AT the district town of N. in the cinnamon-coloured government house in which the Zemstvo, the sessional meetings of the justices of the peace, the Rural Board, the Liquor Board, the Military Board, and many others sit by turns, the Circuit Court was in session on one of the dull days of autumn. Of the above-mentioned cinnamon-coloured house a local official had wittily1 observed:
“Here is Justitia, here is Policia, here is Militia—a regular boarding school of high-born young ladies.”
But, as the saying is, “Too many cooks spoil the broth,” and probably that is why the house strikes, oppresses, and overwhelms a fresh unofficial visitor with its dismal2 barrack-like appearance, its decrepit3 condition, and the complete absence of any kind of comfort, external or internal. Even on the brightest spring days it seems wrapped in a dense4 shade, and on clear moonlight nights, when the trees and the little dwelling-houses merged5 in one blur6 of shadow seem plunged7 in quiet slumber8, it alone absurdly and inappropriately towers, an oppressive mass of stone, above the modest landscape, spoils the general harmony, and keeps sleepless9 vigil as though it could not escape from burdensome memories of past unforgiven sins. Inside it is like a barn and extremely unattractive. It is strange to see how readily these elegant lawyers, members of committees, and marshals of nobility, who in their own homes will make a scene over the slightest fume10 from the stove, or stain on the floor, resign themselves here to whirring ventilation wheels, the disgusting smell of fumigating11 candles, and the filthy12, forever perspiring13 walls.
The sitting of the circuit court began between nine and ten. The programme of the day was promptly14 entered upon, with noticeable haste. The cases came on one after another and ended quickly, like a church service without a choir15, so that no mind could form a complete picture of all this parti-coloured mass of faces, movements, words, misfortunes, true sayings and lies, all racing16 by like a river in flood. . . . By two o’clock a great deal had been done: two prisoners had been sentenced to service in convict battalions17, one of the privileged class had been sentenced to deprivation18 of rights and imprisonment19, one had been acquitted20, one case had been adjourned21.
At precisely22 two o’clock the presiding judge announced that the case “of the peasant Nikolay Harlamov, charged with the murder of his wife,” would next be heard. The composition of the court remained the same as it had been for the preceding case, except that the place of the defending counsel was filled by a new personage, a beardless young graduate in a coat with bright buttons. The president gave the order—“Bring in the prisoner!”
But the prisoner, who had been got ready beforehand, was already walking to his bench. He was a tall, thick-set peasant of about fifty-five, completely bald, with an apathetic24, hairy face and a big red beard. He was followed by a frail-looking little soldier with a gun.
Just as he was reaching the bench the escort had a trifling25 mishap26. He stumbled and dropped the gun out of his hands, but caught it at once before it touched the ground, knocking his knee violently against the butt23 end as he did so. A faint laugh was audible in the audience. Either from the pain or perhaps from shame at his awkwardness the soldier flushed a dark red.
After the customary questions to the prisoner, the shuffling27 of the jury, the calling over and swearing in of the witnesses, the reading of the charge began. The narrow-chested, pale-faced secretary, far too thin for his uniform, and with sticking plaster on his check, read it in a low, thick bass28, rapidly like a sacristan, without raising or dropping his voice, as though afraid of exerting his lungs; he was seconded by the ventilation wheel whirring indefatigably29 behind the judge’s table, and the result was a sound that gave a drowsy30, narcotic31 character to the stillness of the hall.
The president, a short-sighted man, not old but with an extremely exhausted32 face, sat in his armchair without stirring and held his open hand near his brow as though screening his eyes from the sun. To the droning of the ventilation wheel and the secretary he meditated33. When the secretary paused for an instant to take breath on beginning a new page, he suddenly started and looked round at the court with lustreless34 eyes, then bent35 down to the ear of the judge next to him and asked with a sigh:
“Are you putting up at Demyanov’s, Matvey Petrovitch?”
“Yes, at Demyanov’s,” answered the other, starting too.
“Next time I shall probably put up there too. It’s really impossible to put up at Tipyakov’s! There’s noise and uproar36 all night! Knocking, coughing, children crying. . . . It’s impossible!”
The assistant prosecutor37, a fat, well-nourished, dark man with gold spectacles, with a handsome, well-groomed beard, sat motionless as a statue, with his cheek propped38 on his fist, reading Byron’s “Cain.” His eyes were full of eager attention and his eyebrows39 rose higher and higher with wonder. . . . From time to time he dropped back in his chair, gazed without interest straight before him for a minute, and then buried himself in his reading again. The council for the defence moved the blunt end of his pencil about the table and mused40 with his head on one side. . . . His youthful face expressed nothing but the frigid41, immovable boredom42 which is commonly seen on the face of schoolboys and men on duty who are forced from day to day to sit in the same place, to see the same faces, the same walls. He felt no excitement about the speech he was to make, and indeed what did that speech amount to? On instructions from his superiors in accordance with long-established routine he would fire it off before the jurymen, without passion or ardour, feeling that it was colourless and boring, and then—gallop through the mud and the rain to the station, thence to the town, shortly to receive instructions to go off again to some district to deliver another speech. . . . It was a bore!
