The Brothers Karamazov

he Second Ordeal

“You don’t know how you encourage us, Dmitri Fyodorovitch, by your
readiness to answer,” said Nikolay Parfenovitch, with an animated air,
and obvious satisfaction beaming in his very prominent, short‐sighted,
light gray eyes, from which he had removed his spectacles a moment
before. “And you have made a very just remark about the mutual
confidence, without which it is sometimes positively impossible to get
on in cases of such importance, if the suspected party really hopes and
desires to defend himself and is in a position to do so. We, on our
side, will do everything in our power, and you can see for yourself how
we are conducting the case. You approve, Ippolit Kirillovitch?” He
turned to the prosecutor.

“Oh, undoubtedly,” replied the prosecutor. His tone was somewhat cold,
compared with Nikolay Parfenovitch’s impulsiveness.

I will note once for all that Nikolay Parfenovitch, who had but lately
arrived among us, had from the first felt marked respect for Ippolit
Kirillovitch, our prosecutor, and had become almost his bosom friend.
He was almost the only person who put implicit faith in Ippolit
Kirillovitch’s extraordinary talents as a psychologist and orator and
in the justice of his grievance. He had heard of him in Petersburg. On
the other hand, young Nikolay Parfenovitch was the only person in the
whole world whom our “unappreciated” prosecutor genuinely liked. On
their way to Mokroe they had time to come to an understanding about the
present case. And now as they sat at the table, the sharp‐witted junior
caught and interpreted every indication on his senior colleague’s
face—half a word, a glance, or a wink.

“Gentlemen, only let me tell my own story and don’t interrupt me with
trivial questions and I’ll tell you everything in a moment,” said Mitya
excitedly.

“Excellent! Thank you. But before we proceed to listen to your
communication, will you allow me to inquire as to another little fact
of great interest to us? I mean the ten roubles you borrowed yesterday
at about five o’clock on the security of your pistols, from your
friend, Pyotr Ilyitch Perhotin.”

“I pledged them, gentlemen. I pledged them for ten roubles. What more?
That’s all about it. As soon as I got back to town I pledged them.”

“You got back to town? Then you had been out of town?”

“Yes, I went a journey of forty versts into the country. Didn’t you
know?”

The prosecutor and Nikolay Parfenovitch exchanged glances.

“Well, how would it be if you began your story with a systematic
description of all you did yesterday, from the morning onwards? Allow
us, for instance, to inquire why you were absent from the town, and
just when you left and when you came back—all those facts.”

“You should have asked me like that from the beginning,” cried Mitya,
laughing aloud, “and, if you like, we won’t begin from yesterday, but
from the morning of the day before; then you’ll understand how, why,
and where I went. I went the day before yesterday, gentlemen, to a
merchant of the town, called Samsonov, to borrow three thousand roubles
from him on safe security. It was a pressing matter, gentlemen, it was
a sudden necessity.”

“Allow me to interrupt you,” the prosecutor put in politely. “Why were
you in such pressing need for just that sum, three thousand?”

“Oh, gentlemen, you needn’t go into details, how, when and why, and why
just so much money, and not so much, and all that rigmarole. Why, it’ll
run to three volumes, and then you’ll want an epilogue!”

Mitya said all this with the good‐natured but impatient familiarity of
a man who is anxious to tell the whole truth and is full of the best
intentions.

“Gentlemen!”—he corrected himself hurriedly—“don’t be vexed with me for
my restiveness, I beg you again. Believe me once more, I feel the
greatest respect for you and understand the true position of affairs.
Don’t think I’m drunk. I’m quite sober now. And, besides, being drunk
would be no hindrance. It’s with me, you know, like the saying: ‘When
he is sober, he is a fool; when he is drunk, he is a wise man.’ Ha ha!
But I see, gentlemen, it’s not the proper thing to make jokes to you,
till we’ve had our explanation, I mean. And I’ve my own dignity to keep
up, too. I quite understand the difference for the moment. I am, after
all, in the position of a criminal, and so, far from being on equal
terms with you. And it’s your business to watch me. I can’t expect you
to pat me on the head for what I did to Grigory, for one can’t break
old men’s heads with impunity. I suppose you’ll put me away for him for
six months, or a year perhaps, in a house of correction. I don’t know
what the punishment is—but it will be without loss of the rights of my
rank, without loss of my rank, won’t it? So you see, gentlemen, I
understand the distinction between us.... But you must see that you
could puzzle God Himself with such questions. ‘How did you step? Where
did you step? When did you step? And on what did you step?’ I shall get
mixed up, if you go on like this, and you will put it all down against
me. And what will that lead to? To nothing! And even if it’s nonsense
I’m talking now, let me finish, and you, gentlemen, being men of honor
and refinement, will forgive me! I’ll finish by asking you, gentlemen,
to drop that conventional method of questioning. I mean, beginning from
some miserable trifle, how I got up, what I had for breakfast, how I
spat, and where I spat, and so distracting the attention of the
criminal, suddenly stun him with an overwhelming question, ‘Whom did
you murder? Whom did you rob?’ Ha ha! That’s your regulation method,
that’s where all your cunning comes in. You can put peasants off their
guard like that, but not me. I know the tricks. I’ve been in the
service, too. Ha ha ha! You’re not angry, gentlemen? You forgive my
impertinence?” he cried, looking at them with a good‐nature that was
almost surprising. “It’s only Mitya Karamazov, you know, so you can
overlook it. It would be inexcusable in a sensible man; but you can
forgive it in Mitya. Ha ha!”

