Chapter XIII. A Corrupter 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 damning 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 parricide. 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 every one,
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 for 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 Pavlovitch
Karamazov, 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 defense 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
back-yard, 'without boots on his feet and with his little trousers hanging
by one button'--to use the expression of the kind-hearted doctor,
Herzenstube?

"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 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 any one train him to be reasonable? Was he enlightened by
study? Did any one 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 loathsome
phantoms that haunted his childish 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 heard
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, calumniated him, bought
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 Schiller--loving the sublime and beautiful! I should
not have laughed at that in his place. Yes, such natures--oh, let me speak
in defense 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 woman, for instance, and with a spiritual 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, by 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 honorable, '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 treachery, 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! No, 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 words honestly, gentlemen,
and I 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. Filial
love for an unworthy father is an absurdity, an impossibility. Love cannot
be created from nothing: only God can create something from nothing.

" 'Fathers, provoke 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--_vivos voco!_ We are not long on earth, 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 am 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, I cry aloud to
all fathers: 'Fathers, provoke 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 mete it shall be
measured unto you again'--it's not I who say 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 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 new-born 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 to be afraid
of certain words and ideas like the Moscow women in Ostrovsky's play, who
are scared at 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, _on faith_, like many other things
which I do not understand, but which religion bids 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 reason 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 may not ill-treat
and ruin a man. Then it will be real Christian work, not only mystic, but
rational and philanthropic...."

There was violent applause at this passage from many parts of the court,
but Fetyukovitch 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 conventional 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?'

"Oh, perhaps those questions strike you as coarse 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 the 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 the 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
a rational, 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 on 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 stern threat to clear the court, and
Fetyukovitch, 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 at 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 surged 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 maintain that, I cry that
aloud!--no, he only brandished the pestle in a burst of indignant disgust,
not meaning to kill him, not 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 parricide. No, the murder of such a father cannot
be called parricide. Such a murder can only be reckoned parricide 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 fearfully, 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 exclaim.

"Oh, I know, I know that heart, that wild but grateful heart, gentlemen of
the jury! It will bow before your mercy; it thirsts for a 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 henceforth. And he will not say
then, 'I am quits,' but will say, 'I am guilty in the sight of all men and
am more unworthy than all.' With tears of penitence and poignant, tender
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 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 Russian 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 troikas from which all the nations stand aside
in disgust. Not a runaway troika, 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!"

Now Fetyukovich entertains the idea that Dmitri might have killed Fyodor. Even if he had, according to Fetyukovich, it wouldn't even count as parricide because of what a miserable father Fyodor was. Not only did Fyodor's awful parenting result in the mess that Dmitri is today, but Fyodor so completely abandoned his obligations as a father that he doesn't deserve to be called a father at all. Fetyukovich then digresses into a general discussion of how the future of society depends on good fathers. Citing the Gospel, he asks the jury to have mercy on Dmitri and declare him innocent. By this show of mercy, they will be giving Dmitri a chance at redemption and at living a good life, a chance his father never gave him. Fetyukovich is frequently interrupted by applause. He ends his speech not with a runaway troika, as Kirillovich did, but with the image of a magnificent Russian chariot.

An Adulterer of Thought Fetyukovich insists that Dmitri's only chance to find redemption amid the tattered shreds of his life is to be set free


Chapter XIV. The Peasants Stand Firm

This was how Fetyukovitch 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 Ippolit Kirillovitch 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 the top of another? All that was lacking was poetry.
Fyodor Pavlovitch, while waiting for his mistress, tears open the envelope
and throws it on the floor. We are 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? The weak-minded
idiot, Smerdyakov, transformed into a Byronic hero, avenging society for
his illegitimate birth--isn't this a romance in the Byronic 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 'parricide' is nothing but a
prejudice! But if parricide is a prejudice, and if every child is to ask
his father why he is to love him, what will become of us? What will become
of the foundations of society? What will become of the family? Parricide,
it appears, is only a bogy of Moscow merchants' 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 to-morrow 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 honor of
the parricide to commemorate his exploit 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
semblance of Christ! 'What measure ye mete 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--all to serve the purpose! But what Christ
commands 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. This is what our God has taught us and not that to forbid children to
murder their fathers is a prejudice. 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
opposition to all orthodox Russia, which calls to Him, 'For Thou art our
God!' "

At this the President intervened and checked the over-zealous 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.
Fetyukovitch did not so much as reply; he only mounted the tribune to lay
his hand on his heart and, with an offended voice, utter 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 Ippolit Kirillovitch was by no means like
Jupiter. Then, _a propos_ of the accusation that he was teaching the young
generation to murder their fathers, Fetyukovitch observed, with great
dignity, that he would not even answer. As for the prosecutor's charge of
uttering unorthodox opinions, Fetyukovitch 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 Fetyukovitch
concluded his speech with a bow, amid a hum of approbation in the court.
And Ippolit Kirillovitch 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 hand of God upon me! The end has come to an erring 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 erring, 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's 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 will condemn me, I'll break
my sword over my head myself and kiss the pieces. But spare me, do not rob
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. Fetyukovitch
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 threads 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 won. Set your mind at rest."

"What will our peasants say now?" said one stout, cross-looking, pock-
marked gentleman, a landowner of the neighborhood, approaching a group of
gentlemen engaged in conversation.

"But they are not all peasants. There are four government clerks among
them."

"Yes, there are clerks," said a member of the district council, joining
the group.

