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The Awakening
By
Leo Tolstoy
=
Contents
&=
nbsp;
"Then came Peter to Him, and said, Lord, how oft shall my brother sin
against me, and I forgive him? till seven times?"=
;--_Matthew,
c. xviii.; v. 21._
"Jesus sait=
h unto
him, I say not unto thee, Until seven times: but =
until
seventy times seven."--_Idem, v. 22._
"And why
beholdest thou the mote that is in thy brother's eye, but
considerest not the beam that is in thine own eye!"-=
-_Idem,
c. vii.; v. 3._
"He that is
without sin among you, let him first cast a stone at he=
r."--_John,
c. viii.; v. 7._
"The discip=
le is
not above his master: but every one that is perfect sha=
ll be
as his master."--_Luke, c. vi.; v. 40._
=
=
All
the efforts of several hundred thousand people, crowded in a small space, to
disfigure the land on which they lived; all the stone they covered it with =
to
keep it barren; how so diligently every sprouting blade of grass was remove=
d;
all the smoke of coal and naphtha; all the cutting down of trees and driving
off of cattle could not shut out the spring, even from the city. The sun was
shedding its light; the grass, revivified, was blooming forth, where it was
left uncut, not only on the greenswards of the boulevard, but between the
flag-stones, and the birches, poplars and wild-berry trees were unfolding t=
heir
viscous leaves; the limes were unfolding their buds; the daws, sparrows and=
pigeons
were joyfully making their customary nests, and the flies were buzzing on t=
he
sun-warmed walls. Plants, birds, insects and children were equally joyful. =
Only
men--grown-up men--continued cheating and tormenting themselves and each ot=
her.
People saw nothing holy in this spring morning, in this beauty of God's
world--a gift to all living creatures--inclining to peace, good-will and lo=
ve,
but worshiped their own inventions for imposing their will on each other.
The joy of spring felt by animals and men did =
not
penetrate the office of the county jail, but the one thing of supreme
importance there was a document received the previous evening, with title,
number and seal, which ordered the bringing into court for trial, this 28th=
day
of April, at nine o'clock in the morning, three prisoners--two women and one
man. One of the women, as the more dangerous criminal, was to be brought
separately. So, in pursuance of that order, on the 28th day of April, at ei=
ght
o'clock in the morning, the jail warden entered the dingy corridor of the
woman's ward. Immediately behind him came a woman with weary countenance and
disheveled gray hair, wearing a crown-laced jacket, and girdled with a
blue-edged sash. She was the matron.
"You want Maslova?" she asked the
warden, as they neared one of the cells opening into the corridor.
The warden, with a loud clanking of iron, unlo=
cked
and opened the door of the cell, releasing an even fouler odor than permeat=
ed
the corridor, and shouted:
"Maslova to the court!" and again
closing the door he waited for her appearance.
The fresh, vivifying air of the fields, carrie=
d to
the city by the wind, filled even the court-yard of the jail. But in the
corridor the oppressive air, laden with the smell of tar and putrescence,
saddened and dejected the spirit of every new-comer. The same feeling was e=
xperienced
by the jail matron, notwithstanding she was accustomed to bad air. On enter=
ing
the corridor she suddenly felt a weariness coming over her that inclined he=
r to
slumber.
There was a bustling in the cell; women's voic=
es
and steps of bare feet were heard.
"Hurry up, Maslova! Come on, I say!"
shouted the warden into the cell-door.
Presently at the cell-door appeared a
middle-sized, full-breasted young woman, dressed in a long, gray coat over a
white waist and skirt. She approached with firm step, and, facing about, st=
ood
before the warden. Over her linen stockings she wore jail shoes; her head w=
as covered
with a white 'kerchief, from under which black curls were evidently purpose=
ly
brushed over the forehead. The face of the woman was of that whiteness pecu=
liar
to people who have been a long time in confinement, and which reminds one of
potato-sprouts in a cellar. Her small, wide hands, her white, full neck,
showing from under the large collar of the coat, were of a similar hue. On =
the
dull pallor of that face the most striking feature was the black, sparkling
eyes, somewhat swollen, but very bright eyes, one of which slightly squinte=
d.
She held herself erect, putting forth her full chest. Emerging into the cor=
ridor,
throwing her head back a little, she looked into the eyes of the warden and
stood ready to do his bidding. The warden was about to shut the door, when a
pale, severe, wrinkled face of an old woman with disheveled hair was thrust
out. The old woman began to say something to Maslova. But the warden pressed
the door against the head of the woman, and she disappeared. In the cell a
woman's voice burst into laughter. Maslova also smiled, and turned to the
grated little opening in the door. The old woman pressed her forehead to the
grating, and said in a hoarse voice:
"Above all, don't speak too much; stick t=
o one
thing, and that is all."
"Of course. It cannot be any worse,"
said Maslova.
"You certainly cannot stick to two
things," said the chief warden, with official assurance of his own wit.
"Follow me, now! Forward! March!"
The eye looking from behind the grating
disappeared, and Maslova took to the middle of the corridor, and with short,
but rapid strides, followed the warden. They descended the stone stairway, =
and
as they passed the men's ward, noisy and more noisome even than the woman's=
ward,
scores of eyes followed them from behind the gratings. They entered the off=
ice,
where an armed escort of two soldiers stood. The clerk handed one of the
soldiers a document, reeking of tobacco smoke, and, pointing to the prisone=
r,
said:
"Take her."
The soldier, a Nijhni peasant with a red and
pock-marked face, placed the paper into the cuff of his coat sleeve, and,
smiling, winked to his muscular comrade. The soldiers and prisoner descended
the stairs and went in the direction of the main entrance.
A small door in the gate opened, and, crossing=
the
threshold, they passed through the inclosure and took the middle of the pav=
ed
street.
Drivers, shop-keepers, kitchen maids, laborers=
and
officials halted and gazed with curiosity at the prisoner. Some shook their
heads and thought: "There is the result of evil conduct--how unlike
ours!" Children looked with horror at the cut-throat, but the presence=
of
the soldiers reassured them, for she was now powerless to do harm. A villag=
er,
returning from the mart, where he had disposed of his charcoal and visited =
an
inn, offered her a kopeck. The prisoner blushed, drooped her head and murmu=
red
something.
Conscious of the attention that was shown her,
without turning her head she looked askance at the onlookers and rather enj=
oyed
it. She also enjoyed the comparatively pure spring air, but the walking on =
the cobblestones
was painful to her feet, unused as they were to walking, and shod in clumsy
prison shoes. She looked at her feet and endeavored to step as lightly as
possible. Passing by a food store, in front of which some pigeons were pick=
ing
grain, she came near striking with her foot a dove-colored bird. It rose wi=
th a
flutter of its wings, and flew past the very ear of the prisoner, fanning h=
er
face with its wings. She smiled, then sighed deeply, remembering her own
condition.
=
The
history of the prisoner Maslova was a very common one. Maslova was the daug=
hter
of an unmarried menial who lived with her mother, a cowherd, on the estate =
of
two spinsters. This unmarried woman gave birth to a child every year, and, =
as
is the custom in the villages, baptized them; then neglected the troublesome
newcomers, and they finally starved to death.
Thus five children died. Every one of these was
baptized, then it starved and finally died. The sixth child, begotten of a
passing gypsy, was a girl, who would have shared the same fate, but it happ=
ened
that one of the two old maidens entered the cow-shed to reprimand the milkm=
aids
for carelessness in skimming the cream, and there saw the mother with the
healthy and beautiful child. The old maiden chided them for the cream and f=
or
permitting the woman to lie in the cow-shed, and was on the point of depart=
ing,
but noticing the child, was moved to pity, and afterward consented to stand
godmother to the child. She baptized the child, and in pity for her god-dau=
ghter,
furnished her with milk, gave the mother some money, and the babe thrived.
Wherefore the old maidens called it "the saved one."
The child was three years old when the mother =
fell
ill and died. She was a great burden to her grandmother, so the old maidens
adopted her. The dark-eyed girl became unusually lively and pretty, and her=
presence
cheered them.
Of the two old maidens, the younger one--Sophia
Ivanovna--was the kindlier, while the older one--Maria Ivanovna--was of aus=
tere
disposition. Sophia Ivanovna kept the girl in decent clothes, taught her to
read and intended to give her an education. Maria Ivanovna said that the gi=
rl
ought to be taught to work that she might become a useful servant, was
exacting, punished, and even beat her when in bad humor. Under such conditi=
ons
the girl grew up half servant, half lady. Her position was reflected even in
her name, for she was not called by the gentle Katinka, nor yet by the
disdainful Katka, but Katiousha, which stands sentimentally between the two.
She sewed, cleaned the rooms, cleaned the ikons with chalk, ground, cooked =
and
served coffee, washed, and sometimes she read for the ladies.
She was wooed, but would marry no one, feeling=
that
life with any one of her wooers would be hard, spoiled, as she was, more or
less, by the comparative ease she enjoyed in the manor.
She had just passed her sixteenth year when the
ladies were visited by their nephew, a rich student, and Katiousha, without
daring to confess it to him, or even to herself, fell in love with him. Two
years afterward, while on his way to the war, he again visited his aunts, a=
nd
during his four days' stay, consummated her ruin. Before his departure he
thrust a hundred ruble bill into her hand.
Thenceforward life ceased to have any charms f=
or
her, and her only thought was to escape the shame which awaited her, and not
only did she become lax in her duties, but--and she did not know herself ho=
w it
happened--all of a sudden she gave vent to her ill temper. She said some ru=
de
things to the ladies, of which she afterward repented, and left them.
