“Nothing keeps one going like a cold bath and exercise,” he said, feeling the biceps of his right arm with his left hand, on the third finger of which he wore a gold ring. He had still to do the moulinée movement (for he always went through those two exercises before a long sitting), when there was a pull at the door. The president quickly put away the dumbbells and opened the door, saying, “I beg your pardon.”
One of the members, a high-shouldered, discontented-looking man, with gold spectacles, came into the room. “Matthew Nikítich has again not come,” he said, in a dissatisfied tone.
“Not yet?” said the president, putting on his uniform. “He is always late.”
“It is extraordinary. He ought to be ashamed of himself,” said the member, angrily, and taking out a cigarette.
This member, a very precise man, had had an unpleasant encounter with his wife in the morning, because she had spent her allowance before the end of the month, and had asked him to give her some money in advance, but he would not give way to her, and they had a quarrel. The wife told him that if he were going to behave so, he need not expect any dinner; there would be no dinner for him at home. At this point he left, fearing that she might carry out her threat, for anything might be expected from her. “This comes of living a good, moral life,” he thought, looking at the beaming, healthy, cheerful, and kindly president, who, with elbows far apart, was smoothing his thick grey whiskers with his fine white hands over the embroidered collar of his uniform. “He is always contented and merry while I am suffering.”
The secretary came in and brought some document.
“Thanks, very much,” said the president, lighting a cigarette. “Which case shall we take first, then?”
“The poisoning case, I should say,” answered the secretary, with indifference.
“All right; the poisoning case let it be,” said the president, thinking that he could get this case over by four o’clock, and then go away. “And Matthew Nikítich; has he come?”
“Not yet.”
“And Brevé?”
“He is here,” replied the secretary.
“Then if you see him, please tell him that we begin with the poisoning case.” Brevé was the public prosecutor, who was to read the indictment in this case.
In the corridor the secretary met Brevé, who, with up lifted shoulders, a portfolio under one arm, the other swinging with the palm turned to the front, was hurrying along the corridor, clattering with his heels.
“Michael Petróvitch wants to know if you are ready?” the secretary asked.
“Of course; I am always ready,” said the public prosecutor. “What are we taking first?”
“The poisoning case.”
“That’s quite right,” said the public prosecutor, but did not think it at all right. He had spent the night in a hotel playing cards with a friend who was giving a farewell party. Up to five in the morning they played and drank, so he had no time to look at this poisoning case, and meant to run it through now. The secretary, happening to know this, advised the president to begin with the poisoning case. The secretary was a Liberal, even a Radical, in opinion.
Brevé was a Conservative; the secretary disliked him, and envied him his position.
“Well, and how about the Skoptzý?”5 asked the secretary.
“I have already said that I cannot do it without witnesses, and so I shall say to the Court.”
“Dear me, what does it matter?”
“I cannot do it,” said Brevé; and, waving his arm, he ran into his private room.
He was putting off the case of the Skoptzý on account of the absence of a very unimportant witness, his real reason being that if they were tried by an educated jury they might possibly be acquitted.
By an agreement with the president this case was to be tried in the coming session at a provincial town, where there would be more peasants, and, therefore, more chances of conviction.
The movement in the corridor increased. The people crowded most at the doors of the Civil Court, in which the case that the dignified man talked about was being heard.
An interval in the proceeding occurred, and the old woman came out of the court, whose property that genius of an advocate had found means of getting for his client, a person versed in law who had no right to it whatever. The judges knew all about the case, and the advocate and his client knew it better still, but the move they had invented was such that it was impossible not to take the old woman’s property and not to hand it over to the person versed in law.
The old woman was stout, well dressed, and had enormous flowers on her bonnet; she stopped as she came out of the door, and spreading out her short fat arms and turning to her advocate, she kept repeating. “What does it all mean? Just fancy!”
The advocate was looking at the flowers in her bonnet, and evidently not listening to her, but considering some question or other.
Next to the old woman, out of the door of the Civil Court, his broad, starched shirt front glistening from under his low-cut waistcoat, with a self-satisfied look on his face, came the celebrated advocate who had managed to arrange matters so that the old woman lost all she had, and the person versed in the law received more than 100,000 roubles. The advocate passed close to the old woman, and, feeling all eyes directed towards him, his whole bearing seemed to say: “No expressions of deference are required.”
VII
At last Matthew Nikítich also arrived, and the usher, a