Nikolay Parfenovitch listened, and laughed too. Though the prosecutor
did not laugh, he kept his eyes fixed keenly on Mitya, as though
anxious not to miss the least syllable, the slightest movement, the
smallest twitch of any feature of his face.

“That’s how we have treated you from the beginning,” said Nikolay
Parfenovitch, still laughing. “We haven’t tried to put you out by
asking how you got up in the morning and what you had for breakfast. We
began, indeed, with questions of the greatest importance.”

“I understand. I saw it and appreciated it, and I appreciate still more
your present kindness to me, an unprecedented kindness, worthy of your
noble hearts. We three here are gentlemen, and let everything be on the
footing of mutual confidence between educated, well‐bred people, who
have the common bond of noble birth and honor. In any case, allow me to
look upon you as my best friends at this moment of my life, at this
moment when my honor is assailed. That’s no offense to you, gentlemen,
is it?”

“On the contrary. You’ve expressed all that so well, Dmitri
Fyodorovitch,” Nikolay Parfenovitch answered with dignified
approbation.

“And enough of those trivial questions, gentlemen, all those tricky
questions!” cried Mitya enthusiastically. “Or there’s simply no knowing
where we shall get to! Is there?”

“I will follow your sensible advice entirely,” the prosecutor
interposed, addressing Mitya. “I don’t withdraw my question, however.
It is now vitally important for us to know exactly why you needed that
sum, I mean precisely three thousand.”

“Why I needed it?... Oh, for one thing and another.... Well, it was to
pay a debt.”

“A debt to whom?”

“That I absolutely refuse to answer, gentlemen. Not because I couldn’t,
or because I shouldn’t dare, or because it would be damaging, for it’s
all a paltry matter and absolutely trifling, but—I won’t, because it’s
a matter of principle: that’s my private life, and I won’t allow any
intrusion into my private life. That’s my principle. Your question has
no bearing on the case, and whatever has nothing to do with the case is
my private affair. I wanted to pay a debt. I wanted to pay a debt of
honor but to whom I won’t say.”

“Allow me to make a note of that,” said the prosecutor.

“By all means. Write down that I won’t say, that I won’t. Write that I
should think it dishonorable to say. Ech! you can write it; you’ve
nothing else to do with your time.”

“Allow me to caution you, sir, and to remind you once more, if you are
unaware of it,” the prosecutor began, with a peculiar and stern
impressiveness, “that you have a perfect right not to answer the
questions put to you now, and we on our side have no right to extort an
answer from you, if you decline to give it for one reason or another.
That is entirely a matter for your personal decision. But it is our
duty, on the other hand, in such cases as the present, to explain and
set before you the degree of injury you will be doing yourself by
refusing to give this or that piece of evidence. After which I will beg
you to continue.”

“Gentlemen, I’m not angry ... I ...” Mitya muttered in a rather
disconcerted tone. “Well, gentlemen, you see, that Samsonov to whom I
went then ...”

We will, of course, not reproduce his account of what is known to the
reader already. Mitya was impatiently anxious not to omit the slightest
detail. At the same time he was in a hurry to get it over. But as he
gave his evidence it was written down, and therefore they had
continually to pull him up. Mitya disliked this, but submitted; got
angry, though still good‐humoredly. He did, it is true, exclaim, from
time to time, “Gentlemen, that’s enough to make an angel out of
patience!” Or, “Gentlemen, it’s no good your irritating me.”

But even though he exclaimed he still preserved for a time his genially
expansive mood. So he told them how Samsonov had made a fool of him two
days before. (He had completely realized by now that he had been
fooled.) The sale of his watch for six roubles to obtain money for the
journey was something new to the lawyers. They were at once greatly
interested, and even, to Mitya’s intense indignation, thought it
necessary to write the fact down as a secondary confirmation of the
circumstance that he had hardly a farthing in his pocket at the time.
Little by little Mitya began to grow surly. Then, after describing his
journey to see Lyagavy, the night spent in the stifling hut, and so on,
he came to his return to the town. Here he began, without being
particularly urged, to give a minute account of the agonies of jealousy
he endured on Grushenka’s account.

He was heard with silent attention. They inquired particularly into the
circumstance of his having a place of ambush in Marya Kondratyevna’s
house at the back of Fyodor Pavlovitch’s garden to keep watch on
Grushenka, and of Smerdyakov’s bringing him information. They laid
particular stress on this, and noted it down. Of his jealousy he spoke
warmly and at length, and though inwardly ashamed at exposing his most
intimate feelings to “public ignominy,” so to speak, he evidently
overcame his shame in order to tell the truth. The frigid severity,
with which the investigating lawyer, and still more the prosecutor,
stared intently at him as he told his story, disconcerted him at last
considerably.

