A COURT CASE
A case took place in N. Town Court, during one of the last jury sessions. Mr. Sidor [Translator’s Note: Russian for nasty], a man of about thirty years, with a lively gypsy’s face and lying eyes, a citizen of N., was sitting in the dock.
He was accused of burglary, fraud, and violating passport regulations. The last charge was compounded by his impersonations of a nobleman.
The assistant prosecutor was pressing the charges. The name of the prosecutor is legion. This was a man lacking any of those special features or outstanding qualities that bring big salaries. He was like many others of his kind: he spoke nasally, could not pronounce the letter “k,” and blew his nose constantly.
The defense attorney was one of the most famous and popular men in his profession. Everyone had heard of this lawyer. People still quote his speeches and remember his name with respect.
This kind of lawyer plays a key role in those cheap novels that end in a guilty verdict for the protagonist, and the applause of the public. The names of such lawyers in these novels are often associated with thunder, lightning, and other natural wonders.
When the assistant prosecutor had proved to everyone that Mr. Sidor was guilty and should be convicted, and when he had wrapped it all up by saying, “The prosecution rests,” the defense lawyer stood up. Everyone listened carefully. There was total silence in the hall. The lawyer started talking—and the nerves of the people of the Town of N. were shattered. The lawyer stretched out his sunburned neck, moved his head from side to side, flashed his eyes, lifted his hand, and poured his sweet, magical speech into the listeners’ eager ears.
His tongue played on the people’s nerves as if on the strings of a balalaika. After the first two or three phrases, someone in the gallery heaved a deep sigh; then an unconscious lad was carried out of the courtroom. Three minutes later, the judge had to reach for the bell and ring it three times. The bailiff, a man with a small red nose, began shifting nervously in his chair and looking threateningly at the gallery. All eyes were open wide; all faces grew pale; everyone expected something unusual from the lawyer. And what happened in the people’s hearts?
“We are all human beings, members of the jury, so let us make this a human courtroom,” the lawyer said, among other things. “Before facing you this day, this man suffered six months of prison time, during the investigation. For six straight months, his wife has been separated from her most beloved husband. His children’s eyes haven’t dried for a moment as they thought that they didn’t have their beloved father with them. Oh, if only you could see the children! They’re hungry because there’s no one to feed them, and they’re in tears because they’re miserable. Just look at them! They’re stretching their hands out to you, imploring you to give them back their father. They’re not here, but you can imagine the picture. (A pause.) Prison? Him? He was put into a cell with thieves, and with murderers. Him! (A pause.) You can imagine his moral suffering in that cell, when he was separated from his wife and children, just in order to—what else can I say?”
Sobs were heard in the audience. A young woman wearing a large brooch on her bosom started to wail. Her neighbor, a little old lady, joined her.
The defense lawyer went on with his speech. He omitted the facts and emphasized the psychology.
“To study this man’s soul means to study a rare and protected world, full of subtleties. And I have studied this world. And I must tell you truly that in studying it, I came to know a human being. I genuinely understood this human being. Each movement of his soul tells me that, in my client, I have an ideal man.”
The bailiff stopped looking threatening and pulled a handkerchief from his pocket. Two more women were carried out of the hall. The judge did not touch the bell anymore, but put on his eyeglasses, so that no one could see the tear in his right eye. Everyone pulled out handkerchiefs. The prosecutor himself, the man of stone and ice, the insensitive beast, was shifting nervously in his chair. He reddened and looked at the floor. His ears were glowing beneath his eyeglasses.
“I shouldn’t have taken this case at all; I should drop the charges right now,” he thought. “I’m going to be utterly defeated. What next?”
“Just look into his eyes,” the defense lawyer continued. His chin trembled; his voice trembled also, and his suffering was clear in his eyes. “Do you think those tender, humble eyes could look upon a crime in cold blood, without any feelings? No, those eyes can cry; they can shed tears. A very sensitive disposition is hidden underneath that rough, rugged, square-jawed face. A tender heart, not a criminal’s, but a human being’s, beats beneath that rough, crippled chest. And you would dare call him guilty?”
