IT came quite as a surprise even to Alyosha himself. He was not

required to take the oath, and I remember that both sides addressed

him very gently and sympathetically. It was evident that his

reputation for goodness had preceded him. Alyosha gave his evidence

modestly and with restraint, but his warm sympathy for his unhappy

brother was unmistakable. In answer to one question, he sketched his

brother's character as that of a man, violent-tempered perhaps and

carried away by his passions, but at the same time honourable, proud

and generous, capable of self-sacrifice, if necessary. He admitted,

however, that, through his passion for Grushenka and his rivalry

with his father, his brother had been of late in an intolerable

position. But he repelled with indignation the suggestion that his

brother might have committed a murder for the sake of gain, though

he recognised that the three thousand roubles had become almost an

obsession with Mitya; that upon them as part of the inheritance he had

been cheated of by his father, and that, indifferent as he was to

money as a rule, he could not even speak of that three thousand

without fury. As for the rivalry of the two "ladies," as the

prosecutor expressed it- that is, of Grushenka and Katya- he

answered evasively and was even unwilling to answer one or two

questions altogether.

    "Did your brother tell you, anyway, that he intended to kill

your father?" asked the prosecutor. "You can refuse to answer if you

think necessary," he added.

    "He did not tell me so directly," answered Alyosha.

    "How so? Did he indirectly?"

    "He spoke to me once of his hatred for our father and his fear

that at an extreme moment... at a moment of fury, he might perhaps

murder him."

    "And you believed him?"

    "I am afraid to say that I did. But I never doubted that some

higher feeling would always save him at that fatal moment, as it has

indeed saved him, for it was not he killed my father," Alyosha said

firmly, in a loud voice that was heard throughout the court.

    The prosecutor started like a war-horse at the sound of a trumpet.

    "Let me assure you that I fully believe in the complete

sincerity of your conviction and do not explain it by or identify it

with your affection for your unhappy brother. Your peculiar view of

the whole tragic episode is known to us already from the preliminary

investigation. I won't attempt to conceal from you that it is highly

individual and contradicts all the other evidence collected by the

prosecution. And so I think it essential to press you to tell me

what facts have led you to this conviction of your brother's innocence

and of the guilt of another person against whom you gave evidence at

the preliminary inquiry?"

    "I only answered the questions asked me at the preliminary

inquiry," replied Alyosha, slowly and calmly. "I made no accusation

against Smerdyakov of myself."

    "Yet you gave evidence against him?"

    "I was led to do so by my brother Dmitri's words. I was told

what took place at his arrest and how he had pointed to Smerdyakov

before I was examined. I believe absolutely that my brother is

innocent, and if he didn't commit the murder, then-"

    "Then Smerdyakov? Why Smerdyakov? And why are you so completely

persuaded of your brother's innocence?"

    "I cannot help believing my brother. I know he wouldn't lie to me.

I saw from his face he wasn't lying."

    "Only from his face? Is that all the proof you have?"

    "I have no other proof."

    "And of Smerdyakov's guilt you have no proof whatever but your

brother's word and the expression of his face?"

    "No, I have no other proof."

    The prosecutor dropped the examination at this point. The

impression left by Alyosha's evidence on the public was most

disappointing. There had been talk about Smerdyakov before the

trial; someone had heard something, someone had pointed out

something else, it was said that Alyosha had gathered together some

extraordinary proofs of his brother's innocence and Smerdyakov's

guilt, and after all there was nothing, no evidence except certain

moral convictions so natural in a brother.

    But Fetyukovitch began his cross-examination. On his asking

Alyosha when it was that the prisoner had told him of his hatred for

his father and that he might kill him, and whether he had heard it,

for instance, at their last meeting before the catastrophe, Alyosha

started as he answered, as though only just recollecting and

understanding something.

    "I remember one circumstance now which I'd quite forgotten myself.

