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
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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 respect-fully. 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, de-scribing 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
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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?»
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«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