"And do you know that Nazaryev, the merchant with the medal, 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's no need for the
Petersburg man to teach him: he could teach all Petersburg himself. He's
the father of twelve children. Think of that!"

"Upon my word, you don't suppose they won't acquit him?" one of our young
officials exclaimed in another group.

"They'll acquit him for certain," said a resolute voice.

"It would be shameful, disgraceful, not to acquit him!" cried the
official. "Suppose he did murder him--there are fathers and fathers! And,
besides, he was in 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 Fetyukovitch'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, Mihail Semyonovitch, he almost said 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 mysticism, do!" cried some one else; "think of Ippolit and his
fate from this day forth. His wife will scratch his eyes out to-morrow for
Mitya's sake."

"Is she here?"

"What an idea! If she'd been here she'd have scratched them out in court.
She is at home with toothache. He he he!"

"He he he!"

In a third group:

"I dare say they will acquit Mitenka, after all."

"I should not be surprised if he turns the 'Metropolis' upside down to-
morrow. 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 a cart into a chariot!"

"And to-morrow 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 profound silence reigned in the court as soon as the public
had taken their seats. I remember how the jurymen 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 with premeditation?" (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 deathlike 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 every one had reckoned upon a recommendation to mercy, at least.
The deathlike 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 to fancy that it might be at
once reconsidered and reversed. At that instant Mitya suddenly stood up
and cried in a heartrending 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, and 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
Grushenka. She had succeeded in begging admittance to the court again
before the beginning of the lawyers' 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 years' trip to the mines!"

"Not less."

"Well, our peasants have stood firm."

"And have done for our Mitya."

The end of Fetyukovich's speech is greeted with loud applause from the courtroom. But Kirillovich is indignant and in his hurried response takes Fetyukovich to task for invoking the Gospel, for insulting Kirillovich's use of psychology, and for inventing fantastic and unbelievable explanations for Dmitri's and Smerdyakov's behavior. Fetyukovich responds to these accusations in a calm and reasonable way. The judge then asks Dmitri if he has anything to say. Dmitri again stresses his innocence and asks for the mercy of the court. The judge then briefly lectures the jury, the jury retires, and the audience in the courtroom discusses the speeches. After exactly an hour, the jury returns with a verdict: guilty of all charges, with no extenuating circumstances. Dmitri cries out and Grushenka screams. Dmitri is taken away. The sentencing is to take place the next day.

Our Peasants Stood Up for Themselves Most of the crowd has been completely won over to Dmitri's side. Everyone expects that he will be set free. But the jury returns in a short time and declares that Dmitri is guilty. The crowd is outraged. Dmitri cries out that he is innocent and that he forgives Katerina. Grushenka cries out from the balcony, and Dmitri is led away.

Book XII: A Judicial Error, Chapters 1-14 Dmitri's trial in Book XII is in many ways an anticlimax


EPILOGUE Chapter I. Plans For Mitya's Escape

Very early, at nine o'clock in the morning, five days after the trial,
Alyosha went to Katerina 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 Grushenka. In the
next room Ivan Fyodorovitch lay unconscious in a high fever. Katerina
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 the 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, Katerina Ivanovna
would have adhered to her resolution, and would have gone on nursing the
sick man and sitting by him day and night. Varvinsky and Herzenstube 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 Katerina 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. Katerina 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
Fyodorovitch, 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 _etape_ from here, when the party of
prisoners is being taken to Siberia. Oh, it's a long way off yet. Ivan
Fyodorovitch has already visited the superintendent of the third _etape_.
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. To-morrow perhaps I will
show you in detail the whole plan which Ivan Fyodorovitch 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 down-stairs, 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 quarreled for three days. We quarreled because, when he told
me that if Dmitri Fyodorovitch 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 Dmitri!" Katerina Ivanovna exclaimed
suddenly, her lips quivering with anger. "As soon as Ivan Fyodorovitch saw
that I was furious about that woman, he instantly imagined I was jealous
of Dmitri and that I still loved Dmitri. 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
Dmitri, 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 some one that he had sent them to be changed. I
was tremendously impressed to find that Ivan Fyodorovitch 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 loved
Mitya. Oh, that was a sacrifice! No, you cannot understand the greatness
of such self-sacrifice, Alexey Fyodorovitch. 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. And when you came in then, and when I called to you and told him
to come back, I was so enraged by the look of contempt and hatred he
turned on me that--do you remember?--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!"

Katya never had 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 Fyodorovitch 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," Katya added viciously. She
paused and smiled.

"He talks about some hymn," she went on again, "some cross he has to bear,
some duty; I remember Ivan Fyodorovitch told me a great deal about it, and
if you knew how he talked!" Katya 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," Katya 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," Alyosha thought to himself. He
hoped that it was only "at moments." In Katya'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 ... unchristian, perhaps?" Katya added, even more defiantly.

"Oh, no. I'll tell him everything," muttered Alyosha. "He asks you to come
and see him to-day," 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!" Alyosha 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 Katya. "I've had a presentiment all these
days that you would come with that message. I knew he 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.' Do you hear? though he is condemned to penal
servitude for twenty years, he is still planning to be happy--is not that
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...." Katya moaned. "He will look at me.... I
can't."

"Your eyes ought to meet. How will you live all your life, if you don't
make up your mind to do it now?"

"Better suffer all my life."

"You ought to go, you ought to go," Alyosha repeated with merciless
emphasis.

"But why to-day, why at once?... I can't leave our patient--"

"You can for a moment. It will only be a moment. If you don't come, he
will be in delirium by to-night. I would not tell you a lie; have pity on
him!"