At this point, the accused could stand it all no longer. He burst into tears. He blinked, cried aloud, and shifted in his place.
“I am guilty!” he said, interrupting the defense attorney. “I am guilty! I accept my guilt completely. I stole, and I defrauded, and I lied.
“I took the money from the chest, and I brought the stolen fur coat to my sister-in-law, and I asked her to hide it. I confess. I’m guilty.”
He told the court everything. And so he was convicted and sentenced.
THE BROTHER: A SLICE OF LIFE
A young woman was standing in front of the window, lost in thought, looking at the dirty sidewalk. A young man dressed in the official uniform of a civil servant was standing behind her. He was touching his mustache and speaking in a trembling voice.
“My dear sister, do me this favor! It is not too late yet! You have to say no to this fat merchant, this wealthy pig. Please do me a favor and bid good-bye to this fat man. Please do me a favor!”
“I cannot, brother. I gave him my promise.”
“I ask you, listen, and be good to our family! You belong to nobility; you are a well-educated, noble lady, but who is he? He is rude and illiterate, you understand? He sells old, smelly fish and kvass in the market. He cheats people. Yesterday you gave him your consent to marry him, and this morning he stole five kopecks from our servant. He robs people! And what about your old dreams? Oh, my God! Listen, I know that you love Michael from our department, and that he loves you, too.”
The sister blushed. Her chin was trembling; her eyes were filled with tears. It was obvious that the brother had hit a sore spot.
“Sister, do you wish to destroy both of you, Michael as well? He has started drinking! Sister, all you ever want is money and jewelry. All you ever do is calculate how to make a profit from your marriage. But this is appalling. How can you marry an illiterate? He cannot even sign his name. Look, Ne-ko-lan instead of Nikolai. He is old, he is revolting, and he looks very clumsy. Please do me this favor!”
The brother’s voice started trembling. He cleared his throat and wiped the tears from his eyes.
“But I gave him my word of honor, brother. And besides, I hate our poverty.”
“I will tell you everything,” said the brother, “if you want to hear it. I did not want to tell you this before, but now I will. I would rather lower myself in your eyes than lose my sister completely. I know a secret about your merchant. Listen, Cathie, if you find out his secret, you will say no at once…. I saw him in a terrible place. Do you want to know which place? Do you?”
“Where was it? Where?”
The brother opened his mouth to answer, but he was stopped. At that moment, a man came in. He wore a vest and dirty boots, and carried a large paper bag. He crossed himself and stood in the door.
“Dmitry Terentievich said to say hello to you, and he wanted to give you a small gift because today is Sunday: And he asked me to deliver this and to put it directly into your hands.”
The brother took the paper bag, looked at it, and smirked in disgust. “What is in it? Hmm, some stupid thing! A head of sugar.”
The brother took the sugar in his hands and tapped it with his fingernail. “I wonder what kind of sugar this is? Ha! Bobrinsky—not bad for tea. What’s this in the bag? Some garbage or other: sardines, raisins and cheese. He—he
wants to bribe me! No, my friend, you cannot do a thing! Why did he put coffee in here? I cannot drink coffee—it shatters my nerves! All right, go away, go! And say hello to him!”
The delivery man left. The sister ran to the brother and caught him by the hand.
The brother had moved her with his words. One more word, and the merchant would be ruined.
“Tell me, brother, where did you see him? Tell me!”
“Nowhere, I was just kidding. You can do whatever you want,” said the brother, and tapped the head of sugar with his fingernail once again.
A CONFESSION
It was a clear, frosty, sunny day. I felt as euphoric as a cabman who just received a ten-ruble tip instead of a quarter. I wanted to cry with happiness, to smile, and to pray. I was in seventh heaven. Me, an ordinary man, to be a cashier! I was delighted because now I could steal as much money as I wanted. I’m not a thief, and I would kill anyone who called me one. But I was happy about my promotion because I had made another tiny step in my career and a small addition to my wages. That’s all.