Dissatisfied with her behavior, they did not
detain her. She then obtained employment as servant in the house of the
commissary of rural police, but was obliged to give up the position at the =
end
of the third month, for the commissary, a fifty-year old man, pursued her w=
ith
his attentions, and when, on one occasion, he became too persistent, she fl=
ared
up, called him an old fool, and threw him to the ground. Then she was driven
from the house. She was now so far advanced on the road to maternity that to
look for a position was out of the question. Hence she took lodgings with an
old midwife, who was also a wine dealer. The confinement came off painlessl=
y.
But the midwife was attending a sick woman in the village, infected Katious=
ha with
puerperal fever, and the child, a boy, was taken to a foundling asylum wher=
e,
she was told, he died immediately after his arrival there.
When Katiousha took lodgings with the midwife =
she
had 127 rubles; 27 rubles of which she had earned, and 100 rubles which had
been given her by her seducer. When she left her she had but six rubles lef=
t.
She was not economical, and spent on herself as well as others. She paid 40
rubles to the midwife for two months' board; 25 rubles it cost her to have =
the
child taken away; 40 rubles the midwife borrowed of her to buy a cow with; =
the
balance was spent on dresses, presents, etc., so that after the confinement=
she
was practically penniless, and was compelled to look for a position. She was
soon installed in the house of a forester who was married, and who, like the
commissary, began to pay court to her. His wife became aware of it, and whe=
n,
on one occasion, she found them both in the room, she fell on Katiousha and=
began
to beat her. The latter resented it, and the result was a scrimmage, after
which she was driven out of the house, without being paid the wages due her.
Katiousha went to the city, where she stopped with her aunt. Her aunt's hus=
band
was a bookbinder. Formerly he used to earn a competence, but had lost his
customers, and was now given to drink, spending everything that came into h=
is
hands.
With the aid of a small laundry she was keepin=
g,
her aunt supported her children as well as her husband. She offered Maslova
work as a washerwoman, but seeing what a hard life the washerwomen at her a=
unt's
establishment were leading, she searched through the intelligence offices f=
or a
position as servant. She found such a place with a lady who was living with=
her
two student boys. A week after she had entered upon her duties, the oldest =
son
neglected his studies and made life miserable for Maslova. The mother threw=
all
blame upon Maslova and discharged her. She was some time without any
occupation. In one of these intelligence offices she once met a lady richly=
dressed
and adorned with diamonds. This lady, learning of the condition of Maslova,=
who
was looking for a position, gave her her card and invited her to call. The =
lady
received Maslova affectionately, treated her to choice cakes and sweet wine,
while she dispatched her servant somewhere with a note. In the evening a ta=
ll man
with long hair just turning gray, and gray beard, came into the room. The o=
ld
man immediately seated himself beside Maslova and began to jest. The hostess
called him into an adjoining room, and Maslova overheard her say: "As
fresh as a rose; just from the country." Then the hostess called in
Maslova and told her that the man was an author, very rich, _and will be ve=
ry
generous if he takes a liking to her_. He did take a liking to her, gave her
twenty-five rubles, and promised to call on her often. The money was soon s=
pent
in settling for her board at her aunt's, for a new dress, hat and ribbons. A
few days afterward the author sent for her a second time. She called. He ga=
ve
her another twenty-five ruble bill and offered to rent apartments for her w=
here
she could reside separately.
While living in the apartments rented by the
author, Maslova became infatuated with a jolly clerk living in the same hou=
se.
She herself told the author of her infatuation, and moved into a smaller ap=
artment.
The clerk, who had promised to marry her, without saying anything, left for
Nijhni, evidently casting her off, and Maslova remained alone. She wished to
remain in the apartment, but the landlord would not permit a single woman to
occupy it, and she returned to her aunt. Her fashionable dress, cape and hat
won her the respect of her aunt, who no longer dared to offer her work as a=
washerwoman,
considering her present position far above it. The question of working in t=
he
laundry did not even occur to Maslova now. She looked with compassion on the
life of drudgery led by these pale, emaciated washerwomen, some of whom sho=
wed
symptoms of consumption, washing and ironing in a stifling, steam-laden
atmosphere with the windows open summer and winter, and she was horrified at
the thought that she, too, might be driven to such drudgery.
Maslova had for a long time been addicted to
cigarette smoking, but of late she had been getting more and more accustome=
d to
drink. The wine attracted her, not because of its taste, but because it ena=
bled
her to forget her past life, to comfort herself with ease, and the confiden=
ce of
her own worth that it gave her. Without wine she was despondent and abashed.
There was the choice of two things before her; either the humiliating
occupation of a servant, with the certain unwelcome attentions of the men, =
or a
secure, quiet and legitimatized position of everybody's mistress. She wishe=
d to
revenge herself on her seducer, as well as the clerk, and all those that
brought misfortune upon her. Besides, she could not withstand the temptatio=
n of
having all the dresses her heart desired--dresses made of velvet, gauze and=
silk--ball
dresses, with open neck and short sleeves. And when Maslova imagined hersel=
f in
a bright yellow silk dress, with velvet trimmings, decolette, she made her
choice.
From this day on Maslova began to lead a life =
to
which hundreds of thousands of women are driven, and which, in nine cases o=
ut
of ten, ends in painful disease, premature decrepitude and death.
After a night's orgies there would come a deep
slumber till three or four o'clock in the afternoon; then the weary rising =
from
a dirty couch; seltzer-water to remove the effect of excessive drinking, co=
ffee.
Then came the sauntering through the rooms in dressing-gown, looking through
the windows; the languid quarrels; then the perfuming of her body and hair,=
the
trying on of dresses, and the quarrels with the mistress which they occasio=
ned;
contemplating herself in the mirror, rouging her face, darkening her eyebro=
ws.
Then came the sweet, rich food, the bright silk dress, the entry into the
brightly lighted parlor, the arrival of the guests, music, dancing,
confectionery, wine and cigarettes.
Thus Maslova lived for seven years. On the eig=
hth,
when she had reached her twenty-sixth year, there happened that for which s=
he
had been jailed, and for which she was now led to the court, after six mont=
hs
of confinement among thieves and murderers.
=
=
At the
time when Maslova, exhausted by the long walk, was approaching with the arm=
ed
convoy the building in which court was held, the same nephew of the ladies =
that
brought her up, Prince Dmitri Ivanovitch Nekhludoff, who deceived her, lay =
on
his high, soft, spring feather-bed, in spotless Holland linen, smoking a
cigarette. He was gazing before him, contemplating the events of the previo=
us
day and considering what he had before him for that day. As he thought of t=
he previous
evening, spent at the Korchagins, a wealthy and influential family, whose
daughter, rumor had it, he was to marry, he sighed, and throwing away the b=
utt
of his cigarette, he was on the point of taking another from the silver
cigarette holder, but changed his mind. Half rising, he slipped his smooth,
white feet into the slippers, threw a silk morning gown over his broad
shoulders, and with quick and heavy stride, walked into the adjoining
dressing-room, which was permeated with the artificial odors of elixirs,
perfumes, cosmetics. There he washed his partly gold-filled teeth with a
tooth-powder, rinsed them with a perfumed mouth-wash, then began to sponge
himself and dry his body with Turkish towels. After washing his hands with
perfumed soap, carefully brushing his trimmed nails and washing his face and
stout neck in a marble basin, he walked into a third room, where a shower-b=
ath
was ready. Here he received a cold-water douche, and after rubbing his white
and muscular body with coarse towels and donning his white linen, he seated
himself before the mirror and began to brush his short, curly beard and the
thinning curls of his forehead.
Everything used by him--the linen, clothing,
shoes, scarfs, scarf-pins, cuff-buttons, were of the very best quality, sim=
ple,
tasteful and expensive.
He then picked out the first of a dozen scarfs=
and
pins that came into his hand--it was no more novel and amusing, as it used =
to
be--and he was quite indifferent as to which he put on. He dressed himself =
in
his brushed clothes which lay on the chair and went out, though not quite r=
efreshed,
yet clean and fragrant. In the oblong dining-room, the inlaid floor of which
had been polished by three of his men the day before, and containing a mass=
ive
oaken sideboard and a similar extension table, the legs of which were carve=
d in
the shape of lion's paws, giving it a pompous appearance, breakfast stood r=
eady
for him. A fine, starched cloth with large monograms was spread on the tabl=
e,
on which stood a silver coffee-pot, containing fragrant, steaming coffee, a
sugar bowl and cream pitcher to match, fresh rolls and various kinds of
biscuits. Beside them lay the last number of the "Revue des deux Monde=
s,"
newspapers and his mail. Nekhludoff was about to open the letters, when a
middle-aged woman, with a lace head-gear over her unevenly parted hair, gli=
ded
into the room. This was Agrippina Petrovna, servant of his mother, who died=
in
this very house. She was now stewardess to the son.
Agrippina Petrovna had traveled many years abr=
oad
with Nekhludoff's mother, and had acquired the manners of a lady. She had l=
ived
in the house of the Nekhludoffs since childhood, and knew Dmitri Ivanovitch=
when
he was called by the diminutive Mitenka.
"Good-morning, Dmitri Ivanovitch."
"How do you do, Agrippina Petrovna? What's
the news?" asked Nekhludoff, jesting.
"A letter from the old Princess, or the y=
oung
one, perhaps. The maid brought it long ago, and is now waiting in my
room," said Agrippina Petrovna, handing him the letter with a signific=
ant
smile.
"Very well; I will attend to it
immediately," said Nekhludoff, taking the letter and then, noticing the
smile on Agrippina's face, he frowned.
The smile on Agrippina's face signified that t=
he
letter came from Princess Korchagin, whom, according to Agrippina Petrovna,=
he
was to marry. And this supposition, expressed by her smile, displeased Nekh=
ludoff.