"Have pity on _me!_" Katya 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 Katya in alarm. "I will
come, but don't tell him beforehand, for perhaps I may go, but not go
in.... I don't know yet--"

Her voice failed her. She gasped for breath. Alyosha got up to go.

"And what if I meet any one?" she said suddenly, in a low voice, turning
white again.

"That's just why you must go now, to avoid meeting any one. 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.

But wait, the novel isn't over yet! It's now five days after Dmitri's trial. Alyosha arrives at the home of Katerina Ivanovna, who is caring for Ivan as he recuperates from his illness. Katerina can't help confessing her deepest feelings to Alyosha. She reveals that she and Ivan had argued for three days straight before the trial about Ivan's plans to help his brother to escape. Ivan had left her with an envelope with the escape plans just in case something happened to him. She also talks about her feelings of intense guilt over her vengeful outburst at Dmitri's trial. Alyosha then tells Katerina that he has a special request from Dmitri: he would like to see her before he goes off to serve his sentence in Siberia. Katerina is undecided and Alyosha leaves her.

Plans to Save Mitya Katerina has brought the raving Ivan back to her house, and Alyosha visits them there after the trial. Katerina is torn with regret over her betrayal of Dmitri at the trial, but she says an ironclad plan is in place for his escape. In order to free him, however, Alyosha will have to play a part. Alyosha agrees to do whatever is necessary to secure Dmitri's freedom


Chapter II. For A Moment The Lie 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, Madame Hohlakov, Lise, etc.), Doctor Varvinsky had put
Mitya not with other prisoners, but in a separate little room, the one
where Smerdyakov had been. It is true that there was a sentinel 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. The visits of relations and friends were
informally sanctioned by the doctor and overseer, and even by the police
captain. But only Alyosha and Grushenka had visited Mitya. Rakitin 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 of 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 Grushenka
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 Mitya was
waiting for Alyosha in suspense, but he did not dare ask him a question.
He felt it almost unthinkable that Katya would consent to come, and at the
same time he felt that if she did not come, something inconceivable would
happen. Alyosha understood his feelings.

"Trifon Borissovitch," Mitya began nervously, "has pulled his whole inn to
pieces, I am told. He's taken up the flooring, pulled apart the planks,
split up all the gallery, I am told. He is seeking treasure all the
time--the fifteen hundred roubles which the prosecutor said I'd hidden
there. He began playing these tricks, they say, as soon as he got home.
Serve 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
to-day, perhaps in a few days, that I can't tell. But she will come, she
will, that's certain."

Mitya 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 Katya 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."

"You've spoken of that already," Mitya observed musingly.

"And you have repeated it to Grusha," observed Alyosha.

"Yes," Mitya 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 Katya was taking measures, she was silent, but she set 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 Katya no
longer cares for me, but loves Ivan."

"Does she?" broke from Alyosha.

"Perhaps she does not. Only she is not coming this morning," Mitya
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."

"Would you believe it, though Katya is alarmed about him, she scarcely
doubts of his recovery," said Alyosha.

"That means that she is convinced he will die. It's because she is
frightened she's so sure he will get well."

"Ivan has a strong constitution, and I, too, believe there's 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 was
fretting Mitya.

"Alyosha, I love Grusha terribly," he said suddenly in a shaking voice,
full of tears.

"They won't let her go out there to you," Alyosha put in at once.

"And there is something else I wanted to tell you," Mitya 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 some one, and 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 am not
ready! I am 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.
And you know that I would not tell you a lie. 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 an 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, then I would not have 'allowed' you," smiled
Alyosha. "But they declare--the superintendent of that _etape_ told Ivan
himself--that if it's well managed there will be no great inquiry, and that
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 and give bribes. 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 Mitya. "I shall escape, that was settled
apart from you; could Mitya Karamazov do anything but run away? But I
shall condemn myself, and I will pray for my sin for ever. That's how the
Jesuits talk, isn't it? Just as we are doing?"

"Yes." Alyosha smiled gently.

"I love you for always telling the whole truth and never hiding anything,"
cried Mitya, with a joyful laugh. "So I've caught my Alyosha being
Jesuitical. I must kiss you for that. Now listen to the rest; I'll open
the other side of my heart to you. This is what I planned and decided. If
I run away, even with money and a passport, and 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, Alyosha, it is! I hate that America, damn it, already. Even though
Grusha will be with me. Just look at her; is she an American? She is
Russian, Russian to the marrow of her bones; she will be homesick for the
mother country, and I shall see every hour that she is suffering for my
sake, that she has taken up that cross for me. And 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, damn them, they are
not of my soul. I love Russia, Alyosha, 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've decided, Alyosha, listen," he began again, mastering his emotion. "As
soon as I arrive there with Grusha, we will set to work at once on the
land, in solitude, 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, Grusha 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 learnt
it--good-by 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 me some sort of wart on my face--what's the use of their being so
mechanical!--or else I'll put out one eye, let my beard grow a 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 wilds,
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, not wanting to contradict him. Mitya paused for a
minute and said suddenly:

"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," Mitya
moaned miserably. Again there was silence for a minute.

"Alyosha, 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 to-day.
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. Grusha keeps looking at me. She understands. My God, calm my heart:
what is it I want? I want Katya! Do I understand what I want? It's the
headstrong, evil Karamazov spirit! No, I am not fit for suffering. I am a
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 Mitya with a dazed expression. He leapt impulsively 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 still 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?" Mitya faltered at last, and at the same moment
turning to Alyosha, his face working with joy, he cried, "Do you hear what
I am asking, do you hear?"

