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

of the platform,

the priest passed his bald, grey head sideways through the greasy

opening of the stole, and, having rearranged his thin hair, he

again turned to the jury. “Now, raise your right arms in this

way, and put your fingers together, thus,” he said, with his

tremulous old voice, lifting his fat, dimpled hand, and putting

the thumb and two first fingers together, as if taking a pinch of

something. “Now, repeat after me, ‘I promise and swear, by the

Almighty God, by His holy gospels, and by the life-giving cross

of our Lord, that in this work which,’” he said, pausing between

each sentence—“don’t let your arm down; hold it like this,” he

remarked to a young man who had lowered his arm—“‘that in this

work which … ’”

 

The dignified man with the whiskers, the colonel, the merchant,

and several more held their arms and fingers as the priest

required of them, very high, very exactly, as if they liked doing

it; others did it unwillingly and carelessly. Some repeated the

words too loudly, and with a defiant tone, as if they meant to

say, “In spite of all, I will and shall speak.” Others whispered

very low, and not fast enough, and then, as if frightened,

hurried to catch up the priest. Some kept their fingers tightly

together, as if fearing to drop the pinch of invisible something

they held; others kept separating and folding theirs. Every one

save the old priest felt awkward, but he was sure he was

fulfilling a very useful and important duty.

 

After the swearing in, the president requested the jury to choose

a foreman, and the jury, thronging to the door, passed out into

the debating-room, where almost all of them at once began to

smoke cigarettes. Some one proposed the dignified man as foreman,

and he was unanimously accepted. Then the jurymen put out their

cigarettes and threw them away and returned to the court. The

dignified man informed the president that he was chosen foreman,

and all sat down again on the highbacked chairs.

 

Everything went smoothly, quickly, and not without a certain

solemnity. And this exactitude, order, and solemnity evidently

pleased those who took part in it: it strengthened the impression

that they were fulfilling a serious and valuable public duty.

Nekhludoff, too, felt this.

 

As soon as the jurymen were seated, the president made a speech

on their rights, obligations, and responsibilities. While

speaking he kept changing his position; now leaning on his right,

now on his left hand, now against the back, then on the arms of

his chair, now putting the papers straight, now handling his

pencil and paper-knife.

 

According to his words, they had the right of interrogating the

prisoners through the president, to use paper and pencils, and to

examine the articles put in as evidence. Their duty was to judge

not falsely, but justly. Their responsibility meant that if the

secrecy of their discussion were violated, or communications were

established with outsiders, they would be liable to punishment.

Every one listened with an expression of respectful attention.

The merchant, diffusing a smell of brandy around him, and

restraining loud hiccups, approvingly nodded his head at every

sentence.

 

CHAPTER IX.

 

THE TRIAL—THE PRISONERS QUESTIONED.

 

When he had finished his speech, the president turned to the male

prisoner.

 

“Simeon Kartinkin, rise.”

 

Simeon jumped up, his lips continuing to move nervously and

inaudibly.

 

“Your name?”

 

“Simon Petrov Kartinkin,” he said, rapidly, with a cracked voice,

having evidently prepared the answer.

 

“What class do you belong to?”

 

“Peasant.”

 

“What government, district, and parish?”

 

“Toula Government, Krapivinskia district, Koupianovski parish,

the village Borki.”

 

“Your age?”

 

“Thirty-three; born in the year one thousand eight—”

 

“What religion?”

 

“Of the Russian religion, orthodox.”

 

“Married?”

 

“Oh, no, sir.”

 

“Your occupation?”

 

“I had a place in the Hotel Mauritania.”

 

“Have you ever been tried before?”

 

“I never got tried before, because, as we used to live

formerly—”

 

“So you never were tried before?”

 

“God forbid, never.”

 

“Have you received a copy of the indictment?”

 

“I have.”

 

“Sit down.”

 

“Euphemia Ivanovna Botchkova,” said the president, turning to the

next prisoner.

 

But Simon continued standing in front of Botchkova.

 

“Kartinkin, sit down!” Kartinkin continued standing.

 

“Kartinkin, sit down!” But Kartinkin sat down only when the

usher, with his head on one side, and with preternaturally

wide-open eyes, ran up, and said, in a tragic whisper, “Sit down,

sit down!”

 

Kartinkin sat down as hurriedly as he had risen, wrapping his

cloak round him, and again began moving his lips silently.

 

“Your name?” asked the president, with a weary sigh at being

obliged to repeat the same questions, without looking at the

prisoner, but glancing over a paper that lay before him. The

president was so used to his task that, in order to get quicker

through it all, he did two things at a time.

 

Botchkova was forty-three years old, and came from the town of

Kalomna. She, too, had been in service at the Hotel Mauritania.

 

“I have never been tried before, and have received a copy of the

indictment.” She gave her answers boldly, in a tone of voice as

if she meant to add to each answer, “And I don’t care who knows

it, and I won’t stand any nonsense.”

 

She did not wait to be told, but sat down as soon as she had

replied to the last question.

 

“Your name?” turning abruptly to the third prisoner. “You will

have to rise,” he added, softly and gently, seeing that Maslova

kept her seat.

 

Maslova got up and stood, with her chest expanded, looking at the

president with that peculiar expression of readiness in her

smiling black eyes.