"Then I will bid her wait," and
Agrippina Petrovna glided out of the dining-room, first replacing the
crumb-brush, which lay on the table, in its holder.
Nekhludoff opened the perfumed letter and bega=
n to
read:
"In fulfill=
ment
of the duty I assumed of being your memory," the letter =
ran,
"I call to your mind that you have been summoned to=
serve
as juror to-day, the 28th of April, and that, there=
fore,
you cannot accompany us and Kolosoff to the art exhibit=
ion,
as you promised yesterday in your customary forgetfulne=
ss;
à moins que vous ne soyez disposé à payer à
=
&nb=
sp; =
"PRINCESS M. KORCHAGIN."
On the other side was a postscript:
"Maman vous=
fait
dire que votre couvert vous attendra jusqu' à la=
nuit.
Venez absolument à quelle heure que cela soit. M. K."
Nekhludoff knit his brows. The note was the
continuation of a skillful strategem whereby the Princess sought, for the l=
ast
two months, to fasten him with invisible bonds. But Nekhludoff, besides the
usual irresoluteness before marriage of people of his age, and who are not =
passionately
in love, had an important reason for withholding his offer of marriage for =
the
time being. The reason was not that ten years before he had ruined and
abandoned Katiousha, which incident he had entirely forgotten, but that at =
this
very time he was sustaining relations with a married woman, and though he n=
ow
considered them at an end, they were not so considered by her.
In the presence of women, Nekhludoff was very =
shy,
but it was this very shyness that determined the married woman to conquer h=
im.
This woman was the wife of the commander of the district in which Nekhludoff
was one of the electors. She led him into relations with her which held him
fast, and at the same time grew more and more repulsive to him. At first
Nekhludoff could not resist her wiles, then, feeling himself at fault, he c=
ould
not break off the relations against her will. This was the reason why
Nekhludoff considered that he had no right, even if he desired, to ask for =
the
hand of Korchagin. A letter from the husband of that woman happened to lay =
on
the table. Recognizing the handwriting and the stamp, Nekhludoff flushed an=
d immediately
felt an influx of that energy which he always experienced in the face of
danger. But there was no cause for his agitation; the husband, as commander=
of
the district where Nekhludoff's estates were situated, informed the latter =
of a
special meeting of the local governing body, and asked him to be present
without fail, and donner un coup d'épaule in the important measures =
to
be submitted concerning the schools and roads, and that the reactionary par=
ty
was expected to offer strong opposition.
The commander was a liberal-minded man, entire=
ly
absorbed with the struggles, and knew nothing about his wretched family lif=
e.
Nekhludoff recalled all the tortures this man =
had
occasioned him; how on one occasion he thought that the husband had discove=
red
all, and he was preparing to fight a duel with him, intending to use a blan=
k cartridge,
and the ensuing scene where she, in despair, ran to the pond, intending to
drown herself, while he ran to search for her. "I cannot go now, and c=
an
undertake nothing until I have heard from her," thought Nekhludoff. The
preceding week he had written to her a decisive letter, acknowledging his
guilt, and expressing his readiness to redeem it in any manner she should
suggest, but for her own good, considered their relations ended. It is to t=
his
letter that he expected a reply. He considered it a favorable sign that no
reply came. If she had not consented to a separation, she would have answer=
ed
long ago, or would have come personally, as she often did before. Nekhludoff
had heard that an army officer was courting her, and while he was tormented=
by
jealousy, he was at the same time gladdened by the hope of release from the
oppressive lie.
The other letter was from the steward in charg=
e of
his estates. Nekhludoff was requested to return and establish his right to =
the inheritance
and also to decide on the future management of the estates; whether the same
system of letting out to the peasants, which prevailed during the lifetime =
of
his mother, was to be continued, or, as the steward had strongly advised the
deceased Princess, and now advised the young Prince, to augment the stock a=
nd
work all the land himself. The steward wrote that the land could thus best =
be
exploited. He also apologized for his failure to send the three thousand ru=
bles
due on the first of the month, which he would send by the next mail, explai=
ning
it by the difficulty of collecting the rents from the peasants whose bad fa=
ith
had reached a point where it became necessary to resort to the courts to co=
llect
them. This letter was partly agreeable and partly disagreeable to Nekhludof=
f.
It was agreeable to feel the power of authority over so vast an estate, and=
it
was disagreeable, because in his youth he was an enthusiastic adherent of H=
erbert
Spencer, and being himself a large land owner, was struck by the propositio=
n in
_Social Statics_ that private ownership of land is contrary to the dictates=
of
justice. With the frankness and boldness of youth, he not only _then_ spoke=
of
the injustice of private ownership of land; not only did he compose theses =
in
the university on the subject, but he actually distributed among the peasan=
ts
the few hundred acres of land left him by his father, not desiring to own l=
and contrary
to his convictions. Now that he found himself the owner of vast estates, he=
was
confronted by two alternatives: either to waive his ownership in favor of t=
he
peasants, as he did ten years ago with the two hundred acres, or, by tacit
acquiescence, confess that all his former ideas were erroneous and false.
He could not carry out the first, because he
possessed no resources outside of the land. He did not wish to go into serv=
ice,
and yet he had luxurious habits of life which he thought he could not aband=
on. Indeed,
there was no necessity of abandoning these habits, since he had lost the
strength of conviction as well as the resolution, the vanity and the desire=
to
astonish people that he had possessed in his youth. The other alternative--=
to
reject all the arguments against private ownership of land which he gathered
from Spencer's _Social Statics_, and of which he found confirmation in the
works of Henry George--he could follow even less.
For this reason the steward's letter was
disagreeable to him.
=
Having
breakfasted, Nekhludoff went to the cabinet to see for what hour he was
summoned to appear at court, and to answer the Princess' note. In the work-=
room
stood an easel with a half-finished painting turned face downward, and on t=
he
wall hung studies in drawing. On seeing that painting, on which he had work=
ed
two years, and those drawings, he called to mind the feeling of impotence,
which he experienced of late with greatest force, to make further advance i=
n the
art. He explained this feeling by the development of a fine aesthetic taste,
and yet this consciousness caused him unpleasant sensations.
Seven years before he had retired from active
service he decided that his true vocation in life was painting, and from the
height of his artistic activity he looked down upon all other occupations. =
And
now it appeared that he had no right to do so, and every recollection of it=
was
disagreeable to him. He looked on all the luxurious appointments of the
work-room with heavy heart, and walked into the cabinet in ill humor. The
cabinet was a high room, profusely ornamented, and containing every imagina=
ble
device of comfort and necessity.
He produced from one of the drawers of a large
table the summons, and, ascertaining that he must appear at eleven o'clock,=
he
sat down and wrote to the Princess, thanking her for the invitation, and sa=
ying
that he should try to call for dinner. The tone of the note seemed to him t=
oo
intimate, and he tore it up; he wrote another, but that was too formal, alm=
ost
offensive. Again he tore it up, and touched a button on the wall. A servant,
morose, with flowing side-whiskers and in a gray apron, entered.
"Please send for a carriage."
"Yes, sir."
"And tell the Korchagins' maid that I tha=
nk
them; I will try to call."
"Yes, sir."
"It is impolite, but I cannot write. But I
will see her to-day," thought Nekhludoff, and started to dress himself=
.
When he emerged from the house a carriage with
rubber tires awaited him.
"You had scarcely left Prince Korchagin's
house yesterday when I called for you," said the driver, half-turning =
his
stout, sun-burned neck in the white collar of his shirt, "and the foot=
man
said that you had just gone."
"Even the drivers know of my relations to=
the
Korchagins," thought Nekhludoff, and the unsolved question which
continually occupied his mind of late--whether or not he ought to marry
Princess Korchagin--again occurred to him, and, like most questions that he=
was
called upon to decide at that time, it remained unsolved.
He had many reasons for, and as many against,
marriage. There was the pleasure of domestic life, which made it possible to
lead a moral life, as he called married life; then, and principally, the fa=
mily
and children would infuse his present aimless life with a purpose. This was=
for
marriage generally. On the other hand there was, first, the loss of freedom
which all elderly bachelors fear so much; and, second, an unconscious awe of
that mysterious creature, woman.
However, in favor of marrying Missy in particu=
lar
(Korchagin's name was Maria, but, as usual in families of the higher classe=
s,
she received a nickname) there was, first, the fact that she came of good s=
tock,
and was in everything, from her dress to her manner of speaking, walking and
laughing, distinguished not by any exceptional qualities, but by "good
breeding"--he knew no other expression for the quality which he prized
very highly. Second, she valued him above all other men, hence, he thought =
she
understood him. And this appreciation of him, that is, acknowledging his hi=
gh
qualities, was proof to Nekhludoff of her intelligence and correct judgment.
Finally, against marrying Missy in particular, was, first, the extreme
probability of his finding a girl of much better qualities than Missy, and,=
consequently,
more worthy of him; and, second, Missy was twenty-seven years old and had
probably loved other men before him. This thought tormented him. His pride
could not reconcile itself to the thought that she could love some one else,
even in the past. Of course, she could not be expected to know that she wou=
ld
meet him, but the very thought that she could have loved some one else befo=
re
offended him.
So that there were as many reasons for as there were against marriage in general and marrying Missy in particular. At all events the arguments were equally strong on both sides, and Nekhludoff laug= hed as he compared himself to the ass in the fable who, while deciding which of= the two bales of hay before him he should have his meal from, starved himself.<= o:p>
"However, until I have heard from Maria
Vasilieona, the wife of the commander, and have done with her for good, I c=
an
do nothing," he said to himself.
And the consciousness that he could and must d=
efer
his decision pleased him.
