya was lying now. The day after his fate was determined, Mitya had fallen ill with nervous fever and was sent to the prison division of the town hospital. But at the request of several persons, Alyosha, Madam Holokov, Lise, et cetera, Dr. Varvinsky had put Mitya not with the other prisoners, but in a separate little room, the one where Smarjakov had been. He knew that there was a sensional at the other end of the corridor and there was a grating over the window so that Varvinsky could be at ease about the indulgence he had shown, which was not quite legal indeed. But he was a kind-hearted and compassionate young man. He knew how hard it would be for a man like Mitya to pass at once so suddenly into the society of robbers and murderers and that he must get used to it by degrees. His relations and friends were informally sanctioned by the doctor and overseer and even by the police captain. But only Alyosha and Grushinka had visited Mitya. Rakuten had tried to force his way in twice, but Mitya persistently begged Varvinsky not to admit him. Alyosha found him sitting on his bed in a hospital dressing-gown, rather feverish with a towel soaked in vinegar and water on his head. He looked at Alyosha as he came in with an undefined expression, but there was a shade of something like dread discernible in it. He had become terribly preoccupied since the trial. Sometimes he would be silent for half an hour together and seemed to be pondering something heavily and painfully, oblivious to everything about him. If he roused himself from his brooding and began to talk, he always spoke with a kind of abruptness and never of what he really wanted to say. He looked sometimes with a face of suffering at his brother. He seemed to be more at ease with Grushinka than with Alyosha. It is true he scarcely spoke to her at all, but as soon as she came in his whole face lighted up with joy. Alyosha sat down beside him on the bed in silence. This time Miche was waiting for Alyosha in suspense, but he did not dare ask him a question. He felt it almost unthinkable that Katcho would consent to come, and at the same time he felt if she did not come something inconceivable would happen. Alyosha understood his feelings. Trifon Borisovich, Miche began nervously, has pulled his whole end to pieces, I am told. He has taken up the flooring, pulled apart the planks, split up the gallery, I am told. He is seeking treasure all the time. The fifteen hundred rubles which the prosecutor said I had hidden there. He began playing these tricks, they say, as soon as he got home. Serves him right, the swindler. The guard here told me yesterday he comes from there. Listen, began Alyosha. She will come, but I don't know when. Perhaps in a few days, that I can't tell, but she will come, she will, that's certain. Miche started, would have said something, but was silent. The news had a tremendous effect on him. It was evident that he would have liked terribly to know what had been said, but he was again afraid to ask. Something cruel and contemptuous from Katcho would have cut him like a knife at that moment. This was what she said among other things, that I must be sure to set your conscience at rest about escaping. If Ivan is not well by then she will see to it all herself. We've spoken of that already, Miche observed musingly. And you have repeated it to Grusha, observed Alyosha. Yes, Miche admitted. She won't come this morning. He looked timidly at his brother. She won't come till the evening. When I told her yesterday that Katcha was taking measures she was silent, but she said her mouth. She only whispered, let her. She understood that it was important. I did not dare to try her further. She understands now, I think, that Katcha no longer cares for me, but loves Ivan. Does she? broke from Alyosha. Perhaps she does not. Only she is not coming this morning, Miche hastened to explain again. I asked her to do something for me. You know Ivan is superior to all of us. He ought to live, not us. He will recover. You would believe it, though Katcha is alarmed about him. She scarcely doubts of his recovery, said Alyosha.  It's because she's frightened she's so sure he will get well. Ivan has a strong constitution and I too believe there is every hope that he will get well. Alyosha observed anxiously. Yes, he will get well, but she is convinced that he will die. She has a great deal of sorrow to bear. A silence followed. A grave anxiety spreading, Miche. Alyosha, I love Grusha terribly, he said suddenly in a shaking voice full of tears.  Alyosha put in it once. And there's something else I wanted to tell you. Miche went on with a sudden ring in his voice. If they beat me on the way or out there I won't submit to it. I shall kill someone and I shall be shot for it. And this will be going on for twenty years. They speak to me rudely as it is. I've been lying here all night passing judgment on myself. I'm not ready. I'm not able to resign myself. I wanted to sing a hymn. But if a guard speaks rudely to me I have not the strength to bear it. For Grusha I would bear anything. Anything except blows. But she won't be allowed to come there. Alyosha smiled gently. Listen, brother. Once for all he said this is what I think about it.  