FANARIN, THE ADVOCATE--THE PETITION.
Nekhludoff meant to rearrange the whole of his external life, to let
his large house and move to an hotel, but Agraphena Petrovna pointed out
that it was useless to change anything before the winter. No one would
rent a town house for the summer; anyhow, he would have to live and keep
his things somewhere. And so all his efforts to change his manner
of life (he meant to live more simply: as the students live) led to
nothing. Not only did everything remain as it was, but the house was
suddenly filled with new activity. All that was made of wool or fur was
taken out to be aired and beaten. The gate-keeper, the boy, the cook,
and Corney himself took part in this activity. All sorts of strange
furs, which no one ever used, and various uniforms were taken out and
hung on a line, then the carpets and furniture were brought out, and the
gate-keeper and the boy rolled their sleeves up their muscular arms and
stood beating these things, keeping strict time, while the rooms were
filled with the smell of naphthaline.
When Nekhludoff crossed the yard or looked out of the window and saw
all this going on, he was surprised at the great number of things there
were, all quite useless. Their only use, Nekhludoff thought, was the
providing of exercise for Agraphena Petrovna, Corney, the gate-keeper,
the boy, and the cook.
“But it’s not worth while altering my manner of life now,” he thought,
“while Maslova’s case is not decided. Besides, it is too difficult. It
will alter of itself when she will be set free or exiled, and I follow
her.”
On the appointed day Nekhludoff drove up to the advocate Fanarin’s own
splendid house, which was decorated with huge palms and other plants,
and wonderful curtains, in fact, with all the expensive luxury
witnessing to the possession of much idle money, i.e., money acquired
without labour, which only those possess who grow rich suddenly. In
the waiting-room, just as in a doctor’s waiting-room, he found many
dejected-looking people sitting round several tables, on which lay
illustrated papers meant to amuse them, awaiting their turns to be
admitted to the advocate. The advocate’s assistant sat in the room at a
high desk, and having recognised Nekhludoff, he came up to him and said
he would go and announce him at once. But the assistant had not reached
the door before it opened and the sounds of loud, animated voices were
heard; the voice of a middle-aged, sturdy merchant, with a red face and
thick moustaches, and the voice of Fanarin himself. Fanarin was also
a middle-aged man of medium height, with a worn look on his face. Both
faces bore the expression which you see on the faces of those who have
just concluded a profitable but not quite honest transaction.
“Your own fault, you know, my dear sir,” Fanarin said, smiling.
“We’d all be in ‘eaven were it not for hour sins.”
“Oh, yes, yes; we all know that,” and both laughed un-naturally.
“Oh, Prince Nekhludoff! Please to step in,” said Fanarin, seeing him,
and, nodding once more to the merchant, he led Nekhludoff into his
business cabinet, furnished in a severely correct style.
“Won’t you smoke?” said the advocate, sitting down opposite Nekhludoff
and trying to conceal a smile, apparently still excited by the success
of the accomplished transaction.
“Thanks; I have come about Maslova’s case.”
“Yes, yes; directly! But oh, what rogues these fat money bags are!”
he said. “You saw this here fellow. Why, he has about twelve million
roubles, and he cannot speak correctly; and if he can get a twenty-five
rouble note out of you he’ll have it, if he’s to wrench it out with his
teeth.”
“He says ‘’eaven’ and ‘hour,’ and you say ‘this here fellow,’”
Nekhludoff thought, with an insurmountable feeling of aversion towards
this man who wished to show by his free and easy manner that he and
Nekhludoff belonged to one and the same camp, while his other clients
belonged to another.
“He has worried me to death--a fearful scoundrel. I felt I must relieve
my feelings,” said the advocate, as if to excuse his speaking about
things that had no reference to business. “Well, how about your case?
I have read it attentively, but do not approve of it. I mean that
greenhorn of an advocate has left no valid reason for an appeal.”
“Well, then, what have you decided?”
“One moment. Tell him,” he said to his assistant, who had just come in,
“that I keep to what I have said. If he can, it’s all right; if not, no
matter.”
“But he won’t agree.”
“Well, no matter,” and the advocate frowned.
“There now, and it is said that we advocates get our money for nothing,”
he remarked, after a pause. “I have freed one insolvent debtor from a
totally false charge, and now they all flock to me. Yet every such case
costs enormous labour. Why, don’t we, too, ‘lose bits of flesh in the
inkstand?’ as some writer or other has said. Well, as to your case, or,
rather, the case you are taking an interest in. It has been conducted
abominably. There is no good reason for appealing. Still,” he continued,
“we can but try to get the sentence revoked. This is what I have noted
down.” He took up several sheets of paper covered with writing, and
began to read rapidly, slurring over the uninteresting legal terms and
laying particular stress on some sentences. “To the Court of Appeal,
criminal department, etc., etc. According to the decisions, etc., the
verdict, etc., So-and-so Maslova pronounced guilty of having caused the
death through poison of the merchant Smelkoff, and has, according to
Statute 1454 of the penal code, been sentenced to Siberia,” etc., etc.
He stopped. Evidently, in spite of his being so used to it, he still
felt pleasure in listening to his own productions. “This sentence is
the direct result of the most glaring judicial perversion and error,”
he continued, impressively, “and there are grounds for its revocation.
Firstly, the reading of the medical report of the examination of
Smelkoff’s intestines was interrupted by the president at the very
beginning. This is point one.”
“But it was the prosecuting side that demanded this reading,” Nekhludoff
said, with surprise.
“That does not matter. There might have been reasons for the defence to
demand this reading, too.”
“Oh, but there could have been no reason whatever for that.”