"Ah, but I will consider it all later,&qu=
ot;
he said to himself, as his cabriolet silently approached the asphalt paveme=
nt
of the court-house.
"And now I must do my duty to the communi=
ty
conscientiously, as I always do, and think it one's duty to do. Besides, it=
is
often interesting," he said, and went past the door-keeper into the ve=
stibule
of the court.
=
= There was great commotion in the corridors of the court when Nekhludoff entered.<= o:p>
The attendants flitted to and fro breathlessly,
delivering orders and documents. Police captains, lawyers and clerks passed=
now
one way, now the other; complainants and defendants under bail leaned sadly
against the walls, or were sitting and waiting.
"Where is the Circuit Court?" asked
Nekhludoff of one of the attendants.
"Which one? There is a civil division and=
a
criminal one."
"I am a juror."
"Criminal division. You should have said =
so.
This way, to the right, then turn to your left. The second door."
Nekhludoff went as directed.
At the door two men stood waiting. One was a t=
all,
stout merchant, a good-natured man, who had evidently partaken of some liqu=
or and
was in very high spirits; the other was a clerk of Jewish extraction. They =
were
talking about the price of wool when Nekhludoff approached them and asked if
that was the jury's room.
"Here, sir, here. Are you also one of the
jurymen?" mirthfully winking his eyes, the good-natured merchant asked=
.
"Well, we will drudge together, I
suppose," he continued in response to Nekhludoff's affirmative answer.
"My name is Baklashoff, merchant of the second guild," he introdu=
ced
himself, extending his soft, broad hand; "we must do our duty. Whom ha=
ve I
the honor of addressing?"
Nekhludoff gave his name and passed into the
jury-room.
In the small jury-room there were about ten me=
n of
every description. They had just arrived; some were sitting, others walked
about, eyeing, and making each other's acquaintance. One was a retired offi=
cer
in uniform; others were in short coats, and but one in peasant garb.
Notwithstanding that they were all complaining
that the jury duty was burdensome, and was taking them away from their
business, they all seemed to be pleased with the consciousness of performin=
g an
important civic duty.
The jurymen talked among themselves of the
weather, of the premature spring, of the business before them. Those who we=
re
not acquainted with Nekhludoff hastened to become so, evidently considering=
it
an honor. And Nekhludoff, as was usual with him among strangers, received i=
t as
his due. If he were asked why he considered himself above the majority of
people he would not be able to answer, as there was nothing in his life
transcending the commonplace. The fact that he spoke English, French and Ge=
rman
fluently; that his linen, clothing, scarf and cuff-buttons were of superior
make would not be sufficient reason for assuming his superiority, as he him=
self
well understood. And yet he doubtless acknowledged in himself this superior=
ity,
and regarded the respect shown him as his due, and was offended when it was=
not
forthcoming. It just happened that in the jury-room Nekhludoff experienced =
this
disagreeable feeling of being treated with disrespect. Among the jurymen th=
ere
was an acquaintance of Nekhludoff. This was Peter Gerasimovitch (Nekhludoff
never knew, and even boasted of the fact that he did not know his surname),=
who
was at one time tutor to his sister's children. Peter Gerasimovitch was now
teacher in a college. Nekhludoff could never bear his familiarity, his self=
-satisfied
laughter--in a word, his "communizing," as Nekhludoff's sister us=
ed
to put it.
"Ha, ha! So you are also trapped?" he
greeted Nekhludoff with a loud burst of laughter. "You did not escape
it?"
"I never intended to evade my duty,"
sternly and gloomily said Nekhludoff.
"That I call civic virtue. But wait till =
you
are hungry and sleepy, you will sing another tune," Peter Gerasimovitch
said, laughing still louder.
"This son of an archdeacon will soon begi= n to 'thou' me," thought Nekhludoff, with an expression of sadness on his f= ace, as though he had just learned of a grievous loss in his family. He turned f= rom the ex-tutor and approached a group of people that had formed around a clea= n-faced, tall man, of dignified carriage, who were holding a spirited conversation. = The man was speaking of a case that was being tried in the civil division, show= ing his familiarity with the judges and the famous lawyers by referring to them= by name. He was telling them of the remarkable turn given to the probable resu= lt of the case by the dexterity of a famous lawyer, by which an old lady, who = was in the right, would be obliged to pay an enormous sum to the adverse side.<= o:p>
"He is a most ingenious attorney," he
said.
He was listened to with respect, and some
attempted to interrupt him with some remarks, but he cut them short as if he
alone knew the true facts.
Although Nekhludoff arrived late, there was a =
long
wait before him, which was caused by the failure of one of the judges to
appear.
=
The
presiding justice arrived early. He was a tall, stout man, with long, grayi=
sh
side-whiskers. He was married, but, like his wife, led a very dissolute lif=
e.
They did not interfere with each other. On the morning in question he recei=
ved
a note from a Swiss governess, who had lived in his house during the summer,
and was now passing on her way from the South to St. Petersburg. She wrote =
that
she would be in town between three and six o'clock p.m., and wait for him at
the "Hotel Italia." He was, therefore, anxious to end his day's
sitting before six o'clock, that he might meet the red-haired Clara Vasilie=
vna.
Entering his private chamber, and locking the =
door
behind him, he produced from the lower shelf of a book-case two dumb-bells,
made twenty motions upward, forward, sidewise and downward, and three times=
lowered
himself, holding the bells above his head.
"Nothing so refreshes one as a cold-water
bath and exercise," he thought, feeling with his left hand, on the fou=
rth
finger of which was a gold ring, the biceps of his right arm. He had to go
through two more movements (these exercises he went through every day before
court opened), when the door rattled. Some one was attempting to open it. T=
he
judge quickly replaced the dumb-bells and opened the door.
"I beg your pardon," he said.
One of the members of the court, wearing gold
eye-glasses, of medium height, with high shoulders and frowning countenance=
, entered.
"Matvei Nikitich is late again," said
the newcomer, with an air of displeasure.
"Yes," said the presiding judge, don=
ning
his robes. "He is always late."
"It is a shame," said the member, and
sat down angrily, then lighted a cigarette.
This member of the court, a very punctilious m=
an,
had this morning had an unpleasant encounter with his wife, which was cause=
d by
her spending her monthly allowance before the month was up. She asked for a=
sum
of money in advance, and he refused. The result was a quarrel. She said that
unless he gave her the money there would be no dinner that night, and that =
he
would have to dine outside. He departed in fear that she would carry out her
threat, as anything might be expected from her.
"Is it worth while leading a good, moral
life?" he thought, as he looked at the beaming, healthy, joyful and
good-natured presiding justice, who, spreading his elbows, stroked his long,
gray whiskers; "he is always contented and cheerful, while I am
suffering."
The secretary entered and handed the presiding
justice a document.
"Thank you," he said, and lighted a
cigarette. "Which case shall be taken up first?"
"The poison case, I think," the
secretary answered, with feigned indifference.
"Very well; so let it be the poison
case," said the justice, considering that that case could be disposed =
of
by four o'clock and make it possible for him to keep the appointment. "=
;Has
Matvei Nikitich arrived?"
"Not yet."
"Is Breae here?"
"Yes," answered the secretary.
"Then tell him that we shall try the
poisoning case."
Breae was an assistant prosecuting attorney and
was assigned to this term of the court.
The secretary met Breae in the corridor. With
uplifted shoulders, his robe unbuttoned, and portfolio under his arm, he al=
most
ran, his heels clattering on the floor, and his disengaged hand outstretche=
d in
the direction in which he was going.
"Michael Petrovich desires to know if you=
are
ready," said the secretary.
"Certainly; I am always ready," said=
the
assistant prosecutor; "which is the first case?"
"The poisoning case."
"Very well," said the assistant
prosecutor, but he did not consider it well at all--he had not slept all ni=
ght.
A send-off had been given to a departing friend, and he drank and played ti=
ll
two in the morning, so that he was entirely unfamiliar with this case, and =
now
hastened to glance over the indictment. The secretary had purposely suggest=
ed
the case, knowing that the prosecutor had not read it. The secretary was a =
man
of liberal, even radical, ideas. Breae was conservative, and the secretary
disliked him, and envied his position.
"And what about the Skoptzy?"[A]
"I have already said that I cannot prosec=
ute
them in the absence of witnesses," said the assistant prosecutor,
"and I will so declare to the court."
"But you don't need----"
"I cannot," said the assistant
prosecutor, and waving his hand, ran to his office.
He was postponing the case against the Skoptzy,
although the absent witness was an entirely unnecessary one. The real reaso=
n of
the postponement was that the prosecutor feared that their trial before an =
intelligent
jury might end in their acquittal. By an understanding with the presiding
justice their case was to be transferred to the session of the District Cou=
rt,
where the preponderance of peasants on the jury would insure their convicti=
on.
The commotion in the corridor increased. The
greatest crowd was before the Civil Court, where the case of which the port=
ly
gentleman was telling the jurymen was being tried. During a recess the same=
old
lady from whom the ingenious attorney managed to win her property in favor =
of
his shrewd client, came out of the court-room. That he was not entitled to =
the
property was known to the judges as well as to the claimant and his attorne=
y,
but the mode of their procedure was such that it was impossible to dismiss
their claim. The old lady was stout, in smart attire, and with large flower=
s on
her hat. As she passed into the corridor she stopped, and turning to her
lawyer, kept repeating:
"How can it be? Great heavens! I don't
understand it!"
The lawyer did not listen to her, but looked at
the flowers on her hat, making mental calculations.
