#mitya replies to himself

[rainyearning]

Mitya was right, Noah was pretty much burning already the taste of his lips so intoxicating he couldn't find it within himself to pull away. And when he felt the push, it made his grip tighten a little, fingers slipping down to wrap around the back of Mityas neck. He craved this way too long to have it end so soon, so he wasn't taking any chances to part from his lips. With a little grunt, he allowed the other to handle him out of his coat, the only short second his hands weren't all over the male. "No." he breathed out his reply, eyes locked on Mityas lips, considering to dive back in, but he still looked up, locking eyes. "Guess I was testing the waters... for a bit too long." he grinned, the hand from his neck moving back to pinch his chin so he could press another quick kiss. Just lips against lips, but it felt just as nice. "I won't wait so long next time.."

With the back in his wall, Mitya could just focus on kissing Noah, hands roaming over his sides once the coat was gone before he took hold of Noahs hips to just pull him even closer. He tested them a lot, surely that and Mitya could only say that he got too impatient, that maybe it wasn't that bad. It had him crave Noah even more, it had him even more curious and more wanting. Maybe it needed to come down to a horny making out like this, just lips, and hands and groaning. He happily let Noah steal another kiss, he would have done it himself if Noah wasn't taking the lead to go for a second time. He nodded, a smile on his lips. "You.. want to like, test drive my bed? We could lay down and kiss more." There was nothing innocent about the way Mitya spoke before both his hands geld onto Noahs face to kiss him once more, a bit deeper, slow though. "Because I don't intend to stop kissing you anytime soon."

[you-are-constance]

Glimya morning cuddles??

well what do you know, I was already writing this!

Gleb woke to the sight of the sun shining through the windows. He knew he had to get up and do work, but at lifting up his head off the pillow, he found himself effectively trapped.

Dimitri and Anya were on either side of him, both curled up at his side, heads resting on Gleb’s chest. They both had reached across Gleb’s chest towards the other, hands meeting in the middle. Gleb’s arms were wrapped around them; their other hands were grasping his shoulders. Feet were tangled, bedcovers even more so, and there was no way Gleb would be able to get up.

He had work to do, but he hated to disturb either of them. Decent sleep didn’t come often to either, even more rarely to come for both, and he didn’t want to interrupt their clearly peaceful sleep.

They were hardly ever so at peace. He couldn’t ruin that.

So he waited. He waited as the sun continued to rise, slowly, as he became more and more aware of the work he still had to do.

It got to a point where he wasn’t sure if he could hold it off for any longer. He had to get up, he knew he had to get up, but he couldn’t bring himself to wake them.

Gleb, as carefully as possible, moved Anya’s head off his chest and slid her body farther from his, just enough to give him room to move. Anya’s legs easily became untangled and her fingers just as easily slid out from Dimitri’s hand. She stirred slightly, breathing patterns changed, but she didn’t seem to wake.

Dimitri proved to be the harder task at hand. He wouldn’t release his grip on Gleb’s shoulder, and since Anya’s hand had been pulled away from his, he’d dug his grip into the cloth of Gleb’s shirt. Gleb hardly restricted a laugh at his boyfriend’s stubbornness, even while asleep.

As Gleb was finally peeling Dimitri’s hand from his shoulder, Anya moved back towards the center of the bed, latching onto Gleb again. Somehow, she was still asleep.

Though he wasn’t sure how, Gleb managed to free himself enough from their grips, managing to maneuver himself up and over Dimitri until he could easily get off the bed.

He got up and went to get ready, getting dressed as quietly as possible as to not wake them, especially after all the work he’d gone through.

He was nearly finished, just leaning down to select a shirt from the drawer when he felt a warm body pressed to his back, arms immediately wrapping around his torso. This time, Gleb didn’t attempt to stifle his chuckle.

“Go back to sleep, Mitya.” He didn’t need to look to know which of his partners it was. “You don’t need to be up yet.”

Dimitri mumbled an incomprehensible reply into Gleb’s back. Gleb straightened his back after picking a shirt and closing the drawer. Dimitri stayed firmly attached. Gleb tried to turn around and get Dimitri to let go of him, but he didn’t get far until Anya—initiating an attack in which Dimitri was only the distraction—lunged at him, the bed’s whole comforter wrapped around her shoulders. The combined weight of Anya and the bed’s comforter (Anya’s weight was minuscule in that combination) knocked Gleb off balance. He fell to the ground, Dimitri managing to get out of the way before Gleb would have fallen on top of him.

Now all three were laying on the floor underneath the comforter, Gleb effectively trapped once again. He tried to protest, insisting that he had work to do, but neither listened to him. They only nestled themselves into his sides again, holding on even more tightly to him. They would be immensely disappointed if he were to get up again.

Well, he couldn’t exactly disappoint his partners, now could he?

.

read on ao3

[blaydiud]

[ 𝖑𝖔𝖌 ] - 5.2  her grace, her silence.

Festivities were over, and now it was time to pack up and prepare to leave. It had been a strange month for the prince- now that he was to study at the Officers’ Academy atop Garreg Mach and for the first time in his life stay away from his home country for so long. It was for the better, however. Both for himself and for his people, because once he finished his studies then perhaps Faerghus would finally have the king it deserves after the murder of Lambert.

But if it was only that, it would’ve been normal. The strange part was the sudden bout of care Rufus was showing. The parties, dinners, everything- were his requests, as well as the strange alterations done to the uniforms he’d wear once he finally reached Garreg Mach. Sets of armor for every variant of his uniforms, even the party ones, it was ridiculous to think about. Yet, Rufus seemed so worried that it pained Dimitri to press on any further, preferring to just accept it instead. Besides, he too could see himself going on to such lengths to protect a loved one, so he had no room to argue.

In two days, he’d be leaving Faerghus. Carriages were being prepared, a small batallion was being selected to escort his way to the monastery, and servants were swiftly rushing through the halls preparing his luggage. Dimitri didn’t have much else to do than to roam around the castle for the last time, trying to memorize every corner, every wall, even smells he no longer could fully pick on. And then his uncle, too.

The prince’s walk ended in one of the royal lounge rooms, the blue carpets and curtains illuminated by the sunset’s oranges. The room was filled with comfortable chairs, divans and couches, meant to be used to relax or chat freely with guests of the royal family. Now, it was just the crown prince standing by one of the large windows, and the regent king sitting in a deep blue velvet chair. Both in silence, but not for long- the regent king coughed softly.

“So, how do you feel? Departing from Faerghus, leaving the nest?” Old, azure eyes seemed more interested in the silver that adorned his forearms and hands.

The prince hummed. “...it does shake my core, but I will do it regardless. It will be good for me and the Kingdom.” He spoke with resolve.

“Any specific reason as to why you requested Garreg Mach’s Academy in particular?”

Blond brows furrowed slightly, and the prince turned to face Rufus. “It is tradition for nobles and royalty to enroll in the Academy in order to become the ideal rulers, is it not? I am following my father’s steps. Besides...it is the best school in all of Fódlan.”

The room was filled with silence for a couple of minutes, before Dimitri was the one to re-initiate the talk.

“Are you against my choice, uncle? I do not mean to start a conflict...just curious.” His once confident voice now sounded a lot softer and cautious. Rufus would never lift a hand to harm him, that much he knew, but his uncle was rather blunt when it came to voice what he didn’t like or approve.

Rufus fiddled with his gauntlets before flicking them gently and finally making eye contact with his nephew. “I was simply thinking what would be the downsides of you finishing your studies and training here. I would hire the best mentors i could get my hands on, plus Faerghus has the best pegasus and ground cavalry in Fódlan as well as the best Sorcery School which is-” He pointed out of the window. “-right there. I don’t exactly see the buzz around that Academy.”

Rufus knew what the ‘buzz’ was. He wasn’t stupid or ignorant. 

Dimitri sighed softly. “I know, uncle. But...face it. The Officer’s Academy is my obvious next step in life. If i were to stay in Faerghus, I would miss on many experiences that otherwise would have made me a great king.” Dimitri was right and both knew it.

More silence.

“Uncle.”

“I don’t want you near the Church. There, I said it.” Old azure pools focused on the prince’s feet instead of his face. Not out of shame for his statement- no, he wasn’t guilty about it at all, but at the same time he wasn’t ready to see his nephew’s reaction.

Faerghus was the Holy Kingdom for a reason. The Church was the sole reason as to why it managed to break away from the Empire and stand on its own legs. Out of all three countries, it had always been the most loyal to the Church- as well as the one with the biggest debt to it. Not in money and resources, but in favour. If the Church asks, the Kingdom should be the first to reply.

It was only obvious and expected for royals of Faerghus to abide by the Church’s wishes first and foremost.

Dimitri frowned. “...that is a troubling thing to say, uncle. May I know why?” He knew that they were safe in discussing this- after all, Rufus was facing the door and from his composure alone it was clear that nobody was outside. Still, Dimitri’s voice still came closer to a whisper than anything. It felt wrong to talk about such topics.

“I don’t want them to brainwash you or anything like that. You know how they’re pushy, Mitya. I just- I don’t want you to start believing them or that Goddess blindly.”

“Uncle...as much as I abide by the Goddess’ rule, I do have critical thinking of my own. Please do not assume that I am malleable like that.”

Except, he kind of was. After Duscur happened, that is. And Rufus feared that more than anything- for others to manipulate his nephew and play with his less than healthy mental state. That crest already took the boy away from him so early on, to have the Church also drive him even more distant from his life was too painful to think about.

Rufus frowned, exhaling. “...I don’t understand. Why they put so much in the line for that Goddess. What does she even do for their sake? For our sake? They claim that she is a perfect, benevolent being who cares for all, yet...yet-”

Another shaky exhale. He could feel a sting in his eyes.

“-yet she let him die. Lambert never did anything wrong...so why? Why is she so selective with her protection? Why would anyone believe her after she turns her back on murder? It- ugh.” Rufus rubbed his eyes, breathing in deeply. Dimitri knew that he was crying- he was, too. The prince gripped the hem of his jacket tightly, trying to blink his own tears away.

“...she’s not benevolent if she lets us be in pain. They can say whatever they want about her, but she’s not benevolent at all.”

“Uncle...”

“You know I’m right, Dimitri.”

He did. It was hard to argue with those frustrations. Yet...

“It is upsetting but...” Dimitri wiped his tears off wih a sleeve. “We cannot turn our backs to the Church, uncle. Besides, to some people faith is the only thing holding their life together. It would be selfish to take that away from them.”

“...tch.”

“Please, I promise you. I will not allow myself to become blinded. But at the same time, I ask of you- please do not act against the C-”

“I know, dammit. I know we can’t do anything about it. That’s why it’s so frustrating. They have us collared.”

Faerghus was little more than the Church’s loyal dog.

Rufus finally looked Dimitri in the eye again, this time his gaze making him seem much older and tired. “...be careful, Mitya. No Goddess will be there to help you once you leave.”

Hearing it out loud felt grim, even if it did feel like a truth. No Goddess helped save his father after all. Or Glenn, or his mother.

No Goddess did anything to prevent the Tragedy of Duscur.

No Goddess granted his mind peace.

“I will.”

And no Goddess would stop his venegance.

[for-when-i-have-an-idea]

A Lonely Figure

Dimitri/Reader

It was on a particularly cold night for the season that Dimitri found himself wandering the grounds of the old Officers Academy. It was not uncommon for him to do this when he found sleep particularly difficult, and tonight finding respite was impossible. Too many thoughts were running through his head: some simply about tasks he would need to accomplish once the sun rose and the others awoke; others were more… troubling, but he’d sworn never to let the voices control him again.

The warm glimmer of candlelight stopped both thoughts and footsteps, and Dimitri found himself undeniably drawn to the warm flickering glow. It came from the classroom that once belonged to the Blue Lions, the once bold banners now faded and tattered. Five years of neglect took its toll on all things, it seemed. A figure stood silhouetted in the room and the blond prince knew exactly who it was – even if their outline had changed somewhat – though part of him still scarcely believed it. They… had been dead, their body disappeared, but a moon ago, yet here they stood, hale and hearty though isolated from the rest of their group.

Seeing (Y/n) again in the streets of Derdriu had been such a jarring moment that Dimitri had originally thought himself hallucinating once more. But when he saw the rest of the former Lions reacting to their presence he knew that what he was seeing was not a ghost, but more a miracle. They had been dead, another voice in his mind. But they had not been of the vengeful kind; they had spoken gentle reassurances, hummed melodies of their people that he had not heard since he was a child. Yet, in some ways, these things had made their ghost the worst of them all.

It had been their and Rodrigue’s deaths combined that had finally broken down what little of him that remained. The two of them were what had allowed for a warm hand to reach out to him in a cold rainstorm, and help him take the last step on one long road and the first onto a new one: the road to redemption. (Y/n)’s plans for the recapturing of both Fhirdiad and Arianrhod – hidden away in the desk of their old room – had been the final push he needed in his decision to return to his people, to save them from Imperial tyranny. He… owed them so much, more than they were willing to take credit for.

Dimitri approached as quietly as he could manage, not wanting to startle (Y/n) from their no doubt contemplative state. They had been far quieter since returning, more solemn. They did not speak as often as he remembered, nor with the same strength or confidence that had always been their hallmarks. But he knew why, he could recognise that look in their eyes anywhere: a deep rooted feeling of unworthiness. Dimitri could, in fact, recall one other time where his former classmate had been driven to a similar silence, and he suppressed a shudder at the memory of watching the Death Knight’s scythe tear into the flesh of their shoulder with far too much ease. Back then it had not been him to bring them out of their melancholy, but this time he would do all he could to help. Just as they had done for him.

As his steps continued to take him ever closer to the former classroom his ears picked up on a sound that he had not heard in years, perhaps even in a decade. The quiet tune was familiar to him, one of the gentle songs that the elders among (Y/n)’s people had sung to children they wished to lay to sleep. Back then, he had not understood a word of what they were saying, seeing as they spoke a language separate from that of Fódlan, but the melody had lulled him and his friends to sleep many nights, regardless. Tonight, however, he heard everything, felt every syllable in his soul. This had always been one of (Y/n)’s talents: when they spoke, people listened and felt.

“You shouldn’t be awake at these late hours, Dimitri,” their spoken word cut through the silence left by what they had sung, and the prince’s attention turned very poignantly back to them, though they remained facing away from him, hands clasped together at the small of their back. “You have too much you need to accomplish tomorrow for such late nights.”

His heart stung a little at hearing them call him by his name. Though he wished so dearly that all of his comrades would call him by it, he was not used to hearing it from (Y/n). He couldn’t remember a time where he hadn’t simply been ‘Mitya’ to them, except for these last several moons. He supposed he deserved far worse for the way he had been acting, so though his heart was heavy at the distance between them, he would take the mercy they were willing to give him.

“I find it difficult to fall asleep this night,” Dimitri replied, finally setting foot into the gently lit room, still attempting to stay as quiet as possible, not wanting to break this spell. “And besides, I could say the same to you.”

“Oh, I highly doubt that there will be much for me to do.” And there it was, that veiled tone of bitterness that had been plaguing (Y/n)’s words since they returned. “Perhaps lay a few plans for the army’s future movements, though I do not think that they will be taken into much consideration.”

“Why would you say such a thing?” Dimitri found himself exclaiming, unable to hold back his own thoughts in the face of their dejectedness. “You have always been one of our greatest tactical minds. Together, you and the professor have devised strategy upon strategy that have not only assured our victories but have kept us alive. Kept me alive, even when I wished that I was not.”

They did not respond to him, simply remained stoically facing towards the old teacher’s desk, shoulders rising and falling with their steady breaths. He could see nothing of their face and it bothered him endlessly in this moment.

“We all owe you so many thanks. I most of all.”

“You owe me nothing, Dimitri,” (Y/n) responded with a speed that caught the prince entirely off guard, their head finally turning to allow him to see the corner of one of their eyes; still, they would not look at him. “I have done nothing that warrants your thanks.”

“That is not the truth, my friend.” A tentative step forward and thankfully they did not move to shy away from him. “You helped me return from the abyss that I had fallen into over the last five years. Your words as you laid there… dying still linger in my mind, and each day you were gone I did my utmost to recall what you and Rodrigue said in your final moments and live by your words.”

“I should have been here!” Finally the nomad spun around to face the prince, face hardened and (e/c) eyes glassy. “I should have been here to support you in your state, not throwing myself into death at your feet! What I did was no more than the actions of a coward that could not stand to see their friends continue down the path they were on! So I took action in the only way I could think. A calculated risk that I had no way of guaranteeing whether would work as I intended or would simply drive you further away from reality. Such actions are not worthy of thanks! They are cowardice…”

And then they broke, the sheen in their eyes spilling over into fat tears that rolled down their cheeks as steadily as the rain had poured down following the battle at Gronder. Dimitri felt his own heart break at the sight before him and before he could stop himself he crossed what distance that remained between the two of them and enveloped his old friend in as gentle a hug as he could manage. His form hid them completely, cloak obscuring them both from any unwanted eyes that might find them. (Y/n) heaved a heavy, broken breath into their lungs and their own arms found their place around his middle. Dimitri said nothing as they stood together in the classroom, the world around them just as silent. 

For a long while all that existed between them were the sounds of sorrow – sobs and shuddered breaths – but eventually (Y/n) calmed enough to speak but three words: “I’m sorry, Mishka.”

Dimitri’s own breathing broke at the nickname and for but a moment he was once again ten years old, sitting outside the tent of one of the nomadic families with Ingrid, Sylvain, Felix and (Y/n) by his side, listening to an older woman as she vividly recounted a tale that he had never heard before. The woman – Tanja, he thought he remembered – had called him Mishka for the first time that day. ‘Someday you will be as big and fierce as one, but also just as warm and gentle. I can tell.’ He had never learned what the word meant.

Instead of responding to (Y/n)’s words with ones of his own, Dimitri felt tears gently trace their way down his own face and after allowing himself a single, hiccuped breath, let his face fall onto their shoulder.

And the two of them stayed like that, though neither knew for how long, until exhaustion both mental and physical, came to claim them both. Finally, they slept well for the remainder of that night.

[claudes-therapy-center]

For the prompt thing, may I request Dimitri and Claude with Proposal?

Dimitri stirred awake by the sound of his mattress creaking. The bed dipped a little from the weight of his visitor, and he lazily opened his eye to see who had disturbed him. His vision started off a little hazy, the light filtering in through the windows bright and he had trouble adjusting to it. He could see the outline of beige clothes and brown hair, and bits of bright yellow over the figure’s body.“Mornin sleepy head,” spoke a soothing and familiar voice. A warm hand tenderly stroked through his disheveled hair, “The sun has been up for a few hours now. Figured it was time to come get you,” they finished.