It wasn't clear to me at the time, but now-"

    And, obviously only now for the first time struck by an idea, he

recounted eagerly how, at his last interview with Mitya that evening

under the tree, on the road to the monastery, Mitya had struck himself

on the breast, "the upper part of the breast," and had repeated

several times that he had a means of regaining his honour, that that

means was here, here on his breast. "I thought, when he struck himself

on the breast, he meant that it was in his heart," Alyosha

continued, "that he might find in his heart strength to save himself

from some awful disgrace which was awaiting him and which he did not

dare confess even to me. I must confess I did think at the time that

he was speaking of our father, and that the disgrace he was shuddering

at was the thought of going to our father and doing some violence to

him. Yet it was just then that he pointed to something on his

breast, so that I remember the idea struck me at the time that the

heart is not on that part of the breast, but below, and that he struck

himself much too high, just below the neck, and kept pointing to

that place. My idea seemed silly to me at the time, but he was perhaps

pointing then to that little bag in which he had fifteen hundred

roubles!"

    "Just so, Mitya cried from his place. "That's right, Alyosha, it

was the little bag I struck with my fist."

    Fetyukovitch flew to him in hot haste entreating him to keep

quiet, and at the same instant pounced on Alyosha. Alyosha, carried

away himself by his recollection, warmly expressed his theory that

this disgrace was probably just that fifteen hundred roubles on him,

which he might have returned to Katerina Ivanovna as half of what he

owed her, but which he had yet determined not to repay her and to

use for another purpose- namely, to enable him to elope with

Grushenka, if she consented.

    "It is so, it must be so," exclaimed Alyosha, in sudden

excitement. "My brother cried several times that half of the disgrace,

half of it (he said half several times) he could free himself from

at once, but that he was so unhappy in his weakness of will that he

wouldn't do it... that he knew beforehand he was incapable of doing

it!"

    "And you clearly, confidently remember that he struck himself just

on this part of the breast?" Fetyukovitch asked eagerly.

    "Clearly and confidently, for I thought at the time, 'Why does

he strike himself up there when the heart is lower down?' and the

thought seemed stupid to me at the time... I remember its seeming

stupid... it flashed through my mind. That's what brought it back to

me just now. How could I have forgotten it till now? It was that

little bag he meant when he said he had the means but wouldn't give

back that fifteen hundred. And when he was arrested at Mokroe he cried

out- I know, I was told it- that he considered it the most disgraceful

act of his life that when he had the means of repaying Katerina

Ivanovna half (half, note!) what he owed her, he yet could not bring

himself to repay the money and preferred to remain a thief in her eyes

rather than part with it. And what torture, what torture that debt has

been to him!" Alyosha exclaimed in conclusion.

    The prosecutor, of course, intervened. He asked Alyosha to

describe once more how it had all happened, and several times insisted

on the question, "Had the prisoner seemed to point to anything?

Perhaps he had simply struck himself with his fist on the breast?"

    "But it was not with his fist," cried Alyosha; "he pointed with

his fingers and pointed here, very high up.... How could I have so

completely forgotten it till this moment?"

    The President asked Mitya what he had to say to the last witness's

evidence. Mitya confirmed it, saying that he had been pointing to

the fifteen hundred roubles which were on his breast, just below the

neck, and that that was, of course, the disgrace, "A disgrace I cannot

deny, the most shameful act of my whole life," cried Mitya. "I might

have repaid it and didn't repay it. I preferred to remain a thief in

her eyes rather than give it back. And the most shameful part of it

was that I knew beforehand I shouldn't give it back! You are right,

Alyosha! Thanks, Alyosha!"

    So Alyosha's cross-examination ended. What was important and

striking about it was that one fact at least had been found, and

even though this were only one tiny bit of evidence, a mere hint at

evidence, it did go some little way towards proving that the bag had

existed and had contained fifteen hundred roubles and that the

prisoner had not been lying at the preliminary inquiry when he alleged

at Mokroe that those fifteen hundred roubles were "his own." Alyosha

was glad. With a flushed face he moved away to the seat assigned to

him. He kept repeating to himself: "How was it I forgot? How could I

have forgotten it? And what made it come back to me now?"

    Katerina Ivanovna was called to the witness-box. As she entered

something extraordinary happened in the court. The ladies clutched

their lorgnettes and opera-glasses. There was a stir among the men:

some stood up to get a better view. Everybody alleged afterwards

that Mitya had turned "white as a sheet" on her entrance. All in

black, she advanced modestly, almost timidly. It was impossible to

tell from her face that she was agitated; but there was a resolute

gleam in her dark and gloomy eyes. I may remark that many people

mentioned that she looked particularly handsome at that moment. She

spoke softly but clearly, so that she was heard all over the court.

