AT ten o'clock in the morning of the day following the events I

have described, the trial of Dmitri Karamazov began in our district

court.

    I hasten to emphasise the fact that I am far from esteeming myself

capable of reporting all that took place at the trial in full

detail, or even in the actual order of events. I imagine that to

mention everything with full explanation would fill a volume, even a

very large one. And so I trust I may not be reproached, for

confining myself to what struck me. I may have selected as of most

interest what was of secondary importance, and may have omitted the

most prominent and essential details. But I see I shall do better

not to apologise. I will do my best and the reader will see for

himself that I have done all I can.

    And, to begin with, before entering the court, I will mention what

surprised me most on that day. Indeed, as it appeared later,

everyone was surprised at it, too. We all knew that the affair had

aroused great interest, that everyone was burning with impatience

for the trial to begin, that it had been a subject of talk,

conjecture, exclamation and surmise for the last two months in local

society. Everyone knew, too, that the case had become known throughout

Russia, but yet we had not imagined that it had aroused such

burning, such intense, interest in everyone, not only among ourselves,

but all over Russia. This became evident at the trial this day.

    Visitors had arrived not only from the chief town of our province,

but from several other Russian towns, as well as from Moscow and

Petersburg. Among them were lawyers, ladies, and even several

distinguished personages. Every ticket of admission had been

snatched up. A special place behind the table at which the three

judges sat was set apart for the most distinguished and important of

the men visitors; a row of arm-chairs had been placed there- something

exceptional, which had never been allowed before. A large proportion

not less than half of the public- were ladies. There was such a

large number of lawyers from all parts that they did not know where to

seat them, for every ticket had long since been eagerly sought for and

distributed. I saw at the end of the room, behind the platform, a

special partition hurriedly put up, behind which all these lawyers

were admitted, and they thought themselves lucky to have standing room

there, for all chairs had been removed for the sake of space, and

the crowd behind the partition stood throughout the case closely

packed, shoulder to shoulder.

    Some of the ladies, especially those who came from a distance,

made their appearance in the gallery very smartly dressed, but the

majority of the ladies were oblivious even of dress. Their faces

betrayed hysterical, intense, almost morbid, curiosity. A peculiar

fact- established afterwards by many observations- was that almost all

the ladies, or, at least the vast majority of them, were on Mitya's

side and in favour of his being acquitted. This was perhaps chiefly

owing to his reputation as a conqueror of female hearts. It was

known that two women rivals were to appear in the case. One of them-

Katerina Ivanovna- was an object of general interest. All sorts of

extraordinary tales were told about her, amazing anecdotes of her

passion for Mitya, in spite of his crime. Her pride and

"aristocratic connections" were particularly insisted upon (she had

called upon scarcely anyone in the town). People said she intended

to petition the Government for leave to accompany the criminal to

Siberia and to be married to him somewhere in the mines. The

appearance of Grushenka in court was awaited with no less

impatience. The public was looking forward with anxious curiosity to

the meeting of the two rivals- the proud aristocratic girl and "the

hetaira." But Grushenka was a more familiar figure to the ladies of

the district than Katerina Ivanovna. They had already seen "the

woman who had ruined Fyodor Pavlovitch and his unhappy son," and

all, almost without exception, wondered how father and son could be so

in love with "such a very common, ordinary Russian girl, who was not

even pretty."

    In brief, there was a great deal of talk. I know for a fact that

there were several serious family quarrels on Mitya's account in our

town. Many ladies quarrelled violently with their husbands over

differences of opinion about the dreadful case, and it was that the

husbands of these ladies, far from being favourably disposed to the

prisoner, should enter the court bitterly prejudiced against him. In

fact, one may say pretty certainly that the masculine, as

distinguished from the feminine, part of the audience was biased

against the prisoner. There were numbers of severe, frowning, even

vindictive faces. Mitya, indeed, had managed to offend many people

during his stay in the town. Some of the visitors were, of course,

in excellent spirits and quite unconcerned as to the fate of Mitya

personally. But all were interested in the trial, and the majority

of the men were certainly hoping for the conviction of the criminal,

except perhaps the lawyers, who were more interested in the legal than

in the moral aspect of the case.