I was happy for a few other reasons, too. When I became a cashier, I seemed to see the world through rose-colored glasses. It seemed that people had changed. It’s true, take my word of honor! It seemed to me that everyone suddenly became better. Ugly people became beautiful; proud people became humble; evil people became good; greedy people became generous. I seemed to see the world around me in a much better light. I could find good qualities in people whom I had never imagined had any.
“Strange,” I said to myself, looking at people and rubbing my eyes. “Either something has happened to all these people, or I was dull before and could not notice their qualities. What wonderful people they are!”
Mr. Kazusov, a director of our company, had also changed. He was a proud man and had previously taken no notice of lower employees like myself. I don’t know what happened to him, but he came over to talk to me. He smiled kindly at me and slapped me on the back, saying,
“You’re too self-conscious; it doesn’t suit your young years. Why don’t you drop into my office for a chat from time to time? Don’t be shy, my friend. I often invite young people like you into my home, and they have a good time there.
My daughters were just asking,
“Father, why don’t you invite Gregory Kuzmich? He is such a nice fellow.”
I said to them,
“How can I bring him into my house?”
“But you know, I promised them that one day I would invite you over. So don’t hesitate, my friend; come visit me.”
It’s so strange. What happened to him? Perhaps he has gone mad. He used to be a terrible man who hated everyone, but look at him now
When I got home, I was amazed again. At dinner, my mother gave me four helpings instead of the usual two. In the evening she served me jam, fresh rolls, and cookies. It was the same the next day: four servings and jam for tea. We had guests, and we ate chocolate. On the third day, the same thing.
“Mother, what’s happened to you?” I asked her. “Why are you spending so much? My salary hasn’t doubled. I’ve only had a tiny increase.”
My mother looked at me with surprise and said,
“How are you going to spend all this money? Are you going to save it? Invest in your bank account or what?”
What was going on? My father bought an expensive fur coat and hat; he started drinking those pricey mineral waters and eating grapes in the middle of the winter! Five days later, I received a letter from my brother. Before, my brother could not stand me. I had said good-bye to him because of differences in temperament. He thought that I was an egoist, a ne’er-do-well; that I could not make sacrifices; and he hated me for it. In his letter, I read the following:
“Dear brother, I love you very much. You cannot imagine how much I suffered after our last quarrel. Let us be reconciled, let us extend the hand of friendship; and let there be peace between us, I implore you. I await your answer. Love and kisses, Evlampy.”
Oh, my dear brother. I replied that I loved him, too, and that I was very joyful. A week later, I received a telegram from him, saying,
“Thank you, I am so happy. Please send me a hundred rubles. I need them very much. Embracing you, Ivan (Evlampy).” I sent him a hundred rubles.
Even she changed. She never used to love me. When I hinted to her that something had happened to my heart, she told me that I was rude, that I was too bold; and she slapped my face. A week later, after the promotion, she invited me to see her; she smiled sweetly, making dimples in her cheeks, and looked surprised.
“What’s happened to you?” she asked, looking at me. “You look so nice today. How did you manage to change so fast? How come you’ve become so handsome? Let’s go out dancing together.”
Oh, dear! A week later, her mother became my mother-in-law: I became a better person for all of them. I badly needed three hundred rubles in cash, so I quietly took it from the company. Why shouldn’t I take it? I know that I will put it back as soon as payday comes around. So, I took the money, and I also took a hundred rubles for Mr. Kazusov. He had asked me for a loan. I could not refuse him. He is an important person in the company, and he could have me fired. [“This is where the editor found the story too long, and crossed out 73 lines, thus cutting down on the author’s royalties.”—Chekhov’s comment.]
A week before I was arrested, I threw a party for them at their request. Let them eat as much as they want, let them fill their fat bellies, what the hell! I did not count the people at the party, but I remember that all nine of my rooms were packed. Big and small, young and old—there were even some dignitaries before whom Mr. Kazusov bowed to the ground.