"That's what I loved you for, that you are generous at heart!" broke from
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, and I in
yours--so it must be...." She stopped to take breath. "What have I come
for?" she began again with nervous haste: "to embrace your feet, to press
your hands like this, till it hurts--you remember how 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, Mitya!" 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,
and yet I shall love you for ever, 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," Mitya began, drawing a
deep breath at each word, "do you know, five days ago, that 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 it was all true, and they both believed
what they said implicitly.

"Katya," cried Mitya 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 even then. I've never believed it. I hated you, and
for a moment I persuaded myself. While I was giving evidence I persuaded
myself and believed it, but when I'd finished speaking 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
Mitya.

"Let me go," she whispered. "I'll come again. It's more than I can bear
now."

She was getting up from her place, but suddenly uttered a loud scream and
staggered back. Grushenka walked suddenly and noiselessly into the room.
No one had expected her. Katya moved swiftly to the door, but when she
reached Grushenka, she stopped suddenly, turned as white as chalk and
moaned softly, almost in a whisper:

"Forgive me!"

Grushenka stared at her and, pausing for an instant, in a vindictive,
venomous voice, answered:

"We are full of hatred, my girl, you and I! We are both full of hatred! As
though we could forgive one another! Save him, and I'll worship you all my
life."

"You won't forgive her!" cried Mitya, with frantic reproach.

"Don't be anxious, I'll save him for you!" Katya whispered rapidly, and
she ran out of the room.

"And you could refuse to forgive her when she begged your forgiveness
herself?" Mitya exclaimed bitterly again.

"Mitya, don't dare to blame her; you have no right to!" Alyosha cried
hotly.

"Her proud lips spoke, not her heart," Grushenka 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!" Mitya cried to his brother; "tell her ... I
don't know ... don't let her go away like this!"

"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!" she added, in an unnatural voice, and her
eyes flashed with fierce resentment.

"My brother did not expect this in the least," muttered 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!"

Alyosha then heads straight to the hospital, where Dmitri, who had come down with a fever after the trial, is being kept in a special area. Alyosha tells Dmitri not to feel bad about trying to escape - after all, he is innocent. He admonishes Dmitri just to remember his promise to reform his ways and become a new man. Dmitri tells Alyosha about his plans to escape with Grushenka to America, learn English, and return to Russia disguised as an American. Suddenly Katerina appears in the doorway. She rushes to Dmitri and clasps his hands, and they seem to come to a reconciliation over everything that's happened between them. Although they are both involved with other people now, they promise to love each other forever. Katerina also affirms that she too believes in Dmitri's innocence; she only revealed his letter at the trial out of petty jealousy. As Katerina leaves, she encounters Grushenka and asks her forgiveness, which Grushenka will give only if Katerina pulls off Dmitri's escape. Alyosha follows Katerina out the door, then heads over to a funeral.

For a Moment the Lie Became the Truth Alyosha visits Dmitri in prison and tells him about the plan for his escape. Though Dmitri longs to be redeemed by suffering, and has, in a sense, accepted the idea of his punishment, he agrees to the escape plan so that he will be able to remain with Grushenka. He will have to flee to America, but he says he will not spend his entire life away from Russia. One day, he will return. Katerina arrives. She and Dmitri reconcile, and Katerina tells him that she never truly believed him to be guilty. Grushenka arrives, and when Katerina begs for her forgiveness as well, Grushenka refuses to forgive her. Katerina runs from the room. Dmitri reproaches Grushenka, and Alyosha tells him sternly that he has no right to be critical of her. Alyosha then runs after Katerina. She says that she cannot blame Grushenka for not forgiving her


Chapter III. Ilusha's Funeral. The Speech At The Stone

He really was late. They had waited for him and had already decided to
bear the pretty flower-decked little coffin to the church without him. It
was the coffin of poor little Ilusha. He had died two days after Mitya was
sentenced. At the gate of the house Alyosha was met by the shouts of the
boys, Ilusha's schoolfellows. They had all been impatiently expecting him
and were glad that he had come at last. There were about twelve of them,
they all had their school-bags or satchels on their shoulders. "Father
will cry, be with father," Ilusha had told them as he lay dying, and the
boys remembered it. Kolya Krassotkin was the foremost of them.

"How glad I am you've come, Karamazov!" he cried, holding out his hand to
Alyosha. "It's awful here. It's really horrible to see it. Snegiryov is
not drunk, we know for a fact he's had nothing to drink to-day, but he
seems as if he were drunk ... I am always manly, but this is awful.
Karamazov, if I am not keeping you, one question before you go in?"

"What is it, Kolya?" said Alyosha.

"Is your brother innocent or guilty? Was it he killed your father or was
it the valet? As you say, so it will be. I haven't slept for the last four
nights for thinking of it."

"The valet killed him, my brother is innocent," answered Alyosha.

"That's what I said," cried Smurov.

"So he will perish an innocent victim!" exclaimed Kolya; "though he is
ruined he is happy! I could envy him!"

"What do you mean? How can you? Why?" cried Alyosha surprised.

"Oh, if I, too, could sacrifice myself some day for truth!" said Kolya
with enthusiasm.

"But not in such a cause, not with such disgrace and such horror!" said
Alyosha.

"Of course ... I should like to die for all humanity, and as for disgrace,
I don't care about that--our names may perish. I respect your brother!"