 Dimitri rubbed the haze from his eye, and smiled at the person looming over him, “Claude, good morning,” he mumbled into his pillow. He admired the features of his lover in the morning light. He could see that he had been awake for several hours, probably before the sun came up, because of the uniform he was wearing. His ‘War outfit’ as he liked to call it for serious council meetings. He had combed those wild, brown locks back, but a few strands had fallen out of place, more than likely due to work, but nevertheless, he still looked sharp. Those gorgeous green eyes looked a bit weary, but still had that mischievous glint in them. He’d never admit it outloud, but he could tell what Claude was experiencing by looking into his eyes, and he could see that it had been a trying day. But through all his tribulations, Dimitri thought he still looked angelic. With the light cascading around him, causing his tan skin to glow with a golden hue, and the soft smile on his face as he gazed so lovingly at him, just made his heart warm. Dimitri buried his face into his pillow, and reached out to touch Claude’s hand, “It’s too bright give me a minute.”

His love merely chuckled at his worn state, “You are too cute when you’re like this,” he replied, as he leaned forward and placed a kiss on his cheek, “Anyway, I have something I need to discuss with you. Do you want to talk about it now or later?”his love reached up and carefully pulled him down beside him. He nuzzled his head against Claude’s chest, causing him to laugh as the other wrapped his arms around his body, “What’s gotten into you today?”

“I just want a hug,” he mumbled.

Claude rolled his eyes, but proceeded to hold him tight, “Alright, if I hold you will you listen?”

 “Yeah,” He replied with a giddy grin, “Does it involve the council meeting?”

“No, but we can talk about that another time,” He rested his head lazily on top of his, “I don’t want to talk about treaties right now.”

“Well, what is bothering you?”

“It’s not bothering me per say….” he trailed off, and Dimitri looked up at him, clearly concerned.“Claude?”

“Mitya, how ready are you to move to Almyra?”

“What?” Dimitri untangled himself from Claude’s grasp and sat up. His lover averted his gaze, and he responded by reaching out to touch his chin, and tilting it so he could see his eyes. He saw hesitation, and doubt behind that forlorn expression, “What’s brought this on?”

“Please, just…just answer the question.”

“Claude…” He resigned himself from prying too much, but couldn’t shake the nagging feeling that something was wrong. If he wanted answers, he had to assuage whatever his love may be fearing first, “I’ll never be completely ready to move, but I’m still willing to do so. I’ve done all I can here, all I’ve sought out to do. I re established relations with Duscur, I put the Kingdom back in order, and I relinquished my title and lands to Byleth, same as you. There’s nothing more for me to do here, but it’s still my home. Of course I’ll feel upset for leaving, but I’m also pretty excited to start a new life with you,” he chuckled and lifted one of Claude’s hands into his own, “I haven’t been able to get Almyra out of my mind. I’m so excited to go! To finally see the place you call home, the lands you hold so dear and so ready to protect, it’s exhilarating,” he beamed as he put Claude’s hand to his face, “ So, to answer your question, Yes, I am ready to journey to Almyra with you. I’ll get to see you rule firsthand, quietly watching behind the scenes,” he concluded. He didn’t mind giving up his title as king. In fact, he felt relief wash over him as he performed the ceremony with Byleth, knowing his kingdom was in good hands. He didn’t know much about Almyra’s court system, but he knew that they probably wouldn’t want the king’s lover to be sitting in on meetings, or helping with decision making. So, he resigned himself to get used to just carefully watching and supporting him from the side lines.

“What if I don’t want you behind the scenes?” The words cut through Dimitri like a dagger to his back. The cherry look in his eyes faded in an instant, even more so as Claude just stared blankly at him.

“Hold on, what do you mean? Do you not-” his voice caught in his throat, and it felt as though a rock had lodged it’s way between his vocal cords. He thought for a brief moment that his love was going to abandon him, like he had been fearing for two years since they were together. ‘I just sacrificed everything for him,’ Dimitri thought as tears welled in his eyes, ‘why is he deciding to tell me after the fact that he doesn’t want me? Have I misjudged his character this whole time?’ his hands started shaking as he tried to calm himself, but the thoughts wouldn’t stop flooding his mind.

However Claude, being the people reader that he is, quickly latched onto him and held him tight,“Oh! No no no! I’m not saying that at all,” he briefly kissed Dimitri on the mouth, stifling a giggle at the blush that formed on his face,“What I meant is, what if I want you closer?”

“Closer?” Dimitri looked at him quizzically, “Your court would allow someone without a title to be with you in court?”

“No, Mitya listen,” Claude took his hands in his own and kissed them, “what if I gave you a title?”

“You can just hand out titles to people as king in Almyra?” Dimitri laughed, his wide, adoring smile showing through again,“What, are you going to give me back my lord status?”

“Mitya-”

“Doesn’t seem like a very good choice to me. Wouldn’t that cause an uproar? I mean, I’m not opposed to it if you want me to help you, but the implications-” he’s cut short by Claude pulling him into a deep, but brief kiss. He can feel his face go hot, and his heart starts racing even when the contact was brief. When they pull away, his love’s eyes are closed, but his head is tilted downwards towards their joined hands, “What was that for?”

“Look in your hands, Dimitri.”

“My hands…” he didn’t notice it while they were talking, but he could feel something small and round pressing against his palm, “Claude what did you-” his eye went wide as he stared at the object in his hands. It was a silver ring, studded with Diamonds, with A large Sapphire in the middle. He held it in his hands like he was holding a fragile, baby bird. Carefully rolling it in his palms to see the full scale of the craftsmanship. As the sunlight hit it, he could see the words ‘Forever bound by fate, in this life, and the next’ engraved on the inside of the ring in elegant cursive.

“Dimitri, I wanted to ask you for some time now, and I never got the chance because of the war. I wanted to propose right after, but then Nemesis showed up and, well…” He sighed and placed his hands on Dimitri’s knees, “Now that negotiations are almost done here, and our carriages are being packed, I wanted to do one last thing before we leave Fodlan behind.”

“You want me to…” he looked up finally, with tears in his eye, “marry you?”

“If you’ll allow it, yes,” he cleared his throat, then retook Dimitri’s hand. He placed the ring on his finger, which was a perfect fit, “I want you to rule side by side with me. I’ll fight for your rights if I have to. Most marriages only allow for a reagent with limited power, but I want you to stand with me as an equal. I have always thought of you as such, and I don’t want that dynamic to change,” he kissed Dimitri’s cheek, “Will you marry me, Dimitri?” His love sat there utterly still with his expression a mixture of shock and disbelief. He finally leaned against Claude’s shoulder, held him with an iron grip, and started to sob and shake violently, “Dimitri!” he yelled, as he squeezed him just as tight, “Are you alright? Was it something I said? Oh, Dima, I am so sorry.”

“It’s not that,” He sputtered between harsh coughs, “I just never thought you would want to marry me,” his breathing started getting sporadic as he continued to weep. They sat there for several minutes as he tried to calm himself down. His love cooed and whispered reassurances in his ear while patting his back. Once he was able to breathe deep again, he continued, “I spent the last two years thinking I was just going to be your lover. That you would eventually move on to someone new, and I would fade into a distant memory. I should have known better,” He laughed darkly and wiped his eye, “I didn’t think I would be worth the trouble, much less the time. When we first got together, I kept thinking that you would find someone better. Someone who deserves you much more than me, but I see now I was wrong,” he gasped as he started to cry again, “I-I’m so sorry I doubted you. Please, forgive me!”

“Mitya…shhhh, it’s okay,” Claude placed several kissed along Dimitri’s neck and shoulder as he sobbed against him. He rubbed circles into his back, and slowly rocked side to side, “It’s okay, I’m not upset. Please, Calm down. Darling, look at me,”He held his love’s face in his hands as he lovingly grazed his thumbs across his cheeks, and felt a pain in his chest at how distraught he looked. With a tender kiss he softly said, “I love you, Mitya. I always will. It’s not your fault for feeling this way I understand,” He could see him wince and start to cry more, but he kissed him fully while wiping away the tears, “Hush, it’s alright. I love you. I love you, Dimitri, so don’t cry. Darling, you are so wonderful.”

“I-I love you too,” He stuttered, “That’s why I’m so torn up over this,” he laughed weakly as he brought his hands to rest on Claude’s.

“I know, I’m sorry,” he smiled and pressed their foreheads together, “I guess I should have brought this up sooner huh?”

“No, it’s my fault for overreacting. I should be the one apologizing.”

“Regardless of all that,” Claude chuckled and kissed him one last time, “Will you marry me, you lovely, beautiful man?”

“Of course I will,” He laughed and embraced his love tightly, “ I’m with you now, and forever more.”

Mod Bambi -🦌

[aralisj]

holding tight: glebfa meet cute

The sound of ice shavings under blades usually made Gleb feel comfortable, the prickly cold would ground him. Not today. He had woken up with some unrest within him, something moving his gravity center, making him fail every landing.

"Fuck!" Gleb growled when he fell on his knees again. "You fucking idiot!"

There was a running gag among his fellow skaters, he knew. Everyone in the rink had seen him, at least once, wrapped in the middle of a string of mumbled insults, his gaze to the floor, harshly critiquing a bad landing or a mediocre skate. It was odd, slightly worrying and a little pathetic but no one blamed him, really. He would never raise his voice or curse at anyone but himself and anyone who knew his father guessed, by the twitch of his jaw and his hawk-like stare, that this was learned behavior: it was the Vaganov way. 

And so Gleb was in one of those spells when his ice time expired, the thud of hockey equipment alerted him of the incoming players. He raced to the boards, not breaking a particularly creative combo of vulgarity.

"You absolute piece of shit! You ice-skating, lycra-wearing, uncoordinated, bronze-medaled fuck!" Gleb's tenor, even directed to the ice, sounded crystal clear. 

"Wow," a high-pitched squeal sounded from within one of the hockey players' helmet. "Now do me! Roast me!"

Gleb looked up and found the entire hockey team staring. The Petersburg Huskies, if he wasn't mistaken, infamous for a lot of things but mainly for being all-women and extremely violent. Gleb felt his skin turn white then scarlet red under their stare. 

"Dunya!" the captain reprimanded the girl, slapping her helmet. "Manners!"

"Sorry," Dunya excused herself and patted Gleb's shoulder as she stepped onto the ice; it was awkward and a little too strong since she was already wearing protective gloves. Gleb winced.

Almost comically, every team member patted his shoulder as they entered the rink behind Dunya, increasing in force and speed as they went, so that the penultimate player almost punched him down to the ice. Gleb braced himself for the last hit but it didn't come. The captain was staring at him, green eyes shining catlike behind the wires of her helmet. 

"If you ever sort your shit out, look me up, pretty boy," she said, icy, confident, sultry. Gleb didn't know how to respond, feeling her sizing him up, her gaze lingering on his thighs and ass, all on display in his training gear. Paradoxically, he couldn't make out anything about her, other than the reddish brown of the braid poking out of her helmet.

