Among the jury Ilya saw two other faces he knew. Behind Petrusha and
above him sat a worker in stucco--Silatschev, a big peasant's figure
with long arms and little ill-tempered face, a friend of Filimonov and
his constant companion at cards. It was told of Silatschev, that once
in a quarrel he had pushed his master from a scaffolding, with fatal
result. And in the front row, two places from Petrusha sat Dodonov, the
proprietor of a big fancy-ware shop. Ilya bought from him and knew him
for hard and grasping and a man who had been twice bankrupt, and paid
his creditors only ten per cent.
"Witness! when did you see that Anissimov's house was on fire?"
The ventilator lamented steadily, seeming to echo the sadness in
Lunev's breast.
"Fool!" said the man next him in a whisper. Ilya looked round, it was
the little dark man who now sat with his lips contemptuously drawn.
"A fool," he repeated, nodding to Ilya.
"Who?" whispered Ilya stupidly.
"The accused--he had a fine chance to upset the witness and lets it go.
If I--ah."
Ilya looked at the prisoner. He was a tall, bony peasant with an
angular head. His face was terrified and gloomy; he showed his teeth
like a tired, beaten dog, crowded into a corner by its foes and without
strength to defend itself. Stupid, animal fear was impressed on every
feature; and Petrusha, Silatschev and Dodonov looked at him quietly
with the eyes of the well fed. To Lunev it seemed as though they
thought: "He's been caught--that is, he is guilty."
"Dull!" whispered his neighbour. "Nothing interesting. The accused--a
fool, the Public Prosecutor a gaping idiot, the witnesses blockheads as
usual. If I were Prosecutor I'd settle his job in ten minutes."
"Guilty?" asked Lunev in a whisper, shivering as if with cold.
"Probably not. But easy to condemn him. He doesn't know how to defend
himself. These peasants never do. A poor lot! Bones and muscles--but
intelligence, quickness--not a glimmer!"
"That is true. Ye--es."
"Have you by any chance twenty kopecks about you?" asked the little man
suddenly.
"Oh, yes."
"Give it to me."
Ilya had taken out his purse and handed over the piece of money, before
he could make up his mind whether to give it or no. When he had parted
with it he thought with an involuntary respect as he looked sideways at
his neighbour:
"He's quick, but that's the way to live; just take----"
"A stupid ass, that's all," whispered the dark man again, and indicated
the accused with his eyes.
"Sh!--sh!" said the usher.
"Gentlemen of the jury," began the Prosecutor with a low but emphatic
voice, "look at the face of this man--it is more eloquent than any
testimony of the witnesses who have given their evidence without
contradiction--er--er--it must be so--it must convince you that a
typical criminal stands before you, an enemy of law and order, an enemy
of society--stands before you."
The enemy of society was sitting down; but as it evidently troubled him
to sit while he was being spoken of, he stood up slowly with bent head.
His arms hung feebly by his sides, and the long gray figure bowed as
though before the vengeance of justice.
Lunev let his head fall also. His heart was sick, almost to death;
helpless thoughts circled slowly and heavily in his head--he could find
no words for them, and they fought him and strangled him. Petrusha's
red, uneasy face drifted through his thoughts, as the moon through
clouds.
When Gromov announced the adjournment of the sitting Ilya went out into
the corridor with the little man who took a damaged cigarette from his
coat pocket, pressed it into shape and began:
"The silly fellow stands there and swears he has not kindled the fire.
Oaths are no good here. It's a serious business--some shopkeeper's been
injured--you have done it or another--that doesn't matter. What does
matter is to have it punished--you walk into the net. Very well, you
shall be punished."
"Do you think he's guilty, that fellow?" asked Ilya thoughtfully.
"Of course he's guilty, because he's stupid; clever people don't get
condemned," said the little man calmly and quickly, and smoked his
cigarette vigorously. He had little black eyes like a mouse, and his
teeth were also small-pointed and mouse-like.
"In that jury," began Ilya slowly and with emphasis, "there are men."
"Not men, tradesmen," the dark-headed man improved the phrase. Ilya
looked at him and repeated:
"Tradesmen. I know some of them."
"Aha!"
"A fine sort--not to put it too finely."
"Thieves--eh?" his companion helped him out. He spoke loudly, but in an
ordinary way, then threw away his cigarette end, pinched up his lips in
a loud whistle and looked at Ilya with eyes bold almost to insolence;
all these movements followed one another in eager restlessness.
"Of course; anyway, justice so-called is mostly a pretty good farce,"
he said shrugging. "The fat people improve the criminal tendencies
of the hungry people. I often come to the courts, but I never saw a
hungry man sit in judgment on the well fed--if the well fed do it among
themselves--it happens generally from extra greed and means--don't take
everything, leave me some!"
"It also means--the well fed can't understand the hungry," said Ilya.
"Oh, nonsense!" answered his companion. "They understand all
right--that's what makes them so severe."
"Well--well fed and honourable--that might pass!" Ilya went on half
aloud. "But well fed scoundrels, how can they judge other men?"
"The scoundrels are the severest judges," the black-haired man
announced quietly.
"Now, sir, we'll hear a case of robbery."
"It's some one I know," said Lunev softly.
"Ah!" cried the little man and shot a glance at him. "Let us have a
look at your acquaintance!"
In Ilya's head all was confusion. He wanted to question this clever
little man about many things, but the words rattled in his brain like
peas in a basket. There was in the man something unpleasant, dangerous,
that frightened Ilya, but at once the persistent thought of Petrusha in
the seat of justice, swamped every other idea. The thought forged an
iron ring round his heart and kept out every other.
As he drew near to the door of the hall he saw in the crowd in front
of him the thick neck and small ears of Pavel Gratschev. Overjoyed, he
twitched Pavel by the sleeve and smiled in his face; Pavel smiled too,
but feebly, with evident effort.
"How are you?"
"How are you?"
They stood for a few moments in silence, and the thought of each was
expressed almost simultaneously.
"Come to see?" asked Pavel with a wry smile.
"She--is she here?" asked Ilya.
"Who?"
"Why--your Sophie Nik----"
"She isn't mine," answered Pavel, interrupting coldly.
Both went into the hall without further speech. "Sit near me!" asked
Lunev.