“It is a ground for appeal, though. To continue: ‘Secondly,’ he went
on reading, ‘when Maslova’s advocate, in his speech for the defence,
wishing to characterise Maslova’s personality, referred to the causes of
her fall, he was interrupted by the president calling him to order
for the alleged deviation from the direct subject. Yet, as has been
repeatedly pointed out by the Senate, the elucidation of the criminal’s
characteristics and his or her moral standpoint in general has a
significance of the first importance in criminal cases, even if only
as a guide in the settling of the question of imputation.’ That’s point
two,” he said, with a look at Nekhludoff.
“But he spoke so badly that no one could make anything of it,”
Nekhludoff said, still more astonished.
“The fellow’s quite a fool, and of course could not be expected to say
anything sensible,” Fanarin said, laughing; “but, all the same, it will
do as a reason for appeal. Thirdly: ‘The president, in his summing up,
contrary to the direct decree of section 1, statute 801, of the criminal
code, omitted to inform the jury what the judicial points are that
constitute guilt; and did not mention that having admitted the fact of
Maslova having administered the poison to Smelkoff, the jury had a right
not to impute the guilt of murder to her, since the proofs of wilful
intent to deprive Smelkoff of life were absent, and only to pronounce
her guilty of carelessness resulting in the death of the merchant, which
she did not desire.’ This is the chief point.”
“Yes; but we ought to have known that ourselves. It was our mistake.”
“And now the fourth point,” the advocate continued. “The form of the
answer given by the jury contained an evident contradiction. Maslova
is accused of wilfully poisoning Smelkoff, her one object being that of
cupidity, the only motive to commit murder she could have had. The jury
in their verdict acquit her of the intent to rob, or participation in
the stealing of valuables, from which it follows that they intended
also to acquit her of the intent to murder, and only through a
misunderstanding, which arose from the incompleteness of the president’s
summing up, omitted to express it in due form in their answer. Therefore
an answer of this kind by the jury absolutely demanded the application
of statutes 816 and 808 of the criminal code of procedure, i.e., an
explanation by the president to the jury of the mistake made by them,
and another debate on the question of the prisoner’s guilt.”
“Then why did the president not do it?”
“I, too, should like to know why,” Fanarin said, laughing.
“Then the Senate will, of course, correct this error?”
“That will all depend on who will preside there at the time. Well, now,
there it is. I have further said,” he continued, rapidly, “a verdict of
this kind gave the Court no right to condemn Maslova to be punished as
a criminal, and to apply section 3, statute 771 of the penal code to her
case. This is a decided and gross violation of the basic principles of
our criminal law. In view of the reasons stated, I have the honour of
appealing to you, etc., etc., the refutation, according to 909, 910, and
section 2, 912 and 928 statute of the criminal code, etc., etc. . . .
to carry this case before another department of the same Court for a
further examination. There; all that can be done is done, but, to be
frank, I have little hope of success, though, of course, it all depends
on what members will be present at the Senate. If you have any influence
there you can but try.”
“I do know some.”
“All right; only be quick about it. Else they’ll all go off for a change
of air; then you may have to wait three months before they return. Then,
in case of failure, we have still the possibility of appealing to His
Majesty. This, too, depends on the private influence you can bring to
work. In this case, too, I am at your service; I mean as to the working
of the petition, not the influence.”
“Thank you. Now as to your fees?”
“My assistant will hand you the petition and tell you.”
“One thing more. The Procureur gave me a pass for visiting this person
in prison, but they tell me I must also get a permission from the
governor in order to get an interview at another time and in another
place than those appointed. Is this necessary?”
“Yes, I think so. But the governor is away at present; a vice-governor
is in his place. And he is such an impenetrable fool that you’ll
scarcely be able to do anything with him.”
“Is it Meslennikoff?”
“Yes.”
“I know him,” said Nekhludoff, and got up to go. At this moment a
horribly ugly, little, bony, snub-nosed, yellow-faced woman flew into
the room. It was the advocate’s wife, who did not seem to be in the
least bit troubled by her ugliness. She was attired in the most original
manner; she seemed enveloped in something made of velvet and silk,
something yellow and green, and her thin hair was crimped.
She stepped out triumphantly into the ante-room, followed by a tall,
smiling man, with a greenish complexion, dressed in a coat with silk
facings, and a white tie. This was an author. Nekhludoff knew him by
sight.
She opened the cabinet door and said, “Anatole, you must come to
me. Here is Simeon Ivanovitch, who will read his poems, and you must
absolutely come and read about Garshin.”
Nekhludoff noticed that she whispered something to her husband, and,
thinking it was something concerning him, wished to go away, but she
caught him up and said: “I beg your pardon, Prince, I know you, and,
thinking an introduction superfluous, I beg you to stay and take part
in our literary matinee. It will be most interesting. M. Fanarin will
read.”
“You see what a lot I have to do,” said Fanarin, spreading out his hands
and smilingly pointing to his wife, as if to show how impossible it was
to resist so charming a creature.
Nekhludoff thanked the advocate’s wife with extreme politeness for the
honour she did him in inviting him, but refused the invitation with a
sad and solemn look, and left the room.
“What an affected fellow!” said the advocate’s wife, when he had gone
out.
In the ante-room the assistant handed him a ready-written petition,
and said that the fees, including the business with the Senate and the
commission, would come to 1,000 roubles, and explained that M. Fanarin
did not usually undertake this kind of business, but did it only to
oblige Nekhludoff.
“And about this petition. Who is to sign it?”
“The prisoner may do it herself, or if this is inconvenient, M. Fanarin
can, if he gets a power of attorney from her.”
“Oh, no. I shall take the petition to her and get her to sign it,” said
Nekhludoff, glad of the opportunity of seeing her before the appointed
day.