At first the prisoner turned pale and coughed nervously43 into his sleeve, but soon the stillness, the general monotony and boredom infected him too. He looked with dull-witted respectfulness at the judges’ uniforms, at the weary faces of the jurymen, and blinked calmly. The surroundings and procedure of the court, the expectation of which had so weighed on his soul while he was awaiting them in prison, now had the most soothing44 effect on him. What he met here was not at all what he could have expected. The charge of murder hung over him, and yet here he met with neither threatening faces nor indignant looks nor loud phrases about retribution nor sympathy for his extraordinary fate; not one of those who were judging him looked at him with interest or for long. . . . The dingy45 windows and walls, the voice of the secretary, the attitude of the prosecutor were all saturated46 with official indifference47 and produced an atmosphere of frigidity48, as though the murderer were simply an official property, or as though he were not being judged by living men, but by some unseen machine, set going, goodness knows how or by whom. . . .
The peasant, reassured49, did not understand that the men here were as accustomed to the dramas and tragedies of life and were as blunted by the sight of them as hospital attendants are at the sight of death, and that the whole horror and hopelessness of his position lay just in this mechanical indifference. It seemed that if he were not to sit quietly but to get up and begin beseeching50, appealing with tears for their mercy, bitterly repenting51, that if he were to die of despair—it would all be shattered against blunted nerves and the callousness52 of custom, like waves against a rock.
When the secretary finished, the president for some reason passed his hands over the table before him, looked for some time with his eyes screwed up towards the prisoner, and then asked, speaking languidly:
“Prisoner at the bar, do you plead guilty to having murdered your wife on the evening of the ninth of June?”
“No, sir,” answered the prisoner, getting up and holding his gown over his chest.
After this the court proceeded hurriedly to the examination of witnesses. Two peasant women and five men and the village policeman who had made the enquiry were questioned. All of them, mud-bespattered, exhausted with their long walk and waiting in the witnesses’ room, gloomy and dispirited, gave the same evidence. They testified that Harlamov lived “well” with his old woman, like anyone else; that he never beat her except when he had had a drop; that on the ninth of June when the sun was setting the old woman had been found in the porch with her skull53 broken; that beside her in a pool of blood lay an axe54. When they looked for Nikolay to tell him of the calamity55 he was not in his hut or in the streets. They ran all over the village, looking for him. They went to all the pothouses and huts, but could not find him. He had disappeared, and two days later came of his own accord to the police office, pale, with his clothes torn, trembling all over. He was bound and put in the lock-up.
“Prisoner,” said the president, addressing Harlamov, “cannot you explain to the court where you were during the three days following the murder?”
“I was wandering about the fields. . . . Neither eating nor drinking . . . .”
“Why did you hide yourself, if it was not you that committed the murder?”
“I was frightened. . . . I was afraid I might be judged guilty. . . .”
“Aha! . . . Good, sit down!”
The last to be examined was the district doctor who had made a post-mortem on the old woman. He told the court all that he remembered of his report at the post-mortem and all that he had succeeded in thinking of on his way to the court that morning. The president screwed up his eyes at his new glossy56 black suit, at his foppish57 cravat58, at his moving lips; he listened and in his mind the languid thought seemed to spring up of itself:
“Everyone wears a short jacket nowadays, why has he had his made long? Why long and not short?”
The circumspect59 creak of boots was audible behind the president’s back. It was the assistant prosecutor going up to the table to take some papers.
“Mihail Vladimirovitch,” said the assistant prosecutor, bending down to the president’s ear, “amazingly slovenly60 the way that Koreisky conducted the investigation61. The prisoner’s brother was not examined, the village elder was not examined, there’s no making anything out of his description of the hut. . . .”
“It can’t be helped, it can’t be helped,” said the president, sinking back in his chair. “He’s a wreck62 . . . dropping to bits!”
“By the way,” whispered the assistant prosecutor, “look at the audience, in the front row, the third from the right . . . a face like an actor’s . . . that’s the local Croesus. He has a fortune of something like fifty thousand.”
“Really? You wouldn’t guess it from his appearance. . . . Well, dear boy, shouldn’t we have a break?”
“We will finish the case for the prosecution63, and then. . . .”
“As you think best. . . . Well?” the president raised his eyes to the doctor. “So you consider that death was instantaneous?”
“Yes, in consequence of the extent of the injury to the brain substance. . . .”
When the doctor had finished, the president gazed into the space between the prosecutor and the counsel for the defence and suggested:
“Have you any questions to ask?”
