Resurrection, Leo Nikoleyevich Tolstoy [books to read this summer .txt] 📗

find no other term for this quality, though

he prized it very highly–and, besides, she thought more of him

than of anybody else, therefore evidently understood him. This

understanding of him, i.e., the recognition of his superior

merits, was to Nekhludoff a proof of her good sense and correct

judgment. Against marrying Missy in particular, was, that in all

likelihood, a girl with even higher qualities could be found,

that she was already 27, and that he was hardly her first love.

This last idea was painful to him. His pride would not reconcile

itself with the thought that she had loved some one else, even in

the past. Of course, she could not have known that she should

meet him, but the thought that she was capable of loving another

offended him. So that he had as many reasons for marrying as

against it; at any rate, they weighed equally with Nekhludoff,

who laughed at himself, and called himself the ass of the fable,

remaining like that animal undecided which haycock to turn to.

 

“At any rate, before I get an answer from Mary Vasilievna (the

marechal’s wife), and finish completely with her, I can do

nothing,” he said to himself. And the conviction that he might,

and was even obliged, to delay his decision, was comforting.

“Well, I shall consider all that later on,” he said to himself,

as the trap drove silently along the asphalt pavement up to the

doors of the Court.

 

“Now I must fulfil my public duties conscientiously, as I am in

the habit of always doing, and as I consider it right to do.

Besides, they are often interesting.” And he entered the hall of

the Law Courts, past the doorkeeper.

 

CHAPTER V.

 

THE JURYMEN.

 

The corridors of the Court were already full of activity. The

attendants hurried, out of breath, dragging their feet along the

ground without lifting them, backwards and forwards, with all

sorts of messages and papers. Ushers, advocates, and law officers

passed hither and thither. Plaintiffs, and those of the accused

who were not guarded, wandered sadly along the walls or sat

waiting.

 

“Where is the Law Court?” Nekhludoff asked of an attendant.

 

“Which? There is the Civil Court and the Criminal Court.”

 

“I am on the jury.”

 

“The Criminal Court you should have said. Here to the right, then

to the left—the second door.”

 

Nekhludoff followed the direction.

 

Meanwhile some of the Criminal Court jurymen who were late had

hurriedly passed into a separate room. At the door mentioned two

men stood waiting.

 

One, a tall, fat merchant, a kind-hearted fellow, had evidently

partaken of some refreshments and a glass of something, and was

in most pleasant spirits. The other was a shopman of Jewish

extraction. They were talking about the price of wool when

Nekhludoff came up and asked them if this was the jurymen’s room.

 

“Yes, my dear sir, this is it. One of us? On the jury, are you?”

asked the merchant, with a merry wink.

 

“Ah, well, we shall have a go at the work together,” he

continued, after Nekhludoff had answered in the affirmative. “My

name is Baklasheff, merchant of the Second Guild,” he said,

putting out his broad, soft, flexible hand.

 

“With whom have I the honour?”

 

Nekhludoff gave his name and passed into the jurymen’s room.

 

Inside the room were about ten persons of all sorts. They had

come but a short while ago, and some were sitting, others walking

up and down, looking at each other, and making each other’s

acquaintance. There was a retired colonel in uniform; some were

in frock coats, others in morning coats, and only one wore a

peasant’s dress.

 

Their faces all had a certain look of satisfaction at the

prospect of fulfilling a public duty, although many of them had

had to leave their businesses, and most were complaining of it.

 

The jurymen talked among themselves about the weather, the early

spring, and the business before them, some having been

introduced, others just guessing who was who. Those who were not

acquainted with Nekhludoff made haste to get introduced,

evidently looking upon this as an honour, and he taking it as his

due, as he always did when among strangers. Had he been asked why

he considered himself above the majority of people, he could not

have given an answer; the life he had been living of late was not

particularly meritorious. The fact of his speaking English,

French, and German with a good accent, and of his wearing the

best linen, clothes, ties, and studs, bought from the most

expensive dealers in these goods, he quite knew would not serve

as a reason for claiming superiority. At the same time he did

claim superiority, and accepted the respect paid him as his due,

and was hurt if he did not get it. In the jurymen’s room his

feelings were hurt by disrespectful treatment. Among the jury

there happened to be a man whom he knew, a former teacher of his

sister’s children, Peter Gerasimovitch. Nekhludoff never knew his

surname, and even bragged a bit about this. This man was now a

master at a public school. Nekhludoff could not stand his

familiarity, his self-satisfied laughter, his vulgarity, in

short.

 

“Ah ha! You’re also trapped.” These were the words, accompanied

with boisterous laughter, with which Peter Gerasimovitch greeted

Nekhludoff. “Have you not managed to get out of it?”

 

“I never meant to get out of it,” replied Nekhludoff, gloomily,

and in a tone of severity.

 

“Well, I call this being public spirited. But just wait until you

get hungry or sleepy; you’ll sing to another tune then.”