Behind the old lady, beaming in his wide-open
vest, and with a self-sufficient smile on his face, came that same famous
lawyer who so managed the case that the lady with the large flowers lost all
her property, while his shrewd client, who paid him ten thousand rubles, re=
ceived
over a hundred thousand. All eyes were directed toward him. He was consciou=
s of
it and seemed to say by his demeanor:
"Never mind your expressions of
devotion," and brushed past the crowd.
FOOTNOTES:
[Footnote A: A sect of eunuchs.]
=
=
Finally
Matvei Nikitich arrived, and the usher, a long-necked and lean man, with a
sideling gait and protruding lower lip, entered the jury-room.
The usher was an honest man, with a university
education, but he could not hold any employment on account of his tippling
habit. A countess, his wife's patroness, had obtained him his present posit=
ion
three months ago; he still retained it, and was exceedingly glad.
"Are you all here, gentlemen?" he as=
ked,
putting on his pince-nez and looking through it.
"I think so," said the cheerful
merchant.
"Let us see," said the usher, and
drawing a sheet of paper from his pocket, began to call the names of the ju=
ry,
looking at those that responded to their names now through his pince-nez, n=
ow
over it.
"Counsilor of State E. M. Nikiforoff.&quo=
t;
"Here," said the portly gentleman, w=
ho
was familiar with all the litigations.
"Retired Colonel Ivan Semionovich
Ivanoff."
"Present," answered a lank man in the
uniform of a retired officer.
"Merchant of the second guild, Peter
Baklashoff."
"Here," said the good-natured mercha=
nt,
smiling from ear to ear. "We are ready."
"Lieutenant of the Guards, Prince Dmitri
Nekhludoff."
"Here," answered Nekhludoff.
The usher, looking politely and pleasantly thr=
ough
his pince-nez, bowed, thereby distinguishing him from the rest, as it were.=
"Captain Uri Dmitrievich Danchenko; merch=
ant
Gregory Ephimovich Kouleshoff," etc., etc., etc.
There were but two missing from the panel.
"You will now, gentlemen, walk into the
court," said the usher, pointing to the door with a polite sweep of the
hand.
They all rose from their seats, and passing ea=
ch
other through the door, made their way through the corridor to the court-ro=
om.
The court was held in a large, oblong room. At=
one
end was a platform, reached by three steps. In the middle of the platform s=
tood
a table, covered with green cloth, which was fringed with a dark-green lace=
. Behind
the table stood three arm-chairs with high, carved backs. In an image-case
suspended in the right corner was a representation of Christ with a crown of
thorns, and beneath it a reading-desk, and on the same side stood the
prosecutor's desk. To the left, opposite this desk, was the secretary's tab=
le,
and dividing these from the seats reserved for spectators was a carved rail=
ing,
along which stood the prisoners' bench, as yet unoccupied.
On an elevation to the right were two rows of =
chairs,
also with high backs, reserved for the jury; below these were tables for th=
e attorneys.
All this was in the front part of the court-room, which was divided in two =
by a
railing. In the rear part of the room benches in lines extended to the wall=
. In
the front row sat four women, either servants or factory employees, and two
men, also workmen, who were evidently awed by the grandeur of the
ornamentations, and were timidly whispering to each other.
Soon after the jurymen came the usher, who,
walking sidewise to the middle of the room, shouted, as if he meant to frig=
hten
those present:
"The court is coming!"
Everybody stood up, and the judges ascended the
platform. First came the presiding judge with his muscles and beautiful
whiskers. Then came the gold-spectacled, gloomy member of the court--now ev=
en
more gloomy, for before the opening of the session he met his brother-in-la=
w, a
candidate for a judicial office, who told him that he had seen his sister, =
and
that she declared that there would be no dinner at home this day.
"So that, it seems, we will have to dine =
at
an inn," said the brother-in-law, laughing.
"What is there droll about it?" said=
the
gloomy member of the court, and sank into a still deeper gloom.
And last of all came the third member of the
court, that same Matvei Nikitich, who was always late. He wore a long beard,
and had large, kindly eyes, with drooping eyelids. He suffered from catarrh=
of
the stomach, and by the advice of his physician had adopted a new regimen, =
and
this new regimen detained him this morning longer than usual. When he ascen=
ded
the platform he seemed to be wrapped in thought, but only because he had the
habit of making riddles of every question that occurred to him. At this mom=
ent
he was occupied with the following enigmatical proposition:
If the number of steps in the distance between=
the
cabinet-door and the arm-chair will divide by three without a remainder, th=
en
the new regimen will cure him; but if it does not so divide, then it will n=
ot. There
were twenty-six steps, but he made one short step and reached the chair with
the twenty-seventh.
As the judges ascended the elevation in their
uniforms, with gold-laced collars, they presented an imposing array. They
themselves felt it, and all three, as if confused by their own greatness, m=
odestly
lowered their eyes, and hastily seated themselves behind the table on which
clean paper and freshly-pointed lead pencils of all sizes had been placed. =
The
prosecutor, who entered with the judges, also hastily walked to his place n=
ear
the window, his portfolio still under his arm, and waving his hand he began=
to
read the papers in the case, utilizing every moment to prepare himself.
This was his fifth case as prosecuting attorne=
y.
He was ambitious, and was determined to make his career, and hence he
endeavored to obtain a conviction in every case he prosecuted. He knew the =
main
points of the poisoning case, and had already planned his speech; but he ne=
eded
to know some particulars of which he was now making extracts from the paper=
s.
The secretary sat on the opposite side of the
elevation, and, having prepared all the papers that might be necessary to
produce on trial, was glancing over a newspaper article, which he had obtai=
ned
and read the day before. He was anxious to talk to the member of the court =
with
the long beard, who shared his views, and before doing so wished to better
familiarize himself with it.
=
=
The
presiding justice looked over the papers, asked some questions of the usher,
and receiving affirmative answers, ordered that the prisoners be brought in=
to
court. Immediately a door beyond the grating opened, and two gendarmes with
unsheathed swords and caps on their heads, stepped into the court-room. Beh=
ind
them came a freckled, red-haired man and two women. The man was dressed in
prisoner's garb which was too long and too wide for him. As he entered the
court-room he held up with outspread fingers the sleeves which were too lon=
g. Without
looking at the judges or the spectators, his attention was absorbed by the
bench around which he was led. When he had passed around he carefully seated
himself on the edge, and making room for the others, began to stare at the
presiding justice, the muscles of his cheeks moving as if he were whispering
something. He was followed by a middle-aged woman, also dressed in a prison=
er's
coat. A white prison cap covered her head; her face was grayish, and her ey=
es
were devoid of either eye-lashes or eyebrows. She seemed quite composed. As=
she
was passing the railing to take her seat, her coat caught at something; wit=
hout
haste, she carefully disengaged it, then smoothed it and took her seat.
The third prisoner was Maslova.
No sooner did she enter than all the male
spectators turned their eyes toward her, attracted by her white face, lustr=
ous
black eyes and high breast. Even the gendarme whom she passed gazed at her
until she seated herself; then, as if feeling himself guilty, he quickly tu=
rned
his head from her and straightening himself, he began to gaze into the wind=
ow
directly in front of him.
The presiding justice waited until all the
prisoners took their places, and as soon as Maslova was seated, he turned to
the secretary.
Then commenced the customary proceeding; calli=
ng
of the jurymen, fining the absent ones, listening to the claims of exemption
from jury duty and filling the panel from a number of reserves. Then the pr=
esiding
justice folded the slips of paper, placed them in a glass vase, and turning=
up
his gold-laced sleeve drew the slips one by one, unrolled them and read them
aloud. Then he straightened his sleeve and called on the priest to swear in=
the
jury.
An old little priest with a swollen, pale yell=
ow
face, in a brown cassock and gold cross on his breast and some small badges
pinned to the cassock, slowly moving his swollen feet under the cassock, ap=
proached
the reading desk under the image.
The jury rose and, crowding each other, came
forward.
"Come nearer, please," said the prie=
st,
touching with his swollen hand the cross on his breast, and waiting until a=
ll
the jury were near him.
While the jury were mounting the steps to the
elevation where the desk stood, the priest wriggled his bald, hoary head
through the opening of the stole, then rearranging his scanty hair, he turn=
ed
to the jury:
"Raise your right hands and keep your fin=
gers
thus," he said, in a slow, feeble voice, raising his bloated hand and
pointing at his forehead with the first three of its dimpled fingers. "=
;Now
repeat after me: 'I promise and swear by the Almighty God, His Holy Gospel,=
and
by the life-giving cross of our Lord, that in the case'"--he continued,
resting after each phrase. "Don't drop your hand; hold it thus," =
he
turned to a young man who let his hand fall--"'that in the case
which----'"
The portly, whiskered gentleman, the colonel, =
merchant
and others held their hands as directed by the priest, and seemed to do so =
with
particular pleasure, holding their hands quite high, and their fingers most
proper; others seemed to do it against their will, and carelessly. Some
repeated the words too loudly, in a provoking manner, with an expression on=
the
face which seemed to say: "I will repeat as I please;" others
whispered, fell behind the priest and then, as if frightened, hastened to c=
atch
up with him. Some held their fingers tightly closed, as if challenging anyo=
ne
to part them; others, again, loosened them, now closed them again. After the
jury was sworn, the presiding justice directed them to choose a foreman. Th=
ey
arose and, crowding each other, went into the consultation room, where almo=
st every
one produced cigarettes and began to smoke. Some one proposed the portly
gentleman, who was immediately chosen, then they threw away their cigarettes
and returned to the court. The gentleman declared to the presiding justice =
that
he was chosen foreman, and stepping over the feet of each other, the jury a=
gain
seated themselves in the two rows of high-backed chairs.