"And so do I!" the boy, who had once declared that he knew who had founded
Troy, cried suddenly and unexpectedly, and he blushed up to his ears like
a peony as he had done on that occasion.

Alyosha went into the room. Ilusha lay with his hands folded and his eyes
closed in a blue coffin with a white frill round it. His thin face was
hardly changed at all, and strange to say there was no smell of decay from
the corpse. The expression of his face was serious and, as it were,
thoughtful. His hands, crossed over his breast, looked particularly
beautiful, as though chiseled in marble. There were flowers in his hands
and the coffin, inside and out, was decked with flowers, which had been
sent early in the morning by Lise Hohlakov. But there were flowers too
from Katerina Ivanovna, and when Alyosha opened the door, the captain had
a bunch in his trembling hands and was strewing them again over his dear
boy. He scarcely glanced at Alyosha when he came in, and he would not look
at any one, even at his crazy weeping wife, "mamma," who kept trying to
stand on her crippled legs to get a nearer look at her dead boy. Nina had
been pushed in her chair by the boys close up to the coffin. She sat with
her head pressed to it and she too was no doubt quietly weeping.
Snegiryov's face looked eager, yet bewildered and exasperated. There was
something crazy about his gestures and the words that broke from him. "Old
man, dear old man!" he exclaimed every minute, gazing at Ilusha. It was
his habit to call Ilusha "old man," as a term of affection when he was
alive.

"Father, give me a flower, too; take that white one out of his hand and
give it me," the crazy mother begged, whimpering. Either because the
little white rose in Ilusha's hand had caught her fancy or that she wanted
one from his hand to keep in memory of him, she moved restlessly,
stretching out her hands for the flower.

"I won't give it to any one, I won't give you anything," Snegiryov cried
callously. "They are his flowers, not yours! Everything is his, nothing is
yours!"

"Father, give mother a flower!" said Nina, lifting her face wet with
tears.

"I won't give away anything and to her less than any one! She didn't love
Ilusha. She took away his little cannon and he gave it to her," the
captain broke into loud sobs at the thought of how Ilusha had given up his
cannon to his mother. The poor, crazy creature was bathed in noiseless
tears, hiding her face in her hands.

The boys, seeing that the father would not leave the coffin and that it
was time to carry it out, stood round it in a close circle and began to
lift it up.

"I don't want him to be buried in the churchyard," Snegiryov wailed
suddenly; "I'll bury him by the stone, by our stone! Ilusha told me to. I
won't let him be carried out!"

He had been saying for the last three days that he would bury him by the
stone, but Alyosha, Krassotkin, the landlady, her sister and all the boys
interfered.

"What an idea, bury him by an unholy stone, as though he had hanged
himself!" the old landlady said sternly. "There in the churchyard the
ground has been crossed. He'll be prayed for there. One can hear the
singing in church and the deacon reads so plainly and verbally that it
will reach him every time just as though it were read over his grave."

At last the captain made a gesture of despair as though to say, "Take him
where you will." The boys raised the coffin, but as they passed the
mother, they stopped for a moment and lowered it that she might say good-
by to Ilusha. But on seeing that precious little face, which for the last
three days she had only looked at from a distance, she trembled all over
and her gray head began twitching spasmodically over the coffin.

"Mother, make the sign of the cross over him, give him your blessing, kiss
him," Nina cried to her. But her head still twitched like an automaton and
with a face contorted with bitter grief she began, without a word, beating
her breast with her fist. They carried the coffin past her. Nina pressed
her lips to her brother's for the last time as they bore the coffin by
her. As Alyosha went out of the house he begged the landlady to look after
those who were left behind, but she interrupted him before he had
finished.

"To be sure, I'll stay with them, we are Christians, too." The old woman
wept as she said it.

They had not far to carry the coffin to the church, not more than three
hundred paces. It was a still, clear day, with a slight frost. The church
bells were still ringing. Snegiryov ran fussing and distracted after the
coffin, in his short old summer overcoat, with his head bare and his soft,
old, wide-brimmed hat in his hand. He seemed in a state of bewildered
anxiety. At one minute he stretched out his hand to support the head of
the coffin and only hindered the bearers, at another he ran alongside and
tried to find a place for himself there. A flower fell on the snow and he
rushed to pick it up as though everything in the world depended on the
loss of that flower.

"And the crust of bread, we've forgotten the crust!" he cried suddenly in
dismay. But the boys reminded him at once that he had taken the crust of
bread already and that it was in his pocket. He instantly pulled it out
and was reassured.

"Ilusha told me to, Ilusha," he explained at once to Alyosha. "I was
sitting by him one night and he suddenly told me: 'Father, when my grave
is filled up crumble a piece of bread on it so that the sparrows may fly
down, I shall hear and it will cheer me up not to be lying alone.' "

"That's a good thing," said Alyosha, "we must often take some."

"Every day, every day!" said the captain quickly, seeming cheered at the
thought.

They reached the church at last and set the coffin in the middle of it.
The boys surrounded it and remained reverently standing so, all through
the service. It was an old and rather poor church; many of the ikons were
without settings; but such churches are the best for praying in. During
the mass Snegiryov became somewhat calmer, though at times he had
outbursts of the same unconscious and, as it were, incoherent anxiety. At
one moment he went up to the coffin to set straight the cover or the
wreath, when a candle fell out of the candlestick he rushed to replace it
and was a fearful time fumbling over it, then he subsided and stood
quietly by the coffin with a look of blank uneasiness and perplexity.
After the Epistle he suddenly whispered to Alyosha, who was standing
beside him, that the Epistle had not been read properly but did not
explain what he meant. During the prayer, "Like the Cherubim," he joined
in the singing but did not go on to the end. Falling on his knees, he
pressed his forehead to the stone floor and lay so for a long while.