She expressed herself with composure, or at least tried to appear

composed. The President began his examination discreetly and very

respectfully, as though afraid to touch on "certain chords," and

showing consideration for her great unhappiness. But in answer to

one of the first questions Katerina Ivanovna replied firmly that she

had been formerly betrothed to the prisoner, "until he left me of

his own accord..." she added quietly. When they asked her about the

three thousand she had entrusted to Mitya to post to her relations,

she said firmly, "I didn't give him the money simply to send it off. I

felt at the time that he was in great need of money.... I gave him the

three thousand on the understanding that he should post it within

the month if he cared to. There was no need for him to worry himself

about that debt afterwards."

    I will not repeat all the questions asked her and all her

answers in detail. I will only give the substance of her evidence.

    "I was firmly convinced that he would send off that sum as soon as

he got money from his father," she went on. "I have never doubted

his disinterestedness and his honesty... his scrupulous honesty...

in money matters. He felt quite certain that he would receive the

money from his father, and spoke to me several times about it. I

knew he had a feud with his father and have always believed that he

had been unfairly treated by his father. I don't remember any threat

uttered by him against his father. He certainly never uttered any such

threat before me. If he had come to me at that time, I should have

at once relieved his anxiety about that unlucky three thousand

roubles, but he had given up coming to see me... and I myself was

put in such a position... that I could not invite him.... And I had no

right, indeed, to be exacting as to that money, she added suddenly,

and there was a ring of resolution in her voice. "I was once

indebted to him for assistance in money for more than three

thousand, and I took it, although I could not at that time foresee

that I should ever be in a position to repay my debt."

    There was a note of defiance in her voice. It was then

Fetyukovitch began his cross-examination.

    "Did that take place not here, but at the beginning of your

acquaintance?" Fetyukovitch suggested cautiously, feeling his way,

instantly scenting something favourable. I must mention in parenthesis

that, though Fetyukovitch had been brought from Petersburg partly at

the instance of Katerina Ivanovna herself, he knew nothing about the

episode of the four thousand roubles given her by Mitya, and of her

"bowing to the ground to him." She concealed this from him and said

nothing about it, and that was strange. It may be pretty certainly

assumed that she herself did not know till the very last minute

whether she would speak of that episode in the court, and waited for

the inspiration of the moment.

    No, I can never forget those moments. She began telling her story.

She told everything, the whole episode that Mitya had told Alyosha,

and her bowing to the ground, and her reason. She told about her

father and her going to Mitya, and did not in one word, in a single

hint, suggest that Mitya had himself, through her sister, proposed

they should "send him Katerina Ivanovna" to fetch the money. She

generously concealed that and was not ashamed to make it appear as

though she had of her own impulse run to the young officer, relying on

something... to beg him for the money. It was something tremendous!

I turned cold and trembled as I listened. The court was hushed, trying

to catch each word. It was something unexampled. Even from such a

self-willed and contemptuously proud girl as she was, such an

extremely frank avowal, such sacrifice, such self-immolation, seemed

incredible. And for what, for whom? To save the man who had deceived

and insulted her and to help, in however small a degree, in saving

him, by creating a strong impression in his favour. And, indeed, the

figure of the young officer who, with a respectful bow to the innocent

girl, handed her his last four thousand roubles- all he had in the

world- was thrown into a very sympathetic and attractive light, but...

I had a painful misgiving at heart! I felt that calumny might come

of it later (and it did, in fact, it did). It was repeated all over

the town afterwards with spiteful laughter that was perhaps not

quite complete- that is, in the statement that the officer had let the

young lady depart "with nothing but a respectful bow." It was hinted

that something was here omitted.

    "And even if nothing had been omitted, if this were the whole

story," the most highly respected of our ladies maintained, "even then

it's very doubtful whether it was creditable for a young girl to

behave in that way, even for the sake of saving her father."