Everything proceeded smoothly, quickly and not
without solemnity, and the regularity, order and solemnity evidently pleased
the participants, confirming their sense of rendering important public serv=
ice.
Nekhludoff also experienced this feeling.
As soon as the jury seated themselves the
presiding justice instructed them in their rights, duties and responsibilit=
ies.
While speaking, he was constantly changing his attitude; now he leaned on h=
is
right hand, now on his left; then he reclined in his chair, or rested his h=
ands
on the arms of the chair, smoothed the corners of the paper on the table, p=
olished
the paper-knife or clutched the lead pencil.
Their rights, according to him, consisted in t=
hat
they were allowed to question prisoners, through the presiding justice; they
might keep pencils and paper, and might also view exhibits. Their duties co=
nsisted
in not giving a false verdict. And their responsibilities consisted in that=
if
they failed to keep secret their deliberations, or spoke to outsiders, they
would be liable to punishment.
They all listened with respectful attention. T=
he
merchant, from whom the fumes of wine spread through the jury box, and who =
was
suppressing the noisy rising of gases in his stomach, approvingly nodded at
every sentence.
=
=
After
he had finished the instructions, the presiding justice turned to the
prisoners.
"Simon Kartinkin, rise!" he said.
Simon sprang up nervously. The muscles of his
cheeks began to twitch still quicker.
"What is your name?"
"Simon Petroff Kartinkin," he said
quickly, in a sharp voice, evidently prepared for the question.
"What estate?"
"Peasant."
"What government, district?"
"Government of Tula, district of Krapiven=
sk,
Kupian township, village of Borki."
"How old are you?"
"Thirty-four; born in eighteen
hundred----"
"What faith?"
"Of the Russian orthodox faith."
"Are you married?"
"O, no!"
"What is your occupation?"
"I was employed in the Hotel
Mauritania."
"Were you ever arrested before?"
"I was never arrested before, because whe=
re I
lived----"
"You were not arrested?"
"God forbid! Never!"
"Have you received a copy of the
indictment?"
"Yes."
"Sit down. Euphemia Ivanovna Bochkova!&qu=
ot;
The presiding justice turned to the next prisoner.
But Simon remained standing in front of Bochko=
va.
"Kartinkin, sit down!"
Kartinkin still remained standing.
"Kartinkin, sit down!"
But Kartinkin stood still until the usher, his
head leaning to the side, and with wide-open eyes, whispered to him in a tr=
agic
tone:
"Sit down, sit down!"
Kartinkin sat down as quickly as he rose, and
wrapping himself in his coat began to move his cheeks.
"Your name?" With a sigh of weariness
the presiding justice turned to the next prisoner without looking at her, a=
nd
consulted a paper before him. He was so accustomed to the business that to
expedite matters he could try two cases at once.
Bochkova was forty-two years old, a burgess of=
the
town of Koloma; by occupation a servant--in the same Hotel Mauritania. Was
never arrested before, and had received a copy of the indictment. She gave =
the answers
very boldly and with an intonation which seemed to add to every answer.
"Yes, Bochkova, Euphemia, have received a
copy, and am proud of it, and will permit no one to laugh at me."
Without waiting to be told to sit down, Bochko=
va
sat down immediately after the questioning ceased.
"Your name?" asked the presiding jus=
tice
of the third prisoner. "You must rise," he added, gently and
courteously, seeing Maslova still in her seat.
With quick movement Maslova rose with an air of
submissiveness, and throwing back her shoulders, looked into the face of the
presiding justice with her smiling, somewhat squinting black eyes.
"What are you called?"
"They used to call me Lubka," she
answered, rapidly.
Meanwhile Nekhludoff put on his pince-nez and
examined the prisoners while they were questioned.
"It is impossible," he thought, look=
ing
intently at the prisoner. "But her name is Lubka," he thought, as=
he
heard her answer.
The presiding justice was about to continue his
interrogation when the member with the eye-glasses, angrily whispering
something, stopped him. The presiding justice nodded his assent and turned =
to
the prisoner.
"You say 'Lubka,' but a different name is
entered here."
The prisoner was silent.
"I ask you what is your real name?"<= o:p>
"What name did you receive at baptism?&qu=
ot;
asked the angry member.
"Formerly I was called Katherine."
"It is impossible," Nekhludoff conti=
nued
to repeat, although there was no doubt in his mind now that it was she, that
same servant ward with whom he had been in love at one time--yes, in love, =
real
love, and whom in a moment of mental fever he led astray, then abandoned, a=
nd
to whom he never gave a second thought, because the recollection of it was =
too
painful, revealed too manifestly that he, who prided himself of his good
breeding, not only did not treat her decently, but basely deceived her.
Yes, it was she. He saw plainly the mysterious
peculiarity that distinguishes every individual from every other individual=
. Notwithstanding
the unnatural whiteness and fullness of her face, this pleasant peculiarity=
was
in the face, in the lips, in the slightly squinting eyes, and, principally,=
in
the naive, smiling glance, and in the expression of submissiveness not only=
in
the face, but in the whole figure.
"You should have said so," again very
gently said the presiding justice. "What is your patronymic?"
"I am illegitimate," said Maslova.
"But yet you were named after your
godfather?"
"Michailova."
"What crime could she have committed?&quo=
t;
Nekhludoff thought meanwhile, his breath almost failing him.
"What is your surname--your family
name?" continued the presiding justice.
"Maslova--after my mother."
"Your estate?"
"Burgess."
"Of the orthodox faith?"
"Yes."
"Your occupation? What was your
occupation?"
Maslova was silent.
"What was your occupation?" repeated=
the
justiciary.
"You know!" said Maslova. She smiled=
and
quickly glanced around, then looked squarely at the justiciary.
There was something so unusual in the expressi=
on
of her face--something so terrible and piteous in the meaning of her words,=
in
that smile, that quick glance which she cast over the court-room--that the
justiciary hung his head, and for a moment there was perfect silence.
A burst of laughter from some spectator
interrupted the silence. Some one hissed. The justiciary raised his head and
continued the interrogation.
"Were you ever arrested?"
"No." Maslova said in an undertone,
sighing.
"Have you received a copy of the
indictment?"
"Yes."
"Sit down."
The prisoner raised her skirt with the customa=
ry
movement of a fashionable lady, arranging her train, and sat down, folding =
her
hands in the sleeves of her coat, and still looking at the justiciary.
Then began the recounting of witnesses, their
removal to a separate room, the decision on the evidence of the medical exp=
ert.
Then the secretary arose and began to read the indictment, loud and with di=
stinctness,
but so rapidly that his incorrect sounding of the letters l and r turned his
reading into one continuous, weary drone. The judges leaned now on one side,
now on the other side of their arm-chairs, then on the table, and again on =
the
backs of the chairs, or closed their eyes, or opened them and whispered to =
each
other. One of the gendarmes several times stifled a yawn.
The convulsions of Kartinkin's cheeks did not
cease. Bochkova sat quietly and erect, now and then scratching with her fin=
ger
under her cap.
Maslova sat motionless, listening to the readi=
ng,
and looking at the clerk; at times she shuddered and made a movement as if
desiring to object, blushed, then sighed deeply, changed the position of he=
r hands,
glanced around and again looked at the clerk.
Nekhludoff sat on the high-backed chair in the
front row, second to the aisle, and without removing his pince-nez looked at
Maslova, while his soul was being racked by a fierce and complicated strugg=
le.
=
The
indictment read as follows:
"On the 17th of January, 18--, suddenly d=
ied
in the Hotel Mauritania, merchant of the second guild, Therapont Emelianovi=
ch
Smelkoff.
"The local police physician certified that
the cause of death of said Smelkoff was rupture of the heart, caused by exc=
essive
use of liquor.
"The body of Smelkoff was interred.
"On the 21st day of January, a townsman a=
nd
comrade of Smelkoff, on returning from St. Petersburg, and hearing of the
circumstances of his death, declared his suspicion that Smelkoff was poison=
ed
with a view of robbing him of the money he carried about his person.
"This suspicion was confirmed at the preliminary inquest, by which it was established: 1. That Smelkoff had drawn from the bank, some time before his death, three thousand eight hundred rub= les; that, after a due and careful inventory of the money of the deceased, only three hundred and twelve rubles and sixteen kopecks were found. 2. That the= entire day and evening preceding his death deceased passed in the company of a girl named Lubka (Katherine Maslova) in the Hotel Mauritania, whither said Maslo= va came at the request of Smelkoff for money; that she obtained the money from Smelkoff's trunk, first unlocking it with a key intrusted to her by Smelkof= f; that the money was thus taken in the presence of two servants of the said h= otel--Euphemia Bochkova and Simon Kartinkin; that at the opening of said trunk by the said Maslova in the presence of the aforementioned Bochkova and Kartinkin, there were rolls of hundred ruble bills. 3. That on the return of said Smelkoff a= nd Maslova to the said hotel, the said Maslova, on the advice of the said serv= ant Kartinkin, administered to the deceased a glass of brandy, in which she put= a white powder given her by said Kartinkin. 4. That on the following morning Lubka (Katherine Maslova) sold to her mistress, Rosanova, a diamond ring belongin= g to Smelkoff, said ring she alleged to have been presented to her by said Smelk= off. 5. That the servant of said Hotel Mauritania, Euphemia Bochkova, deposited = in her name in the local Bank of Commerce the sum of eighteen hundred rubles.<= o:p>
"At the autopsy held on the body of Smelk=
off,
and after the removal of the intestines, the presence of poison was readily
discovered, leaving no doubt that death was caused by poisoning.