At last came the funeral service itself and candles were distributed. The
distracted father began fussing about again, but the touching and
impressive funeral prayers moved and roused his soul. He seemed suddenly
to shrink together and broke into rapid, short sobs, which he tried at
first to smother, but at last he sobbed aloud. When they began taking
leave of the dead and closing the coffin, he flung his arms about, as
though he would not allow them to cover Ilusha, and began greedily and
persistently kissing his dead boy on the lips. At last they succeeded in
persuading him to come away from the step, but suddenly he impulsively
stretched out his hand and snatched a few flowers from the coffin. He
looked at them and a new idea seemed to dawn upon him, so that he
apparently forgot his grief for a minute. Gradually he seemed to sink into
brooding and did not resist when the coffin was lifted up and carried to
the grave. It was an expensive one in the churchyard close to the church,
Katerina Ivanovna had paid for it. After the customary rites the grave-
diggers lowered the coffin. Snegiryov with his flowers in his hands bent
down so low over the open grave that the boys caught hold of his coat in
alarm and pulled him back. He did not seem to understand fully what was
happening. When they began filling up the grave, he suddenly pointed
anxiously at the falling earth and began trying to say something, but no
one could make out what he meant, and he stopped suddenly. Then he was
reminded that he must crumble the bread and he was awfully excited,
snatched up the bread and began pulling it to pieces and flinging the
morsels on the grave.

"Come, fly down, birds, fly down, sparrows!" he muttered anxiously.

One of the boys observed that it was awkward for him to crumble the bread
with the flowers in his hands and suggested he should give them to some
one to hold for a time. But he would not do this and seemed indeed
suddenly alarmed for his flowers, as though they wanted to take them from
him altogether. And after looking at the grave, and as it were, satisfying
himself that everything had been done and the bread had been crumbled, he
suddenly, to the surprise of every one, turned, quite composedly even, and
made his way homewards. But his steps became more and more hurried, he
almost ran. The boys and Alyosha kept up with him.

"The flowers are for mamma, the flowers are for mamma! I was unkind to
mamma," he began exclaiming suddenly.

Some one called to him to put on his hat as it was cold. But he flung the
hat in the snow as though he were angry and kept repeating, "I won't have
the hat, I won't have the hat." Smurov picked it up and carried it after
him. All the boys were crying, and Kolya and the boy who discovered about
Troy most of all. Though Smurov, with the captain's hat in his hand, was
crying bitterly too, he managed, as he ran, to snatch up a piece of red
brick that lay on the snow of the path, to fling it at the flock of
sparrows that was flying by. He missed them, of course, and went on crying
as he ran. Half-way, Snegiryov suddenly stopped, stood still for half a
minute, as though struck by something, and suddenly turning back to the
church, ran towards the deserted grave. But the boys instantly overtook
him and caught hold of him on all sides. Then he fell helpless on the snow
as though he had been knocked down, and struggling, sobbing, and wailing,
he began crying out, "Ilusha, old man, dear old man!" Alyosha and Kolya
tried to make him get up, soothing and persuading him.

"Captain, give over, a brave man must show fortitude," muttered Kolya.

"You'll spoil the flowers," said Alyosha, "and mamma is expecting them,
she is sitting crying because you would not give her any before. Ilusha's
little bed is still there--"

"Yes, yes, mamma!" Snegiryov suddenly recollected, "they'll take away the
bed, they'll take it away," he added as though alarmed that they really
would. He jumped up and ran homewards again. But it was not far off and
they all arrived together. Snegiryov opened the door hurriedly and called
to his wife with whom he had so cruelly quarreled just before:

"Mamma, poor crippled darling, Ilusha has sent you these flowers," he
cried, holding out to her a little bunch of flowers that had been frozen
and broken while he was struggling in the snow. But at that instant he saw
in the corner, by the little bed, Ilusha's little boots, which the
landlady had put tidily side by side. Seeing the old, patched, rusty-
looking, stiff boots he flung up his hands and rushed to them, fell on his
knees, snatched up one boot and, pressing his lips to it, began kissing it
greedily, crying, "Ilusha, old man, dear old man, where are your little
feet?"

"Where have you taken him away? Where have you taken him?" the lunatic
cried in a heartrending voice. Nina, too, broke into sobs. Kolya ran out
of the room, the boys followed him. At last Alyosha too went out.

"Let them weep," he said to Kolya, "it's no use trying to comfort them
just now. Let us wait a minute and then go back."

"No, it's no use, it's awful," Kolya assented. "Do you know, Karamazov,"
he dropped his voice so that no one could hear them, "I feel dreadfully
sad, and if it were only possible to bring him back, I'd give anything in
the world to do it."

"Ah, so would I," said Alyosha.

"What do you think, Karamazov? Had we better come back here to-night?
He'll be drunk, you know."

"Perhaps he will. Let us come together, you and I, that will be enough, to
spend an hour with them, with the mother and Nina. If we all come together
we shall remind them of everything again," Alyosha suggested.

"The landlady is laying the table for them now--there'll be a funeral
dinner or something, the priest is coming; shall we go back to it,
Karamazov?"

"Of course," said Alyosha.

