XIV. Мужички за себя постояли

There was no longer any thought of restraining it: women wept, many of the men wept too, and even two high officials let their tears fall.

The presiding judge gave way and even held off ringing his bell: "To trespass on such enthusiasm would be to trespass on something sacred" — as our ladies afterward cried.

The orator himself was sincerely moved.

And it was at just such a moment that our Ippolit Kirillovich rose once more "to exchange objections."

They eyed him with loathing: "What? What is this? He actually dares to object again?" — the ladies began to murmur.

But even had all the ladies of the whole world begun to murmur, and at their head the prosecutor's own wife, the spouse of Ippolit Kirillovich, even then there would have been no holding him back at that instant.

He was pale, he was trembling with agitation; the first words, the first phrases he uttered were scarcely even intelligible; he gasped for breath, spoke the words badly, kept losing his thread.

Soon, however, he recovered himself.

But of this second speech of his I shall cite only a few phrases.

"…We are reproached with having invented novels.

But what is the defence's case, if not novel piled upon novel?

All that was wanting was verse.

Fyodor Pavlovich, while awaiting his mistress, tears open the envelope and flings it to the floor.

We are even told what he said on that remarkable occasion.

Now, is that not a poem?

And where is the proof that he took out the money — who heard what he said?

The feeble-minded idiot Smerdyakov, transformed into some sort of Byronic hero avenging himself on society for his illegitimate birth — is that not a poem in the Byronic taste?

And the son, who broke in upon his father and killed him, yet at the same time did not kill him — that is no longer even a novel, no longer a poem; it is a sphinx, posing riddles which it most certainly will never solve itself.

If he killed, then he killed; but how is this — if he killed, then he did not kill — who is to make sense of that?

Then it is proclaimed to us that our rostrum is a rostrum of truth and sound principles, and yet from this rostrum of "sound principles" there resounds, under oath, the axiom that to call the murder of a father parricide is nothing but a prejudice!

But if parricide is a prejudice, and if every child is to interrogate his own father — "Father, why must I love you?" — then what is to become of us, what is to become of the foundations of society, where will the family go?

Parricide — it is, you see, merely the "bogy" of a Moscow merchant's wife.

The most precious, the most sacred tenets concerning the calling and the future of Russian justice are presented in a distorted and frivolous way, all to gain one end — to win the acquittal of what cannot be acquitted.

"Oh, crush him with mercy," exclaims the defence — but that is the very thing the criminal wants, and tomorrow everyone will see how thoroughly he has been crushed!

And is the defence not too modest, besides, in demanding merely the acquittal of the accused?

Why not call for the founding of a scholarship in the name of the parricide, to immortalize his exploit among posterity and the younger generation?

The Gospel and religion are amended: all that, they say, is mysticism, whereas we alone possess the true Christianity, already verified by the analysis of reason and sound principles.

And so they raise up before us a false likeness of Christ!

"With what measure ye mete, it shall be measured to you again," exclaims the defence, and in the very same breath deduces that Christ commanded us to measure with the same measure that is meted out to you — and this from the rostrum of truth and sound principles!

We glance into the Gospel only on the eve of our speeches, so as to make a show of acquaintance, after all, with a fairly original composition that may come in handy and serve for a certain effect — as far as need requires, all according to the measure of need!

But Christ bids us precisely not to act so, to beware of acting so, because it is the wicked world that acts so; we, however, must forgive and turn the other cheek, and not mete out with the same measure that our offenders mete out to us.

This is what our God taught us, and not that to forbid children to kill their fathers is a prejudice.

And we shall not set about amending, from the pulpit of truth and sound principles, the Gospel of our God, whom the defence condescends to call merely a "crucified lover of mankind," in opposition to all Orthodox Russia, which cries out to Him: "For Thou art our God!..""

Here the presiding judge intervened and reined in the carried-away speaker, asking him not to exaggerate, to keep within proper bounds, and so on, and so forth, as presiding judges customarily say on such occasions.

Indeed, the courtroom too was uneasy.