The assistant prosecutor shook his head negatively, without lifting his eyes from “Cain”; the counsel for the defence unexpectedly stirred and, clearing his throat, asked:
“Tell me, doctor, can you from the dimensions of the wound form any theory as to . . . as to the mental condition of the criminal? That is, I mean, does the extent of the injury justify64 the supposition that the accused was suffering from temporary aberration65?”
The president raised his drowsy indifferent eyes to the counsel for the defence. The assistant prosecutor tore himself from “Cain,” and looked at the president. They merely looked, but there was no smile, no surprise, no perplexity—their faces expressed nothing.
“Perhaps,” the doctor hesitated, “if one considers the force with which . . . er—er—er . . . the criminal strikes the blow. . . . However, excuse me, I don’t quite understand your question. . . .”
The counsel for the defence did not get an answer to his question, and indeed he did not feel the necessity of one. It was clear even to himself that that question had strayed into his mind and found utterance66 simply through the effect of the stillness, the boredom, the whirring ventilator wheels.
When they had got rid of the doctor the court rose to examine the “material evidences.” The first thing examined was the full-skirted coat, upon the sleeve of which there was a dark brownish stain of blood. Harlamov on being questioned as to the origin of the stain stated:
“Three days before my old woman’s death Penkov bled his horse. I was there; I was helping67 to be sure, and . . . and got smeared68 with it. . . .”
“But Penkov has just given evidence that he does not remember that you were present at the bleeding. . . .”
“I can’t tell about that.”
“Sit down.”
They proceeded to examine the axe with which the old woman had been murdered.
“That’s not my axe,” the prisoner declared.
“Whose is it, then?”
“I can’t tell . . . I hadn’t an axe. . . .”
“A peasant can’t get on for a day without an axe. And your neighbour Ivan Timofeyitch, with whom you mended a sledge69, has given evidence that it is your axe. . . .”
“I can’t say about that, but I swear before God (Harlamov held out his hand before him and spread out the fingers), before the living God. And I don’t remember how long it is since I did have an axe of my own. I did have one like that only a bit smaller, but my son Prohor lost it. Two years before he went into the army, he drove off to fetch wood, got drinking with the fellows, and lost it. . . .”
“Good, sit down.”
This systematic70 distrust and disinclination to hear him probably irritated and offended Harlamov. He blinked and red patches came out on his cheekbones.
“I swear in the sight of God,” he went on, craning his neck forward. “If you don’t believe me, be pleased to ask my son Prohor. Proshka, what did you do with the axe?” he suddenly asked in a rough voice, turning abruptly71 to the soldier escorting him. “Where is it?”
It was a painful moment! Everyone seemed to wince72 and as it were shrink together. The same fearful, incredible thought flashed like lightning through every head in the court, the thought of possibly fatal coincidence, and not one person in the court dared to look at the soldier’s face. Everyone refused to trust his thought and believed that he had heard wrong.
“Prisoner, conversation with the guards is forbidden . . .” the president made haste to say.
No one saw the escort’s face, and horror passed over the hall unseen as in a mask. The usher73 of the court got up quietly from his place and tiptoeing with his hand held out to balance himself went out of the court. Half a minute later there came the muffled74 sounds and footsteps that accompany the change of guard.
All raised their heads and, trying to look as though nothing had happened, went on with their work. . . .
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收听单词发音
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1
wittily
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| 机智地，机敏地 | |
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2
dismal
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| adj.阴沉的，凄凉的，令人忧郁的，差劲的 | |
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3
decrepit
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| adj.衰老的，破旧的 | |
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dense
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| a.密集的，稠密的，浓密的；密度大的 | |
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merged
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| （使）混合( merge的过去式和过去分词 )； 相融； 融入； 渐渐消失在某物中 | |
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6
blur
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| n.模糊不清的事物；vt.使模糊，使看不清楚 | |
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7
plunged
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| v.颠簸( plunge的过去式和过去分词 )；暴跌；骤降；突降 | |
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slumber
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| n.睡眠，沉睡状态 | |
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9
sleepless
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| adj.不睡眠的，睡不著的，不休息的 | |
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10
fume
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| n.(usu pl.)(浓烈或难闻的)烟，气，汽 | |
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11
fumigating
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| v.用化学品熏（某物）消毒( fumigate的现在分词 ) | |
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12
filthy
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| adj.卑劣的；恶劣的，肮脏的 | |
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13
perspiring
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| v.出汗，流汗( perspire的现在分词 ) | |
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14
promptly
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| adv.及时地，敏捷地 | |
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15
choir
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| n.唱诗班，唱诗班的席位，合唱团，舞蹈团；v.合唱 | |
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16
racing
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| n.竞赛，赛马；adj.竞赛用的，赛马用的 | |
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17
battalions
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| n.（陆军的）一营（大约有一千兵士）( battalion的名词复数 )；协同作战的部队；军队；（组织在一起工作的）队伍 | |
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18
deprivation
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| n.匮乏；丧失；夺去，贫困 | |
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19
imprisonment
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| n.关押，监禁，坐牢 | |
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20
acquitted
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| 宣判…无罪( acquit的过去式和过去分词 )； 使（自己）作出某种表现 | |
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21
adjourned
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| （使）休会， （使）休庭( adjourn的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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22
precisely
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| adv.恰好，正好，精确地，细致地 | |
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23
butt
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| n.笑柄；烟蒂；枪托；臀部；v.用头撞或顶 | |