"It's all so strange, Karamazov, such sorrow and then pancakes after it,
it all seems so unnatural in our religion."

"They are going to have salmon, too," the boy who had discovered about
Troy observed in a loud voice.

"I beg you most earnestly, Kartashov, not to interrupt again with your
idiotic remarks, especially when one is not talking to you and doesn't
care to know whether you exist or not!" Kolya snapped out irritably. The
boy flushed crimson but did not dare to reply.

Meantime they were strolling slowly along the path and suddenly Smurov
exclaimed:

"There's Ilusha's stone, under which they wanted to bury him."

They all stood still by the big stone. Alyosha looked and the whole
picture of what Snegiryov had described to him that day, how Ilusha,
weeping and hugging his father, had cried, "Father, father, how he
insulted you," rose at once before his imagination.

A sudden impulse seemed to come into his soul. With a serious and earnest
expression he looked from one to another of the bright, pleasant faces of
Ilusha's schoolfellows, and suddenly said to them:

"Boys, I should like to say one word to you, here at this place."

The boys stood round him and at once bent attentive and expectant eyes
upon him.

"Boys, we shall soon part. I shall be for some time with my two brothers,
of whom one is going to Siberia and the other is lying at death's door.
But soon I shall leave this town, perhaps for a long time, so we shall
part. Let us make a compact here, at Ilusha's stone, that we will never
forget Ilusha and one another. And whatever happens to us later in life,
if we don't meet for twenty years afterwards, let us always remember how
we buried the poor boy at whom we once threw stones, do you remember, by
the bridge? and afterwards we all grew so fond of him. He was a fine boy,
a kind-hearted, brave boy, he felt for his father's honor and resented the
cruel insult to him and stood up for him. And so in the first place, we
will remember him, boys, all our lives. And even if we are occupied with
most important things, if we attain to honor or fall into great
misfortune--still let us remember how good it was once here, when we were
all together, united by a good and kind feeling which made us, for the
time we were loving that poor boy, better perhaps than we are. My little
doves--let me call you so, for you are very like them, those pretty blue
birds, at this minute as I look at your good dear faces. My dear children,
perhaps you won't understand what I am saying to you, because I often
speak very unintelligibly, but you'll remember it all the same and will
agree with my words some time. You must know that there is nothing higher
and stronger and more wholesome and good for life in the future than some
good memory, especially a memory of childhood, of home. People talk to you
a great deal about your education, but some good, sacred memory, preserved
from childhood, is perhaps the best education. If a man carries many such
memories with him into life, he is safe to the end of his days, and if one
has only one good memory left in one's heart, even that may sometime be
the means of saving us. Perhaps we may even grow wicked later on, may be
unable to refrain from a bad action, may laugh at men's tears and at those
people who say as Kolya did just now, 'I want to suffer for all men,' and
may even jeer spitefully at such people. But however bad we may
become--which God forbid--yet, when we recall how we buried Ilusha, how we
loved him in his last days, and how we have been talking like friends all
together, at this stone, the cruelest and most mocking of us--if we do
become so--will not dare to laugh inwardly at having been kind and good at
this moment! What's more, perhaps, that one memory may keep him from great
evil and he will reflect and say, 'Yes, I was good and brave and honest
then!' Let him laugh to himself, that's no matter, a man often laughs at
what's good and kind. That's only from thoughtlessness. But I assure you,
boys, that as he laughs he will say at once in his heart, 'No, I do wrong
to laugh, for that's not a thing to laugh at.' "

"That will be so, I understand you, Karamazov!" cried Kolya, with flashing
eyes.

The boys were excited and they, too, wanted to say something, but they
restrained themselves, looking with intentness and emotion at the speaker.

"I say this in case we become bad," Alyosha went on, "but there's no
reason why we should become bad, is there, boys? Let us be, first and
above all, kind, then honest and then let us never forget each other! I
say that again. I give you my word for my part that I'll never forget one
of you. Every face looking at me now I shall remember even for thirty
years. Just now Kolya said to Kartashov that we did not care to know
whether he exists or not. But I cannot forget that Kartashov exists and
that he is not blushing now as he did when he discovered the founders of
Troy, but is looking at me with his jolly, kind, dear little eyes. Boys,
my dear boys, let us all be generous and brave like Ilusha, clever, brave
and generous like Kolya (though he will be ever so much cleverer when he
is grown up), and let us all be as modest, as clever and sweet as
Kartashov. But why am I talking about those two? You are all dear to me,
boys, from this day forth, I have a place in my heart for you all, and I
beg you to keep a place in your hearts for me! Well, and who has united us
in this kind, good feeling which we shall remember and intend to remember
all our lives? Who, if not Ilusha, the good boy, the dear boy, precious to
us for ever! Let us never forget him. May his memory live for ever in our
hearts from this time forth!"

"Yes, yes, for ever, for ever!" the boys cried in their ringing voices,
with softened faces.

"Let us remember his face and his clothes and his poor little boots, his
coffin and his unhappy, sinful father, and how boldly he stood up for him
alone against the whole school."

"We will remember, we will remember," cried the boys. "He was brave, he
was good!"

"Ah, how I loved him!" exclaimed Kolya.

"Ah, children, ah, dear friends, don't be afraid of life! How good life is
when one does something good and just!"

"Yes, yes," the boys repeated enthusiastically.

"Karamazov, we love you!" a voice, probably Kartashov's, cried
impulsively.

"We love you, we love you!" they all caught it up. There were tears in the
eyes of many of them.