Listen. You are not ready and such a cross is not for you. What's more you don't need such a martyr's cross when you are not ready for it. If you had murdered our father it would grieve me that you should reject your punishment. But you are innocent and such a cross is too much for you. You wanted to make yourself another man by suffering. I say only remember that other man always, all your life and wherever you go and that will be enough for you. Your refusal of that great cross will only serve to make you feel all your life even greater duty and that constant feeling will do more to make you a new man perhaps than if you went there. For there you would not endure it and would repine and perhaps at last would say I am quits. The lawyer was right about that. Such heavy burdens are not for all men. For some they are impossible. These are my thoughts about it if you want them so much. If other men would have to answer for your escape officers or soldiers who told you smiled aliyusha but they declare the superintendent of that etape told Ivan himself that if it's all well managed there will be no great inquiry and they can get off easily. Of course bribing is dishonest even in such a case but I can't undertake to judge about it because if Ivan and Katya commissioned me to act for you I know I should go I must tell you the truth and so I can't judge of your own action but let me assure you that I shall never condemn you and it would be a strange thing if I could judge you in this now I think I've gone into everything but I do condemn myself cried Mitcha I shall escape that was settled apart from you could Mitcha Karamatsav do anything but run away but I shall condemn myself I shall pray for my sin forever that's how the Jesuits talk isn't it just as we are doing yes smiled aliyusha gently I love you for always telling the whole truth and never hiding anything cried Mitcha with a joyful laugh so I've caught my aliyusha being Jesuitical I must kiss you for that now listen to the rest I'll open the other side of my heart to you and decide if I run away even with money and passport even to America I should be cheered up by the thought that I am not running away for pleasure not for happiness but to another exile as bad perhaps as Siberia it is as bad aliyusha it is I hate that America dammit already even though Grisha will be with me just look at her is she an American she will be homesick for the mother country and I shall see every hour that she is suffering for my sake and she has taken up that cross for me in what harm has she done and how shall I too put up with the rabble out there though they may be better than I every one of them I hate that America already and though they may be wonderful at machinery every one of them dam them are not of my soul I love Russia aliyusha I love the Russian God though I am a scoundrel myself I shall choke there he exclaimed his eyes suddenly flashing his voice was trembling with tears so this is what I have decided aliyusha listen he began again mastering his emotion as soon as I arrive there with Grisha we will set to work at once on the land somewhere very remote with wild bears there must be some remote parts even there I am told there are still redskins there somewhere on the edge of the horizon so to the country of the last of the Mohicans and there we'll tackle the grammar at once Grisha and I work and grammar that's how we'll spend three years and by that time we shall speak English like any Englishman and as soon as we've learned it to America we'll run here to Russia as American citizens don't be uneasy we would not come to this little town we'd hide somewhere a long way off in the north or in the south I shall be changed by that time and she will too in America the doctors shall make some sort of wart on my face what's the use of there being so mechanical or else I'll put out one eye and let my beard grow yard and I shall turn gray fretting for Russia I dare say they won't recognize us and if they do let them send us to Siberia I don't care it will show it's our fate we'll work on the land here too somewhere in the wild and I'll make up as an American all my life but we shall die on our own soil that's my plan and it shan't be altered do you approve yes said Alyosha I'm not wanting to contradict him Michia paused for a minute and said suddenly ah and how they worked it up at the trial didn't they work it up if they had not you would have been convicted just the same said Alyosha with a sigh yes people are sick of me here God bless them but it's hard Michia moaned miserably again there was silence for a minute she put me out of my misery at once he exclaimed suddenly tell me is she coming now or not tell me what did she say how did she say it she said she would come but I don't know whether she will come today it's hard for her you know Alyosha looked timidly at his brother I should think it is hard for her Alyosha it will drive me out of my mind Grushe keeps looking at me she