He nodded curtly and watched her skate away. The back of her jersey read 'Spektor' in bold letters.

~~~

The loud boom-boom-boom of music reverberated inside Gleb's chest; it hit the window panes in a way that, combined with the mob dancing frantically in the next room, it felt like a small earthquake was shaking the entire hotel. Normally, that atmosphere would have made Gleb uneasy but that night it didn't. Dmitry and Anya were hosting a party to celebrate both the end of Russian Nationals and their newly announced engagement. The silly lovebirds, the lucky idiots, Gleb thought with a soft smile, leaning against a wall, playing with the ice cube in his near-empty glass.

"Having fun yet?" 

Gleb turned to find Dmitry, all disheveled and sweaty from dancing, the biggest smile lighting up his face. 

"Congratulations," Gleb said, instead of answering. He wasn't having fun in the traditional sense (he almost never was, to be honest) but he was content.

"Thanks, buddy! Give me that," Dmitry took Gleb's half-empty glass and changed it for a fresh one as a waiter passed them by. "It means a lot that you came, Anya will be stoked."

It felt a little too earnest a thing to say but Gleb didn't have time to wonder: Anya walked out to the hallway where they were talking and ran to hug him.

"Gleb!" she squealed, throwing her arms around his neck. "You're here!"

"Anya, hi," he replied into her hair, taking a number of seconds to understand what was happening and return the hug. "Congratulations!"

"Thanks!" Anya squeezed him, kissed both his cheeks, and let him go. "We were planning to make you guest of honor tonight," she said brightly, like she was letting him in an inside joke, "but then I felt that it would be more attention than you'd want at a party."

"I'm glad you didn't," Gleb chuckled with a mixture of confusion and relief, trying to make sense of everything while Dmitry elbowed his ribs playfully. "Guest of honor? What-? Why?"

"It's just- We realized the other day," she started explaining between giggles, "that Dima and I wouldn't have met without you!"

"Oh," Gleb let out an awkward laugh and rubbed the side of his face. "God, I hope you two are very happy," he wished sincerely, remembering his dark days of sickly competitiveness. "I suppose this is the nicest way in the world to say that I was a contrary and troublesome son of a bitch."

"Keeping that mouth dirty, I see," a raspy voice said behind Gleb.

They all turned their attention to a brunette in a sequined dress. Involuntarily, for a moment, Gleb's eyes followed the deep V of the neckline of her dress and the contour of her shoulders. Her arms weren't wiry like a figure skater's, they were strong, like some cross fit enthusiasts Gleb had seen at the gym. His eyes then darted up to her smile, feline, cocky.

"Marfa, you came!" Dmitry lunged forward to hug her, lifting her stylettos a little off the ground. He turned to Anya: "Babe, this is Marfa, my childhood friend!"

Marfa went to kiss Anya on both cheeks. "I feel like I know you already! You're such a badass! That lift you guys do where you're up on one leg? Jesus Christ!" Marfa fawned enthusiastically. "I'm going to tell you all of Mitya's embarrassing stories!" she added with mocking malice.

"Yes, please!" Anya jumped up and down a little. "I like her," she declared.

Dmitry rubbed his neck, looking for a way out. "Uh, this is Gleb Vaganov, current singles national champion," he deflected, grabbing Gleb by the shoulder. "Gleb, this is Marfa Spektor, captain of the Huskies."

"I prefer Alpha Bitch." Marfa extended her hand and squeezed Gleb's, relishing the look of shock on his face as he put two and two together. "And we've met," she said, "haven't we, pretty boy?"

"In a way," he mumbled, doing his best to ignore the wide eyes Anya was giving him and the knowing smirk Dmitry was trying to contain. "We talked once, at the rink," he explained.

"Almost didn't recognize you without your spandex," she eyed his black suit and crisp, white shirt.

"We do take breaks from it," Gleb said, trying to include Anya and Dmitry in the conversation but Anya seemed too shocked still and Dmitry looked like he was watching the most exciting tennis match happen in front of him. "I would have never taken you for a sequin lover," Gleb commented. 

"Oh, you have no idea," Marfa smirked.

"Anya! That's our song!" Dmitry said suddenly, gesturing back to the other room where all the dancing was happening; judging by Anya's frown it was a blatant lie. "We'll leave you to it, then," he added, taking Anya's hand, leaving Marfa and Gleb alone in the hallway, and saying something about this being the second best day of his entire life.

"So..." 

It was an odd thing, that even with the deafening music, they managed to have an awkward silence. Gleb made a mental note of giving Dmitry the shittiest engagement present he could find.

"So," Marfa grabbed Gleb's glass from his hand and took a sip. "Did you ever sort your shit out?"

Gleb shrugged. "You know how there are recovering alcoholics? I suppose I'm a recovering asshole," he replied lightly. Marfa cackled.

"That's a terrible joke but I appreciate the spirit," she moved to his side, leaning against the wall, their shoulders touching.

"Can I ask you something?" Gleb said after a while.

"Sure, handsome," Marfa replied quickly.

"Why do they call your team The Petersburg Hussies?"

"Ha!" Marfa looked a little amused. "Who's 'they'?"

"You know... People... At the rink..." Gleb said slowly.

"Men," Marfa corrected him.

"Uh," Gleb paused for a moment, "yes," he agreed.

"Because we're the best, and fragile men can't stand the success of women if they don't make it about our sex lives," she said flatly, her stare steady. "Are you like that, Gleb Vaganov?"

He hesitated for a moment, not because he was unsure of the answer but because it had been a while since he had felt so deliciously challenged by anyone off the ice. "I'm not," he responded.

"Good," Marfa said, easing back into her flirty smile, and allowing herself one good look at Gleb's lips. "I'd hate for you to be just a one night stand."

[regancrested]

Nestles himself into their bed after a long day at work. He closes his eyes and tries to drift off to sleep, with some huge troubles weighing his mind. ❛ One Claude .. Two Claudes .. Three Claudes .. Four Claudes .. Five Claudes .. Six Claudes .. Seven Claudes .. ❜                                                                                    -  – @blufayth​, always accepting.

by now he lost track of how long he has been waiting for dimitri to retire to their room, but judging by the moon and the state of the candle he can guess he has been waiting for a while now. a sigh passes his lips as he scratches the cat’s chin who in turn looks at him with curious eyes.  ‘  guess he’s not coming to bed any time soon.  ’  he states as if the cat could understand him, let alone respond. 

claude didn’t mind it too much, after all, how often has he done the same thing to dimitri when he was staying with him in almyra? still, the blond’s absence leaves the almyran prince worried, to say the least. night time has never been a pleasant time for either of them, each having their own reason for it. the thought of going to his office arises but he can already imagine the other’s dismissive response and thus he decides against it resting his head on the pillow before eventually drifting off to sleep.

in the depth of the night, claude awakens from his slumber once more. had he been dreaming? he cannot even recall what he was dreaming about but his mind soon shifts from that thought as he feels warm. the empty space in the bed now replaced the presence of his fiance, it draws a smile on his face but it does not last long. he doesn’t know whether to laugh or be concerned for the many claudes the other has counted. those are a lot of claudes

a thought he never imagined would cross his mind. 

     ‘  mitya,  ’  he speaks, just an octave higher than a whisper. claude shifts and turns to face the blond (or at least as much as he can with the hold his lover has on him). leaning in he presses a chaste kiss to his lips in order to silence him. his fingertips cupping the blond’s face,  ‘  should i be concerned that you’re imagining me jumping over a fence instead of horses?  ’  his response was awfully honest, as expected of dimitri after all. they really do have a calming effect on one another. the response allowing his smile to resurface,  ‘  honoured then.  ’   he replies with a slight chuckle. 

shifting once more he moves so that their limbs are tangled together, his arms loosely wrapped around dimitri’s neck.  ‘  do you want to talk about it?  ’  he questions, sensing that something is wrong but neither curiosity nor concern is satisfied. they should be sleeping. he knows that much, but his concern for dimitri is stronger than his want for sleep.  ‘  love, ’  claude repeats again,  ‘  remember what we talked about? about keeping secrets from one another?  ’  he really should have expected the response he received, he really dug his own grave with that one (after all is he not the one who keeps the most secrets?).  ‘  the other part  ’  he corrects. 

no the part he is referring to is the promise that was made when their engagement rings were exchanged between them. the promise that they would shoulder the burdens together, that they will never find themselves alone regardless of what challenges they may come to face. 

the smile increases,  ‘  good! you do remember --- so tell me all about it tomorrow  ’  perhaps dimitri was simply too tired to argue back, but regardless claude took it as a victory on his part.  ‘  but until then i will chase away any thought that troubles you, how does that sound?  ’  those are a lot of thoughts.  ‘  you underestimate me have i not done so before?  ’  he questions, referring to that one moment they shared at the academy’s infirmary.

leaning in once more he presses his lips to the other’s forehead, a silent promise that he will watch over him as sleep takes him.

[paopuofhearts]

@s-eosteris

Pavel leaned back against the wall, fidgeting restlessly.

The vibrant ruins of mass destruction surrounded him, a wasteland of plastic pieces scattered about the tartan blanket thrown over the couch. Neon greens, gaudy yellows, popping reds and brilliant blues, strewn in a carelessly thrown maze with him plopped center stage amidst it all.

He had finished their basic cubes - the 3x3x3, the 4x4x4, all the way up to the 10x10x10 - had tossed about the triamese, the siamese, the skewbs. He had solved the spherical curviminx, the deltoidal icositetrahedronix, the gigaminx and the icosidodecaminx with their star patterns splayed across the sides. He had completed the pyramid based puzzles - the basic pyraminx, the nesting cubes, the gear changers, the skewb extreme, the skewb diamond.

Even the strange hexaflexagon types, the inverted stars that imploded beneath his nimble fingers, the uniquely cut shapes that seemed to defy the dimensions of reality - even those had fallen to the wayside of his genius. Orange helichops, the standard ball in a cube that clacked and clicked, the u-void, the starpad of distinct pink like a blazing sunset, the mirror blocks that reflected his chagrin, the ghost cubes of plain black and white shades, the square-1 simulator’s in deepening shades of sky blue and teal, the mastermorphix covering an entire rainbow, the white fishercube with stickers fading atop it’s faces - none could stand between him and the throes of boredom.

After hours upon hours of enduring the pain of weary ennui that chipped away at the hardened mettle of his mind, he at last came to the spinning dial cube - a twisting snake of various shades, translucent, gleaming in the withering rays of sunlight crawling through the window. He flicked his wrist, curling his hands around it, watching dully as it swiveled in his palm like an anxious animal.

“Mitya,” he whined, rolling the ball on the floor with a sudden clatter. “It has been hours! How much more do you have left?”

Scotty didn’t waver, didn’t even blink as the ball nudged up against his creation - only continued to type away, dashing his fingers against the keyboard of his laptop as if his very life depended on it. Several wires and cables and cords protruded from the sides, all hooked up to a single beast lying dead in the middle of the room. It was a heavy jumble of steel plating and circuit boards, of dead sensors and cutting plastic. It was difficult to peer through the assemblage to see the microchips within, despite its barren skeleton - the only discernible thing was a set of four rubber wheels and a giant maw, full of rods and ends for fixing things in hard to reach places.

“Just a bit more, laddie.”

Pavel huffed, smacking his head loudly back against the wall.

“You said that when I brought you lunch.”

There was no response.

Annoyed, Pavel slid onto his stomach, shoving the toys aside with a sudden clatter as he faced Scotty. The man remained hunched in his chair beside the couch, engrossed in the programming flashing on the bright screen before him. Pouting, Pavel scooted forward, leaning over to see what exactly the coding was.

“What are you doing, exactly?” he asked curiously, trying at least for a bit of conversation.

“Just some minor bugs,” Scotty answered quickly, quieting without detail. A few more beats of silence followed.

“Why are there so many bugs?” Surely if Scotty had been the one to create this newfangled piece, it would have been a simple thing to solve, like the rubix cubes.

“It’s Watkins’.”

“Oh? Which one is he?”

“Assistant technician.”

Silence descended yet again, and Pavel frowned. It was their day off together, and yet instead of spending quality time enjoying each other’s presence, work came between them. Usually Pavel was not so selfish with their spare time; work was work, after all, and they were both dedicated to doing their jobs and doing them well. But today - well.

Today he was fidgety. Today was a day for adventure, for excitement. Today he had too much energy and no place to direct it. Today was not a day for work and rubix cubes - no, today was a day for Scotty to pay attention to him.

Pavel stretched, rolling over as his shirt pulled up, letting the last flickers of golden light slip across his pale skin. He whimpered, hoping to entice Scotty to at least glance at him - a simple look, just a scrap of attention. Surely posing, languid and open, would spur something in the engineer.

But no - not even a tick.

“Mityaaa,” Pavel whined, reaching out for him and flailing his hands about pathetically. “Take a break?”

“Can’t,” Scotty replied. “Just a bit longer.”

With a groan, Pavel flopped his legs off the couch, gracefully pulling himself to stand. Mumbling and grumbling under his breath, he began to collect the rubix pieces, gathering them into his shirt. Once they had formed a deep pool within the pocket he had created, lifting the end upward, he began to place them back upon the bookshelves - decorating their textbooks and journals, their articles and research, positioning each as spectacular bursts of color with the otherwise plain and haphazard collections.

“Dinner?” Scotty hummed noncommittally, and Pavel rolled his eyes in annoyance. Not even a simple yes or no. Unfortunate.

Despite his pent up squirming, Pavel refused to cook. He needed something else. Anything else. A run, perhaps.

“I am going out,” he said, padding to the door and shoving his feet into his sneakers. “I will be back later.”

“Stay safe.”

At least he got that.

—

By the time he returned, the sun had settled far below the horizon, stars peaking out of the velvet folds of sky. Clouds had begun drifting in, hazy things swirling about the moon, masking it from sight. With a heafty sigh, Pavel turned the doorknob, pushing into their home.

Scotty had at least moved on from coding, it seemed - yet now, he fiddled with the machinery itself, poking and jabbing at it with a screwdriver.

Wonderful.

“How much longer?” he demanded, not even bothering with simple greetings.

“Not too much longer - just gotta get this here wire to - oh!” Scotty grimaced, freezing in place. “Well. There goes the wire.”

Pavel groaned, tossing his shoes against the wall and storming into the kitchen. The day had been squandered, and he was still twitchy with energy that he hadn’t been able to burn off during his run. It would be a long night - and not the kind of night he wanted to end their time off on.

“I am making piroshki then.” He began to scavenge through the refrigerator, tearing out shredded cabbage and hashbrowns and ground beef, foods they had stocked up on for ease due to time constraints that kept them from being able to truly, properly pre-make their meals. Americanized food, just as Americanized as they were, their friends would tease.

He flicked on the oven.

Piroshki, by these standards, was not necessarily piroshki after all, just mere dumplings - but it close enough that he could pretend, if he tried to imagine hard enough. He grabbed the small package of dumpling dough in paper thin slices, tugging it open with a harsh crackle. Setting his things on the kitchen table, he began to work, filling the rounds with bits of fresh cabbage and thawed hashbrowns and stringed beef, folding them over and pressing the edges tight.

Minutes passed as he arranged them in a spiral pattern upon a plate, stacking them higher and higher into a column. Nearly an hour into his intensive concentration, his tower was finished, ready to be baked. Pavel carefully carried the plate to the oven, arranging them onto a pan to bake evenly.

A pair of firm hands came to rest at his waist, dipping forward as strong arms wrapped around him. A soft kiss was pressed to his neck, a gentle nosing gliding along his hairline.

“I’m sorry it took me so long, Pasha.” Scotty hooked his chin upon the young man’s shoulder, peering down at the plate of food. “Looks delicious.”

“Is just a snack,” Pavel said, nonchalant as he leaned back into the engineer’s embrace. “But something, yes?”

“Something delicious, yes.” A trail of kisses wound from the dip of his ear to the cradle of his neck, at the edge of his shirt and his shoulder. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to ignore you all day.”

“Work is work,” Pavel admitted, scooting around so there was enough room to open the oven and place the pan of piroshki inside.

“I shouldn’t neglect you though.” Scotty ran his hands up Pavel’s back, slowly dragging them back down his arms. “You seem jittery.”

“I went on a run.”

“Mmm, but perhaps not enough?” His hands wandered, flirting with the belt loops of his pants. “It’s not too late - we could still have a bit of fun?”

The corners of Pavel’s lips rose, a smile gracing his face. He spun around, slinking his arms around Scotty’s neck.

“That sounds like a lovely way to end the day.” He nuzzled upwards, placing a soft kiss to Scotty’s cheek. “Let’s go.”

[goodbyenothanks-blog]

Irony, Shostakovich, and You: A Primer

The best way to hold onto something is to pay no attention to it. The things you love too much perish. You have to treat everything with irony, especially the things you hold dear. There's more of a chance then that they'll survive.

- Dmitri Shostakovich

Hello, kind internet traveler. I’m Ed, a.k.a. D.J. Ed, a.k.a. D.J. Tullius, a.k.a. that guy who’s always in way over his head. Today, I will, in fact, wade into a topic into which I basically have no expertise or clout.

Well, that’s partially a lie. I’m an ironic dude. Annoyingly so. Maybe you know someone who says everything with a tinge (in my case, a slathering) of sarcasm, who does sub-optimal things for the sake of having things sub-optimally, and who engages in old fads or trends just because they’re overdone or old. Look, here’s a few pictures of me dabbing!!! It’s so funny that I dabbed because dabbing is overdone and well beyond the cultural zeitgeist!!! Wow!!!

Dabbing at a photo shoot

Dabbing at Amalfi, Italy

Literally dabbing during a graded assignment

Sidebar: Irony

Humor me for a moment. Sometimes (clearly, when I am using my time to its FULLEST) I wonder about the essence of irony, and a few questions always pop into my head. First, I’ll need to define a term: nth-order irony. Performing an ironic act is itself first-order irony. Performing an ironic act ironically (that is to say, that you are sardonically performing an already ironic act for the irony of doing something ironic) is therefore second-order irony. Similar formulae follow for all theoretical n-order ironies. The following questions perplex me:

Can One Classify Their Own Irony?

Is it possible for someone to self-describe their own irony? This is a massive problem for me to solve. Who’s to say what you perceive as a deft and cutting third-order ironic statement on the state of detergent consumption isn’t perceived by someone else as a mere, lowly first-order ironic statement? I think my dabs are of a second-order: I’m dabbing to ironically emulate those who dab ironically. However, to a passerby, or to a casual viewer, would they pick up on my deeper meaning, or would they view me as simply a run-of-the mill dabber?

Is Irony Definitively Classifiable? 

And for that matter, does this difference in perspective even matter? Is it even possible to pin something as first, second, or third order ironic from an empirical standpoint? One person at this hypothetical IRONY INSTITUTE OF TOMORROW might see something as one classification, while another sagacious scientist states that she sees second order sarcasm, and then you quickly hypothesize that irony could perhaps live in a state of multiple simultaneous orders, or maybe that much like Heisenberg’s Uncertainty Principle, if one knows the ironic message, one cannot know the layer or irony; if someone explicitly measures out their level of irony, then they have lost the true intent of their sardonic act.

How Deep Does Irony Go?

I’m convinced that there is an upper limit to n. There is honestly no way for someone, in my eyes, to exceed second-order irony. Second order irony, in my humble (??) opinion, is not particularly difficult to achieve, but at least in this writer’s (writer used loosely here) perspective, one would have to be reaching really hard to be ironic about ironically doing something ironically. Feel free to prove me wrong, though.

Can One Be Too Ironic?

Yeah, probably. This whole section about irony is certainly too ironic, and let us never forget this classic and DEEPLY unsettling second-order (at least I’m really really REALLY hoping it’s ironic irony) act over orange-brown meme juice.

Does Any of This Matter At All?

No.

Essentially, the previous section of the post. Oops. Praise be, Mahler Hammer. Praise be. (shoebox office shared this image with me don’t sue me)

And now that you’ve stopped reading, I can finally talk about what I have no business talking about. The man, the myth, the legend: Mitya. Or, as he’s better (but less adorably) known, Dmitri Dmitriyevich Shostakovich. Shostakovich is my favorite composer of classical music, and I feel like that’s in part because Shostakovich, too, was a pretty sarcastic fellow. But, he had many more reasons to be sarcastic than I. Too many moments in his life can only be reflected on with either profound depression or an aloof cynicism, and our boy Mitya chose both avenues at whim.

Imagine the following scenario: you’re a musician at the height of your fame. Nearly everybody loves you, and every new work you put out is heavily anticipated and intensely critiqued. Unfortunately, one person in particular really doesn’t care for your work, and he’s the despotic leader of your nation, who’s really stinkin’ good at having people killed. Next thing you know, his propaganda machine lays out a STINKPIECE about your music, and police officers are knocking at your door. You are forced to meet with one officer, and after some intense questioning you are tasked to return after the weekend. You, naturally, assume the worst and realize that the gulag and certain death in the lonely bitter Siberian wastes awaits you, knowing that if you try to flee, your entire family will suffer for your greed. You gravely return to the police station, asking for the officer that will surely arrest you for Crimes Against the State. Who? the unknown man in the station quickly replies. Oh, that dude? Haha, he got arrested for Crimes Against the State. All his appointments have been cleared, my man. Have a swell day.

