"What is strange?" asked Ilya, laughing.
"You have the kind of face," answered the little man speaking quickly.
"Ah, they're opening."
He was one of the first to enter the building. Struck by his remark
Ilya followed him and in the doorway pushed the long-haired man with
his shoulder.
"Don't shove so, you clown!" said the man half aloud, and giving Ilya a
push in his turn passed in first. The push did not anger Ilya, but only
astonished him.
"Odd!" he thought. "He pushes in as if he were a great lord and must go
in first, and he's only just a poor wretch."
In the court of justice it was dark and quiet. The long table covered
with a green cloth, the high-backed chairs, the gold frames round the
big full-length portraits, the mulberry coloured chairs for the jury,
the big wooden bench behind the railing--all this inspired respect and
a sense of gravity. The windows were set deep in gray walls; curtains
of canvas hung in heavy folds in front of them, and the window panes
looked dim. The heavy doors opened without noise, and people in
uniform walked here and there with rapid silent steps. Everything in
the big room seemed to bid the spectators to remain quiet and still.
Lunev looked round him, and a painful sensation caught at his heart;
when an official announced--"The Court," he started and sprang up
before any one else, though he did not know that he was expected to
rise. One of the four men who entered was Gromov, who lived in the
house opposite Ilya's shop. He took the middle chair, ran both his
hands over his hair, rumpling it a little and settled the gold-trimmed
collar of his uniform. The sight of his face had a calming effect on
Ilya; it was just as jolly and red-cheeked as ever, only the ends of
the moustache were turned up. On his right sat a good-natured looking
old man with a little, grey beard, a blunt nose, and spectacles--on
the left a bald-headed man with a divided foxy beard, and a yellow,
expressionless face. Besides these a young judge stood at a desk, with
a round head, smoothly plastered hair, and black prominent eyes. They
were all silent for a few moments, looking through the papers on the
table. Lunev looked at them full of respect and waited for one of them
to rise and say something loudly and importantly. But suddenly, turning
his head to the left Ilya saw the well-known fat face of Petrusha
Filimonov shining as if it were lacquered. Petrusha sat in the front
row of the jury, with his head against the back of the chair looking
placidly at the public. Twice his glance passed over Ilya, and both
times Ilya felt a wish to stand up and say something to Petrusha or to
Gromov or to all the people.
"Thief, who killed his son!" flamed through his brain, and there was a
feeling in his throat like heartburn.
"You are therefore accused," said Gromov in a friendly voice, but Ilya
did not see who was addressed; he looked at Petrusha's face, oppressed
with doubt and could not reconcile himself to the thought that
Filimonov should be a dispenser of justice.
"Now, tell us," asked the president, rubbing his forehead. "You said to
the tradesman Anissimov, you wait! I'll pay you for this!"