    Everybody was excited at the presence of the celebrated lawyer,

Fetyukovitch. His talent was well known, and this was not the first

time he had defended notorious criminal cases in the provinces. And if

he defended them, such cases became celebrated and long remembered all

over Russia. There were stories, too, about our prosecutor and about

the President of the Court. It was said that Ippolit Kirillovitch

was in a tremor at meeting Fetyukovitch, and that they had been

enemies from the beginning of their careers in Petersburg, that though

our sensitive prosecutor, who always considered that he had been

aggrieved by someone in Petersburg because his talents had not been

properly appreciated, was keenly excited over the Karamazov case,

and was even dreaming of rebuilding his flagging fortunes by means

of it, Fetyukovitch, they said, was his one anxiety. But these rumours

were not quite just. Our prosecutor was not one of those men who

lose heart in face of danger. On the contrary, his self-confidence

increased with the increase of danger. It must be noted that our

prosecutor was in general too hasty and morbidly impressionable. He

would put his whole soul into some case and work at it as though his

whole fate and his whole fortune depended on its result. This was

the subject of some ridicule in the legal world, for just by this

characteristic our prosecutor had gained a wider notoriety than

could have been expected from his modest position. People laughed

particularly at his passion for psychology. In my opinion, they were

wrong, and our prosecutor was, I believe, a character of greater depth

than was generally supposed. But with his delicate health he had

failed to make his mark at the outset of his career and had never made

up for it later.

    As for the President of our Court, I can only say that he was a

humane and cultured man, who had a practical knowledge of his work and

progressive views. He was rather ambitious, but did not concern

himself greatly about his future career. The great aim of his life was

to be a man of advanced ideas. He was, too, a man of connections and

property. He felt, as we learnt afterwards, rather strongly about

the Karamazov case, but from a social, not from a personal standpoint.

He was interested in it as a social phenomenon, in its

classification and its character as a product of our social

conditions, as typical of the national character, and so on, and so

on. His attitude to the personal aspect of the case, to its tragic

significance and the persons involved in it, including the prisoner,

was rather indifferent and abstract, as was perhaps fitting, indeed.

    The court was packed and overflowing long before the judges made

their appearance. Our court is the best hall in the town- spacious,

lofty, and good for sound. On the right of the judges, who were on a

raised platform, a table and two rows of chairs had been put ready for

the jury. On the left was the place for the prisoner and the counsel

for the defence. In the middle of the court, near the judges, was a

table with the "material proofs." On it lay Fyodor Pavlovitch's

white silk dressing-gown, stained with blood; the fatal brass pestle

with which the supposed murder had been committed; Mitya's shirt, with

a blood-stained sleeve; his coat, stained with blood in patches over

the pocket in which he had put his handkerchief; the handkerchief

itself, stiff with blood and by now quite yellow; the pistol loaded by

Mitya at Perhotin's with a view to suicide, and taken from him on

the sly at Mokroe by Trifon Borrissovitch; the envelope in which the

three thousand roubles had been put ready for Grushenka, the narrow

pink ribbon with which it had been tied, and many other articles I

don't remember. In the body of the hall, at some distance, came the

seats for the public. But in front of the balustrade a few chairs

had been placed for witnesses who remained in the court after giving

their evidence.

    At ten o'clock the three judges arrived- the President, one

honorary justice of the peace, and one other. The prosecutor, of

course, entered immediately after. The President was a short, stout,

thick-set man of fifty, with a dyspeptic complexion, dark hair turning

grey and cut short, and a red ribbon, of what Order I don't

remember. The prosecutor struck me and the others, too, as looking

particularly pale, almost green. His face seemed to have grown

suddenly thinner, perhaps in a single night, for I had seen him

looking as usual only two days before. The President began with asking

the court whether all the jury were present.

    But I see I can't go on like this, partly because some things I

did not hear, others I did not notice, and others I have forgotten,

but most of all because, as I have said before, I have literally no

time or space to mention everything that was said and done. I only

know that neither side objected to very many of the jurymen. I

remember the twelve jurymen- four were petty officials of the town,

two were merchants, and six peasants and artisans of the town. I

remember, long before the trial, questions were continually asked with

some surprise, especially by ladies: "Can such a delicate, complex and

psychological case be submitted for decision to petty officials and

even peasants?" and "What can an official, still more a peasant,

understand in such an affair?" All the four officials in the jury

were, in fact, men of no consequence and of low rank. Except one who

was rather younger, they were grey-headed men, little known in

society, who had vegetated on a pitiful salary, and who probably had

elderly, unpresentable wives and crowds of children, perhaps even

without shoes and stockings. At most, they spent their leisure over

cards and, of course, had never read a single book. The two

merchants looked respectable, but were strangely silent and stolid.