 

“What is your name?”

 

“Lubov,” she said.

 

Nekhludoff had put on his pince-nez, looking at the prisoners

while they were being questioned.

 

“No, it is impossible,” he thought, not taking his eyes off the

prisoner. “Lubov! How can it be?” he thought to himself, after

hearing her answer. The president was going to continue his

questions, but the member with the spectacles interrupted him,

angrily whispering something. The president nodded, and turned

again to the prisoner.

 

“How is this,” he said, “you are not put down here as Lubov?”

 

The prisoner remained silent.

 

“I want your real name.”

 

“What is your baptismal name?” asked the angry member.

 

“Formerly I used to be called Katerina.”

 

“No, it cannot be,” said Nekhludoff to himself; and yet he was

now certain that this was she, that same girl, half ward, half

servant to his aunts; that Katusha, with whom he had once been in

love, really in love, but whom he had betrayed and then

abandoned, and never again brought to mind, for the memory would

have been too painful, would have convicted him too clearly,

proving that he who was so proud of his integrity had treated

this woman in a revolting, scandalous way.

 

Yes, this was she. He now clearly saw in her face that strange,

indescribable individuality which distinguishes every face from

all others; something peculiar, all its own, not to be found

anywhere else. In spite of the unhealthy pallor and the fulness

of the face, it was there, this sweet, peculiar individuality; on

those lips, in the slight squint of her eyes, in the voice,

particularly in the naive smile, and in the expression of

readiness on the face and figure.

 

“You should have said so,” remarked the president, again in a

gentle tone. “Your patronymic?”

 

“I am illegitimate.”

 

“Well, were you not called by your godfather’s name?”

 

“Yes, Mikhaelovna.”

 

“And what is it she can be guilty of?” continued Nekhludoff, in

his mind, unable to breathe freely.

 

“Your family name—your surname, I mean?” the president went on.

 

“They used to call me by my mother’s surname, Maslova.”

 

“What class?”

 

“Meschanka.” [the lowest town class or grade]

 

“Religion—orthodox?”

 

“Orthodox.”

 

“Occupation. What was your occupation?”

 

Maslova remained silent.

 

“What was your employment?”

 

“You know yourself,” she said, and smiled. Then, casting a

hurried look round the room, again turned her eyes on the

president.

 

There was something so unusual in the expression of her face, so

terrible and piteous in the meaning of the words she had uttered,

in this smile, and in the furtive glance she had cast round the

room, that the president was abashed, and for a few minutes

silence reigned in the court. The silence was broken by some one

among the public laughing, then somebody said “Ssh,” and the

president looked up and continued:

 

“Have you ever been tried before?”

 

“Never,” answered Maslova, softly, and sighed.

 

“Have you received a copy of the indictment?”

 

“I have,” she answered.

 

“Sit down.”

 

The prisoner leant back to pick up her skirt in the way a fine

lady picks up her train, and sat down, folding her small white

hands in the sleeves of her cloak, her eyes fixed on the

president. Her face was calm again.

 

The witnesses were called, and some sent away; the doctor who was

to act as expert was chosen and called into the court.

 

Then the secretary got up and began reading the indictment. He

read distinctly, though he pronounced the “I” and “r” alike, with

a loud voice, but so quickly that the words ran into one another

and formed one uninterrupted, dreary drone.

 

The judges bent now on one, now on the other arm of their chairs,

then on the table, then back again, shut and opened their eyes,

and whispered to each other. One of the gendarmes several times

repressed a yawn.

 

The prisoner Kartinkin never stopped moving his cheeks.

Botchkova sat quite still and straight, only now and then

scratching her head under the kerchief.

 

Maslova sat immovable, gazing at the reader; only now and then

she gave a slight start, as if wishing to reply, blushed, sighed

heavily, and changed the position of her hands, looked round, and

again fixed her eyes on the reader.

 

Nekhludoff sat in the front row on his highbacked chair, without

removing his pince-nez, and looked at Maslova, while a

complicated and fierce struggle was going on in his soul.

 

CHAPTER X.

 

THE TRIAL—THE INDICTMENT.

 

The indictment ran as follows: On the 17th of January, 18—, in

the lodging-house Mauritania, occurred the sudden death of the

Second Guild merchant, Therapont Emilianovich Smelkoff, of

Kourgan.

 

The local police doctor of the fourth district certified that

death was due to rupture of the heart, owing to the excessive use

of alcoholic liquids. The body of the said Smelkoff was interred.

After several days had elapsed, the merchant Timokhin, a

fellow-townsman and companion of the said Smelkoff, returned from

St. Petersburg, and hearing the circumstances that accompanied

the death of the latter, notified his suspicions that the death

was caused by poison, given with intent to rob the said Smelkoff

of his money. This suspicion was corroborated on inquiry, which

proved:

 

1. That shortly before his death the said Smelkoff had received

the sum of 3,800 roubles from the bank. When an inventory of the

property of the deceased was made, only 312 roubles and 16

copecks were found.

 

2. The whole day and night preceding his death the said Smelkoff

spent with Lubka (alias Katerina Maslova) at her home and in the

lodging-house Mauritania, which she also visited at the said

Smelkoff’s request during his absence, to get some money, which

she took out of his portmanteau in the presence of the servants

of the lodging-house Mauritania,