She had not seen the envelope with the money, and had only heard from “the villain” that Fyodor Pavlovich had some sort of envelope with three thousand in it. “Only it was all foolishness—I just laughed—I wouldn’t have gone there for anything ...”
“When you said ‘the villain’ just now, whom did you mean?” the prosecutor inquired.
“Why, the lackey, Smerdyakov, who killed his master and hanged himself last night.” Of course she was asked at once what grounds she had for such a definite accusation, but it turned out that she, too, had no grounds for it.
“Dmitri Fyodorovich told me so himself, and you can believe him. It was that man-stealer who ruined him, that’s what; she alone is the cause of everything, that’s what,” Grushenka added, all shuddering from hatred, as it were, and a malicious note rang in her voice.
Again she was asked whom she was hinting at.
“At the young lady, at this Katerina Ivanovna here. She sent for me once, treated me to chocolate, wanted to charm me. She has little true shame in her, that’s what ...”
Here the presiding judge stopped her, quite sternly now, asking her to moderate her language. But the jealous woman’s heart was already aflame and she was prepared even to hurl herself into the abyss . . .
“At the time of the arrest in the village of Mokroye,” the prosecutor asked, recalling, “everyone saw and heard how you ran out of the other room, crying: ‘I am guilty of it all, we’ll go to penal servitude together! ‘ Meaning that at that moment you were already certain he had killed his father?”
“I don’t remember what my feelings were then,” Grushenka replied. “Everyone was shouting that he had killed his father, so I felt that I was guilty, and that he had killed him because of me. But as soon as he said he was not guilty, I believed him at once, and I still believe him and shall always believe him: he’s not the sort of man who would lie.”
It was Fetyukovich’s turn to ask questions. Incidentally, I remember him asking about Rakitin and the twenty-five roubles “for bringing Alexei Fyodorovich Karamazov to you.”
“And why is it so surprising that he took the money?” Grushenka grinned with contemptuous spite. “He was forever coming to wheedle money out of me, sometimes he’d take up to thirty roubles a month, mostly for his own pleasures: he had enough money to eat and drink without me.”
“And on what grounds were you so generous to Mr. Rakitin? “ Fetyukovich picked up, ignoring the fact that the judge was stirring uneasily.
“But he’s my cousin. My mother and his mother are sisters. Only he always begged me not to tell anyone here, because he was so ashamed of me.”
This new fact came as a complete surprise to everyone, no one in the entire town knew of it, nor even in the monastery, not even Mitya knew it. It was said that Rakitin turned crimson from shame in his seat. Grushenka had found out somehow, even before she entered the courtroom, that he had testified against Mitya, and it made her angry. All of Mr. Rakitin’s earlier speech, all its nobility, all its outbursts against serfdom, against the civil disorder of Russia—all of it was now finally scrapped and destroyed in the general opinion. Fetyukovich was pleased: once again it was a small godsend. But in general Grushenka was not questioned for very long, and, of course, she could not say anything especially new. She left a rather unpleasant impression on the public. Hundreds of contemptuous looks were fixed on her when, having finished her testimony, she went and sat down in the courtroom a good distance from Katerina Ivanovna. Mitya was silent throughout her questioning, as if turned to stone, his eyes fixed on the ground.
The next witness to appear was Ivan Fyodorovich.
Chapter 5: A Sudden Catastrophe
I will note that he had already been called once, ahead of Alyosha. But the marshal had reported to the presiding judge that, owing to sudden illness or an attack of some kind, the witness could not appear at that moment, but that as soon as he felt better he would be ready to give his testimony whenever they wanted. Somehow, by the way, no one heard this, and it became known only afterwards. His appearance at first went almost unnoticed: the main witnesses, especially the two rival women, had already been questioned; curiosity, for the time being, was satisfied. One could even sense some weariness in the public. They faced the prospect of listening to several more witnesses, who probably had nothing special to say in view of all that had already been said. And time was passing. Ivan Fyodorovich somehow approached remarkably slowly, not looking at anyone and even with his head bowed, as though gloomily pondering something. He was dressed impeccably, but his face produced a morbid impression, at least on me: there was in his face something, as it were, touched with clay, something resembling the face of a dying man. His eyes were dull; he raised them and looked slowly around the courtroom. Alyosha suddenly jumped up from his chair and groaned: aah! I remember it. But not many people caught that either.
The presiding judge began by saying that he was not under oath, that he could give evidence or withhold it, but that, of course, all testimony should be given in good conscience, etc., etc. Ivan Fyodorovich listened and looked at him dully; but suddenly his face began slowly spreading into a grin, and as soon as the judge, who looked at him in surprise, finished speaking, he suddenly burst into laughter.
“Well, anything else?” he asked loudly.
A hush came over the courtroom; something was sensed, as it were. The judge became uneasy.
“You ... are perhaps still a bit unwell?” he said, looking around for the marshal.
“Don’t worry, Your Honor, I’m well enough, and I have something curious to tell you,” Ivan Fyodorovich suddenly replied, quite calmly and respectfully.
“You mean you have some specific information to present? “ the judge went on, still mistrustfully.
Ivan Fyodorovich looked down, hesitated for a few seconds, and, raising his head again, stammered, as it were, in reply:
“No ... I don’t. Nothing special.”
They began asking him questions. He replied somehow quite reluctantly, somehow with exaggerated brevity, even with a sort of repugnance, which increased more and more, though, by the way, his answers were still sensible. To many questions he pleaded ignorance. No, he did not know anything of his father’s accountings with Dmitri Fyodorovich. “Nor was I concerned with it,” he said. Yes, he had heard the defendant threaten to kill his father. Yes, he had heard about the money in the envelope from Smerdyakov . . .