understands oh my God calm my heart what is it I want I want Katya do I understand what I want it's the headstrong evil Karamatsav spirit no I am not fit for suffering I am scoundrel that's all one can say here she is cried Alyosha at that instant Katya appeared in the doorway for a moment she stood still gazing at Michia with the most expression he leapt pulsively to his feet and a scared look came into his face he turned pale but a timid pleading smile appeared on his lips at once and with an irresistible impulse he held out both hands to Katya seeing it she flew impetuously to him she seized him by the hands and almost by force made him sit down on the bed she sat down beside him and keeping his hands pressed them violently several times they both strove to speak but stopped short and again gazed speechless with a strange smile their eyes fastened on one another so passed two minutes have you forgiven me Michia faltered at last and at the same moment turning to Alyosha his face working with joy he cried I'm asking do you hear that's what I loved you for you are generous at heart Katya my forgiveness is no good to you nor yours to me whether you forgive me or not you will always be a sore place in my heart as I am yours so it must be she stopped to take a breath what have I come for she began again with nervous haste to embrace your feet to press your hands like this in Moscow I used to squeeze them to tell you again that you are my God, my joy to tell you that I love you madly she moaned in anguish and suddenly pressed his hand greedily to her lips tears streamed from her eyes Alyosha stood speechless and confounded he had never expected what he was seeing love is over Michia Katya began again but the past is painfully dear to me know that you will always be so but now let what might have been come true for one minute she faltered with a drawn smile looking into his face joyfully again you love another woman and I love another man yet I shall love you forever and you will love me do you know that do you hear love me love me all your life she cried with a quiver almost of menace in her voice I shall love you and do you know Katya Michia began drawing a deep breath at each word do you know five days ago the same evening I loved you when you fell down and were carried out all my life so it will be so it will always be so they murmured to one another frantic words almost meaningless perhaps not even true but at that moment explicitly Katya cried Michia suddenly do you believe I murdered him I know you don't believe it now but then when you gave evidence surely surely you did not believe it I did not believe it then I never believed it I hated you and for a moment I persuaded myself while I was giving evidence I persuaded myself and believed it I left off believing it at once don't doubt that I have forgotten that I came here to punish myself she said with a new expression in her voice quite unlike the loving tones of a moment before woman yours is a heavy burden broke as it were involuntarily from Michia let me go she whispered I'll come again it's more than I can bear now she was getting up from her place and back Grushinka walked suddenly and noiselessly into the room no one had expected her Katya moved swiftly to the door but when she reached Grushinka she stopped suddenly turned as white as chalk and moaned softly almost in a whisper forgive me Grushinka stared at her and pausing for an instant in a vindictive, venomous voice answered we are full of hatred as though we could forgive one another save him and I'll worship you all my life he won't forgive her cried Michia with frantic reproach don't be anxious I'll save him for you Katya whispered rapidly as she ran out of the room and you could refuse to forgive her when she begged your forgiveness herself Michia exclaimed bitterly again Michia, don't dare to blame her you have no right to hurt her hotly her proud lips spoke not her heart Grushinka brought out in a tone of disgust if she saves you I'll forgive her everything she stopped speaking as though suppressing something she could not yet recover herself she had come in as appeared afterwards accidentally with no suspicion of what she would meet Alyosha run after her Michia cried to his brother I'll come to you again at nightfall said Alyosha and he ran after Katya he overtook her outside the hospital grounds she was walking fast but as soon as Alyosha caught her up she said quickly no, before that woman I can't punish myself I asked her forgiveness because I wanted to punish myself to the bitter end she would not forgive me I like her for that girl voice and her eyes flashed with fierce resentment my brother did not expect this in the least murdered Alyosha he was sure she would not come no doubt, let us leave that she snapped listen, I can't go with you to the funeral now I've sent them flowers I think they still have money if necessary tell them I'll never abandon them now leave me leave me please you are late as it is the bells are ringing for the service leave me please end of chapter 2 of epilogue recording by Nikki Sullivan, Chicago