'When the prisoner was arrested at Mokroe,' the prosecutor asked, 'everyone saw and heard you run out of the next room and cry out: ‘It's all my fault. We'll go to Siberia together!’ So you already believed him to have murdered his father?'
'I don't remember what I felt at the time,' answered Grushenka. 'Everyone was crying out that he had killed his father, and I felt that it was my fault, that it was on my account he had murdered him. But when he said he wasn't guilty, I believed him at once, and I believe him now and always shall believe him. He is not the man to tell a lie.'
Fetyukovitch began his cross-examination. I remember that among other things he asked about Rakitin and the twenty-five roubles 'you paid him for bringing Alexey Fyodorovitch Karamazov to see you.'
'There was nothing strange about his taking the money,' sneered Grushenka, with angry contempt. 'He was always coming to me for money: he used to get thirty roubles a month at least out of me, chiefly for luxuries: he had enough to keep him without my help.'
'What led you to be so liberal to Mr. Rakitin?' Fetyukovitch asked, in spite of an uneasy movement on the part of the President.
'Why, he is my cousin. His mother was my mother's sister. But he's always besought me not to tell anyone here of it, he is so dreadfully ashamed of me.'
This fact was a complete surprise to everyone; no one in the town nor in the monastery, not even Mitya, knew of it. I was told that Rakitin turned purple with shame where he sat. Grushenka had somehow heard before she came into the court that he had given evidence against Mitya, and so she was angry. The whole effect on the public, of Rakitin's speech, of his noble sentiments, of his attacks upon serfdom and the political disorder of Russia, was this time finally ruined. Fetyukovitch was satisfied: it was another godsend. Grushenka's cross-examination did not last long and, of course, there could be nothing particularly new in her evidence. She left a very disagreeable impression on the public; hundreds of contemptuous eyes were fixed upon her, as she finished giving her evidence and sat down again in the court, at a good distance from Katerina Ivanovna. Mitya was silent throughout her evidence. He sat as though turned to stone, with his eyes fixed on the ground. Ivan was called to give evidence.
Chapter 5
A Sudden Catastrophe
I MAY note that he had been called before Alyosha. But the usher of the court announced to the President that, owing to an attack of illness or some sort of fit, the witness could not appear at the moment, but was ready to give his evidence as soon as he recovered. But no one seemed to have heard it and it only came out later.
His entrance was for the first moment almost unnoticed. The principal witnesses, especially the two rival ladies, had already been questioned. Curiosity was satisfied for the time; the public was feeling almost fatigued. Several more witnesses were still to be heard, who probably had little information to give after all that had been given. Time was passing. Ivan walked up with extraordinary slowness, looking at no one, and with his head bowed, as though plunged in gloomy thought. He was irreproachably dressed, but his face made a painful impression, on me at least: there was an earthy look in it, a look like a dying man's. His eyes were lustreless; he raised them and looked slowly round the court. Alyosha jumped up from his seat and moaned 'Ah!' I remember that, but it was hardly noticed.
The President began by informing him that he was a witness not on oath, that he might answer or refuse to answer, but that, of course, he must bear witness according to his conscience, and so on, and so on. Ivan listened and looked at him blankly, but his face gradually relaxed into a smile, and as soon as the President, looking at him in astonishment, finished, he laughed outright.
'Well, and what else?' he asked in a loud voice.
There was a hush in the court; there was a feeling of something strange. The President showed signs of uneasiness.
'You... are perhaps still unwell?' he began, looking everywhere for the usher.
'Don't trouble yourself, your excellency, I am well enough and can tell you something interesting,' Ivan answered with sudden calmness and respectfulness.
'You have some special communication to make?' the President went on, still mistrustfully.
Ivan looked down, waited a few seconds and, raising his head, answered, almost stammering:
'No... I haven't. I have nothing particular.'
They began asking him questions. He answered, as it were, reluctantly, with extreme brevity, with a sort of disgust which grew more and more marked, though he answered rationally. To many questions he answered that he did not know. He knew nothing of his father's money relations with Dmitri. 'I wasn't interested in the subject,' he added. Threats to murder his father he had heard from the prisoner. Of the money in the envelope he had heard from Smerdyakov.
'The same thing over and over again,' he interrupted suddenly, with a look of weariness. 'I have nothing particular to tell the court.'
'I see you are unwell and understand your feelings,' the President began.
He turned to the prosecutor and the counsel for the defence to invite them to examine the witness, if necessary, when Ivan suddenly asked in an exhausted voice:
'Let me go, your excellency, I feel very ill.'
And with these words, without waiting for permission, he turned to walk out of the court. But after taking four steps he stood still, as though he had reached a decision, smiled slowly, and went back.
'I am like the peasant girl, your excellency... you know. How does it go? ‘I'll stand up if I like, and I won't if I don't.’ They were trying to put on her sarafan to take her to church to be married, and she said, ‘I'll stand up if I like, and I won't if I don't.'... It's in some book about the peasantry.'
'What do you mean by that?' the President asked severely.
'Why, this,' Ivan suddenly pulled out a roll of notes. 'Here's the money... the notes that lay in that envelope' (he nodded towards the table on which lay the material evidence), 'for the sake of which our father was murdered. Where shall I put them? Mr. Superintendent, take them.'
The usher of the court took the whole roll and handed it to the President.
'How could this money have come into your possession if it is the same money?' the President asked wonderingly.
'I got them from Smerdyakov, from the murderer, yesterday.... I was with him just before he hanged himself. It was he, not my brother, killed our father. He murdered him and I incited him to do it... Who doesn't desire his father's death?'
'Are you in your right mind?' broke involuntarily from the President.
'I should think I am in my right mind... in the same nasty mind as all of you... as all these... ugly faces.' He turned suddenly to the audience. 'My father has been murdered and they pretend they are horrified,' he snarled, with furious contempt. 'They keep up the sham with one another. Liars! They all desire the death of their fathers. One reptile devours another.... If there hadn't been a murder, they'd have been angry and gone home ill-humoured. It's a spectacle they want! Panem et circenses.* Though I am one to talk! Have you any water? Give me a drink for Christ's sake!' He suddenly clutched his head.
Bread and circuses.
The usher at once approached him. Alyosha jumped up and cried, 'He is ill. Don't believe him: he has brain fever.' Katerina Ivanovna rose impulsively from her seat and, rigid with horror, gazed at Ivan. Mitya stood up and greedily looked at his brother and listened to him with a wild, strange smile.
'Don't disturb yourselves. I am not mad, I am only a murderer,' Ivan began again. 'You can't expect eloquence from a murderer,' he added suddenly for some reason and laughed a queer laugh.
The prosecutor bent over to the President in obvious dismay. The two other judges communicated in agitated whispers. Fetyukovitch pricked up his ears as he listened: the hall was hushed in expectation. The President seemed suddenly to recollect himself.
'Witness, your words are incomprehensible and impossible here. Calm yourself, if you can, and tell your story... if you really have something to tell. How can you confirm your statement... if indeed you are not delirious?'
'That's just it. I have no proof. That cur Smerdyakov won't send you proofs from the other world... in an envelope. You think of nothing but envelopes--one is enough. I've no witnesses... except one, perhaps,' he smiled