haha.

This is just one episode in the Chronicles of Shostakovich, a man who lived daily with a fear of expressing himself too far outside the Soviet norms, while also being expected to provide the USSR with the world’s best musical compositions. This clashing duality, I think, fueled his (at times) ironic musical disposition.

Again, this isn’t to say that all of Shostakovich isn’t genuine or that his music as a whole is ironic, far from it. Shostakovich, as well as any other (in my opinion, better than any other) composer, can connote pure elation, despair, trepidation, anger, or any other feeling from the Human Emotional Palette. I think, however, because of his unique life-story and exemplary composing acumen, Shostakovich is extremely talented at displaying irony and sarcasm in music. I will now detail but a small handful of Shostakovich’s Ironies In Action:

Fifth Symphony: Finale

This one’s tricky, and a little bit of a reach, but hear me out on this one. I love the finale to this symphony. It’s one of my favorite symphonic finales. I particularly love the ending, the “finale” of the finale, for its subversion of what one expects from a finale. I think Gerard Schwarz explains what I mean by this better than I could, and he’s also right about Bernstein taking the ending way too fast! (PS: The blog post from which I got this mp3 is extremely interesting, informative, well worth a read, and also agrees with and expands upon Schwarz’s conclusion). The essential argument is that the banality and repetition of the A’s subverts the feeling of a triumphant ending. Shostakovich is intentionally overstating the triumph sarcastically, as if critiquing the apology he was forced to give on behalf of his own music (see incident above) and challenging the idea that perhaps his “practical, creative reply to just criticism” was a reply to something that Shostakovich himself perceived as “unjust.” (This also means that Bernstein’s doubled tempo removes Shostakovich’s musical sarcasm, yet another reason to just follow the darn tempo markings Dmitry wrote, Lenny!!!)

Sixth Symphony: Second and Third Movements

Luckily, these two are a bit more obviously ironic. This time I will trust in the word of the Mambo Master himself, but to summarize this video, Shostakovich is playing with two different ideas. His first movement is a spiritual “continuation” of Tchaikovsky’s 6th Symphony (which is also in B minor), as Shostakovich begins his symphony with a long, slow, heart-wrenching movement, just as Tchaikovsky ended his Sixth. Bernstein calls this first movement a “confessional,” and an entry in Shostakovich’s “private diary.” What does that make the other two movements? Bernstein claims (and I find no difficulty agreeing with him) that these two final movements are musical hypocrisy in action. They, on a surface level, explore light dances and fun times (as in the second movement) and a riveting circus (as in the third). That these two movements appear after the “confessional” of Shostakovich signals that these movements represent the facade of Russian society in 1939 (the year that Germany invaded Poland). The whimsical carefree world of dancing and of carnivals is far from what any part of the world was experiencing in 1939, and Shostakovich yet again is using his music to criticize both his own government and the musical expectations thrust upon him.

Anti-Formalist Rayok

I’ll conclude this brief introduction into the wide world of Shostakovich’s sarcasm and irony with a work that makes absolutely no pretense to be subtle or discreet. The Anti-Formalist Rayok was a work that Shostakovich wrote in secret and kept largely hidden, only performing it for trusted friends. The piece itself is an attack on the Zhdanov Doctrine and the idea of “anti-formalism.” In Soviet Russia, art was not to be made for the sake of making art, rather, it had to have some use or purpose in society at large. In the Anti-Formalist Rayok, Shostakovich, obviously affected by this enforced shift away from formalism, pokes fun at Zhdanov and other anti-formalists, and even directly quotes Zhdanov in some of his most outrageous and dangerous claims about formalist music. The music itself is light, vivacious, and fun, but the text and the connotations of the text certainly are not.

Santakovich.

Thanks for joining me on this short excursion through the irony and sarcasm of my all-time favorite composer. I never meant for this to be truly authoritative or meticulously fact-checked, so if you find a mistake, have a problem with something I said, or have more information about a particular topic, please PLEASE let me know. I’ll be excited to hear from you, and to learn more about my boy, Mitya. Also, before anyone asks, yeah, I did use Wikipedia to learn more about Zhdanov, Socialist realism, and the Anti-Formalist Rayok. I’ll reiterate that I am absolutely no expert in this field, and I wrote this for fun, and to introduce a Shostakovich outsider to the large, confusing, but amazing world of Soviet Harry Potter. To my knowledge, everything that I say is factual, and I listed my sources (check the underlined words!!) whenever I used them.

Hey, if you want to see me be out of my depth on a weekly basis, check out my radio show, The ƒ-hole, which airs every Friday at 10 AM on WMUC FM! This Friday, I’ll talk about Love (Love Love) in classical music, which is mostly an excuse to play Mahler’s Adagietto. I hope you tune in!

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Fortune Smiles on Mitya

IT came quite as a surprise even to Alyosha himself. He was not required to take the oath, and I remember that both sides addressed him very gently and sympathetically. It was evident that his reputation for goodness had preceded him. Alyosha gave his evidence modestly and with restraint, but his warm sympathy for his unhappy brother was unmistakable. In answer to one question, he sketched his brother's character as that of a man, violent-tempered perhaps and carried away by his passions, but at the same time honourable, proud and generous, capable of self-sacrifice, if necessary. He admitted, however, that, through his passion for Grushenka and his rivalry with his father, his brother had been of late in an intolerable position. But he repelled with indignation the suggestion that his brother might have committed a murder for the sake of gain, though he recognised that the three thousand roubles had become almost an obsession with Mitya; that upon them as part of the inheritance he had been cheated of by his father, and that, indifferent as he was to money as a rule, he could not even speak of that three thousand without fury. As for the rivalry of the two "ladies," as the prosecutor expressed it - that is, of Grushenka and Katya - he answered evasively and was even unwilling to answer one or two questions altogether. "Did your brother tell you, anyway, that he intended to kill your father?" asked the prosecutor. "You can refuse to answer if you think necessary," he added. "He did not tell me so directly," answered Alyosha. "How so? Did he indirectly?" "He spoke to me once of his hatred for our father and his fear that at an extreme moment... at a moment of fury, he might perhaps murder him." "And you believed him?" "I am afraid to say that I did. But I never doubted that some higher feeling would always save him at that fatal moment, as it has indeed saved him, for it was not he killed my father," Alyosha said firmly, in a loud voice that was heard throughout the court. The prosecutor started like a war-horse at the sound of a trumpet. "Let me assure you that I fully believe in the complete sincerity of your conviction and do not explain it by or identify it with your affection for your unhappy brother. Your peculiar view of the whole tragic episode is known to us already from the preliminary investigation. I won't attempt to conceal from you that it is highly individual and contradicts all the other evidence collected by the prosecution. And so I think it essential to press you to tell me what facts have led you to this conviction of your brother's innocence and of the guilt of another person against whom you gave evidence at the preliminary inquiry?" "I only answered the questions asked me at the preliminary inquiry," replied Alyosha, slowly and calmly. "I made no accusation against Smerdyakov of myself." "Yet you gave evidence against him?" "I was led to do so by my brother Dmitri's words. I was told what took place at his arrest and how he had pointed to Smerdyakov before I was examined. I believe absolutely that my brother is innocent, and if he didn't commit the murder, then-" "Then Smerdyakov? Why Smerdyakov? And why are you so completely persuaded of your brother's innocence?" "I cannot help believing my brother. I know he wouldn't lie to me. I saw from his face he wasn't lying." "Only from his face? Is that all the proof you have?" "I have no other proof." "And of Smerdyakov's guilt you have no proof whatever but your brother's word and the expression of his face?" "No, I have no other proof." The prosecutor dropped the examination at this point. The impression left by Alyosha's evidence on the public was most disappointing. There had been talk about Smerdyakov before the trial; someone had heard something, someone had pointed out something else, it was said that Alyosha had gathered together some extraordinary proofs of his brother's innocence and Smerdyakov's guilt, and after all there was nothing, no evidence except certain moral convictions so natural in a brother. But Fetyukovitch began his cross-examination. On his asking Alyosha when it was that the prisoner had told him of his hatred for his father and that he might kill him, and whether he had heard it, for instance, at their last meeting before the catastrophe, Alyosha started as he answered, as though only just recollecting and understanding something. "I remember one circumstance now which I'd quite forgotten myself. It wasn't clear to me at the time, but now-" And, obviously only now for the first time struck by an idea, he recounted eagerly how, at his last interview with Mitya that evening under the tree, on the road to the monastery, Mitya had struck himself on the breast, "the upper part of the breast," and had repeated several times that he had a means of regaining his honour, that that means was here, here on his breast. "I thought, when he struck himself on the breast, he meant that it was in his heart," Alyosha continued, "that he might find in his heart strength to save himself from some awful disgrace which was awaiting him and which he did not dare confess even to me. I must confess I did think at the time that he was speaking of our father, and that the disgrace he was shuddering at was the thought of going to our father and doing some violence to him. Yet it was just then that he pointed to something on his breast, so that I remember the idea struck me at the time that the heart is not on that part of the breast, but below, and that he struck himself much too high, just below the neck, and kept pointing to that place. My idea seemed silly to me at the time, but he was perhaps pointing then to that little bag in which he had fifteen hundred roubles!" "Just so, Mitya cried from his place. "That's right, Alyosha, it was the little bag I struck with my fist." Fetyukovitch flew to him in hot haste entreating him to keep quiet, and at the same instant pounced on Alyosha. Alyosha, carried away himself by his recollection, warmly expressed his theory that this disgrace was probably just that fifteen hundred roubles on him, which he might have returned to Katerina Ivanovna as half of what he owed her, but which he had yet determined not to repay her and to use for another purpose -namely, to enable him to elope with Grushenka, if she consented. "It is so, it must be so," exclaimed Alyosha, in sudden excitement. "My brother cried several times that half of the disgrace, half of it (he said half several times) he could free himself from at once, but that he was so unhappy in his weakness of will that he wouldn't do it... that he knew beforehand he was incapable of doing it!" "And you clearly, confidently remember that he struck himself just on this part of the breast?" Fetyukovitch asked eagerly. "Clearly and confidently, for I thought at the time, 'Why does he strike himself up there when the heart is lower down?' and the thought seemed stupid to me at the time... I remember its seeming stupid... it flashed through my mind. That's what brought it back to me just now. How could I have forgotten it till now? It was that little bag he meant when he said he had the means but wouldn't give back that fifteen hundred. And when he was arrested at Mokroe he cried out - I know, I was told it - that he considered it the most disgraceful act of his life that when he had the means of repaying Katerina Ivanovna half (half, note!) what he owed her, he yet could not bring himself to repay the money and preferred to remain a thief in her eyes rather than part with it. And what torture, what torture that debt has been to him!" Alyosha exclaimed in conclusion. The prosecutor, of course, intervened. He asked Alyosha to describe once more how it had all happened, and several times insisted on the question, "Had the prisoner seemed to point to anything? Perhaps he had simply struck himself with his fist on the breast?" "But it was not with his fist," cried Alyosha; "he pointed with his fingers and pointed here, very high up.... How could I have so completely forgotten it till this moment?" The President asked Mitya what he had to say to the last witness's evidence. Mitya confirmed it, saying that he had been pointing to the fifteen hundred roubles which were on his breast, just below the neck, and that that was, of course, the disgrace, "A disgrace I cannot deny, the most shameful act of my whole life," cried Mitya. "I might have repaid it and didn't repay it. I preferred to remain a thief in her eyes rather than give it back. And the most shameful part of it was that I knew beforehand I shouldn't give it back! You are right, Alyosha! Thanks, Alyosha!" So Alyosha's cross-examination ended. What was important and striking about it was that one fact at least had been found, and even though this were only one tiny bit of evidence, a mere hint at evidence, it did go some little way towards proving that the bag had existed and had contained fifteen hundred roubles and that the prisoner had not been lying at the preliminary inquiry when he alleged at Mokroe that those fifteen hundred roubles were "his own." Alyosha was glad. With a flushed face he moved away to the seat assigned to him. He kept repeating to himself: "How was it I forgot? How could I have forgotten it? And what made it come back to me now?" Katerina Ivanovna was called to the witness-box. As she entered something extraordinary happened in the court. The ladies clutched their lorgnettes and opera-glasses. There was a stir among the men: some stood up to get a better view. Everybody alleged afterwards that Mitya had turned "white as a sheet" on her entrance. All in black, she advanced modestly, almost timidly. It was impossible to tell from her face that she was agitated; but there was a resolute gleam in her dark and gloomy eyes. I may remark that many people mentioned that she looked particularly handsome at that moment. She spoke softly but clearly, so that she was heard all over the court. She expressed herself with composure, or at least tried to appear composed. The President began his examination discreetly and very respectfully, as though afraid to touch on "certain chords," and showing consideration for her great unhappiness. But in answer to one of the first questions Katerina Ivanovna replied firmly that she had been formerly betrothed to the prisoner, "until he left me of his own accord..." she added quietly. When they asked her about the three thousand she had entrusted to Mitya to post to her relations, she said firmly, "I didn't give him the money simply to send it off. I felt at the time that he was in great need of money.... I gave him the three thousand on the understanding that he should post it within the month if he cared to. There was no need for him to worry himself about that debt afterwards." I will not repeat all the questions asked her and all her answers in detail. I will only give the substance of her evidence. "I was firmly convinced that he would send off that sum as soon as he got money from his father," she went on. "I have never doubted his disinterestedness and his honesty... his scrupulous honesty... in money matters. He felt quite certain that he would receive the money from his father, and spoke to me several times about it. I knew he had a feud with his father and have always believed that he had been unfairly treated by his father. I don't remember any threat uttered by him against his father. He certainly never uttered any such threat before me. If he had come to me at that time, I should have at once relieved his anxiety about that unlucky three thousand roubles, but he had given up coming to see me... and I myself was put in such a position... that I could not invite him.... And I had no right, indeed, to be exacting as to that money, she added suddenly, and there was a ring of resolution in her voice. "I was once indebted to him for assistance in money for more than three thousand, and I took it, although I could not at that time foresee that I should ever be in a position to repay my debt." There was a note of defiance in her voice. It was then Fetyukovitch began his cross-examination. "Did that take place not here, but at the beginning of your acquaintance?" Fetyukovitch suggested cautiously, feeling his way, instantly scenting something favourable. I must mention in parenthesis that, though Fetyukovitch had been brought from Petersburg partly at the instance of Katerina Ivanovna herself, he knew nothing about the episode of the four thousand roubles given her by Mitya, and of her "bowing to the ground to him." She concealed this from him and said nothing about it, and that was strange. It may be pretty certainly assumed that she herself did not know till the very last minute whether she would speak of that episode in the court, and waited for the inspiration of the moment. No, I can never forget those moments. She began telling her story. She told everything, the whole episode that Mitya had told Alyosha, and her bowing to the ground, and her reason. She told about her father and her going to Mitya, and did not in one word, in a single hint, suggest that Mitya had himself, through her sister, proposed they should "send him Katerina Ivanovna" to fetch the money. She generously concealed that and was not ashamed to make it appear as though she had of her own impulse run to the young officer, relying on something... to beg him for the money. It was something tremendous! I turned cold and trembled as I listened. The court was hushed, trying to catch each word. It was something unexampled. Even from such a self-willed and contemptuously proud girl as she was, such an extremely frank avowal, such sacrifice, such self-immolation, seemed incredible. And for what, for whom? To save the man who had deceived and insulted her and to help, in however small a degree, in saving him, by creating a strong impression in his favour. And, indeed, the figure of the young officer who, with a respectful bow to the innocent girl, handed her his last four thousand roubles - all he had in the world - was thrown into a very sympathetic and attractive light, but... I had a painful misgiving at heart! I felt that calumny might come of it later (and it did, in fact, it did). It was repeated all over the town afterwards with spiteful laughter that was perhaps not quite complete - that is, in the statement that the officer had let the young lady depart "with nothing but a respectful bow." It was hinted that something was here omitted. "And even if nothing had been omitted, if this were the whole story," the most highly respected of our ladies maintained, "even then it's very doubtful whether it was creditable for a young girl to behave in that way, even for the sake of saving her father." And can Katerina Ivanovna, with her intelligence, her morbid sensitiveness, have failed to understand that people would talk like that? She must have understood it, yet she made up her mind to tell everything. Of course, all these nasty little suspicions as to the truth of her story only arose afterwards and at the first moment all were deeply impressed by it. As for the judges and the lawyers, they listened in reverent, almost shamefaced silence to Katerina Ivanovna. The prosecutor did not venture upon even one question on the subject. Fetyukovitch made a low bow to her. Oh, he was almost triumphant! Much ground had been gained. For a man to give his last four thousand on a generous impulse and then for the same man to murder his father for the sake of robbing him of three thousand - the idea seemed too incongruous. Fetyukovitch felt that now the charge of theft, at least, was as good as disproved. "The case" was thrown into quite a different light. There was a wave of sympathy for Mitya. As for him.... I was told that once or twice, while Katerina Ivanovna was giving her evidence, he jumped up from his seat, sank back again, and hid his face in his hands. But when she had finished, he suddenly cried in a sobbing voice: "Katya, why have you ruined me?" and his sobs were audible all over the court. But he instantly restrained himself, and cried again: "Now I am condemned!" Then he sat rigid in his place, with his teeth clenched and his arms across his chest. Katerina Ivanovna remained in the court and sat down in her place. She was pale and sat with her eyes cast down. Those who were sitting near her declared that for a long time she shivered all over as though in a fever. Grushenka was called. I am approaching the sudden catastrophe which was perhaps the final cause of Mitya's ruin. For I am convinced, so is everyone - all the lawyers said the same afterwards - that if the episode had not occurred, the prisoner would at least have been recommended to mercy. But of that later. A few words first about Grushenka. She, too, was dressed entirely in black, with her magnificent black shawl on her shoulders. She walked to the witness-box with her smooth, noiseless tread, with the slightly swaying gait common in women of full figure. She looked steadily at the President, turning her eyes neither to the right nor to the left. To my thinking she looked very handsome at that moment, and not at all pale, as the ladies alleged afterwards. They declared, too, that she had a concentrated and spiteful expression. I believe that she was simply irritated and painfully conscious of the contemptuous and inquisitive eyes of our scandal-loving public. She was proud and could not stand contempt. She was one of those people who flare up, angry and eager to retaliate, at the mere suggestion of contempt. There was an element of timidity, too, of course, and inward shame at her own timidity, so it was not strange that her tone kept changing. At one moment it was angry, contemptuous and rough, and at another there was a sincere note of self-condemnation. Sometimes she spoke as though she were taking a desperate plunge; as though she felt, "I don't care what happens, I'll say it...." Apropos of her acquaintance with Fyodor Pavlovitch, she remarked curtly, "That's all nonsense, and was it my fault that he would pester me?" But a minute later she added, "It was all my fault. I was laughing at them both - at the old man and at him, too - and I brought both of them to this. It was all on account of me it happened." Samsonov's name came up somehow. "That's nobody's business," she snapped at once, with a sort of insolent defiance. "He was my benefactor; he took me when I hadn't a shoe to my foot, when my family had turned me out." The President reminded her, though very politely, that she must answer the questions directly, without going off into irrelevant details. Grushenka crimsoned and her eyes flashed. The envelope with the notes in it she had not seen, but had only heard from "that wicked wretch" that Fyodor Pavlovitch had an envelope with notes for three thousand in it. "But that was all foolishness. I was only laughing. I wouldn't have gone to him for anything." "To whom are you referring as 'that wicked wretch'?" inquired the prosecutor. "The lackey, Smerdyakov, who murdered his master and hanged himself last night." She was, of course, at once asked what ground she had for such a definite accusation; but it appeared that she, too, had no grounds for it. "Dmitri Fyodorovitch told me so himself; you can believe him. The woman who came between us has ruined him; she is the cause of it all, let me tell you," Grushenka added. She seemed to be quivering with hatred, and there was a vindictive note in her voice. She was again asked to whom she was referring. "The young lady, Katerina Ivanovna there. She sent for me, offered me chocolate, tried to fascinate me. There's not much true shame about her, I can tell you that..." At this point the President checked her sternly, begging her to moderate her language. But the jealous woman's heart was burning, and she did not care what she did. "When the prisoner was arrested at Mokroe," the prosecutor asked, "everyone saw and heard you run out of the next room and cry out: 'It's all my fault. We'll go to Siberia together!' So you already believed him to have murdered his father?" "I don't remember what I felt at the time," answered Grushenka. "Everyone was crying out that he had killed his father, and I felt that it was my fault, that it was on my account he had murdered him. But when he said he wasn't guilty, I believed him at once, and I believe him now and always shall believe him. He is not the man to tell a lie." Fetyukovitch began his cross-examination. I remember that among other things he asked about Rakitin and the twenty-five roubles "you paid him for bringing Alexey Fyodorovitch Karamazov to see you." "There was nothing strange about his taking the money," sneered Grushenka, with angry contempt. "He was always coming to me for money: he used to get thirty roubles a month at least out of me, chiefly for luxuries: he had enough to keep him without my help." "What led you to be so liberal to Mr. Rakitin?" Fetyukovitch asked, in spite of an uneasy movement on the part of the President. "Why, he is my cousin. His mother was my mother's sister. But he's always besought me not to tell anyone here of it, he is so dreadfully ashamed of me." This fact was a complete surprise to everyone; no one in the town nor in the monastery, not even Mitya, knew of it. I was told that Rakitin turned purple with shame where he sat. Grushenka had somehow heard before she came into the court that he had given evidence against Mitya, and so she was angry. The whole effect on the public, of Rakitin's speech, of his noble sentiments, of his attacks upon serfdom and the political disorder of Russia, was this time finally ruined. Fetyukovitch was satisfied: it was another godsend. Grushenka's cross-examination did not last long and, of course, there could be nothing particularly new in her evidence. She left a very disagreeable impression on the public; hundreds of contemptuous eyes were fixed upon her, as she finished giving her evidence and sat down again in the court, at a good distance from Katerina Ivanovna. Mitya was silent throughout her evidence. He sat as though turned to stone, with his eyes fixed on the ground. Ivan was called to give evidence.

