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

does it matter?”

 

“I cannot do it,” said Breve; and, waving his arm, he ran into

his private room.

 

He was putting off the case of the Skoptzy on account of the

absence of a very unimportant witness, his real reason being that

if they were tried by an educated jury they might possibly be

acquitted.

 

By an agreement with the president this case was to be tried in

the coming session at a provincial town, where there would be

more peasants, and, therefore, more chances of conviction.

 

The movement in the corridor increased. The people crowded most

at the doors of the Civil Court, in which the case that the

dignified man talked about was being heard.

 

An interval in the proceeding occurred, and the old woman came

out of the court, whose property that genius of an advocate had

found means of getting for his client, a person versed in law who

had no right to it whatever. The judges knew all about the case,

and the advocate and his client knew it better still, but the

move they had invented was such that it was impossible not to

take the old woman’s property and not to hand it over to the

person versed in law.

 

The old woman was stout, well dressed, and had enormous flowers

on her bonnet; she stopped as she came out of the door, and

spreading out her short fat arms and turning to her advocate, she

kept repeating. “What does it all mean? just fancy!”

 

The advocate was looking at the flowers in her bonnet, and

evidently not listening to her, but considering some question or

other.

 

Next to the old woman, out of the door of the Civil Court, his

broad, starched shirt front glistening from under his low-cut

waistcoat, with a self-satisfied look on his face, came the

celebrated advocate who had managed to arrange matters so that

the old woman lost all she had, and the person versed in the law

received more than 100,000 roubles. The advocate passed close to

the old woman, and, feeling all eyes directed towards him, his

whole bearing seemed to say: “No expressions of deference are

required.”

 

CHAPTER VII.

 

THE OFFICIALS OF THE COURT.

 

At last Matthew Nikitich also arrived, and the usher, a thin man,

with a long neck and a kind of sideways walk, his nether lip

protruding to one side, which made him resemble a turkey, came

into the jurymen’s room.

 

This usher was an honest man, and had a university education, but

could not keep a place for any length of time, as he was subject

to fits of drunkenness. Three months before a certain countess,

who patronised his wife, had found him this place, and he was

very pleased to have kept it so long.

 

“Well, sirs, is everybody here?” he asked, putting his pince-nez

on his nose, and looking round.

 

“Everybody, I think,” said the jolly merchant.

 

“All right; we’ll soon see.” And, taking a list from his pocket,

he began calling out the names, looking at the men, sometimes

through and sometimes over his pince-nez.

 

“Councillor of State, [grades such as this are common in Russia,

and mean very little] J. M. Nikiforoff!”

 

“I am he,” said the dignified-looking man, well versed in the

habits of the law court.

 

“Ivan Semionovitch Ivanoff, retired colonel!”

 

“Here!” replied a thin man, in the uniform of a retired officer.

 

“Merchant of the Second Guild, Peter Baklasheff!”

 

“Here we are, ready!” said the good-humoured merchant, with a

broad smile.

 

“Lieutenant of the Guards, Prince Dmitri Nekhludoff!”

 

“I am he,” answered Nekhludoff.

 

The usher bowed to him, looking over his pince-nez, politely and

pleasantly, as if wishing to distinguish him from the others.

 

“Captain Youri Demitrievitch-Dantchenko, merchant; Grigori

Euphimitch Kouleshoff,” etc. All but two were present.

 

“Now please to come to the court, gentlemen,” said the usher,

pointing to the door, with an amiable wave of his hand.

 

All moved towards the door, pausing to let each other pass. Then

they went through the corridor into the court.

 

The court was a large, long room. At one end there was a raised

platform, with three steps leading up to it, on which stood a

table, covered with a green cloth trimmed with a fringe of a

darker shade. At the table were placed three armchairs, with

high-carved oak backs; on the wall behind them hung a

full-length, brightly-coloured portrait of the Emperor in uniform

and ribbon, with one foot in advance, and holding a sword. In the

right corner hung a case, with an image of Christ crowned with

thorns, and beneath it stood a lectern, and on the same side the

prosecuting attorney’s desk. On the left, opposite the desk, was

the secretary’s table, and in front of it, nearer the public, an

oak grating, with the prisoners’ bench, as yet unoccupied, behind

it. Besides all this, there were on the right side of the

platform highbacked ashwood chairs for the jury, and on the

floor below tables for the advocates. All this was in the front

part of the court, divided from the back by a grating.

 

The back was all taken up by seats in tiers. Sitting on the front

seats were four women, either servant or factory girls, and two

working men, evidently overawed by the grandeur of the room, and

not venturing to speak above a whisper.

