'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 anyone 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 Aesop too.'
'What Aesop?' 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 defence 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, Rakatin'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 ardour, made a slight blunder, of which the counsel for the defence 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 defence, 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 everyone 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 elite of the youth of the neighbourhood, 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