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The 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 grey 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 honour 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 honour. In any case, allow me to look upon you as my best friends at this moment of my life, at this moment when my honour is assailed. That's no offence 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 honour 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 dishonourable 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-humouredly. 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 realised 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 someone to do it," they stopped him again and noted down that he had "meant to murder someone." 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 recognise this object?" he asked, showing it to Mitya. "Oh, yes," he laughed gloomily. "Of course, I recognise 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 drily 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 someone is hunting me, someone 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, at all!" Mitya flared up again, though his outburst of wrath had obviously relieved his heart. He grew more good humoured at every word. "You may not trust a criminal or a man on trial tortured by your questions, but an honourable man, the honourable 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.

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The Prosecutor Catches Mitya

SOMETHING utterly unexpected and amazing to Mitya followed. He could never, even a minute before, have conceived that anyone could behave like that to him, Mitya Karamazov. What was worst of all, there was something humiliating in it, and on their side something "supercilious and scornful." It was nothing to take off his coat, but he was asked to undress further, or rather not asked but "commanded," he quite understood that. From pride and contempt he submitted without a word. Several peasants accompanied the lawyers and remained on the same side of the curtain. "To be ready if force is required," thought Mitya, "and perhaps for some other reason, too." "Well, must I take off my shirt, too?" he asked sharply, but Nikolay Parfenovitch did not answer. He was busily engaged with the prosecutor in examining the coat, the trousers, the waistcoat and the cap; and it was evident that they were both much interested in the scrutiny. "They make no bones about it," thought Mitya, "they don't keep up the most elementary politeness." "I ask you for the second time - need I take off my shirt or not?" he said, still more sharply and irritably. "Don't trouble yourself. We will tell you what to do," Nikolay Parfenovitch said, and his voice was positively peremptory, or so it seemed to Mitya. Meantime a consultation was going on in undertones between the lawyers. There turned out to be on the coat, especially on the left side at the back, a huge patch of blood, dry, and still stiff. There were bloodstains on the trousers, too. Nikolay Parfenovitch, moreover, in the presence of the peasant witnesses, passed his fingers along the collar, the cuffs, and all the seams of the coat and trousers, obviously looking for something - money, of course. He didn't even hide from Mitya his suspicion that he was capable of sewing money up in his clothes. "He treats me not as an officer but as a thief," Mitya muttered to himself. They communicated their ideas to one another with amazing frankness. The secretary, for instance, who was also behind the curtain, fussing about and listening, called Nikolay Parfenovitch's attention to the cap, which they were also fingering. "You remember Gridyenko, the copying clerk," observed the secretary. "Last summer he received the wages of the whole office, and pretended to have lost the money when he was drunk. And where was it found? Why, in just such pipings in his cap. The hundred-rouble notes were screwed up in little rolls and sewed in the piping." Both the lawyers remembered Gridyenko's case perfectly, and so laid aside Mitya's cap, and decided that all his clothes must be more thoroughly examined later. "Excuse me," cried Nikolay Parfenovitch, suddenly, noticing that the right cuff of Mitya's shirt was turned in, and covered with blood, "excuse me, what's that, blood?" "Yes," Mitya jerked out. "That is, what blood?... and why is the cuff turned in?" Mitya told him how he had got the sleeve stained with blood looking after Grigory, and had turned it inside when he was washing his hands at Perhotin's. "You must take off your shirt, too. That's very important as material evidence." Mitya flushed red and flew into a rage. "What, am I to stay naked?" he shouted. "Don't disturb yourself. We will arrange something. And meanwhile take off your socks." "You're not joking? Is that really necessary?" Mitya's eyes flashed. "We are in no mood for joking," answered Nikolay Parfenovitch sternly. "Well, if I must-" muttered Mitya, and sitting down on the bed, he took off his socks. He felt unbearably awkward. All were clothed, while he was naked, and strange to say, when he was undressed he felt somehow guilty in their presence, and was almost ready to believe himself that he was inferior to them, and that now they had a perfect right to despise him. "When all are undressed, one is somehow not ashamed, but when one's the only one undressed and everybody is looking, it's degrading," he kept repeating to himself, again and again. "It's like a dream; I've sometimes dreamed of being in such degrading positions." It was a misery to him to take off his socks. They were very dirty, and so were his underclothes, and now everyone could see it. And what was worse, he disliked his feet. All his life he had thought both his big toes hideous. He particularly loathed the coarse, flat, crooked nail on the right one, and now they would all see it. Feeling intolerably ashamed made him, at once and intentionally, rougher. He pulled off his shirt, himself. "Would you like to look anywhere else if you're not ashamed to?" "No, there's no need to, at present." "Well, am I to stay naked like this?" he added savagely. "Yes, that can't be helped for the time.... Kindly sit down here for a while. You can wrap yourself in a quilt from the bed, and I... I'll see to all this." All the things were shown to the witnesses. The report of the search was drawn up, and at last Nikolay Parfenovitch went out, and the clothes were carried out after him. Ippolit Kirillovitch went out, too. Mitya was left alone with the peasants, who stood in silence, never taking their eyes off him. Mitya wrapped himself up in the quilt. He felt cold. His bare feet stuck out, and he couldn't pull the quilt over so as to cover them. Nikolay Parfenovitch seemed to be gone a long time, "an insufferable time." "He thinks of me as a puppy," thought Mitya, gnashing his teeth. "That rotten prosecutor has gone, too, contemptuous no doubt, it disgusts him to see me naked!" Mitya imagined, however, that his clothes would be examined and returned to him. But what was his indignation when Nikolay Parfenovitch came back with quite different clothes, brought in behind him by a peasant. "Here are clothes for you," he observed airily, seeming well satisfied with the success of his mission. "Mr. Kalganov has kindly provided these for this unusual emergency, as well as a clean shirt. Luckily he had them all in his trunk. You can keep your own socks and underclothes." Mitya flew into a passion. "I won't have other people's clothes!" he shouted menacingly, "give me my own!" "It's impossible!" "Give me my own. Damn Kalganov and his clothes, too!" It was a long time before they could persuade him. But they succeeded somehow in quieting him down. They impressed upon him that his clothes, being stained with blood, must be "included with the other material evidence," and that they "had not even the right to let him have them now... taking into consideration the possible outcome of the case." Mitya at last understood this. He subsided into gloomy silence and hurriedly dressed himself. He merely observed, as he put them on, that the clothes were much better than his old ones, and that he disliked "gaining by the change." The coat was, besides, "ridiculously tight. Am I to be dressed up like a fool... for your amusement?" They urged upon him again that he was exaggerating, that Kalganov was only a little taller, so that only the trousers might be a little too long. But the coat turned out to be really tight in the shoulders. "Damn it all! I can hardly button it," Mitya grumbled. "Be so good as to tell Mr. Kalganov from me that I didn't ask for his clothes, and it's not my doing that they've dressed me up like a clown." "He understands that, and is sorry... I mean, not sorry to lend you his clothes, but sorry about all this business," mumbled Nikolay Parfenovitch. "Confound his sorrow! Well, where now? Am I to go on sitting here?" He was asked to go back to the "other room." Mitya went in, scowling with anger, and trying to avoid looking at anyone. Dressed in another man's clothes he felt himself disgraced, even in the eyes of the peasants, and of Trifon Borissovitch, whose face appeared, for some reason, in the doorway, and vanished immediately. "He's come to look at me dressed up," thought Mitya. He sat down on the same chair as before. He had an absurd nightmarish feeling, as though he were out of his mind. "Well, what now? Are you going to flog me? That's all that's left for you," he said, clenching his teeth and addressing the prosecutor. He would not turn to Nikolay Parfenovitch, as though he disdained to speak to him. "He looked too closely at my socks, and turned them inside out on purpose to show everyone how dirty they were - the scoundrel!" "Well, now we must proceed to the examination of witnesses," observed Nikolay Parfenovitch, as though in reply to Mitya's question. "Yes," said the prosecutor thoughtfully, as though reflecting on something. "We've done what we could in your interest, Dmitri Fyodorovitch," Nikolay Parfenovitch went on, "but having received from you such an uncompromising refusal to explain to us the source from which you obtained the money found upon you, we are, at the present moment-" "What is the stone in your ring?" Mitya interrupted suddenly, as though awakening from a reverie. He pointed to one of the three large rings adorning Nikolay Parfenovitch's right hand. "Ring?" repeated Nikolay Parfenovitch with surprise. "Yes, that one... on your middle finger, with the little veins in it, what stone is that?" Mitya persisted, like a peevish child. "That's a smoky topaz," said Nikolay Parfenovitch, smiling. "Would you like to look at it? I'll take it off..." "No, don't take it off," cried Mitya furiously, suddenly waking up, and angry with himself. "Don't take it off... there's no need.... Damn it!... Gentlemen, you've sullied my heart! Can you suppose that I would conceal it from you, if I had really killed my father, that I would shuffle, lie, and hide myself? No, that's not like Dmitri Karamazov, that he couldn't do, and if I were guilty, I swear I shouldn't have waited for your coming, or for the sunrise as I meant at first, but should have killed myself before this, without waiting for the dawn! I know that about myself now. I couldn't have learnt so much in twenty years as I've found out in this accursed night!... And should I have been like this on this night, and at this moment, sitting with you, could I have talked like this, could I have moved like this, could I have looked at you and at the world like this, if I had really been the murderer of my father, when the very thought of having accidentally killed Grigory gave me no peace all night - not from fear - oh, not simply from fear of your punishment! The disgrace of it! And you expect me to be open with such scoffers as you, who see nothing and believe in nothing, blind moles and scoffers, and to tell you another nasty thing I've done, another disgrace, even if that would save me from your accusation! No, better Siberia! The man who opened the door to my father and went in at that door, he killed him, he robbed him. Who was he? I'm racking my brains and can't think who. But I can tell you it was not Dmitri Karamazov, and that's all I can tell you, and that's enough, enough, leave me alone.... Exile me, punish me, but don't bother me any more. I'll say no more. Call your witnesses!" Mitya uttered his sudden monologue as though he were determined to be absolutely silent for the future. The prosecutor watched him the whole time and only when he had ceased speaking, observed, as though it were the most ordinary thing, with the most frigid and composed air: "Oh, about the open door of which you spoke just now, we may as well inform you, by the way, now, of a very interesting piece of evidence of the greatest importance both to you and to us, that has been given us by Grigory, the old man you wounded. On his recovery, he clearly and emphatically stated, in reply to our questions, that when, on coming out to the steps, and hearing a noise in the garden, he made up his mind to go into it through the little gate which stood open, before he noticed you running, as you have told us already, in the dark from the open window where you saw your father, he, Grigory, glanced to the left, and, while noticing the open window, observed at the same time, much nearer to him, the door, standing wide open- that door which you have stated to have been shut the whole time you were in the garden. I will not conceal from you that Grigory himself confidently affirms and bears witness that you must have run from that door, though, of course, he did not see you do so with his own eyes, since he only noticed you first some distance away in the garden, running towards the fence." Mitya had leapt up from his chair half-way through this speech. "Nonsense!" he yelled, in a sudden frenzy, "it's a barefaced lie. He couldn't have seen the door open because it was shut. He's lying!" "I consider it my duty to repeat that he is firm in his statement. He does not waver. He adheres to it. We've cross-examined him several times." "Precisely. I have cross-examined him several times," Nikolay Parfenovitch confirmed warmly. "It's false, false! It's either an attempt to slander me, or the hallucination of a madman," Mitya still shouted. "He's simply raving, from loss of blood, from the wound. He must have fancied it when he came to.... He's raving." "Yes, but he noticed the open door, not when he came to after his injuries, but before that, as soon as he went into the garden from the lodge." "But it's false, it's false! It can't be so! He's slandering me from spite.... He couldn't have seen it... I didn't come from the door," gasped Mitya. The prosecutor turned to Nikolay Parfenovitch and said to him impressively: "Confront him with it." "Do you recognise this object?" Nikolay Parfenovitch laid upon the table a large and thick official envelope, on which three seals still remained intact. The envelope was empty, and slit open at one end. Mitya stared at it with open eyes. "It... it must be that envelope of my father's, the envelope that contained the three thousand roubles... and if there's inscribed on it, allow me, 'For my little chicken'... yes - three thousand!" he shouted, "do you see, three thousand, do you see?" "Of course, we see. But we didn't find the money in it. It was empty, and lying on the floor by the bed, behind the screen." For some seconds Mitya stood as though thunderstruck. "Gentlemen, it's Smerdyakov!" he shouted suddenly, at the top of his voice. "It's he who's murdered him! He's robbed him! No one else knew where the old man hid the envelope. It's Smerdyakov, that's clear, now!" "But you, too, knew of the envelope and that it was under the pillow." "I never knew it. I've never seen it. This is the first time I've looked at it. I'd only heard of it from Smerdyakov.... He was the only one who knew where the old man kept it hidden, I didn't know..." Mitya was completely breathless. "But you told us yourself that the envelope was under your deceased father's pillow. You especially stated that it was under the pillow, so you must have known it." "We've got it written down," confirmed Nikolay Parfenovitch. "Nonsense! It's absurd! I'd no idea it was under the pillow. And perhaps it wasn't under the pillow at all.... It was just a chance guess that it was under the pillow. What does Smerdyakov say? Have you asked him where it was? What does Smerdyakov say? That's the chief point.... And I went out of my way to tell lies against myself.... I told you without thinking that it was under the pillow, and now youOh, you know how one says the wrong thing, without meaning it. No one knew but Smerdyakov, only Smerdyakov, and no one else.... He didn't even tell me where it was! But it's his doing, his doing; there's no doubt about it, he murdered him, that's as clear as daylight now," Mitya exclaimed more and more frantically, repeating himself incoherently, and growing more and more exasperated and excited. "You must understand that, and arrest him at once.... He must have killed him while I was running away and while Grigory was unconscious, that's clear now.... He gave the signal and father opened to him... for no one but he knew the signal, and without the signal father would never have opened the door...." "But you're again forgetting the circumstance," the prosecutor observed, still speaking with the same restraint, though with a note of triumph, "that there was no need to give the signal if the door already stood open when you were there, while you were in the garden..." "The door, the door," muttered Mitya, and he stared speechless at the prosecutor. He sank back helpless in his chair. All were silent. "Yes, the door!... It's a nightmare! God is against me!" he exclaimed, staring before him in complete stupefaction. "Come, you see," the prosecutor went on with dignity, "and you can judge for yourself, Dmitri Fyodorovitch. On the one hand, we have the evidence of the open door from which you ran out, a fact which overwhelms you and us. On the other side, your incomprehensible, persistent, and, so to speak, obdurate silence with regard to the source from which you obtained the money which was so suddenly seen in your hands, when only three hours earlier, on your own showing, you pledged your pistols for the sake of ten roubles! In view of all these facts, judge for yourself. What are we to believe, and what can we depend upon? And don't accuse us of being 'frigid, cynical, scoffing people,' who are incapable of believing in the generous impulses of your heart.... Try to enter into our position..." Mitya was indescribably agitated. He turned pale. "Very well!" he exclaimed suddenly, "I will tell you my secret. I'll tell you where I got the money!... I'll reveal my shame, that I may not have to blame myself or you hereafter." "And believe me, Dmitri Fyodorovitch," put in Nikolay Parfenovitch, in a voice of almost pathetic delight, "that every sincere and complete confession on your part at this moment may, later on, have an immense influence in your favour, and may, indeed, moreover-" But the prosecutor gave him a slight shove under the table, and he checked himself in time. Mitya, it is true, had not heard him.

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The Evidences of the Witnesses. The Babe