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24
apathetic
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| adj.冷漠的，无动于衷的 | |
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25
trifling
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| adj.微不足道的；没什么价值的 | |
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26
mishap
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| n.不幸的事，不幸；灾祸 | |
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27
shuffling
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| adj. 慢慢移动的, 滑移的 动词shuffle的现在分词形式 | |
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28
bass
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| n.男低音(歌手)；低音乐器；低音大提琴 | |
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29
indefatigably
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| adv.不厌倦地，不屈不挠地 | |
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30
drowsy
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| adj.昏昏欲睡的，令人发困的 | |
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31
narcotic
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| n.麻醉药，镇静剂；adj.麻醉的，催眠的 | |
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32
exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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33
meditated
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| 深思，沉思，冥想( meditate的过去式和过去分词 )； 内心策划，考虑 | |
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34
lustreless
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| adj.无光泽的，无光彩的，平淡乏味的 | |
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35
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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36
uproar
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| n.骚动，喧嚣，鼎沸 | |
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37
prosecutor
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| n.起诉人；检察官，公诉人 | |
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38
propped
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| 支撑，支持，维持( prop的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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39
eyebrows
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| 眉毛( eyebrow的名词复数 ) | |
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40
mused
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| v.沉思，冥想( muse的过去式和过去分词 )；沉思自语说（某事） | |
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41
frigid
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| adj.寒冷的，凛冽的；冷淡的；拘禁的 | |
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42
boredom
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| n.厌烦，厌倦，乏味，无聊 | |
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43
nervously
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| adv.神情激动地，不安地 | |
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44
soothing
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| adj.慰藉的；使人宽心的；镇静的 | |
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45
dingy
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| adj.昏暗的，肮脏的 | |
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46
saturated
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| a.饱和的，充满的 | |
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47
indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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48
frigidity
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| n.寒冷；冷淡；索然无味；（尤指妇女的）性感缺失 | |
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49
reassured
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| adj.使消除疑虑的；使放心的v.再保证，恢复信心( reassure的过去式和过去分词) | |
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50
beseeching
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| adj.恳求似的v.恳求，乞求（某事物）( beseech的现在分词 ) | |
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51
repenting
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| 对（自己的所为）感到懊悔或忏悔( repent的现在分词 ) | |
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52
callousness
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53
skull
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| n.头骨；颅骨 | |
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54
axe
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| n.斧子；v.用斧头砍，削减 | |
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55
calamity
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| n.灾害，祸患，不幸事件 | |
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56
glossy
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| adj.平滑的；有光泽的 | |
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57
foppish
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| adj.矫饰的，浮华的 | |
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58
cravat
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| n.领巾，领结；v.使穿有领结的服装，使结领结 | |
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59
circumspect
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| adj.慎重的，谨慎的 | |
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60
slovenly
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| adj.懒散的，不整齐的，邋遢的 | |
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61
investigation
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| n.调查，调查研究 | |
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62
wreck
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| n.失事，遇难；沉船；vt.(船等)失事，遇难 | |
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63
prosecution
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| n.起诉，告发，检举，执行，经营 | |
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64
justify
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| vt.证明…正当(或有理)，为…辩护 | |
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65
aberration
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| n.离开正路，脱离常规，色差 | |
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66
utterance
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| n.用言语表达，话语，言语 | |
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67
helping
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| n.食物的一份&adj.帮助人的，辅助的 | |
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68
smeared
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| 弄脏； 玷污； 涂抹； 擦上 | |
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69
sledge
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| n.雪橇，大锤；v.用雪橇搬运，坐雪橇往 | |
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70
systematic
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| adj.有系统的，有计划的，有方法的 | |
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71
abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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72
wince
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| n.畏缩，退避，（因痛苦，苦恼等)面部肌肉抽动；v.畏缩，退缩，退避 | |
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73
usher
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| n.带位员，招待员；vt.引导，护送；vi.做招待，担任引座员 | |
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74
muffled
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| adj.（声音）被隔的；听不太清的；（衣服）裹严的；蒙住的v.压抑，捂住( muffle的过去式和过去分词 )；用厚厚的衣帽包着（自己） | |
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