 

“This son of a priest will be saying ‘thou’ [in Russian, as in

many other languages, “thou” is used generally among people very

familiar with each other, or by superiors to inferiors] to me

next,” thought Nekhludoff, and walked away, with such a look of

sadness on his face, as might have been natural if he had just

heard of the death of all his relations. He came up to a group

that had formed itself round a clean-shaven, tall, dignified man,

who was recounting something with great animation. This man was

talking about the trial going on in the Civil Court as of a case

well known to himself, mentioning the judges and a celebrated

advocate by name. He was saying that it seemed wonderful how the

celebrated advocate had managed to give such a clever turn to the

affair that an old lady, though she had the right on her side,

would have to pay a large sum to her opponent. “The advocate is a

genius,” he said.

 

The listeners heard it all with respectful attention, and several

of them tried to put in a word, but the man interrupted them, as

if he alone knew all about it.

 

Though Nekhludoff had arrived late, he had to wait a long time.

One of the members of the Court had not yet come, and everybody

was kept waiting.

 

CHAPTER VI.

 

THE JUDGES.

 

The president, who had to take the chair, had arrived early. The

president was a tall, stout man, with long grey whiskers. Though

married, he led a very loose life, and his wife did the same, so

they did not stand in each other’s way. This morning he had

received a note from a Swiss girl, who had formerly been a

governess in his house, and who was now on her way from South

Russia to St. Petersburg. She wrote that she would wait for him

between five and six p.m. in the Hotel Italia. This made him wish

to begin and get through the sitting as soon as possible, so as

to have time to call before six p.m. on the little redhaired

Clara Vasilievna, with whom he had begun a romance in the country

last summer. He went into a private room, latched the door, took

a pair of dumb-bells out of a cupboard, moved his arms 20 times

upwards, downwards, forwards, and sideways, then holding the

dumb-bells above his head, lightly bent his knees three times.

 

“Nothing keeps one going like a cold bath and exercise,” he said,

feeling the biceps of his right arm with his left hand, on the

third finger of which he wore a gold ring. He had still to do the

moulinee movement (for he always went through those two exercises

before a long sitting), when there was a pull at the door. The

president quickly put away the dumb-bells and opened the door,

saying, “I beg your pardon.”

 

One of the members, a high-shouldered, discontented-looking man,

with gold spectacles, came into the room. “Matthew Nikitich has

again not come,” he said, in a dissatisfied tone.

 

“Not yet?” said the president, putting on his uniform. “He is

always late.”

 

“It is extraordinary. He ought to be ashamed of himself,” said

the member, angrily, and taking out a cigarette.

 

This member, a very precise man, had had an unpleasant encounter

with his wife in the morning, because she had spent her allowance

before the end of the month, and had asked him to give her some

money in advance, but he would not give way to her, and they had

a quarrel. The wife told him that if he were going to behave so,

he need not expect any dinner; there would be no dinner for him

at home. At this point he left, fearing that she might carry out

her threat, for anything might be expected from her. “This comes

of living a good, moral life,” he thought, looking at the

beaming, healthy, cheerful, and kindly president, who, with

elbows far apart, was smoothing his thick grey whiskers with his

fine white hands over the embroidered collar of his uniform. “He

is always contented and merry while I am suffering.”

 

The secretary came in and brought some document.

 

“Thanks, very much,” said the president, lighting a cigarette.

“Which case shall we take first, then?”

 

“The poisoning case, I should say,” answered the secretary, with

indifference.

 

“All right; the poisoning case let it be,” said the president,

thinking that he could get this case over by four o’clock, and

then go away. “And Matthew Nikitich; has he come?”

 

“Not yet.”

 

“And Breve?”

 

“He is here,” replied the secretary.

 

“Then if you see him, please tell him that we begin with the

poisoning case.” Breve was the public prosecutor, who was to read

the indictment in this case.

 

In the corridor the secretary met Breve, who, with up lifted

shoulders, a portfolio under one arm, the other swinging with the

palm turned to the front, was hurrying along the corridor,

clattering with his heels.

 

“Michael Petrovitch wants to know if you are ready?” the secretary

asked.

 

“Of course; I am always ready,” said the public prosecutor. “What

are we taking first?”

 

“The poisoning case.”

 

“That’s quite right,” said the public prosecutor, but did not

think it at all right. He had spent the night in a hotel playing

cards with a friend who was giving a farewell party. Up to five

in the morning they played and drank, so he had no time to look

at this poisoning case, and meant to run it through now. The

secretary, happening to know this, advised the president to begin

with the poisoning case. The secretary was a Liberal, even a

Radical, in opinion.

 

Breve was a Conservative; the secretary disliked him, and envied

him his position.

 

“Well, and how about the Skoptzy?” [a religious sect] asked the

secretary.

 

“I have already said that I cannot do it without witnesses, and

so I shall say to the Court.”

 

“Dear me, what