THE examination of the witnesses began. But we will not continue our story in such detail as before. And so we will not dwell on how Nikolay Parfenovitch impressed on every witness called that he must give his evidence in accordance with truth and conscience, and that he would afterwards have to repeat his evidence on oath, how every witness was called upon to sign the protocol of his evidence, and so on. We will only note that the point principally insisted upon in the examination was the question of the three thousand roubles; that is, was the sum spent here, at Mokroe, by Mitya on the first occasion, a month before, three thousand or fifteen hundred? And again had he spent three thousand or fifteen hundred yesterday? Alas, all the evidence given by everyone turned out to be against Mitya. There was not one in his favour, and some witnesses introduced new, almost crushing facts, in contradiction of his, Mitya's, story. The first witness examined was Trifon Borissovitch. He was not in the least abashed as he stood before the lawyers. He had, on the contrary, an air of stern and severe indignation with the accused, which gave him an appearance of truthfulness and personal dignity. He spoke little, and with reserve, waited to be questioned, answered precisely and deliberately. Firmly and unhesitatingly he bore witness that the sum spent a month before could not have been less than three thousand, that all the peasants about here would testify that they had heard the sum of three thousand mentioned by Dmitri Fyodorovitch himself. "What a lot of money he flung away on the Gypsy girls alone! He wasted a thousand, I daresay, on them alone." "I don't believe I gave them five hundred," was Mitya's gloomy comment on this. "It's a pity I didn't count the money at the time, but I was drunk..." Mitya was sitting sideways with his back to the curtains. He listened gloomily, with a melancholy and exhausted air, as though he would say: "Oh, say what you like. It makes no difference now." "More than a thousand went on them, Dmitri Fyodorovitch," retorted Trifon Borissovitch firmly. "You flung it about at random and they picked it up. They were a rascally, thievish lot, horse-stealers, they've been driven away from here, or maybe they'd bear witness themselves how much they got from you. I saw the sum in your hands, myself - count it I didn't, you didn't let me, that's true enough- but by the look of it I should say it was far more than fifteen hundred... fifteen hundred, indeed! We've seen money too. We can judge of amounts..." As for the sum spent yesterday he asserted that Dmitri Fyodorovitch had told him, as soon as he arrived, that he had brought three thousand with him. "Come now, is that so, Trifon Borissovitch?" replied Mitya. "Surely I didn't declare so positively that I'd brought three thousand?" "You did say so, Dmitri Fyodorovitch. You said it before Andrey. Andrey himself is still here. Send for him. And in the hall, when you were treating the chorus, you shouted straight out that you would leave your sixth thousand here - that is, with what you spent before, we must understand. Stepan and Semyon heard it, and Pyotr Fomitch Kalganov, too, was standing beside you at the time. Maybe he'd remember it..." The evidence as to the "sixth" thousand made an extraordinary impression on the two lawyers. They were delighted with this new mode of reckoning; three and three made six, three thousand then and three now made six, that was clear. They questioned all the peasants suggested by Trifon Borissovitch, Stepan and Semyon, the driver Andrey, and Kalganov. The peasants and the driver unhesitatingly confirmed Trifon Borissovitch's evidence. They noted down, with particular care, Andrey's account of the conversation he had had with Mitya on the road: "'Where,' says he, 'am I, Dmitri Fyodorovitch, going, to heaven or to hell, and shall I be forgiven in the next world or not?'" The psychological Ippolit Kirillovitch heard this with a subtle smile, and ended by recommending that these remarks as to where Dmitri Fyodorovitch would go should be "included in the case." Kalganov, when called, came in reluctantly, frowning and ill-humoured, and he spoke to the lawyers as though he had never met them before in his life, though they were acquaintances whom he had been meeting every day for a long time past. He began by saying that "he knew nothing about it and didn't want to." But it appeared that he had heard of the" sixth" thousand, and he admitted that he had been standing close by at the moment. As far as he could see he "didn't know" how much money Mitya had in his hands. He affirmed that the Poles had cheated at cards. In reply to reiterated questions he stated that, after the Poles had been turned out, Mitya's position with Agrafena Alexandrovna had certainly improved, and that she had said that she loved him. He spoke of Agrafena Alexandrovna with reserve and respect, as though she had been a lady of the best society, and did not once allow himself to call her Grushenka. In spite of the young man's obvious repugnance at giving evidence, Ippolit Kirillovitch examined him at great length, and only from him learnt all the details of what made up Mitya's "romance," so to say, on that night. Mitya did not once pull Kalganov up. At last they let the young man go, and he left the room with unconcealed indignation. The Poles, too, were examined. Though they had gone to bed in their room, they had not slept all night, and on the arrival of the police officers they hastily dressed and got ready, realising that they would certainly be sent for. They gave their evidence with dignity, though not without some uneasiness. The little Pole turned out to be a retired official of the twelfth class, who had served in Siberia as a veterinary surgeon. His name was Mussyalovitch. Pan Vrubelvsky turned out to be an uncertificated dentist. Although Nikolay Parfenovitch asked them questions on entering the room they both addressed their answers to Mihail Makarovitch, who was standing on one side, taking him in their ignorance for the most important person and in command, and addressed him at every word as "Pan Colonel." Only after several reproofs from Mihail Makarovitch himself, they grasped that they had to address their answers to Nikolay Parfenovitch only. It turned out that they could speak Russian quite correctly except for their accent in some words. Of his relations with Grushenka, past and present, Pan Mussyalovitch spoke proudly and warmly, so that Mitya was roused at once and declared that he would not allow the "scoundrel" to speak like that in his presence! Pan Mussyalovitch at once called attention to the word "scoundrel," and begged that it should be put down in the protocol. Mitya fumed with rage. "He's a scoundrel! A scoundrel! You can put that down. And put down, too, that, in spite of the protocol I still declare that he's a scoundrel!" he cried. Though Nikolay Parfenovitch did insert this in the protocol, he showed the most praiseworthy tact and management. After sternly reprimanding Mitya, he cut short all further inquiry into the romantic aspect of the case, and hastened to pass to what was essential. One piece of evidence given by the Poles roused special interest in the lawyers: that was how, in that very room, Mitya had tried to buy off Pan Mussyalovitch, and had offered him three thousand roubles to resign his claims, seven hundred roubles down, and the remaining two thousand three hundred "to be paid next day in the town." He had sworn at the time that he had not the whole sum with him at Mokroe, but that his money was in the town. Mitya observed hotly that he had not said that he would be sure to pay him the remainder next day in the town. But Pan Vrublevsky confirmed the statement, and Mitya, after thinking for a moment admitted, frowning, that it must have been as the Poles stated, that he had been excited at the time, and might indeed have said so. The prosecutor positively pounced on this piece of evidence. It seemed to establish for the prosecution (and they did, in fact, base this deduction on it) that half, or a part of, the three thousand that had come into Mitya's hands might really have been left somewhere hidden in the town, or even, perhaps, somewhere here, in Mokroe. This would explain the circumstance, so baffling for the prosecution, that only eight hundred roubles were to be found in Mitya's hands. This circumstance had been the one piece of evidence which, insignificant as it was, had hitherto told, to some extent, in Mitya's favour. Now this one piece of evidence in his favour had broken down. In answer to the prosecutor's inquiry, where he would have got the remaining two thousand three hundred roubles, since he himself had denied having more than fifteen hundred, Mitya confidently replied that he had meant to offer the "little chap," not money, but a formal deed of conveyance of his rights to the village of Tchermashnya, those rights which he had already offered to Samsonov and Madame Hohlakov. The prosecutor positively smiled at the "innocence of this subterfuge." "And you imagine he would have accepted such a deed as a substitute for two thousand three hundred roubles in cash?" "He certainly would have accepted it," Mitya declared warmly. "Why, look here, he might have grabbed not two thousand, but four or six, for it. He would have put his lawyers, Poles and Jews, on to the job, and might have got, not three thousand, but the whole property out of the old man." The evidence of Pan Mussyalovitch was, of course, entered in the protocol in the fullest detail. Then they let the Poles go. The incident of the cheating at cards was hardly touched upon. Nikolay Parfenovitch was too well pleased with them, as it was, and did not want to worry them with trifles, moreover, it was nothing but a foolish, drunken quarrel over cards. There had been drinking and disorder enough, that night.... So the two hundred roubles remained in the pockets of the Poles. Then old Maximov was summoned. He came in timidly, approached with little steps, looking very dishevelled and depressed. He had, all this time, taken refuge below with Grushenka, sitting dumbly beside her, and "now and then he'd begin blubbering over her and wiping his eyes with a blue check handkerchief," as Mihail Makarovitch described afterwards. So that she herself began trying to pacify and comfort him. The old man at once confessed that he had done wrong, that he had borrowed "ten roubles in my poverty," from Dmitri Fyodorovitch, and that he was ready to pay it back. To Nikolay Parfenovitch's direct question, had he noticed how much money Dmitri Fyodorovitch held in his hand, as he must have been able to see the sum better than anyone when he took the note from him, Maximov, in the most positive manner, declared that there was twenty thousand. "Have you ever seen so much as twenty thousand before, then?" inquired Nikolay Parfenovitch, with a smile. "To be sure I have, not twenty, but seven, when my wife mortgaged my little property. She'd only let me look at it from a distance, boasting of it to me. It was a very thick bundle, all rainbow-coloured notes. And Dmitri Fyodorovitch's were all rainbow-coloured..." He was not kept long. At last it was Grushenka's turn. Nikolay Parfenovitch was obviously apprehensive of the effect her appearance might have on Mitya, and he muttered a few words of admonition to him, but Mitya bowed his head in silence, giving him to understand "that he would not make a scene." Mihail Makarovitch himself led Grushenka in. She entered with a stern and gloomy face, that looked almost composed, and sat down quietly on the chair offered her by Nikolay Parfenovitch. She was very pale, she seemed to be cold, and wrapped herself closely in her magnificent black shawl. She was suffering from a slight feverish chill - the first symptom of the long illness which followed that night. Her grave air, her direct earnest look and quiet manner made a very favourable impression on everyone. Nikolay Parfenovitch was even a little bit "fascinated." He admitted himself, when talking about it afterwards, that only then had he seen "how handsome the woman was," for, though he had seen her several times he had always looked upon her as something of a "provincial hetaira." "She has the manners of the best society," he said enthusiastically, gossiping about her in a circle of ladies. But this was received with positive indignation by the ladies, who immediately called him a "naughty man," to his great satisfaction. As she entered the room, Grushenka only glanced for an instant at Mitya, who looked at her uneasily. But her face reassured him at once. After the first inevitable inquiries and warnings, Nikolay Parfenovitch asked her, hesitating a little, but preserving the most courteous manner, on what terms she was with the retired lieutenant, Dmitri Fyodorovitch Karamazov. To this Grushenka firmly and quietly replied: "He was an acquaintance. He came to see me as an acquaintance during the last month." To further inquisitive questions she answered plainly and with complete frankness, that, though "at times" she had thought him attractive, she had not loved him, but had won his heart as well as his old father's "in my nasty spite," that she had seen that Mitya was very jealous of Fyodor Pavlovitch and everyone else; but that had only amused her. She had never meant to go to Fyodor Pavlovitch, she had simply been laughing at him. "I had no thoughts for either of them all this last month. I was expecting another man who had wronged me. But I think," she said in conclusion, "that there's no need for you to inquire about that, nor for me to answer you, for that's my own affair." Nikolay Parfenovitch immediately acted upon this hint. He again dismissed the "romantic" aspect of the case and passed to the serious one, that is, to the question of most importance, concerning the three thousand roubles. Grushenka confirmed the statement that three thousand roubles had certainly been spent on the first carousal at Mokroe, and, though she had not counted the money herself, she had heard that it was three thousand from Dmitri Fyodorovitch's own lips. "Did he tell you that alone, or before someone else, or did you only hear him speak of it to others in your presence?" the prosecutor inquired immediately. To which Grushenka replied that she had heard him say so before other people, and had heard him say so when they were alone. "Did he say it to you alone once, or several times?" inquired the prosecutor, and learned that he had told Grushenka so several times. Ippolit Kirillovitch was very well satisfied with this piece of evidence. Further examination elicited that Grushenka knew, too, where that money had come from, and that Dmitri Fyodorovitch had got it from Katerina Ivanovna. "And did you never, once, hear that the money spent a month ago was not three thousand, but less, and that Dmitri Fyodorovitch had saved half that sum for his own use?" "No, I never heard that," answered Grushenka. It was explained further that Mitya had, on the contrary, often told her that he hadn't a farthing. "He was always expecting to get some from his father," said Grushenka in conclusion. "Did he never say before you... casually, or in a moment of irritation," Nikolay Parfenovitch put in suddenly, "that he intended to make an attempt on his father's life?" "Ach, he did say so," sighed Grushenka. "Once or several times?" "He mentioned it several times, always in anger." "And did you believe he would do it?" "No, I never believed it," she answered firmly. "I had faith in his noble heart." "Gentlemen, allow me," cried Mitya suddenly, "allow me to say one word to Agrafena Alexandrovna, in your presence." "You can speak," Nikolay Parfenovitch assented. "Agrafena Alexandrovna!" Mitya got up from his chair, "have faith in God and in me. I am not guilty of my father's murder!" Having uttered these words Mitya sat down again on his chair. Grushenka stood up and crossed herself devoutly before the ikon. "Thanks be to Thee, O Lord," she said, in a voice thrilled with emotion, and still standing, she turned to Nikolay Parfenovitch and added: "As he has spoken now, believe it! I know him. He'll say anything as a joke or from obstinacy, but he'll never deceive you against his conscience. He's telling the whole truth, you may believe it." "Thanks, Agrafena Alexandrovna, you've given me fresh courage," Mitya responded in a quivering voice. As to the money spent the previous day, she declared that she did not know what sum it was, but had heard him tell several people that he had three thousand with him. And to the question where he got the money, she said that he had told her that he had "stolen" it from Katerina Ivanovna, and that she had replied to that that he hadn't stolen it, and that he must pay the money back next day. On the prosecutor's asking her emphatically whether the money he said he had stolen from Katerina Ivanovna was what he had spent yesterday, or what he had squandered here a month ago, she declared that he meant the money spent a month ago, and that that was how she understood him. Grushenka was at last released, and Nikolay Parfenovitch informed her impulsively that she might at once return to the town and that if he could be of any assistance to her, with horses for example, or if she would care for an escort, he... would be- "I thank you sincerely," said Grushenka, bowing to him, "I'm going with this old gentleman; I am driving him back to town with me, and meanwhile, if you'll allow me, I'll wait below to hear what you decide about Dmitri Fyodorovitch." She went out. Mitya was calm, and even looked more cheerful, but only for a moment. He felt more and more oppressed by a strange physical weakness. His eyes were closing with fatigue. The examination of the witnesses was, at last, over. They procceded to a revision of the protocol. Mitya got up, moved from his chair to the corner by the curtain, lay down on a large chest covered with a rug, and instantly fell asleep. He had a strange dream, utterly out of keeping with the place and the time. He was driving somewhere in the steppes, where he had been stationed long ago, and a peasant was driving him in a cart with a pair of horses, through snow and sleet. He was cold, it was early in November, and the snow was falling in big wet flakes, melting as soon as it touched the earth. And the peasant drove him smartly, he had a fair, long beard. He was not an old man, somewhere about fifty, and he had on a grey peasant's smock. Not far off was a village, he could see the black huts, and half the huts were burnt down, there were only the charred beams sticking up. And as they drove in, there were peasant women drawn up along the road, a lot of women, a whole row, all thin and wan, with their faces a sort of brownish colour, especially one at the edge, a tall, bony woman, who looked forty, but might have been only twenty, with a long thin face. And in her arms was a little baby crying. And her breasts seemed so dried up that there was not a drop of milk in them. And the child cried and cried, and held out its little bare arms, with its little fists blue from cold. "Why are they crying? Why are they crying?" Mitya asked, as they dashed gaily by. "It's the babe," answered the driver, "the babe weeping." And Mitya was struck by his saying, in his peasant way, "the babe," and he liked the peasant's calling it a "babe." There seemed more pity in it. "But why is it weeping?" Mitya persisted stupidly, "why are its little arms bare? Why don't they wrap it up?" "The babe's cold, its little clothes are frozen and don't warm it." "But why is it? Why?" foolish Mitya still persisted. "Why, they're poor people, burnt out. They've no bread. They're begging because they've been burnt out." "No, no," Mitya, as it were, still did not understand. "Tell me why it is those poor mothers stand there? Why are people poor? Why is the babe poor? Why is the steppe barren? Why don't they hug each other and kiss? Why don't they sing songs of joy? Why are they so dark from black misery? Why don't they feed the babe?" And he felt that, though his questions were unreasonable and senseless, yet he wanted to ask just that, and he had to ask it just in that way. And he felt that a passion of pity, such as he had never known before, was rising in his heart, that he wanted to cry, that he wanted to do something for them all, so that the babe should weep no more, so that the dark-faced, dried-up mother should not weep, that no one should shed tears again from that moment, and he wanted to do it at once, at once, regardless of all obstacles, with all the recklessness of the Karamazovs. "And I'm coming with you. I won't leave you now for the rest of my life, I'm coming with you", he heard close beside him Grushenka's tender voice, thrilling with emotion. And his heart glowed, and he struggled forward towards the light, and he longed to live, to live, to go on and on, towards the new, beckoning light, and to hasten, hasten, now, at once! "What! Where?" he exclaimed opening his eyes, and sitting up on the chest, as though he had revived from a swoon, smiling brightly. Nikolay Parfenovitch was standing over him, suggesting that he should hear the protocol read aloud and sign it. Mitya guessed that he had been asleep an hour or more, but he did not hear Nikolay Parfenovitch. He was suddenly struck by the fact that there was a pillow under his head, which hadn't been there when he had leant back, exhausted, on the chest. "Who put that pillow under my head? Who was so kind?" he cried, with a sort of ecstatic gratitude, and tears in his voice, as though some great kindness had been shown him. He never found out who this kind man was; perhaps one of the peasant witnesses, or Nikolay Parfenovitch's little secretary, had compassionately thought to put a pillow under his head; but his whole soul was quivering with tears. He went to the table and said that he would sign whatever they liked. "I've had a good dream, gentlemen," he said in a strange voice, with a new light, as of joy, in his face.

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They Carry Mitya Away

