Sister Pelagia and the White Bulldog (37 page)

Matvei Bentsionovich’s address was rendered in the same tone. He began, as was to be expected, incoherently and unimpressively, even managing to blow his nose during his second phrase, but afterward he grew more assured (especially when he won sympathetic applause in the hall) and thenceforth spoke animatedly, smoothly, and at times even with inspiration.

He had prepared thoroughly, and even learned the most important parts by heart. By the end of the second hour, the prosecutor was already able successfully to maintain an effective pause, direct an ominous finger toward the accused, and even raise his eyes in an expression of grief, something that very few public prosecutors are capable of doing without appearing ridiculous. On numerous occasions Berdichevsky’s speech was interrupted by applause, and once he was even accorded a genuine ovation (when he described in the most moving terms the seduced and abandoned Princess Telianova—at this point many of the ladies made no attempt even to disguise their sobs).

It was a most excellent speech, replete with supremely subtle psychological nuances and crushing rhetorical questions. We would have preferred to relate it in detail, but that would take up too much space, because it lasted for more than three hours. And the speech did not contain anything fundamentally new as compared with the conclusions that Sister Pelagia had drawn, and which are already known to the reader, although in Matvei Bentsionovich’s transcription the nun’s hasty and raw conclusions acquired weight, conviction, and even brilliance. Regretfully omitting all the subtle psychology and rhetorical devices, we shall here expound only the main points of the accusation.

And so, Bubentsov was accused of the murder of the merchant Vonifatiev and his young son; the murder of the St. Petersburg photographic artist Arkadii Poggio; the murder of Princess Naina Telianova and her maid Evdokia Syskina; and finally of resisting arrest, with the result that two police constables had been wounded, one of whom had subsequently passed away. The prosecutor requested the court to condemn Bubentsov to hard labor for life and his accomplice Spasyonny, who could not have been ignorant of his superior’s crimes and had also attempted to flee from arrest, to one year of imprisonment to be followed by internal exile.

Matvei Bentsionovich sat down, feeling thoroughly hoarse but pleased with himself. He was applauded heartily, even by the visiting men of law, which was an encouraging sign. Berdichevsky wiped the sweat from his brow and looked inquiringly at the bishop, who during the course of the speech had more than once supported his protégé by inclining his head and lowering his eyelids approvingly. And now once again the bishop replied to the prosecutor’s glance with an encouraging nod. And indeed, Matvei Bentsionovich’s speech really had been a success.

THE SESSION CONTINUED after a break during which a heated discussion took place among the visiting men of law concerning the prospects for the case. The majority inclined to the opinion that the accusation had been expounded in competent fashion and that the little prosecutor from the back of beyond had set Gurii Samsonovich quite a difficult task, but Lomeiko was not the kind of man to give up easily. He would most probably produce a flash of even more virtuosic eloquence and eclipse the silver-tongued provincial orator.

But the generally acknowledged genius of the great advocate consisted in his ability not to justify the expectations that people had of him—but to do so in a quite special manner, that is, by exceeding them.

The beginning of his speech seemed strange, to say the least.

Lomeiko stepped forward and stood with his back to the public and his side to the members of the jury, facing the members of the court, which was already unusual in itself. He spread his arms wide in a gesture expressive of either perplexity or distress and stood in that strange pose without moving, uttering not a single word.

The audience that had fallen quiet began whispering and scraping its chairs, but the defender still said nothing. He only began to speak when the puzzled chairman of the court began squirming on his chair and a tense silence once again descended on the hall.

“I simply do not know…I do not know what to say about the speech that the honorable prosecutor has delivered,” Gurii Samsonovich informed the judges in a quiet, confidential tone of voice, and then suddenly, apropos of nothing, declared, “You know, I actually grew up not very far from here. My childhood was spent on the River. I breathed this air, I was raised on it…then I went away and was caught up in the vain tumult of life, but, you know, my heart was never parted from the River. I shall say what I think without any histrionics. Here, amid the thick forests and the modest, infertile fields, is where the very heart of Russia lies. That is why, gentlemen…” at this point the speaker’s voice altered imperceptibly, acquiring a subtle resilience, strength, and even, perhaps, concealed menace, “…that is why, gentlemen, I feel genuinely ill when I learn of those instances of savagery and Asiatic barbarism that, alas, take place only too frequently in the depths of Russia. I have heard many good things about Zavolzhsk and the practices introduced here, and therefore I believe sincerely that the high court will not give any cause for it to be suspected of prejudice and local patriotism. I am sorry to say that I, and indeed many visitors to your town, have already caught a whiff of precisely that unappetizing aroma in the expressions employed by my learned opponent.”

Such a beginning quite annoyed the judges on the one hand, but at the same time it set their nerves on edge, as though they were seeing for the first time the reporters scribbling in their notepads, and the newspaper illustrators, and the stern feature writers who represented the public opinion of the vast empire.

But the advocate had already turned away from the judges and trained his glance on the members of the jury. He spoke to them quite simply and without any undertone of menace.

“Gentlemen, I wish to point out once again something that you, of course, understand quite well without me. Today the most important event in your lives as citizens is taking place. There has never been a trial like this in your quiet town before and, God willing, there never will be again. I tormented you at length with questions and rejected many jurors, but I did so exclusively in the interests of justice. I understand perfectly well that you are all people with minds of your own. Each of you has almost certainly formed his own opinion, you have discussed the circumstances of the case with your relatives, friends, and acquaintances. There is just one thing I beg of you”—Lomeiko actually folded his hands together prayerfully. “Do not condemn these two men in advance. You are in any case already inclined against them, because for you they are the embodiment of an alien and hostile power, the name of which is the capital. You regard this power with suspicion and mistrust that is frequently, alas, unjustified. I allow that Bubentsov might have offended or angered some of you. He is a difficult, uncomfortable kind of man. Such men always become involved in unpleasant incidents—sometimes through their own fault, sometimes through the caprice of fate. If the gentlemen judges will allow me to deviate briefly from the case under consideration, I will tell you a little story about Vladimir Lvovich. But in fact, there will not be any real deviation, because you are deciding the fate of a man and you should know as much as possible about what kind of man he is.”

