In the Court Page #2

"In the Court" is a short story by Anton Pavlovich Chekhov that delves into the complexities of human behavior and societal norms. Set against the backdrop of a courtroom, the narrative explores themes of justice, morality, and the often absurd nature of legal proceedings. Through vivid character portrayals and insightful dialogues, Chekhov illustrates the ironies and contradictions present in the pursuit of truth, revealing how personal biases and emotions can influence judgment. The story ultimately prompts readers to reflect on the nature of justice and the human condition.

								

atmosphere of frigidity, 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, reassured, 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 beseeching, appealing with tears for their
mercy, bitterly repenting, that if he were to die of despair--it would
all be shattered against blunted nerves and the callousness 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 skull broken; that beside her in a pool of blood lay an axe. When
they looked for Nikolay to tell him of the calamity 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 glossy black suit, at his foppish cravat, 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 circumspect 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 slovenly the way that Koreisky conducted
the investigation. 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 wreck . . . 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 prosecution, 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 justify the supposition that the
accused was suffering from temporary aberration?"

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 utterance
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 helping to be sure, and . . . and got smeared 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 sledge, has given evidence that
								Rate this book:0.0 / 0 votes