WHEN the protocol had been signed, Nikolay Parfenovitch turned solemnly to the prisoner and read him the "Committal," setting forth, that in such a year, on such a day, in such a place, the investigating lawyer of such-and-such a district court, having examined so-and-so (to wit, Mitya) accused of this and of that (all the charges were carefully written out) and having considered that the accused, not pleading guilty to the charges made against him, had brought forward nothing in his defence, while the witnesses, so-and-so, and so-and-so, and the circumstances such-and-such testify against him, acting in accordance with such-and-such articles of the Statute Book, and so on, has ruled, that, in order to preclude so-and-so (Mitya) from all means of evading pursuit and judgment, he be detained in such-and-such a prison, which he hereby notifies to the accused and communicates a copy of this same "Committal" to the deputy prosecutor, and so on, and so on. In brief, Mitya was informed that he was, from that moment, a prisoner, and that he would be driven at once to the town, and there shut up in a very unpleasant place. Mitya listened attentively, and only shrugged his shoulders. "Well, gentlemen, I don't blame you. I'm ready.... I understand that there's nothing else for you to do." Nikolay Parfenovitch informed him gently that he would be escorted at once by the rural police officer, Mavriky Mavrikyevitch, who happened to be on the spot.... "Stay," Mitya interrupted, suddenly, and impelled by uncontrollable feeling he pronounced, addressing all in the room: "Gentlemen, we're all cruel, we're all monsters, we all make men weep, and mothers, and babes at the breast, but of all, let it be settled here, now, of all I am the lowest reptile! I've sworn to amend, and every day I've done the same filthy things. I understand now that such men as I need a blow, a blow of destiny to catch them as with a noose, and bind them by a force from without. Never, never should I have risen of myself! But the thunderbolt has fallen. I accept the torture of accusation, and my public shame; I want to suffer and by suffering I shall be purified. Perhaps I shall be purified, gentlemen? But listen, for the last time, I am not guilty of my father's blood. I accept my punishment, not because I killed him, but because I meant to kill him, and perhaps I really might have killed him. Still I mean to fight it out with you. I warn you of that. I'll fight it out with you to the end, and then God will decide. Good-bye, gentlemen, don't be vexed with me for having shouted at you during the examination. Oh, I was still such a fool then.... In another minute I shall be a prisoner, but now, for the last time, as a free man, Dmitri Karamazov offers you his hand. Saying good-bye to you, I say it to all men." His voice quivered and he stretched out his hand, but Nikolay Parfenovitch, who happened to stand nearest to him, with a sudden, almost nervous movement, hid his hands behind his back. Mitya instantly noticed this, and started. He let his outstretched hand fall at once. "The preliminary inquiry is not yet over," Nikolay Parfenovitch faltered, somewhat embarrassed. "We will continue it in the town, and I, for my part, of course, am ready to wish you all success... in your defence.... As a matter of fact, Dmitri Fyodorovitch, I've always been disposed to regard you as, so to speak, more unfortunate than guilty. All of us here, if I may make bold to speak for all, we are all ready to recognise that you are, at bottom, a young man of honour, but, alas, one who has been carried away by certain passions to a somewhat excessive degree..." Nikolay Parfenovitch's little figure was positively majestic by the time he had finished speaking. It struck Mitya that in another minute this "boy" would take his arm, lead him to another corner, and renew their conversation about "girls." But many quite irrelevant and inappropriate thoughts sometimes occur even to a prisoner when he is being led out to execution. "Gentlemen, you are good, you are humane, may I see her to say 'good-bye' for the last time?" asked Mitya. "Certainly, but considering... in fact, now it's impossible except in the presence of-" "Oh, well, if it must be so, it must!" Grushenka was brought in, but the farewell was brief, and of few words, and did not at all satisfy Nikolay Parfenovitch. Grushenka made a deep bow to Mitya. "I have told you I am yours, and I will be yours. I will follow you for ever, wherever they may send you. Farewell; you are guiltless, though you've been your own undoing." Her lips quivered, tears flowed from her eyes. "Forgive me, Grusha, for my love, for ruining you, too, with my love." Mitya would have said something more, but he broke off and went out. He was at once surrounded by men who kept a constant watch on him. At the bottom of the steps to which he had driven up with such a dash the day before with Andrey's three horses, two carts stood in readiness. Mavriky Mavrikyevitch, a sturdy, thick-set man with a wrinkled face, was annoyed about something, some sudden irregularity. He was shouting angrily. He asked Mitya to get into the cart with somewhat excessive surliness. "When I stood him drinks in the tavern, the man had quite a different face," thought Mitya, as he got in. At the gates there was a crowd of people, peasants, women, and drivers. Trifon Borissovitch came down the steps too. All stared at Mitya. "Forgive me at parting, good people!" Mitya shouted suddenly from the cart. "Forgive us too!" he heard two or three voices. "Good-bye to you, too, Trifon Borissovitch!" But Trifon Borissovitch did not even turn round. He was, perhaps, too busy. He, too, was shouting and fussing about something. It appeared that everything was not yet ready in the second cart, in which two constables were to accompany Mavriky Mavrikyevitch. The peasant who had been ordered to drive the second cart was pulling on his smock, stoutly maintaining that it was not his turn to go, but Akim's. But Akim was not to be seen. They ran to look for him. The peasant persisted and besought them to wait. "You see what our peasants are, Mavriky Mavrikyevitch. They've no shame!" exclaimed Trifon Borissovitch. "Akim gave you twenty-five copecks the day before yesterday. You've drunk it all and now you cry out. I'm simply surprised at your good-nature, with our low peasants, Mavriky Mavrikyevitch, that's all I can say." "But what do we want a second cart for?" Mitya put in. "Let's start with the one, Mavriky Mavrikyevitch. I won't be unruly, I won't run away from you, old fellow. What do we want an escort for?" "I'll trouble you, sir, to learn how to speak to me if you've never been taught. I'm not 'old fellow' to you, and you can keep your advice for another time!" Mavriky Mavrikyevitch snapped out savagely, as though glad to vent his wrath. Mitya was reduced to silence. He flushed all over. A moment later he felt suddenly very cold. The rain had ceased, but the dull sky was still overcast with clouds, and a keen wind was blowing straight in his face. "I've taken a chill," thought Mitya, twitching his shoulders. At last Mavriky Mavrikyevitch, too, got into the cart, sat down heavily, and, as though without noticing it, squeezed Mitya into the corner. It is true that he was out of humour and greatly disliked the task that had been laid upon him. "Good-bye, Trifon Borissovitch!" Mitya shouted again, and felt himself, that he had not called out this time from good-nature, but involuntarily, from resentment. But Trifon Borissovitch stood proudly, with both hands behind his back, and staring straight at Mitya with a stern and angry face, he made no reply. "Good-bye, Dmitri Fyodorovitch, good-bye!" he heard all at once the voice of Kalganov, who had suddenly darted out. Running up to the cart he held out his hand to Mitya. He had no cap on. Mitya had time to seize and press his hand. "Good-bye, dear fellow! I shan't forget your generosity," he cried warmly. But the cart moved and their hands parted. The bell began ringing and Mitya was driven off. Kalganov ran back, sat down in a corner, bent his head, hid his face in his hands, and burst out crying. For a long while he sat like that, crying as though he were a little boy instead of a young man of twenty. Oh, he believed almost without doubt in Mitya's guilt. "What are these people? What can men be after this?" he exclaimed incoherently, in bitter despondency, almost despair. At that moment he had no desire to live. "Is it worth it? Is it worth it?" exclaimed the boy in his grief.

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The First Interview with Smerdyakov

THIS was the third time that Ivan had been to see Smerdyakov since his return from Moscow. The first time he had seen him and talked to him was on the first day of his arrival, then he had visited him once more, a fortnight later. But his visits had ended with that second one, so that it was now over a month since he had seen him. And he had scarcely heard anything of him. Ivan had only returned five days after his father's death, so that he was not present at the funeral, which took place the day before he came back. The cause of his delay was that Alyosha, not knowing his Moscow address, had to apply to Katerina Ivanovna to telegraph to him, and she, not knowing his address either, telegraphed to her sister and aunt, reckoning on Ivan's going to see them as soon as he arrived in Moscow. But he did not go to them till four days after his arrival. When he got the telegram, he had, of course, set off post-haste to our town. The first to meet him was Alyosha, and Ivan was greatly surprised to find that, in opposition to the general opinion of the town, he refused to entertain a suspicion against Mitya, and spoke openly of Smerdyakov as the murderer. Later on, after seeing the police captain and the prosecutor, and hearing the details of the charge and the arrest, he was still more surprised at Alyosha, and ascribed his opinion only to his exaggerated brotherly feeling and sympathy with Mitya, of whom Alyosha, as Ivan knew, was very fond. By the way, let us say a word or two of Ivan's feeling to his brother Dmitri. He positively disliked him; at most, felt sometimes a compassion for him, and even that was mixed with great contempt, almost repugnance. Mitya's whole personality, even his appearance, was extremely unattractive to him. Ivan looked with indignation on Katerina Ivanovna's love for his brother. Yet he went to see Mitya on the first day of his arrival, and that interview, far from shaking Ivan's belief in his guilt, positively strengthened it. He found his brother agitated, nervously excited. Mitya had been talkative, but very absent-minded and incoherent. He used violent language, accused Smerdyakov, and was fearfully muddled. He talked principally about the three thousand roubles, which he said had been "stolen" from him by his father. "The money was mine, it was my money," Mitya kept repeating. "Even if I had stolen it, I should have had the right." He hardly contested the evidence against him, and if he tried to turn a fact to his advantage, it was in an absurd and incoherent way. He hardly seemed to wish to defend himself to Ivan or anyone else. Quite the contrary, he was angry and proudly scornful of the charges against him; he was continually firing up and abusing everyone. He only laughed contemptuously at Grigory's evidence about the open door, and declared that it was "the devil that opened it." But he could not bring forward any coherent explanation of the fact. He even succeeded in insulting Ivan during their first interview, telling him sharply that it was not for people who declared that "everything was lawful," to suspect and question him. Altogether he was anything but friendly with Ivan on that occasion. Immediately after that interview with Mitya, Ivan went for the first time to see Smerdyakov. In the railway train on his way from Moscow, he kept thinking of Smerdyakov and of his last conversation with him on the evening before he went away. Many things seemed to him puzzling and suspicious. when he gave his evidence to the investigating lawyer Ivan said nothing, for the time, of that conversation. He put that off till he had seen Smerdyakov, who was at that time in the hospital. Doctor Herzenstube and Varvinsky, the doctor he met in the hospital, confidently asserted in reply to Ivan's persistent questions, that Smerdyakov's epileptic attack was unmistakably genuine, and were surprised indeed at Ivan asking whether he might not have been shamming on the day of the catastrophe. They gave him to understand that the attack was an exceptional one, the fits persisting and recurring several times, so that the patient's life was positively in danger, and it was only now, after they had applied remedies, that they could assert with confidence that the patient would survive. "Though it might well be," added Doctor Herzenstube, "that his reason would be impaired for a considerable period, if not permanently." On Ivan's asking impatiently whether that meant that he was now mad, they told him that this was not yet the case, in the full sense of the word, but that certain abnormalities were perceptible. Ivan decided to find out for himself what those abnormalities were. At the hospital he was at once allowed to see the patient. Smerdyakov was lying on a truckle-bed in a separate ward. There was only one other bed in the room, and in it lay a tradesman of the town, swollen with dropsy, who was obviously almost dying; he could be no hindrance to their conversation. Smerdyakov grinned uncertainly on seeing Ivan, and for the first instant seemed nervous. So at least Ivan fancied. But that was only momentary. For the rest of the time he was struck, on the contrary, by Smerdyakov's composure. From the first glance Ivan had no doubt that he was very ill. He was very weak; he spoke slowly, seeming to move his tongue with difficulty; he was much thinner and sallower.Throughout the interview, which lasted twenty minutes, he kept complaining of headache and of pain in all his limbs. His thin emasculate face seemed to have become so tiny; his hair was ruffled, and his crest of curls in front stood up in a thin tuft. But in the left eye, which was screwed up and seemed to be insinuating something, Smerdyakov showed himself unchanged. "It's always worth while speaking to a clever man." Ivan was reminded of that at once. He sat down on the stool at his feet. Smerdyakov, with painful effort, shifted his position in bed, but he was not the first to speak. He remained dumb, and did not even look much interested. "Can you. talk to me?" asked Ivan. "I won't tire you much." "Certainly I can," mumbled Smerdyakov, in a faint voice. "Has your honour been back long?" he added patronisingly, as though encouraging a nervous visitor. "I only arrived to-day.... To see the mess you are in here." Smerdyakov sighed. "Why do you sigh? You knew of it all along," Ivan blurted out. Smerdyakov was stolidly silent for a while. "How could I help knowing? It was clear beforehand. But how could I tell it would turn out like that?" "What would turn out? Don't prevaricate! You've foretold you'd have a fit; on the way down to the cellar, you know. You mentioned the very spot." "Have you said so at the examination yet?" Smerdyakov queried with composure. Ivan felt suddenly angry. "No, I haven't yet, but I certainly shall. You must explain a great deal to me, my man; and let me tell you, I am not going to let you play with me!" "Why should I play with you, when I put my whole trust in you, as in God Almighty?" said Smerdyakov, with the same composure, only for a moment closing his eyes. "In the first place," began Ivan, "I know that epileptic fits can't be told beforehand. I've inquired; don't try and take me in. You can't foretell the day and the hour. How was it you told me the day and the hour beforehand, and about the cellar, too? How could you tell that you would fall down the cellar stairs in a fit, if you didn't sham a fit on purpose?" "I had to go to the cellar anyway, several times a day, indeed," Smerdyakov drawled deliberately. "I fell from the garret just in the same way a year ago. It's quite true you can't tell the day and hour of a fit beforehand, but you can always have a presentiment of it." "But you did foretell the day and the hour!" "In regard to my epilepsy, sir, you had much better inquire of the doctors here. You can ask them whether it was a real fit or a sham; it's no use my saying any more about it." "And the cellar? How could you know beforehand of the cellar?" "You don't seem able to get over that cellar! As I was going down to the cellar, I was in terrible dread and doubt. What frightened me most was losing you and being left without defence in all the world. So I went down into the cellar thinking, 'Here, it'll come on directly, it'll strike me down directly, shall I fall?' And it was through this fear that I suddenly felt the spasm that always comes... and so I went flying. All that and all my previous conversation with you at the gate the evening before, when I told you how frightened I was and spoke of the cellar, I told all that to Doctor Herzenstube and Nikolay Parfenovitch, the investigating lawyer, and it's all been written down in the protocol. And the doctor here, Mr. Varvinsky, maintained to all of them that it was just the thought of it brought it on, the apprehension that I might fall. It was just then that the fit seized me. And so they've written it down, that it's just how it must have happened, simply from my fear." As he finished, Smerdyakov. drew a deep breath, as though exhausted. "Then you have said all that in your evidence?" said Ivan, somewhat taken aback. He had meant to frighten him with the threat of repeating their conversation, and it appeared that Smerdyakov had already reported it all himself. "What have I to be afraid of? Let them write down the whole truth," Smerdyakov pronounced firmly. "And have you told them every word of our conversation at the gate?" "No, not to say every word." "And did you tell them that you can sham fits, as you boasted then?" "No, I didn't tell them that either." "Tell me now, why did you send me then to Tchermashnya?" "I was afraid you'd go away to Moscow; Tchermashnya is nearer, anyway." "You are lying; you suggested my going away yourself; you told me to get out of the way of trouble." "That was simply out of affection and my sincere devotion to you, foreseeing trouble in the house, to spare you. Only I wanted to spare myself even more. That's why I told you to get out of harm's way, that you might understand that there would be trouble in the house, and would remain at home to protect your father." "You might have said it more directly, you blockhead!" Ivan suddenly fired up. "How could I have said it more directly then? It was simply my fear that made me speak, and you might have been angry, too. I might well have been apprehensive that Dmitri Fyodorovitch would make a scene and carry away that money, for he considered it as good as his own; but who could tell that it would end in a murder like this? I thought that he would only carry off the three thousand that lay under the master's mattress in the envelope, and you see, he's murdered him. How could you guess it either, sir?" "But if you say yourself that it couldn't be guessed, how could I have guessed and stayed at home? You contradict yourself!" said Ivan, pondering. "You might have guessed from my sending you to Tchermashnya and not to Moscow." "How could I guess it from that?" Smerdyakov seemed much exhausted, and again he was silent for a minute. "You might have guessed from the fact of my asking you not to go to Moscow, but to Tchermashnya, that I wanted to have you nearer, for Moscow's a long way off, and Dmitri Fyodorovitch, knowing you are not far off, would not be so bold. And if anything had happened, you might have come to protect me, too, for I warned you of Grigory Vassilyevitch's illness, and that I was afraid of having a fit. And when I explained those knocks to you, by means of which one could go in to the deceased, and that Dmitri Fyodorovitch knew them all through me, I thought that you would guess yourself that he would be sure to do something, and so wouldn't go to Tchermashnya even, but would stay." "He talks very coherently," thought Ivan, "though he does mumble; what's the derangement of his faculties that Herzenstube talked of?" "You are cunning with me, damn you!" he exclaimed, getting angry. "But I thought at the time that you quite guessed," Smerdyakov parried with the simplest air. "If I'd guessed, I should have stayed," cried Ivan. "Why, I thought that it was because you guessed, that you went away in such a hurry, only to get out of trouble, only to run away and save yourself in your fright." "You think that everyone is as great a coward as yourself?" "Forgive me, I thought you were like me." "Of course, I ought to have guessed," Ivan said in agitation; "and I did guess there was some mischief brewing on your part... only you are lying, you are lying again," he cried, suddenly recollecting. "Do you remember how you went up to the carriage and said to me, 'It's always worth while speaking to a clever man'? So you were glad I went away, since you praised me?" Smerdyakov sighed again and again. A trace of colour came into his face. "If I was pleased," he articulated rather breathlessly, "it was simply because you agreed not to go to Moscow, but to Tchermashnya. For it was nearer, anyway. Only when I said these words to you, it was not by way of praise, but of reproach. You didn't understand it." "What reproach?" "Why, that foreseeing such a calamity you deserted your own father, and would not protect us, for I might have been taken up any time for stealing that three thousand." "Damn you!" Ivan swore again. "Stay, did you tell the prosecutor and the investigating lawyer about those knocks?" "I told them everything just as it was." Ivan wondered inwardly again. "If I thought of anything then," he began again, "it was solely of some wickedness on your part. Dmitri might kill him, but that he would steal - I did not believe that then.... But I was prepared for any wickedness from you. You told me yourself you could sham a fit. What did you say that for?" "It was just through my simplicity, and I never have shammed a fit on purpose in my life. And I only said so then to boast to you. It was just foolishness. I liked you so much then, and was open-hearted with you." "My brother directly accuses you of the murder and theft." "What else is left for him to do?" said Smerdyakov, with a bitter grin. "And who will believe him with all the proofs against him? Grigory Vassilyevitch saw the door open. What can he say after that? But never mind him! He is trembling to save himself." He slowly ceased speaking; then suddenly, as though on reflection, added: "And look here again. He wants to throw it on me and make out that it is the work of my hands - I've heard that already. But as to my being clever at shamming a fit: should I have told you beforehand that I could sham one, if I really had had such a design against your father? If I had been planning such a murder could I have been such a fool as to give such evidence against myself beforehand? And to his son, too! Upon my word! Is that likely? As if that could be; such a thing has never happened. No one hears this talk of ours now, except Providence itself, and if you were to tell of it to the prosecutor and Nikolay Parfenovitch you might defend me completely by doing so, for who would be likely to be such a criminal, if he is so open-hearted beforehand? Anyone can see that." "Well," and Ivan got up to cut short the conversation, struck by Smerdyakov's last argument. "I don't suspect you at all, and I think it's absurd, indeed, to suspect you. On the contrary, I am grateful to you for setting my mind at rest. Now I am going, but I'll come again. Meanwhile, good-bye. Get well. Is there anything you want?" "I am very thankful for everything. Marfa Ignatyevna does not forget me, and provides me anything I want, according to her kindness. Good people visit me every day." "Good-bye. But I shan't say anything of your being able to sham a fit, and I don't advise you to, either," something made Ivan say suddenly. "I quite understand. And if you don't speak of that, I shall say nothing of that conversation of ours at the gate." Then it happened that Ivan went out, and only when he had gone a dozen steps along the corridor, he suddenly felt that there was an insulting significance in Smerdyakov's last words. He was almost on the point of turning back, but it was only a passing impulse, and muttering, "Nonsense!" he went out of the hospital. His chief feeling was one of relief at the fact that it was not Smerdyakov, but Mitya, who had committed the murder, though he might have been expected to feel the opposite. He did not want to analyse the reason for this feeling, and even felt a positive repugnance at prying into his sensations. He felt as though he wanted to make haste to forget something. In the following days he became convinced of Mitya's guilt, as he got to know all the weight of evidence against him. There was evidence of people of no importance, Fenya and her mother, for instance, but the effect of it was almost overpowering. As to Perhotin, the people at the tavern, and at Plotnikov's shop, as well as the witnesses at Mokroe, their evidence seemed conclusive. It was the details that were so damning. The secret of the knocks impressed the lawyers almost as much as Grigory's evidence as to the open door. Grigory's wife, Marfa, in answer to Ivan's questions, declared that Smerdyakov had been lying all night the other side of the partition wall, "He was not three paces from our bed," and that although she was a sound sleeper she waked several times and heard him moaning, "He was moaning the whole time, moaning continually." Talking to Herzenstube, and giving it as his opinion that Smerdyakov was not mad, but only rather weak, Ivan only evoked from the old man a subtle smile. "Do you know how he spends his time now?" he asked; "learning lists of French words by heart. He has an exercise-book under his pillow with the French words written out in Russian letters for him by someone, he he he!" Ivan ended by dismissing all doubts. He could not think of Dmitri without repulsion. Only one thing was strange, however. Alyosha persisted that Dmitri was not the murderer, and that "in all probability" Smerdyakov was. Ivan always felt that Alyosha's opinion meant a great deal to him, and so he was astonished at it now. Another thing that was strange was that Alyosha did not make any attempt to talk about Mitya with Ivan, that he never began on the subject and only answered his questions. This, too, struck Ivan particularly. But he was very much preoccupied at that time with something quite apart from that. On his return from Moscow, he abandoned himself hopelessly to his mad and consuming passion for Katerina Ivanovna. This is not the time to begin to speak of this new passion of Ivan's, which left its mark on all the rest of his life: this would furnish the subject for another novel, which I may perhaps never write. But I cannot omit to mention here that when Ivan, on leaving Katerina Ivanovna with Alyosha, as I've related already, told him, "I am not keen on her," it was an absolute lie: he loved her madly, though at times he hated her so that he might have murdered her. Many causes helped to bring about this feeling. Shattered by what had happened with Mitya, she rushed on Ivan's return to meet him as her one salvation. She was hurt, insulted and humiliated in her feelings. And here the man had come back to her, who had loved her so ardently before (oh! she knew that very well), and whose heart and intellect she considered so superior to her own. But the sternly virtuous girl did not abandon herself altogether to the man she loved, in spite of the Karamazov violence of his passions and the great fascination he had for her. She was continually tormented at the same time by remorse for having deserted Mitya, and in moments of discord and violent anger (and they were numerous) she told Ivan so plainly. This was what he had called to Alyosha "lies upon lies." There was, of course, much that was false in it, and that angered Ivan more than anything.... But of all this later. He did, in fact, for a time almost forget Smerdyakov's existence, and yet, a fortnight after his first visit to him, he began to be haunted by the same strange thoughts as before. It's enough to say that he was continually asking himself, why was it that on that last night in Fyodor Pavlovitch's house he had crept out on to the stairs like a thief and listened to hear what his father was doing below? Why had he recalled that afterwards with repulsion? Why next morning, had he been suddenly so depressed on the journey? Why, as he reached Moscow, had he said to himself, "I am a scoundrel"? And now he almost fancied that these tormenting thoughts would make him even forget Katerina Ivanovna, so completely did they take possession of him again. It was just after fancying this, that he met Alyosha in the street. He stopped him at once, and put a question to him: "Do you remember when Dmitri burst in after dinner and beat father, and afterwards I told you in the yard that I reserved 'the right to desire'?... Tell me, did you think then that I desired father's death or not?" "I did think so," answered Alyosha, softly. "It was so, too; it was not a matter of guessing. But didn't you fancy then that what I wished was just that one reptile should devour another'; that is, just that Dmitri should kill father, and as soon as possible... and that I myself was even prepared to help to bring that about?" Alyosha turned rather pale, and looked silently into his brother's face. "Speak!" cried Ivan, "I want above everything to know what you thought then. I want the truth, the truth!" He drew a deep breath, looking angrily at Alyosha before his answer came. "Forgive me, I did think that, too, at the time," whispered Alyosha, and he did not add one softening phrase. "Thanks," snapped Ivan, and, leaving Alyosha, he went quickly on his way. From that time Alyosha noticed that Ivan began obviously to avoid him and seemed even to have taken a dislike to him, so much so that Alyosha gave up going to see him. Immediately after that meeting with him, Ivan had not gone home, but went straight to Smerdyakov again.

