THE TRIAL--RESUMPTION.
In this state of mind Nekhludoff left the Court and went into the
jurymen’s room. He sat by the window smoking all the while, and hearing
what was being said around him.
The merry merchant seemed with all his heart to sympathise with
Smelkoff’s way of spending his time. “There, old fellow, that was
something like! Real Siberian fashion! He knew what he was about, no
fear! That’s the sort of wench for me.”
The foreman was stating his conviction, that in some way or other the
expert’s conclusions were the important thing. Peter Gerasimovitch
was joking about something with the Jewish clerk, and they burst out
laughing. Nekhludoff answered all the questions addressed to him in
monosyllables and longed only to be left in peace.
When the usher, with his sideways gait, called the jury back to the
Court, Nekhludoff was seized with fear, as if he were not going to
judge, but to be judged. In the depth of his soul he felt that he was a
scoundrel, who ought to be ashamed to look people in the face, yet,
by sheer force of habit, he stepped on to the platform in his usual
self-possessed manner, and sat down, crossing his legs and playing with
his pince-nez.
The prisoners had also been led out, and were now brought in again.
There were some new faces in the Court witnesses, and Nekhludoff noticed
that Maslova could not take her eyes off a very fat woman who sat in the
row in front of the grating, very showily dressed in silk and velvet, a
high hat with a large bow on her head, and an elegant little reticule on
her arm, which was bare to the elbow. This was, as he subsequently found
out, one of the witnesses, the mistress of the establishment to which
Maslova had belonged.
The examination of the witnesses commenced: they were asked their names,
religion, etc. Then, after some consultation as to whether the witnesses
were to be sworn in or not, the old priest came in again, dragging
his legs with difficulty, and, again arranging the golden cross on his
breast, swore the witnesses and the expert in the same quiet manner,
and with the same assurance that he was doing something useful and
important.
The witnesses having been sworn, all but Kitaeva, the keeper of the
house, were led out again. She was asked what she knew about this
affair. Kitaeva nodded her head and the big hat at every sentence
and smiled affectedly. She gave a very full and intelligent account,
speaking with a strong German accent. First of all, the hotel servant
Simeon, whom she knew, came to her establishment on behalf of a rich
Siberian merchant, and she sent Lubov back with him. After a time
Lubov returned with the merchant. The merchant was already somewhat
intoxicated--she smiled as she said this--and went on drinking and
treating the girls. He was short of money. He sent this same Lubov to
his lodgings. He had taken a “predilection” to her. She looked at the
prisoner as she said this.
Nekhludoff thought he saw Maslova smile here, and this seemed disgusting
to him. A strange, indefinite feeling of loathing, mingled with
suffering, arose in him.
“And what was your opinion of Maslova?” asked the blushing and confused
applicant for a judicial post, appointed to act as Maslova’s advocate.
“Zee ferry pesht,” answered Kitaeva. “Zee yoong voman is etucated and
elecant. She was prought up in a coot family and can reat French. She
tid have a trop too moch sometimes, put nefer forcot herself. A ferry
coot girl.”
Katusha looked at the woman, then suddenly turned her eyes on the jury
and fixed them on Nekhludoff, and her face grew serious and even severe.
One of her serious eyes squinted, and those two strange eyes for some
time gazed at Nekhludoff, who, in spite of the terrors that seized him,
could not take his look off these squinting eyes, with their bright,
clear whites.
He thought of that dreadful night, with its mist, the ice breaking on
the river below, and when the waning moon, with horns turned upwards,
that had risen towards morning, lit up something black and weird. These
two black eyes now looking at him reminded him of this weird, black
something. “She has recognised me,” he thought, and Nekhludoff shrank as
if expecting a blow. But she had not recognised him. She sighed quietly
and again looked at the president. Nekhludoff also sighed. “Oh, if it
would only get on quicker,” he thought.
He now felt the same loathing and pity and vexation as when, out
shooting, he was obliged to kill a wounded bird. The wounded bird
struggles in the game bag. One is disgusted and yet feels pity, and one
is in a hurry to kill the bird and forget it.
Such mixed feelings filled Nekhludoff’s breast as he sat listening to
the examination of the witnesses.