His daughters, the eldest of whom was my love, blinded us with their gowns. I had paid a thousand rubles just for the flowers for them. It was delightful. The music was loud, the lights were bright, the champagne flowed like water. People made long speeches and short toasts. A local journalist dedicated an ode to me, and another wrote a ballad in my name.
“Here in Russia, we do not appreciate kind people like Ivan Kuzmich,” Mr. Kazusov cried during dinner. “And what a pity! What a pity for Russia!”
All of them who were smiling, yelling, kissing me—they were whispering behind my back, and pointing at me whenever I looked away. But I saw all of their secret vicious smiles and fingers.
“He stole all this money, what a naughty boy!” they whispered to each other, smiling evilly.
But neither their fingers nor their smiles interfered with their abilities to eat and drink, and enjoy their dinner.
Not even wolves and diabetics eat as much as they ate. My wife, who was shining with gold and diamonds, came over to me and whispered,
“They say you stole all this. If it’s true, be warned: I cannot live with a thief. I’ll leave you!”
She said this while adjusting her five-thousand-ruble dress. Well, who knows about women! Later that evening, Kazusov borrowed another five thousand from me. My brother Evlampy borrowed again.
“If what they say is true,” my honest brother whispered, pocketing the money, “then beware. I cannot be the brother of a thief.”
After the party was over, I hailed several luxurious cabs and troikas and took them all out of town for a ride.
It was six in the morning when we finished. We were exhausted with wine and women, and we decided that it was time to go home.
When the sleigh started moving away, they shouted after me, “Tomorrow we will begin the audit. Thank you, merci!”
Ladies and gentlemen, I was caught. To be exact, yesterday I was an honest and decent man. Today I am a scoundrel, a thief, and a con artist. Now you can yell at me, gossip about me. You can be shocked, you can take me to court, send me to prison, write editorials, throw stones, but please, not all together! Not all at once!
IN THE DARKNESS OF THE NIGHT
There are neither moon nor stars in the sky. Not a shadow; nor a single spot of light. Everything is immersed in impenetrable darknes
s. You look and look into it, but you see nothing, as if you were blind. The rain is pouring down, and the roads are covered with mud.
A pair of horses goes slowly along the village road. Three people are sitting in the carriage: a man dressed as a railway engineer and his wife, both completely soaked, and a driver who is as drunk as a fish. The first horse trembles and goes very slowly. The second horse is stumbling and continually tries to jump to the side. The road is terrible. At every step, there is a pothole, or a hump, or a small bridge that has been washed away. To the left, a wolf is howling, and to the right there is a ravine.
“It’s a terrible road—I’m pretty sure that we’re lost,” the engineer’s wife sighs deeply. “Yes, it’s so easy to go off the road and get lost. Don’t go into the ditch.”
“Why should I go into the ditch? Hey, you rotten horse, go, go! Go on, love!”
“He seems to have completely lost his way,” said the engineer. “Where are you taking us, you villain? Can’t you see? Is this the road?”
“Yes, that means that it’s the road.”
“It can’t be the road! It’s like driving in a field! Turn right, you drunk. Now, turn left. Where is your whip?”
“I lost it, your highness.”
“I will kill you if you lead us wrong. Hey, where are you going? Isn’t the road this way?”
The horses stop abruptly. The engineer hangs on to the driver’s back and shoulders and pulls the right rein. The first horse splashes in the mud, turns sharply, and convulses oddly.
The driver falls from the carriage and vanishes into the darkness. The second horse stumbles at the cliff, and the engineer feels the carriage is falling somewhere into the abyss.
The ravine is not very deep. The engineer gets to his feet, picks up his wife, and climbs up the hill. At the top of the ravine, he sees the driver sitting on the edge of the rock, moaning. The engineer rushes over to him. He shakes his fist in the air, ready to smash the driver ‘s face.