 

Soon after the jury had come in the usher entered, with his

sideward gait, and stepping to the front, called out in a loud

voice, as if he meant to frighten those present, “The Court is

coming!” Every one got up as the members stepped on to the

platform. Among them the president, with his muscles and fine

whiskers. Next came the gloomy member of the Court, who was now

more gloomy than ever, having met his brother-in-law, who

informed him that he had just called in to see his sister (the

member’s wife), and that she had told him that there would be no

dinner there.

 

“So that, evidently, we shall have to call in at a cook shop,”

the brother-in-law added, laughing.

 

“It is not at all funny,” said the gloomy member, and became

gloomier still.

 

Then at last came the third member of the Court, the same Matthew

Nikitich, who was always late. He was a bearded man, with large,

round, kindly eyes. He was suffering from a catarrh of the

stomach, and, according to his doctor’s advice, he had begun

trying a new treatment, and this had kept him at home longer than

usual. Now, as he was ascending the platform, he had a pensive

air. He was in the habit of making guesses in answer to all sorts

of self-put questions by different curious means. Just now he had

asked whether the new treatment would be beneficial, and had

decided that it would cure his catarrh if the number of steps

from the door to his chair would divide by three. He made 26

steps, but managed to get in a 27th just by his chair.

 

The figures of the president and the members in their uniforms,

with gold-embroidered collars, looked very imposing. They seemed

to feel this themselves, and, as if overpowered by their own

grandeur, hurriedly sat down on the high backed chairs behind the

table with the green cloth, on which were a triangular article

with an eagle at the top, two glass vases—something like those

in which sweetmeats are kept in refreshment rooms—an inkstand,

pens, clean paper, and good, newly-cut pencils of different

kinds.

 

The public prosecutor came in with the judges. With his portfolio

under one arm, and swinging the other, he hurriedly walked to his

seat near the window, and was instantly absorbed in reading and

looking through the papers, not wasting a single moment, in hope

of being ready when the business commenced. He had been public

prosecutor but a short time, and had only prosecuted four times

before this. He was very ambitious, and had firmly made up his

mind to get on, and therefore thought it necessary to get a

conviction whenever he prosecuted. He knew the chief facts of the

poisoning case, and had already formed a plan of action. He only

wanted to copy out a few points which he required.

 

The secretary sat on the opposite side of the platform, and,

having got ready all the papers he might want, was looking

through an article, prohibited by the censor, which he had

procured and read the day before. He was anxious to have a talk

about this article with the bearded member, who shared his views,

but wanted to look through it once more before doing so.

 

CHAPTER VIII.

 

SWEARING IN THE JURY.

 

The president, having looked through some papers and put a few

questions to the usher and the secretary, gave the order for the

prisoners to be brought in.

 

The door behind the grating was instantly opened, and two

gendarmes, with caps on their heads, and holding naked swords in

their hands, came in, followed by the prisoners, a redhaired,

freckled man, and two women. The man wore a prison cloak, which

was too long and too wide for him. He stuck out his thumbs, and

held his arms close to his sides, thus keeping the sleeves, which

were also too long, from slipping over his hands. Without looking

at the judges he gazed steadfastly at the form, and passing to

the other side of it, he sat down carefully at the very edge,

leaving plenty of room for the others. He fixed his eyes on the

president, and began moving the muscles of his cheeks, as if

whispering something. The woman who came next was also dressed in

a prison cloak, and had a prison kerchief round her head. She had

a sallow complexion, no eyebrows or lashes, and very red eyes.

This woman appeared perfectly calm. Having caught her cloak

against something, she detached it carefully, without any haste,

and sat down.

 

The third prisoner was Maslova.

 

As soon as she appeared, the eyes of all the men in the court

turned her way, and remained fixed on her white face, her

sparklingly-brilliant black eyes and the swelling bosom under the

prison cloak. Even the gendarme whom she passed on her way to her

seat looked at her fixedly till she sat down, and then, as if

feeling guilty, hurriedly turned away, shook himself, and began

staring at the window in front of him.

 

The president paused until the prisoners had taken their seats,

and when Maslova was seated, turned to the secretary.

 

Then the usual procedure commenced; the counting of the jury,

remarks about those who had not come, the fixing of the fines to

be exacted from them, the decisions concerning those who claimed

exemption, the appointing of reserve jurymen.

 

Having folded up some bits of paper and put them in one of the

glass vases, the president turned up the gold-embroidered cuffs

of his uniform a little way, and began drawing the lots, one by

one, and opening them. Nekhludoff was among the jurymen thus

drawn. Then, having let down his sleeves, the president requested

the priest to swear in the jury.

 

The old priest, with his puffy, red face, his brown gown, and his

gold cross and little order, laboriously moving his stiff legs,

came up to the lectern beneath the icon.

 

The jurymen got up, and crowded towards the lectern.

 

“Come up, please,” said the priest, pulling at the cross on his

breast with his plump hand, and waiting till all the jury had

drawn near. When they had all come up the steps