    And can Katerina Ivanovna, with her intelligence, her morbid

sensitiveness, have failed to understand that people would talk like

that? She must have understood it, yet she made up her mind to tell

everything. Of course, all these nasty little suspicions as to the

truth of her story only arose afterwards and at the first moment all

were deeply impressed by it. As for the judges and the lawyers, they

listened in reverent, almost shamefaced silence to Katerina

Ivanovna. The prosecutor did not venture upon even one question on the

subject. Fetyukovitch made a low bow to her. Oh, he was almost

triumphant! Much ground had been gained. For a man to give his last

four thousand on a generous impulse and then for the same man to

murder his father for the sake of robbing him of three thousand- the

idea seemed too incongruous. Fetyukovitch felt that now the charge

of theft, at least, was as good as disproved. "The case" was thrown

into quite a different light. There was a wave of sympathy for

Mitya. As for him.... I was told that once or twice, while Katerina

Ivanovna was giving her evidence, he jumped up from his seat, sank

back again, and hid his face in his hands. But when she had

finished, he suddenly cried in a sobbing voice:

    "Katya, why have you ruined me?" and his sobs were audible all

over the court. But he instantly restrained himself, and cried again:

    "Now I am condemned!"

    Then he sat rigid in his place, with his teeth clenched and his

arms across his chest. Katerina Ivanovna remained in the court and sat

down in her place. She was pale and sat with her eyes cast down. Those

who were sitting near her declared that for a long time she shivered

all over as though in a fever. Grushenka was called.

    I am approaching the sudden catastrophe which was perhaps the

final cause of Mitya's ruin. For I am convinced, so is everyone- all

the lawyers said the same afterwards- that if the episode had not

occurred, the prisoner would at least have been recommended to

mercy. But of that later. A few words first about Grushenka.

    She, too, was dressed entirely in black, with her magnificent

black shawl on her shoulders. She walked to the witness-box with her

smooth, noiseless tread, with the slightly swaying gait common in

women of full figure. She looked steadily at the President, turning

her eyes neither to the right nor to the left. To my thinking she

looked very handsome at that moment, and not at all pale, as the

ladies alleged afterwards. They declared, too, that she had a

concentrated and spiteful expression. I believe that she was simply

irritated and painfully conscious of the contemptuous and

inquisitive eyes of our scandal-loving public. She was proud and could

not stand contempt. She was one of those people who flare up, angry

and eager to retaliate, at the mere suggestion of contempt. There

was an element of timidity, too, of course, and inward shame at her

own timidity, so it was not strange that her tone kept changing. At

one moment it was angry, contemptuous and rough, and at another

there was a sincere note of self-condemnation. Sometimes she spoke

as though she were taking a desperate plunge; as though she felt, "I

don't care what happens, I'll say it...." Apropos of her

acquaintance with Fyodor Pavlovitch, she remarked curtly, "That's

all nonsense, and was it my fault that he would pester me?" But a

minute later she added, "It was all my fault. I was laughing at them

both- at the old man and at him, too- and I brought both of them to

this. It was all on account of me it happened."

    Samsonov's name came up somehow. "That's nobody's business," she

snapped at once, with a sort of insolent defiance. "He was my

benefactor; he took me when I hadn't a shoe to my foot, when my family

had turned me out." The President reminded her, though very

politely, that she must answer the questions directly, without going

off into irrelevant details. Grushenka crimsoned and her eyes flashed.

    The envelope with the notes in it she had not seen, but had only

heard from "that wicked wretch" that Fyodor Pavlovitch had an envelope

with notes for three thousand in it. "But that was all foolishness.

I was only laughing. I wouldn't have gone to him for anything."

    "To whom are you referring as 'that wicked wretch'?" inquired

the prosecutor.

    "The lackey, Smerdyakov, who murdered his master and hanged

himself last night."

    She was, of course, at once asked what ground she had for such a

definite accusation; but it appeared that she, too, had no grounds for

it.

    "Dmitri Fyodorovitch told me so himself; you can believe him.

The woman who came between us has ruined him; she is the cause of it

all, let me tell you," Grushenka added. She seemed to be quivering

with hatred, and there was a vindictive note in her voice.

    She was again asked to whom she was referring.

    "The young lady, Katerina Ivanovna there. She sent for me, offered

me chocolate, tried to fascinate me. There's not much true shame about

her, I can tell you that..."

    At this point the President checked her sternly, begging her to

moderate her language. But the jealous woman's heart was burning,

and she did not care what she did.

    "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.