"The prisoners, Maslova, Bochkova and
Kartinkin pleaded not guilty. Maslova declared that she did go to the Hotel
Mauritania, as stated, for the purpose of fetching some money for the merch=
ant,
and that opening the trunk with the key given to her by the merchant, she t=
ook only
forty rubles, as she was directed, but took no more, which fact can be
substantiated by Bochkova and Kartinkin, in whose presence she took the mon=
ey
and locked the trunk. She further testified that during her second visit to=
the
room of the merchant she gave him, at the instigation of Kartinkin, several
powders in a glass of brandy, which she considered to be narcotic, in order
that she might get away from him. The ring was presented to her by Smelkoff
when she cried and was about to leave him after he had beaten her.
"Euphemia Bochkova testified that she knew
nothing about the missing money, never entered the merchant's room, which L=
ubka
herself kept in order, and that if anything was stolen from the merchant, it
was done by Lubka when she came to the room for the money."
At this point Maslova shuddered, and with open
mouth looked at Bochkova.
"And when Euphemia Bochkova was shown her
bank account of eighteen hundred rubles," continued the secretary,
"and asked how she came by the money, she testified that the money was
saved from their earnings by herself and Simon Kartinkin, whom she intended=
to
marry.
"Simon Kartinkin, on his part, at the fir=
st
examination, confessed that, at the instigation of Maslova, who brought the=
key
to the trunk, he and Bochkova stole the money, which was afterwards divided
between the three."
At this Maslova shuddered again, sprang to her
feet, turned red in the face, and began to say something, but the usher bade
her be quiet.
"Finally," continued the secretary,
"Kartinkin also confessed to giving Maslova the powders to put the
merchant to sleep. On the second examination, however, he denied having eit=
her
stolen the money, or given Maslova the powders, but charged Maslova with bo=
th.
As to the money placed by Bochkova in the bank, he declared, in accordance =
with
Bochkova's testimony, that they had saved it during their twelve years' ser=
vice
in the hotel."
The indictment wound up as follows:
"In view of the aforesaid the defendants,
Simon Kartinkin, peasant of the village of Borkoff, thirty-three years of a=
ge;
burgess Euphemia Ivanova Bochkova, forty-two years of age, and burgess
Katherine Maslova, twenty-seven years of age, conspired on the 17th day of =
January,
188-, to administer poison to merchant Smelkoff with intent to kill and rob
him, and did on said day administer to said Smelkoff poison, from which poi=
son
the said Smelkoff died, and did thereafter rob him of a diamond ring and
twenty-five hundred rubles, contrary to the laws in such cases made and pro=
vided.
Chapter 1453, sections 4 and 5, Penal Code.
"Wherefore, in accordance with chapter 20=
1 of
the Code of Criminal Procedure, the said peasant, Simon Kartinkin, burgess
Euphemia Bochkova and burgess Katherine Maslova are subject to trial by jur=
y, the
case being within the jurisdiction of the Circuit Court."
The clerk having finished the reading of the l=
ong
indictment, folded the papers, seated himself at his desk and began to arra=
nge
his long hair. Every one present gave a sigh of relief, and with the consci=
ousness
that the trial had already begun, everything would be cleared up and justice
would finally be done, leaned back on their chairs.
Nekhludoff alone did not experience this feeli=
ng.
He was absorbed in the horrible thought that the same Maslova, whom he knew=
as
an innocent and beautiful girl ten years ago, could be guilty of such a cri=
me.
=
=
When
the reading of the indictment was finished, the justiciary, having consulted
with his associates, turned to Kartinkin with an expression on his face whi=
ch
plainly betokened confidence in his ability to bring forth all the truth.
"Simon Kartinkin," he called, leanin=
g to
the left.
Simon Kartinkin rose, put out his chest,
incessantly moving his cheeks.
"You are charged, together with Euphemia
Bochkova and Katherine Maslova, with stealing from the trunk of the merchant
Smelkoff money belonging to him, and subsequently brought arsenic and induc=
ed
Maslova to administer it to Smelkoff, by reason of which he came to his dea=
th. Are
you guilty or not guilty?" he said, leaning to the right.
"It is impossible, because our business i=
s to
attend the guests----"
"You will speak afterwards. Are you guilt=
y or
not?"
"No, indeed. I only----"
"You can speak later. Do you admit that y=
ou
are guilty?" calmly but firmly repeated the justiciary.
"I cannot do it because----"
Again the usher sprang toward Simon and with a
tragic whisper stopped him.
The justiciary, with an expression showing that
the questioning was at an end, moved the hand in which he held a document to
another place, and turned to Euphemia Bochkova.
"Euphemia Bochkova, you, with Kartinkin a=
nd
Maslova, are charged with stealing, on the 17th day of January, 188-, at the
Hotel Mauritania, from the trunk of the merchant Smelkoff, money and a ring,
and dividing the same among yourselves, and with a view of hiding your crim=
e,
administered poison to him, from the effects of which he died. Are you
guilty?"
"I am not guilty of anything," boldly
and firmly answered the prisoner. "I never entered the room--and as th=
at
scurvy woman did go into the room, she, then, did the business----"
"You will speak afterwards," again s=
aid
the justiciary, with the same gentleness and firmness. "So you are not
guilty?"
"I did not take the money, did not give h=
im
the poison, did not go into the room. If I were in the room I should have
thrown her out."
"You are not guilty, then?"
"Never."
"Very well."
"Katherine Maslova," began the
justiciary, turning to the third prisoner. "The charge against you is
that, having come to the Hotel Mauritania with the key to Smelkoff's trunk,=
you
stole therefrom money and a ring," he said, like one repeating a lesson
learned by rote, and leaning his ear to the associate sitting on his left, =
who
said that he noticed that the phial mentioned in the list of exhibits was
missing. "Stole therefrom money and a ring," repeated the justici=
ary,
"and after dividing the money again returned with the merchant Smelkof=
f to
the Hotel Mauritania, and there administered to him poison, from the effect=
s of
which he died. Are you guilty or not guilty?"
"I am not guilty of anything," she
answered, quickly. "As I said before, so I repeat now: I never, never,
never took the money; I did not take anything, and the ring he gave me
himself."
"You do not plead guilty of stealing
twenty-five hundred rubles?" said the justiciary.
"I say I didn't take anything but forty
rubles."
"And do you plead guilty to the charge of
giving the merchant Smelkoff powders in his wine?"
"To that I plead guilty. Only I thought, =
as I
was told, that they would put him to sleep, and that no harm could come from
them. I did not wish, nor thought of doing him any harm. Before God, I say =
that
I did not," she said.
"So you deny that you are guilty of steal=
ing
the money and ring from the merchant Smelkoff," said the justiciary,
"but you admit that you gave him the powders?"
"Of course, I admit, only I thought that =
they
were sleeping powders. I only gave them to him that he might fall asleep--n=
ever
wished, nor thought----"
"Very well," said the justiciary,
evidently satisfied with the results of the examinations. "Now tell us=
how
it happened," he said, leaning his elbows on the arms of the chair and
putting his hands on the table. "Tell us everything. By confessing fra=
nkly
you will improve your present condition."
Maslova, still looking straight at the justici=
ary,
was silent.
"Tell us what took place."
"What took place?" suddenly said
Maslova. "I came to the hotel; I was taken to the room; he was there, =
and
was already very drunk." (She pronounced the word "he" with a
peculiar expression of horror and with wide-open eyes.) "I wished to
depart; he would not let me."
She became silent, as if she had lost the thre=
ad
of the story, or thought of something else.
"What then?"
"What then? Then I remained there awhile =
and
went home."
At this point the assistant public prosecutor =
half
rose from his seat, uncomfortably resting on one elbow.
"Do you wish to question the prisoner?&qu=
ot;
asked the justiciary, and receiving an affirmative answer, motioned his ass=
ent.
"I would like to put this question: Has t=
he
prisoner been acquainted with Simon Kartinkin before?" asked the assis=
tant
prosecutor without looking at Maslova.
And having asked the question he pressed his l=
ips
and frowned.
The justiciary repeated the question. Maslova
looked with frightened eyes at the prosecutor.
"With Simon? I was," she said.
"I would like to know now, what was the
character of the acquaintance that existed between them. Have they met
often?"
"What acquaintance? He invited me to meet
guests; there was no acquaintance," answered Maslova, throwing restless
glances now at the prosecutor, now at the justiciary.
"I would like to know why did Kartinkin
invite Maslova only, and not other girls?" asked the prosecutor, with a
Mephistophelian smile, winking his eyes.
"I don't know. How can I tell?" answ=
ered
Maslova, glancing around her, frightened, and for a moment resting her eyes=
on
Nekhludoff. "He invited whomever he wished."
"Is it possible that she recognized me?&q=
uot;
Nekhludoff thought, with horror. He felt his blood rising to his head, but
Maslova did not recognize him. She turned away immediately, and with fright=
ened
eyes gazed at the prosecutor.
"Then the prisoner denies that she had
intimate relations with Kartinkin? Very well. I have no more questions to
ask."
He removed his elbow from the desk, and began =
to
make notes. In reality, instead of making notes, he merely drew lines across
his notes, having seen prosecutors and attorneys, after an adroit question,
making memoranda of questions which were to crush their opponents.
The justiciary did not turn immediately to the
prisoner, because he was at the moment asking his associate in the eye-glas=
ses
whether he consented to the questions previously outlined and committed to =
writing.
"What followed?" the justiciary
continued.
"I came home," Maslova continued,
looking somewhat bolder, "and went to sleep. As soon as I was asleep o=
ur
girl, Bertha, came and woke me. 'Your merchant is here again. Wake up.' Then
he"--again she pronounced it with evident horror--"he wished to s=
end
for wine, but was short of money. Then he sent me to the hotel, telling me
where the money was and how much to take, and I went."