One of them was close-shaven, and was dressed in European style; the

other had a small, grey beard, and wore a red ribbon with some sort of

a medal upon it on his neck. There is no need to speak of the artisans

and the peasants. The artisans of Skotoprigonyevsk are almost

peasants, and even work on the land. Two of them also wore European

dress, and, perhaps for that reason, were dirtier and more

uninviting-looking than the others. So that one might well wonder,

as I did as soon as I had looked at them, "what men like that could

possibly make of such a case?" Yet their faces made a strangely

imposing, almost menacing, impression; they were stern and frowning.

    At last the President opened the case of the murder of Fyodor

Pavlovitch Karamazov. I don't quite remember how he described him. The

court usher was told to bring in the prisoner, and Mitya made his

appearance. There was a hush through the court. One could have heard a

fly. I don't know how it was with others, but Mitya made a most

unfavourable impression on me. He looked an awful dandy in a brand-new

frock-coat. I heard afterwards that he had ordered it in Moscow

expressly for the occasion from his own tailor, who had his measure.

He wore immaculate black kid gloves and exquisite linen. He walked

in with his yard-long strides, looking stiffly straight in front of

him, and sat down in his place with a most unperturbed air.

    At the same moment the counsel for defence, the celebrated

Fetyukovitch, entered, and a sort of subdued hum passed through the

court. He was a tall, spare man, with long thin legs, with extremely

long, thin, pale fingers, clean-shaven face, demurely brushed,

rather short hair, and thin lips that were at times curved into

something between a sneer and a smile. He looked about forty. His face

would have been pleasant, if it had not been for his eyes, which, in

themselves small and inexpressive, were set remarkably close together,

with only the thin, long nose as a dividing line between them. In

fact, there was something strikingly birdlike about his face. He was

in evening dress and white tie.

    I remember the President's first questions to Mitya, about his

name, his calling, and so on. Mitya answered sharply, and his voice

was so unexpectedly loud that it made the President start and look

at the prisoner with surprise. Then followed a list of persons who

were to take part in the proceedings- that is, of the witnesses and

experts. It was a long list. Four of the witnesses were not present-

Miusov, who had given evidence at the preliminary inquiry, but was now

in Paris; Madame Hohlakov and Maximov, who were absent through

illness; and Smerdyakov, through his sudden death, of which an

official statement from the police was presented. The news of

Smerdyakov's death produced a sudden stir and whisper in the court.

Many of the audience, of course, had not heard of the sudden

suicide. What struck people most was Mitya's sudden outburst. As

soon as the statement of Smerdyakov's death was made, he cried out

aloud from his place:

    "He was a dog and died like a dog!"

    I remember how his counsel rushed to him, and how the President

addressed him, threatening to take stern measures, if such an

irregularity were repeated. Mitya nodded and in a subdued voice

repeated several times abruptly to his counsel, with no show of

regret:

    "I won't again, I won't. It escaped me. I won't do it again."

    And, of course, this brief episode did him no good with the jury

or the public. His character was displayed, and it spoke for itself.

It was under the influence of this incident that the opening statement

was read. It was rather short, but circumstantial. It only stated

the chief reasons why he had been arrested, why he must be tried,

and so on. Yet it made a great impression on me. The clerk read it

loudly and distinctly. The whole tragedy was suddenly unfolded

before us, concentrated, in bold relief, in a fatal and pitiless

light. I remember how, immediately after it had been read, the

President asked Mitya in a loud impressive voice:

    "Prisoner, do you plead guilty?"

    Mitya suddenly rose from his seat.

    "I plead guilty to drunkenness and dissipation," he exclaimed,

again in a startling, almost frenzied, voice, "to idleness and

debauchery. I meant to become an honest man for good, just at the

moment when I was struck down by fate. But I am not guilty of the

death of that old man, my enemy and my father. No, no, I am not guilty

of robbing him! I could not be. Dmitri Karamazov is a scoundrel, but

not a thief."

    He sat down again, visibly trembling all over. The President again

briefly, but impressively, admonished him to answer only what was

asked, and not to go off into irrelevant exclamations. Then he ordered

the case to proceed. All the witnesses were led up to take the oath.

Then I saw them all together. The brothers of the prisoner were,

however, allowed to give evidence without taking the oath. After an

exhortation from the priest and the President, the witnesses were

led away and were made to sit as far as possible apart from one

another. Then they began calling them up one by one.