The defender paused again, as if he was checking to make sure that people were listening to what he said. They were listening remarkably closely—there was total silence, broken only by the squeaking of chairs.

“It is possible that this story might display my client in an even less advantageous light, but even so I shall tell it—it illustrates his personality so very graphically…Well, then, at the age of fifteen years Vladimir Lvovich fell in love. Passionately, rashly, as these things happen in early youth. With whom, you will ask? Therein lies the rashness, for the chosen object of the young page’s heart was a grand duchess. I will not give her name, because now this individual has become the wife of one of the crowned heads of Europe.”

There was a murmur among the journalists as they tried to figure out who was meant and apparently quickly reached a conclusion.

“Vladimir Lvovich initially wrote her imperial highness a love letter, and then he was caught wandering at night beneath the windows of her bedroom. A most unpleasant scandal ensued. In order to remain in the Corps of Pages, the boy had to beg forgiveness from the administration. He absolutely refused to do this and was expelled, thereby closing off his own road to a brilliant career at court. I have mentioned this old story in order to give you a better understanding of the character of the defendant. He is a proud man, gentlemen, and there is nothing to be done about that. When monstrously absurd accusations are made against him, he does not condescend to justify himself. He maintains a proud silence.”

One must assume that Gurii Samsonovich’s “little story” was addressed not so much to the members of the jury, who were for the most part men no longer young and rather staid, as it was to the female half of the audience, whose mood usually determines the atmosphere at such proceedings. The women, who had already been glancing at Bubentsov with avid interest, were duly impressed by this anecdote, and their curiosity seemingly underwent a certain metamorphosis—from being primarily fearful, it became primarily sympathetic.

Having won this important, although hardly very striking victory, the adroit advocate immediately exposed his own cunning.

“Ah, what a pity it is that representatives of the fair sex are not allowed to be members of the jury,” he sighed with absolute sincerity. “They are so much more merciful than men. But, gentlemen of the jury, I am by no means asking you for mercy or even, God forbid, for condescension for Vladimir Lvovich.”

Somehow it seemed that there was no specific mention made of the second accused. Either the supremely humble Tikhon Ieremeevich was of too little interest to the lion of the bar or Lomeiko rightly judged that the acquittal of the main suspect would naturally entail the withdrawal of the charges brought against his henchman.

“Your condescension would be a torment to this proud man. And especially because”—at this point the defender’s voice suddenly acquired the resonance of a bronze bell—“
he has no need of your condescension!
”

Several of the jurors frowned at these words, and in a few supremely light steps Gurii Samsonovich flew across to the long table at which the twelve representatives of the people were seated and implored them in gentle, humane tones: “Do not pity him. Simply forget your irritation with him. After all, you are not judging him for his bad character, not for his dissoluteness or his vanity, but for terrible, blood-chilling crimes that, I assure you, Bubentsov did not commit. As I shall now prove to you.”

All of the above was apparently no more than a prelude to the defense as such. The members of the audience murmured and seated themselves more comfortably as they prepared themselves for a long speech, but Lomeiko expounded his argument in less than a quarter of an hour.

“Gentlemen, you have heard the extremely lengthy speech of the prosecutor, which was more like the wailing of Hamlet’s father than a serious legal discourse.”

A brief laugh of approval was heard from the entourage of the deputy chief procurator of the Holy Synod.

“I saw, gentlemen, that this speech, unfortunately, influenced you. But it was constructed entirely on cheap effects. The lack of evidence was concealed by high-flown style and conjectures with nothing to back them up. I have no wish to offend anyone, but this was an example of provincial oratory at its very worst. In Moscow and St. Petersburg, grandiloquence of this sort passed out of fashion a long time ago. There our prosecutor would simply be hissed at, exactly what poor acting deserves.”

Matvei Bentsionovich blushed bright red and turned in outrage to the chairman of the court, but he appeared to be somewhat discomfited. The members of the jury were also clearly embarrassed.

“And now for the essence of the matter.” The sorcerer’s tone of voice had changed yet again, from caustically regretful to dry and businesslike. This was not the famous orator speaking, but the learned pedant, expounding scientifically proven facts that were obvious to any even slightly rational individual. “I shall tell you, gentlemen, how everything really happened. I have known the truth from the very beginning. However, I ordered the accused to hold their tongues because the local investigators are quite clearly not impartial; they thirst for vengeance and would probably have distorted the circumstances of the case, as pettifogging scribes have delighted in doing throughout the ages in our long-suffering Rus.”

Gurii Samsonovich paid not the slightest attention to the applause awarded this remark by the liberal section of the audience. He simply waited until they had finished clapping and then continued.

“Night, an empty road. The moon gleams eerily through the gray clouds. There is a smell of rain in the air and the wind howls softly. Two people walk along the road: one with a beard and his hair trimmed evenly all around, the other still entirely a child. The man has his arm around the boy’s shoulders, and the boy is leaning his light-haired head against his father’s shoulder, half-dozing as they walk along. All around there is silence—not a soul, not a movement, only the mournful hooting of an owl from the forest…”

Lomeiko put his hand over his eyes, and one might have thought that there, on his palm, his sight beheld living pictures and he was merely relating what he saw.