Resurrection
“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 arm-chairs, 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
high-backed 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 red-haired, 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 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
high-backed 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?”