The public stirred, and even cried out in indignation.

Fetyukovich did not even reply; he rose only to say, with his hand laid on his heart, in an injured voice, a few words full of dignity.

He merely touched again, lightly and mockingly, on the "novels" and the "psychology," and at one point slipped in, by the way: "Jupiter, you are angry, therefore you are in the wrong" — which drew an approving and copious titter from the public, for Ippolit Kirillovich no longer bore the slightest resemblance to Jupiter.

Then, to the charge that he supposedly permits the younger generation to kill their fathers, Fetyukovich observed, with profound dignity, that he would not even reply to it.

As for the "false likeness of Christ" and the fact that he had not deigned to call Christ God but had called Him merely a "crucified lover of mankind" — which was "contrary, forsooth, to Orthodoxy and could not have been pronounced from the rostrum of truth and sound principles" — Fetyukovich hinted at an "insinuation" and at the fact that, in coming here, he had at least counted on this rostrum being secure from accusations "dangerous to my person as a citizen and a loyal subject…"

But at these words the presiding judge reined him in too, and Fetyukovich, with a bow, brought his reply to a close, accompanied by a general murmur of approval throughout the courtroom.

Ippolit Kirillovich, in the opinion of our ladies, was "crushed forever."

Then the floor was given to the accused himself.

Mitya stood up, but said little.

He was terribly worn out, both in body and in spirit.

The air of independence and strength with which he had appeared in the courtroom that morning had all but vanished.

It was as though he had lived through something in that single day that would last him all his life, something that had taught him and brought home to him a matter of great importance which he had not understood before.

His voice had grown weak; he no longer shouted, as he had earlier.

In his words there could be heard something new — humbled, vanquished, and bowed down.

"What am I to say, gentlemen of the jury!

My judgment has come; I feel the right hand of God upon me.

It is the end of a dissolute man!

But, as though confessing to God, I say to you as well: "Of my father's blood — no, I am not guilty!"

For the last time I repeat: "It was not I who killed him."

Dissolute I was, but I loved what is good.

Every moment I strove to mend myself, yet I lived like a wild beast.

I thank the prosecutor; he told me much about myself that I had not known, but it is not true that I killed my father — the prosecutor is mistaken!

I thank the defence too; I wept as I listened to him — but it is not true that I killed my father, and there was no call even to suppose it!

And do not believe the doctors; I am in my full senses, only my soul is heavy.

If you spare me, if you let me go — I will pray for you.

I will become a better man, I give my word, I give it before God.

And if you condemn me — I will break my own sword above my head, and having broken it, I will kiss the fragments!

But spare me, do not deprive me of my God; I know myself — I shall fall to murmuring against Him!

My soul is heavy, gentlemen… spare me!"

He all but collapsed onto his seat; his voice broke off, and the last phrase he scarcely got out at all.

Then the court proceeded to frame the questions and began asking the parties for their closing submissions.

But I will not describe the details.

At last the jurors rose, to withdraw for their deliberations.

The presiding judge was very tired, and so he gave them only a feeble parting word: "Be impartial, forsooth, do not let yourselves be swayed by the eloquent words of the defence, but weigh it all, nonetheless, and remember that a great responsibility rests upon you," and so on, and so forth.

The jury withdrew, and a recess in the session began.

One could get up, walk about, exchange the impressions that had piled up, take a bite to eat at the buffet.

It was very late, already about one o'clock past midnight, but no one was leaving.

Everyone was so strung up and on edge that there was no thought of rest.

Everyone waited with sinking heart — though not everyone's heart, it must be said, was sinking.

The ladies were merely in a state of hysterical impatience, but in their hearts they were at ease: "An acquittal, forsooth, is inevitable."

They were all preparing themselves for the dramatic moment of general enthusiasm.

I confess that on the men's side of the courtroom, too, there were a great many convinced of the inevitable acquittal.

Some rejoiced, others frowned, and some simply hung their heads: they did not want an acquittal!

Fetyukovich himself was firmly assured of success.

He was surrounded, he received congratulations, people fawned upon him.