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Dangerous Witnesses

I DO NOT know whether the witnesses for the defence and for the prosecution were separated into groups by the President, and whether it was arranged to call them in a certain order. But no doubt it was so. I only know that the witnesses for the prosecution were called first. I repeat I don't intend to describe all the questions step by step. Besides, my account would be to some extent superfluous, because in the speeches for the prosecution and for the defence the whole course of the evidence was brought together and set in a strong and significant light, and I took down parts of those two remarkable speeches in full, and will quote them in due course, together with one extraordinary and quite unexpected episode, which occurred before the final speeches, and undoubtedly influenced the sinister and fatal outcome of the trial. I will only observe that from the first moments of the trial one peculiar characteristic of the case was conspicuous and observed by all, that is, the overwhelming strength of the prosecution as compared with the arguments the defence had to rely upon. Everyone realised it from the first moment that the facts began to group themselves round a single point, and the whole horrible and bloody crime was gradually revealed. Everyone, perhaps, felt from the first that the case was beyond dispute, that there was no doubt about it, that there could be really no discussion, and that the defence was only a matter of form, and that the prisoner was guilty, obviously and conclusively guilty. I imagine that even the ladies, who were so impatiently longing for the acquittal of the interesting prisoner, were at the same time, without exception, convinced of his guilt. What's more, I believe they would have been mortified if his guilt had not been so firmly established, as that would have lessened the effect of the closing scene of the criminal's acquittal. That he would be acquitted, all the ladies, strange to say, were firmly persuaded up to the very last moment. "He is guilty, but he will be acquitted, from motives of humanity, in accordance with the new ideas, the new sentiments that had come into fashion," and so on, and so on. And that was why they had crowded into the court so impatiently. The men were more interested in the contest between the prosecutor and the famous Fetyukovitch. All were wondering and asking themselves what could even a talent like Fetyukovitch's make of such a desperate case; and so they followed his achievements, step by step, with concentrated attention. But Fetyukovitch remained an enigma to all up to the very end, up to his speech. Persons of experience suspected that he had some design, that he was working towards some object, but it was almost impossible to guess what it was. His confidence and self-reliance were unmistakable, however. Everyone noticed with pleasure, moreover, that he, after so short a stay, not more than three days, perhaps, among us, had so wonderfully succeeded in mastering the case and "had studied it to a nicety." People described with relish, afterwards, how cleverly he had "taken down" all the witnesses for the prosecution, and as far as possible perplexed them and, what's more, had aspersed their reputation and so depreciated the value of their evidence. But it was supposed that he did this rather by way of sport, so to speak, for professional glory, to show nothing had been omitted of the accepted methods, for all were convinced that he could do no real good by such disparagement of the witnesses, and probably was more aware of this than anyone, having some idea of his own in the background, some concealed weapon of defence, which he would suddenly reveal when the time came. But meanwhile, conscious of his strength, he seemed to be diverting himself. So, for instance, when Grigory, Fyodor Pavlovitch's old servant, who had given the most damning piece of evidence about the open door, was examined, the counsel for the defence positively fastened upon him when his turn came to question him. It must be noted that Grigory entered the trial with a composed and almost stately air, not the least disconcerted by the majesty of the court or the vast audience listening to him. He gave evidence with as much confidence as though he had been talking with his Marfa, only perhaps more respectfully. It was impossible to make him contradict himself. The prosecutor questioned him first in detail about the family life of the Karamazovs. The family picture stood out in lurid colours. It was plain to ear and eye that the witness was guileless and impartial. In spite of his profound reverence for the memory of his deceased master, he yet bore witness that he had been unjust to Mitya and "hadn't brought up his children as he should. He'd have been devoured by lice when he was little, if it hadn't been for me," he added, describing Mitya's early childhood. "It wasn't fair either of the father to wrong his son over his mother's property, which was by right his." In reply to the prosecutor's question what grounds he had for asserting that Fyodor Pavlovitch had wronged his son in their money relations, Grigory, to the surprise of everyone, had no proof at all to bring forward, but he still persisted that the arrangement with the son was "unfair," and that he ought "to have paid him several thousand roubles more." I must note, by the way, that the prosecutor asked this question (whether Fyodor Pavlovitch had really kept back part of Mitya's inheritance) with marked persistence of all the witnesses who could be asked it, not excepting Alyosha and Ivan, but he obtained no exact information from anyone; all alleged that it was so, but were unable to bring forward any distinct proof. Grigory's description of the scene at the dinner-table, when Dmitri had burst in and beaten his father, threatening to come back to kill him, made a sinister impression on the court, especially as the old servant's composure in telling it, his parsimony of words, and peculiar phraseology were as effective as eloquence. He observed that he was not angry with Mitya for having knocked him down and struck him on the face; he had forgiven him long ago, he said. Of the deceased Smerdyakov he observed, crossing himself, that he was a lad of ability, but stupid and afflicted, and, worse still, an infidel, and that it was Fyodor Pavlovitch and his elder son who had taught him to be so. But he defended Smerdyakov's honesty almost with warmth, and related how Smerdyakov had once found the master's money in the yard, and, instead of concealing it, had taken it to his master, who had rewarded him with a "gold piece" for it, and trusted him implicitly from that time forward. He maintained obstinately that the door into the garden had been open. But he was asked so many questions that I can't recall them all. At last the counsel for the defence began to cross-examine him, and the first question he asked was about the envelope in which Fyodor Pavlovitch was supposed to have put three thousand roubles for "a certain person." "Have you ever seen it, you, who were for so many years in close attendance on your master?" Grigory answered that he had not seen it and had never heard of the money from anyone "till everybody was talking about it." This question about the envelope Fetyukovitch put to everyone who could conceivably have known of it, as persistently as the prosecutor asked his question about Dmitri's inheritance, and got the same answer from all, that no one had seen the envelope, though many had heard of it. From the beginning everyone noticed Fetyukovitch's persistence on this subject. "Now, with your permission I'll ask you a question," Fetyukovitch said, suddenly and unexpectedly. "Of what was that balsam, or, rather, decoction, made, which, as we learn from the preliminary inquiry, you used on that evening to rub your lumbago, in the hope of curing it?" Grigory looked blankly at the questioner, and after a brief silence muttered, "There was saffron in it." "Nothing but saffron? Don't you remember any other ingredient?" "There was milfoil in it, too." "And pepper perhaps?" Fetyukovitch queried. "Yes, there was pepper, too." "Etcetera. And all dissolved in vodka?" "In spirit." There was a faint sound of laughter in the court. "You see, in spirit. After rubbing your back, I believe, you drank what was left in the bottle with a certain pious prayer, only known to your wife?" "I did." "Did you drink much? Roughly speaking, a wine-glass or two?" "It might have been a tumbler-full." "A tumbler-full, even. Perhaps a tumbler and a half?" Grigory did not answer. He seemed to see what was meant. "A glass and a half of neat spirit - is not at all bad, don't you think? You might see the gates of heaven open, not only the door into the garden?" Grigory remained silent. There was another laugh in the court. The President made a movement. "Do you know for a fact," Fetyukovitch persisted, "whether you were awake or not when you saw the open door?" "I was on my legs." "That's not a proof that you were awake." (There was again laughter in the court.) "Could you have answered at that moment, if anyone had asked you a question - for instance, what year it is?" "I don't know." "And what year is it, Anno Domini, do you know?" Grigory stood with a perplexed face, looking straight at his tormentor. Strange to say, it appeared he really did not know what year it was. "But perhaps you can tell me how many fingers you have on your hands?" "I am a servant," Grigory said suddenly, in a loud and distinct voice. "If my betters think fit to make game of me, it is my duty to suffer it." Fetyukovitch was a little taken aback, and the President intervened, reminding him that he must ask more relevant questions. Fetyukovitch bowed with dignity and said that he had no more questions to ask of the witness. The public and the jury, of course, were left with a grain of doubt in their minds as to the evidence of a man who might, while undergoing a certain cure, have seen "the gates of heaven," and who did not even know what year he was living in. But before Grigory left the box another episode occurred. The President, turning to the prisoner, asked him whether he had any comment to make on the evidence of the last witness. "Except about the door, all he has said is true," cried Mitya, in a loud voice. "For combing the lice off me, I thank him; for forgiving my blows, I thank him. The old man has been honest all his life and as faithful to my father as seven hundred poodles." "Prisoner, be careful in your language," the President admonished him. "I am not a poodle," Grigory muttered. "All right, it's I am a poodle myself," cried Mitya. "If it's an insult, I take it to myself and I beg his pardon. I was a beast and cruel to him. I was cruel to Aesop too." "What Aesop?" the President asked sternly again. "Oh, Pierrot... my father, Fyodor Pavlovitch." The President again and again warned Mitya impressively and very sternly to be more careful in his language. "You are injuring yourself in the opinion of your judges." The counsel for the defence was equally clever in dealing with the evidence of Rakitin. I may remark that Rakitin was one of the leading witnesses and one to whom the prosecutor attached great significance. It appeared that he knew everything; his knowledge was amazing, he had been everywhere, seen everything, talked to everybody, knew every detail of the biography of Fyodor Pavlovitch and all the Karamazovs. Of the envelope, it is true, he had only heard from Mitya himself. But he described minutely Mitya's exploits in the Metropolis, all his compromising doings and sayings, and told the story of Captain Snegiryov's "wisp of tow." But even Rakitin could say nothing positive about Mitya's inheritance, and confined himself to contemptuous generalities. "Who could tell which of them was to blame, and which was in debt to the other, with their crazy Karamazov way of muddling things so that no one could make head or tail of it?" He attributed the tragic crime to the habits that had become ingrained by ages of serfdom and the distressed condition of Russia, due to the lack of appropriate institutions. He was, in fact, allowed some latitude of speech. This was the first occasion on which Rakitin showed what he could do, and attracted notice. The prosecutor knew that the witness was preparing a magazine article on the case, and afterwards in his speech, as we shall see later, quoted some ideas from the article, showing that he had seen it already. The picture drawn by the witness was a gloomy and sinister one, and greatly strengthened the case for the prosecution. Altogether, Rakatin's discourse fascinated the public by its independence and the extraordinary nobility of its ideas. There were even two or three outbreaks of applause when he spoke of serfdom and the distressed condition of Russia. But Rakitin, in his youthful ardour, made a slight blunder, of which the counsel for the defence at once adroitly took advantage. Answering certain questions about Grushenka and carried away by the loftiness of his own sentiments and his success, of which he was, of course, conscious, he went so far as to speak somewhat contemptuously of Agrafena Alexandrovna as "the kept mistress of Samsonov." He would have given a good deal to take back his words afterwards, for Fetyukovitch caught him out over it at once. And it was all because Rakitin had not reckoned on the lawyer having been able to become so intimately acquainted with every detail in so short a time. "Allow me to ask," began the counsel for the defence, with the most affable and even respectful smile, "you are, of course, the same Mr. Rakitin whose pamphlet, The Life of the Deceased Elder, Father Zossima, published by the diocesan authorities, full of profound and religious reflections and preceded by an excellent and devout dedication to the bishop, I have just read with such pleasure?" "I did not write it for publication... it was published afterwards," muttered Rakitin, for some reason fearfully disconcerted and almost ashamed. "Oh, that's excellent! A thinker like you can, and indeed ought to, take the widest view of every social question. Your most instructive pamphlet has been widely circulated through the patronage of the bishop, and has been of appreciable service.... But this is the chief thing I should like to learn from you. You stated just now that you were very intimately acquainted with Madame Svyetlov." (It must be noted that Grushenka's surname was Svyetlov. I heard it for the first time that day, during the case.) "I cannot answer for all my acquaintances.... I am a young man... and who can be responsible for everyone he meets?" cried Rakitin, flushing all over. "I understand, I quite understand," cried Fetyukovitch; as though he, too, were embarrassed and in haste to excuse himself. "You, like any other, might well be interested in an acquaintance with a young and beautiful woman who would readily entertain the elite of the youth of the neighbourhood, but... I only wanted to know... It has come to my knowledge, that Madame Svyetlov was particularly anxious a couple of months ago to make the acquaintance of the younger Karamazov, Alexey Fyodorovitch, and promised you twenty-five roubles, if you would bring him to her in his monastic dress. And that actually took place on the evening of the day on which the terrible crime, which is the subject of the present investigation, was committed. You brought Alexey Karamazov to Madame Svyetlov, and did you receive the twenty-five roubles from Madame Svyetlov as a reward, that's what I wanted to hear from you?" "It was a joke.... I don't, see of what interest that can be to you.... I took it for a joke... meaning to give it back later..." "Then you did take - but you have not given it back yet... or have you?" "That's of no consequence," muttered Rakitin, "I refuse to answer such questions.... Of course, I shall give it back." The President intervened, but Fetyukovitch declared he had no more questions to ask of the witness. Mr. Rakitin left the witness-box not absolutely without a stain upon his character. The effect left by the lofty idealism of his speech was somewhat marred, and Fetyukovitch's expression, as he watched him walk away, seemed to suggest to the public "this is a specimen of the lofty-minded persons who accuse him." I remember that this incident, too, did not pass off without an outbreak from Mitya. Enraged by the tone in which Rakitin had referred to Grushenka, he suddenly shouted "Bernard!" When, after Rakitin's cross-examination, the President asked the prisoner if he had anything to say, Mitya cried loudly: "Since I've been arrested, he has borrowed money from me! He is a contemptible Bernard and opportunist, and he doesn't believe in God; he took the bishop in!" Mitya of course, was pulled up again for the intemperance of his language, but Rakitin was done for. Captain Snegiryov's evidence was a failure, too, but from quite a different reason. He appeared in ragged and dirty clothes, muddy boots, and in spite of the vigilance and expert observation of the police officers, he turned out to be hopelessly drunk. On being asked about Mitya's attack upon him, he refused to answer. "God bless him. Ilusha told me not to. God will make it up to me yonder." "Who told you not to tell? Of whom are you talking?" "Ilusha, my little son. 'Father, father, how he insulted you!' He said that at the stone. Now he is dying..." The captain suddenly began sobbing, and plumped down on His knees before the President. He was hurriedly led away amidst the laughter of the public. The effect prepared by the prosecutor did not come off at all. Fetyukovitch went on making the most of every opportunity, and amazed people more and more by his minute knowledge of the case. Thus, for example, Trifon Borissovitch made a great impression, of course, very prejudicial to Mitya. He calculated almost on his fingers that on his first visit to Mokroe, Mitya must have spent three thousand roubles, "or very little less. Just think what he squandered on those gypsy girls alone! And as for our lousy peasants, it wasn't a case of flinging half a rouble in the street, he made them presents of twenty-five roubles each, at least, he didn't give them less. And what a lot of money was simply stolen from him! And if anyone did steal, he did not leave a receipt. How could one catch the thief when he was flinging his money away all the time? Our peasants are robbers, you know; they have no care for their souls. And the way he went on with the girls, our village girls! They're completely set up since then, I tell you, they used to be poor." He recalled, in fact, every item of expense and added it all up. So the theory that only fifteen hundred had been spent and the rest had been put aside in a little bag seemed inconceivable. "I saw three thousand as clear as a penny in his hands, I saw it with my own eyes; I should think I ought to know how to reckon money," cried Trifon Borissovitch, doing his best to satisfy "his betters." When Fetyukovitch had to cross-examine him, he scarcely tried to refute his evidence, but began asking him about an incident at the first carousal at Mokroe, a month before the arrest, when Timofey and another peasant called Akim had picked up on the floor in the passage a hundred roubles dropped by Mitya when he was drunk, and had given them to Trifon Borissovitch and received a rouble each from him for doing so. "Well," asked the lawyer," did you give that hundred roubles back to Mr. Karamazov?" Trifon Borissovitch shuffled in vain.... He was obliged, after the peasants had been examined, to admit the finding of the hundred roubles, only adding that he had religiously returned it all to Dmitri Fyodorovitch "in perfect honesty, and it's only because his honour was in liquor at the time, he wouldn't remember it." But, as he had denied the incident of the hundred roubles till the peasants had been called to prove it, his evidence as to returning the money to Mitya was naturally regarded with great suspicion. So one of the most dangerous witnesses brought forward by the prosecution was again discredited. The same thing happened with the Poles. They took up an attitude of pride and independence; they vociferated loudly that they had both been in the service of the Crown, and that "Pan Mitya" had offered them three thousand "to buy their honour," and that they had seen a large sum of money in his hands. Pan Mussyalovitch introduced a terrible number of Polish words into his sentences, and seeing that this only increased his consequence in the eyes of the President and the prosecutor, grew more and more pompous, and ended by talking in Polish altogether. But Fetyukovitch caught them, too, in his snares. Trifon Borissovitch, recalled, was forced, in spite of his evasions, to admit that Pan Vrublevsky had substituted another pack of cards for the one he had provided, and that Pan Mussyalovitch had cheated during the game. Kalgonov confirmed this, and both the Poles left the witness-box with damaged reputations, amidst laughter from the public. Then exactly the same thing happened with almost all the most dangerous witnesses. Fetyukovitch succeeded in casting a slur on all of them, and dismissing them with a certain derision. The lawyers and experts were lost in admiration, and were only at a loss to understand what good purpose could be served by it, for all, I repeat, felt that the case for the prosecution could not be refuted, but was growing more and more tragically overwhelming. But from the confidence of the "great magician" they saw that he was serene, and they waited, feeling that "such a man" had not come from Petersburg for nothing, and that he was not a man to return unsuccessful.