"Hurrah for Karamazov!" Kolya shouted ecstatically.

"And may the dead boy's memory live for ever!" Alyosha added again with
feeling.

"For ever!" the boys chimed in again.

"Karamazov," cried Kolya, "can it be true what's taught us in religion,
that we shall all rise again from the dead and shall live and see each
other again, all, Ilusha too?"

"Certainly we shall all rise again, certainly we shall see each other and
shall tell each other with joy and gladness all that has happened!"
Alyosha answered, half laughing, half enthusiastic.

"Ah, how splendid it will be!" broke from Kolya.

"Well, now we will finish talking and go to his funeral dinner. Don't be
put out at our eating pancakes--it's a very old custom and there's
something nice in that!" laughed Alyosha. "Well, let us go! And now we go
hand in hand."

"And always so, all our lives hand in hand! Hurrah for Karamazov!" Kolya
cried once more rapturously, and once more the boys took up his
exclamation: "Hurrah for Karamazov!"

THE END

FOOTNOTES

    1 In Russian, "silen."

    2 A proverbial expression in Russia.

    3 Grushenka.

    4 i.e. setter dog.

    5 Probably the public event was the Decabrist plot against the Tsar,
      of December 1825, in which the most distinguished men in Russia were
      concerned.--TRANSLATOR'S NOTE.

    6 When a monk's body is carried out from the cell to the church and
      from the church to the graveyard, the canticle "What earthly joy..."
      is sung. If the deceased was a priest as well as a monk the canticle
      "Our Helper and Defender" is sung instead.

    7 i.e. a chime of bells.

    8 Literally: "Did you get off with a long nose made at you?"--a
      proverbial expression in Russia for failure.

    9 Gogol is meant.

The funeral is Ilyusha's. That's right, that angelic little boy from Book 10 died just a couple days after Dmitri was sentenced. All the boys have collected around Ilyusha's coffin, including Kolya. The narrator notes that Ilyusha's corpse doesn't smell. His body is covered in flowers donated by Lise Khokhlakov and Katerina Ivanovna. Captain Snegiryov is sober but still a mess. Mrs. Snegiryov and Ninochka are also at the coffin. Mrs. Snegiryov wants a white rose that has been placed in Ilyusha's hands, but the captain refuses to give it to her. The boys and Alyosha carry Ilyusha's coffin out a few hundred paces away to the church, accompanied by Snegiryov, who fusses over trivial details such as a crust of bread he had promised to crumble over his son's grave so that the swallows would visit it. The coffin is placed in the middle of the church, and everyone surrounds it as the funeral service is read. The coffin is then buried, and the children have to withhold Snegiryov from the open grave. On the way back, Snegiryov starts for the grave again and the children have to persuade him to follow them home. When they return Snegiryov gives his wife some flowers from the funeral, then breaks down in tears, as does the rest of the family, over the sight of his son's boots. Unable to bear it, Kolya suddenly leaves, along with the rest of the children and Alyosha. As they walk slowly down the path, they come upon Ilyusha's favorite stone. Overcome with emotion, Alyosha makes a little speech to the children about how he would like them to remember this moment as a time when they were all good and kind. The children declare their love for Alyosha. Kolya asks Alyosha about the afterlife, and Alyosha affirms that there is an afterlife where they will see Ilyusha again. Then they go back to the Snegiryovs' to eat pancakes. Really. The boys all cheer for Karamazov.

Ilyushechka's Funeral. The Speech at the Stone  Ilyusha is dead, and Alyosha must now attend his funeral. He discusses Dmitri's case with Kolya and some of Ilyusha's other friends. He asks them earnestly always to hang on to the feeling of closeness, love, and companionship that they now share. The crowd of schoolboys cheers Alyosha adoringly.

Epilogue, Chapters 1-3 The epilogue of the novel discusses the redemption of the main characters. The first part of the novel's short epilogue completes the redemption of Katerina, which begins at the trial when she cries out to save Ivan. In bringing Ivan back to her house to recover from his illness, Katerina has finally become capable of seeking her own happiness in the world honestly and without choosing to suffer merely to point out the guilt of those who make her suffer. She and Dmitri are now fully capable of forgiving one another because they have both been purged of the sins that have plagued them for so long. Though Dmitri has not lost the desire to repent for his sins through suffering--a desire very different from Katerina's urge to suffer in order to draw attention to the sins of others--he is willing to accept the escape plan because he has come to the mature realization that there is more to goodness and faith than suffering. His spirit will be stronger if he can be with Grushenka. Grushenka's inability to forgive Katerina shows that her own redemption is incomplete. She is still proud, but, as Alyosha realizes when he scolds Dmitri for criticizing her, she is on the right path. The novel ends, paradoxically, on notes of warmth, hope, and optimism in the middle of a funeral. Alyosha's words to the schoolboys again emphasize his influence with children and the promise that influence holds for the future. As in Book X, Alyosha emerges as a natural teacher, capable of continuing Zosima's legacy of faith, love, and forgiveness throughout his life. The novel's last words are very hopeful: Kolya leads the schoolboys in chanting, "Hurrah for Karamazov. The use of the family surname is significant here, since throughout the novel, characters have discussed "the Karamazov quality" and "the Karamazov legacy" as being defined by Fyodor Pavlovich's violence, uncontrolled passion, and lust. The final words of the novel imply that the Karamazov legacy has changed: it is no longer defined by Fyodor Pavlovich, but by Alyosha. The Karamazov family has been redeemed