“That boy, Nikolay Parfenovitch, to whom I was talking nonsense about
women only a few days ago, and that sickly prosecutor are not worth my
telling this to,” he reflected mournfully. “It’s ignominious. ‘Be
patient, humble, hold thy peace.’ ” He wound up his reflections with
that line. But he pulled himself together to go on again. When he came
to telling of his visit to Madame Hohlakov, he regained his spirits and
even wished to tell a little anecdote of that lady which had nothing to
do with the case. But the investigating lawyer stopped him, and civilly
suggested that he should pass on to “more essential matters.” At last,
when he described his despair and told them how, when he left Madame
Hohlakov’s, he thought that he’d “get three thousand if he had to
murder some one to do it,” they stopped him again and noted down that
he had “meant to murder some one.” Mitya let them write it without
protest. At last he reached the point in his story when he learned that
Grushenka had deceived him and had returned from Samsonov’s as soon as
he left her there, though she had said that she would stay there till
midnight.

“If I didn’t kill Fenya then, gentlemen, it was only because I hadn’t
time,” broke from him suddenly at that point in his story. That, too,
was carefully written down. Mitya waited gloomily, and was beginning to
tell how he ran into his father’s garden when the investigating lawyer
suddenly stopped him, and opening the big portfolio that lay on the
sofa beside him he brought out the brass pestle.

“Do you recognize this object?” he asked, showing it to Mitya.

“Oh, yes,” he laughed gloomily. “Of course I recognize it. Let me have
a look at it.... Damn it, never mind!”

“You have forgotten to mention it,” observed the investigating lawyer.

“Hang it all, I shouldn’t have concealed it from you. Do you suppose I
could have managed without it? It simply escaped my memory.”

“Be so good as to tell us precisely how you came to arm yourself with
it.”

“Certainly I will be so good, gentlemen.”

And Mitya described how he took the pestle and ran.

“But what object had you in view in arming yourself with such a
weapon?”

“What object? No object. I just picked it up and ran off.”

“What for, if you had no object?”

Mitya’s wrath flared up. He looked intently at “the boy” and smiled
gloomily and malignantly. He was feeling more and more ashamed at
having told “such people” the story of his jealousy so sincerely and
spontaneously.

“Bother the pestle!” broke from him suddenly.

“But still—”

“Oh, to keep off dogs.... Oh, because it was dark.... In case anything
turned up.”

“But have you ever on previous occasions taken a weapon with you when
you went out, since you’re afraid of the dark?”

“Ugh! damn it all, gentlemen! There’s positively no talking to you!”
cried Mitya, exasperated beyond endurance, and turning to the
secretary, crimson with anger, he said quickly, with a note of fury in
his voice:

“Write down at once ... at once ... ‘that I snatched up the pestle to
go and kill my father ... Fyodor Pavlovitch ... by hitting him on the
head with it!’ Well, now are you satisfied, gentlemen? Are your minds
relieved?” he said, glaring defiantly at the lawyers.

“We quite understand that you made that statement just now through
exasperation with us and the questions we put to you, which you
consider trivial, though they are, in fact, essential,” the prosecutor
remarked dryly in reply.

“Well, upon my word, gentlemen! Yes, I took the pestle.... What does
one pick things up for at such moments? I don’t know what for. I
snatched it up and ran—that’s all. For to me, gentlemen, passons, or
I declare I won’t tell you any more.”

He sat with his elbows on the table and his head in his hand. He sat
sideways to them and gazed at the wall, struggling against a feeling of
nausea. He had, in fact, an awful inclination to get up and declare
that he wouldn’t say another word, “not if you hang me for it.”

“You see, gentlemen,” he said at last, with difficulty controlling
himself, “you see. I listen to you and am haunted by a dream.... It’s a
dream I have sometimes, you know.... I often dream it—it’s always the
same ... that some one is hunting me, some one I’m awfully afraid of
... that he’s hunting me in the dark, in the night ... tracking me, and
I hide somewhere from him, behind a door or cupboard, hide in a
degrading way, and the worst of it is, he always knows where I am, but
he pretends not to know where I am on purpose, to prolong my agony, to
enjoy my terror.... That’s just what you’re doing now. It’s just like
that!”

“Is that the sort of thing you dream about?” inquired the prosecutor.

“Yes, it is. Don’t you want to write it down?” said Mitya, with a
distorted smile.

“No; no need to write it down. But still you do have curious dreams.”

“It’s not a question of dreams now, gentlemen—this is realism, this is
real life! I’m a wolf and you’re the hunters. Well, hunt him down!”

“You are wrong to make such comparisons ...” began Nikolay
Parfenovitch, with extraordinary softness.

“No, I’m not wrong, not at all!” Mitya flared up again, though his
outburst of wrath had obviously relieved his heart. He grew more good‐
humored at every word. “You may not trust a criminal or a man on trial
tortured by your questions, but an honorable man, the honorable
impulses of the heart (I say that boldly!)—no! That you must believe
you have no right indeed ... but—

Be silent, heart,
Be patient, humble, hold thy peace.

Well, shall I go on?” he broke off gloomily.

“If you’ll be so kind,” answered Nikolay Parfenovitch.