The justiciary was whispering at the time to h=
is
associate on the left, and did not listen to Maslova, but to make it appear
that he had heard everything he repeated her last words.
"And you went. Well, what else?" he
asked.
"I came there and did as he told me. I we=
nt
to his room. I did not enter it alone, but called Simon Michaelovich and
her," she said, pointing to Bochkova.
"She lies; I never entered----" Boch=
kova
began, but she was stopped.
"In their presence I took four ten ruble
bills," she continued.
"And while taking this money, did the
prisoner see how much money there was?" asked the prosecutor.
Maslova shuddered as soon as the prosecutor be=
gan
to speak. She could not tell why, but she felt that he was her enemy.
"I did not count it, but I saw that it was
all hundred ruble bills."
"The prisoner saw hundred ruble bills. I =
have
no other questions."
"Well, did you bring back the money?"
asked the justiciary, looking at the clock.
"I did."
"Well, what then?"
"Then he again took me with him," sa=
id
Maslova.
"And how did you give him the powder in t=
he
wine?" asked the justiciary.
"How? Poured it into the wine and gave it=
to
him."
"Why did you give it to him?"
Without answering, she sighed deeply. After a
short silence she said:
"He would not let me go. He exhausted me.=
I
went into the corridor and said to Simon Michaelovich: 'If he would only le=
t me
go; I am so tired.' And Simon Michaelovich said: 'We are also tired of him.=
We intend
to give him sleeping powders. When he is asleep you can go.' 'All right,' I
said. I thought that it was a harmless powder. He gave me a package. I ente=
red.
He lay behind the partition, and ordered me to bring him some brandy. I took
from the table a bottle of feen-champagne, poured into two glasses--for mys=
elf
and him--threw the powder into his glass and handed it to him. I would not =
have
given it to him if I had known it."
"And how did you come by the ring?"
asked the justiciary.
"He presented it to me."
"When did he present it to you?"
"When we reached his room. I wished to
depart. Then he struck me on the head and broke my comb. I was angered, and
wished to go. Then he took the ring from his finger and gave it to me, aski=
ng
me to stay," she said.
Here the assistant prosecutor again rose, and =
with
a dissimulating naiveness asked permission to ask a few more questions, whi=
ch
was granted, and leaning his head on his gold-embroidered collar, he asked:=
"I would like to know how long was the
prisoner in the room with Smelkoff?"
Maslova was again terror-stricken, and with her
frightened eyes wandering from the prosecutor to the justiciary, she answer=
ed, hurriedly:
"I do not remember how long."
"And does the prisoner remember entering
another part of the hotel after she had left Smelkoff?"
Maslova was thinking.
"Into the next room--an empty one," =
she
said.
"Why did you enter that room?" said =
the
assistant prosecutor, impulsively.
"To wait for a cabriolet."
"Was not Kartinkin in the room with the
prisoner?"
"He also came in."
"Why did he come in?"
"There was the merchant's feen-champagne
left, and we drank it together."
"Oh, drank together. Very well."
"And did the prisoner have any conversati=
on
with Simon, and what was the subject of the conversation?"
Maslova suddenly frowned, her face turned red,=
and
she quickly answered:
"What I said? I know nothing more. Do what
you please with me. I am innocent, and that is all. I did not say anything.=
I
told everything that happened."
"I have no more questions to ask," s=
aid
the prosecutor to the court, and uplifting his shoulders he began to add to=
the
memorandums of his speech that the prisoner herself confessed to entering an
empty room with Simon.
There was a short silence.
"Have you anything else to say?"
"I have told everything," she said,
sighing, and took her seat.
The justiciary then made some notes, and after=
he
had listened to a suggestion whispered by the associate on the left, declar=
ed a
recess of ten minutes, and, hastily rising, walked out of the court-room.
After the judges had risen, the jury, lawyers =
and
witness also rose, and with the pleasant feeling of having already performed
part of an important work, began to move hither and thither.
Nekhludoff walked into the jury-room and took a
seat near the window.
=
Yes,
it was Katiousha.
The relations of Nekhludoff to Katiousha were =
the
following:
Nekhludoff first met Katiousha when he went to
stay one summer out at the estate of his aunts in order that he might quiet=
ly
prepare his thesis on the private ownership of land. Ordinarily he lived on=
the
estate of his mother, near Moskow, with his mother and sister. But that year
his sister married, and his mother went abroad. Nekhludoff had to write a
composition in the course of his university studies, and decided to pass the
summer at his aunts'. There in the woods it was quiet, and there was nothin=
g to
distract him from his studies. Besides, the aunts loved their nephew and he=
ir,
and he loved them, loved their old-fashioned way of living.
During that summer Nekhludoff experienced that
exaltation which youth comes to know not by the teaching of others, but whe=
n it
naturally begins to recognize the beauty and importance of life, and man's =
serious
place in it; when it sees the possibility of infinite perfection of which t=
he
world is capable, and devotes itself to that endeavor, not only with the ho=
pe,
but with a full conviction of reaching that perfection which it imagines
possible. While in the university he had that year read Spencer's Social
Statics, and Spencer's reasoning bearing on private ownership of land produ=
ced
a strong impression on him, especially because he was himself the son of a
landed proprietress. His father was not rich, but his mother received as her
marriage portion ten thousand acres of land. He then for the first time
understood all the injustice of private ownership of land, and being one of
those to whom any sacrifice in the name of moral duty was a lofty spiritual
enjoyment, he forthwith divided the land he had inherited from his father a=
mong
the peasants. On this subject he was then composing a disquisition.
His life on the estate of his aunts was ordere=
d in
the following way: He rose very early, some times at three o'clock, and till
sunrise bathed in the river under a hill, often in the morning mist, and re=
turned
when the dew was yet on the grass and flowers. Some mornings he would, after
partaking of coffee, sit down to write his composition, or read references
bearing on the subject. But, above all, he loved to ramble in the woods. Be=
fore
dinner he would lie down in the woods and sleep; then, at dinner, he made
merry, jesting with his aunts; then went out riding or rowing. In the eveni=
ng
he read again, or joined his aunts, solving riddles for them. On moonlit ni=
ghts
he seldom slept, because of the immense joy of life that pervaded him, and
instead of sleeping, he sometimes rambled in the garden till daylight, abso=
rbed
in his thoughts and phantasies.
Thus he lived happily the first month under the
roof of his aunts' dwelling, paying no attention to the half-servant,
half-ward, the black-eyed, nimble-footed Katiousha.
Nekhludoff, raised under the protecting wing of
his mother, was at nineteen a perfectly innocent youth. He dreamed of woman,
but only as wife. All those women who, according to his view, could not be =
considered
as likely to become his wife, were to him not women, but people. But it
happened on Ascension Day that there was visiting his aunts a lady from the
neighborhood with her two young daughters, her son and a local artist who w=
as
staying with them.
After tea had been served the entire company, =
as
usual, repaired to the meadow, where they played blind man's buff. Katiousha
went with them. After some exchanges came Nekhludoff's turn to run with Kat=
iousha.
Nekhludoff always liked to see Katiousha, but it had never occurred to him =
that
their relations could ever be any but the most formal.
"It will be difficult to catch them
now," said the cheerful artist, whose short and curved legs carried him
very swiftly, "unless they stumble."
"You could not catch them."
"One, two, three!"
They clapped their hands three times. Almost
bursting into laughter, Katiousha quickly changed places with Nekhludoff, a=
nd
pressing with her strong, rough little hand his large hand she ran to the l=
eft,
rustling her starched skirt.
Nekhludoff was a swift runner; he wished to
out-distance the artist, and ran with all his might. As he turned around he=
saw
the artist catching up with Katiousha, but with her supple limbs she gained=
on him
and ran to the left. In front of them was a patch of lilac bushes, behind w=
hich
no one ran, but Katiousha, turning toward Nekhludoff, motioned him with her
head to join her there. He understood her, and ran behind the bushes. But h=
ere
was a ditch overgrown with nettles, whose presence was unknown to Nekhludof=
f.
He stumbled and fell, stinging and wetting his hands in the evening dew that
was now falling, but, laughing, he straightened himself and ran into the op=
en.
Katiousha, her black eyes beaming with joy, ran
toward him. They met and caught each others' hands.
"You were stung by the nettles, I
suppose," she said, arranging with her free hand her loosened braid,
breathing heavily, and looking up into his eyes.
"I did not know there was a ditch," =
he
said, also smiling, and still keeping her hand in his.
She advanced a little, and he, without being a=
ble
to account for it, inclined his face toward hers. She did not draw back. He
pressed her hand and kissed her on the lips.
She uttered an exclamation, and with a swift
movement, releasing her hand, she ran in the direction of the crowd.
Plucking two lilac twigs from the lilac bush,
fanning her flushed face with them, and glancing around toward him, she ran=
to
the players, briskly waving her hands.
From this day on the relations between Nekhlud=
off
and Katiousha were changed, and there were established between them those p=
eculiar
relations which are customary between two innocent young people who are
attached to each other.
As soon as Katiousha entered the room, or even
when Nekhludoff saw her white apron from afar, everything became immediatel=
y as
if lit by the sun; everything became more interesting, more cheerful, more =
important;
life became more joyful. She experienced the same feeling. But not alone the
presence and proximity of Katiousha had such effect upon Nekhludoff; the ve=
ry
thought of her existence had the same power upon him as that of his had upon
her. Whether he received an unpleasant letter from his mother, or was backw=
ard
in his composition, or felt the ceaseless sadness of youth, it would suffice
for him to see her and his spirit resumed its wonted good cheer.
Katiousha had to do all the housework, but she
managed to do her duty and found spare time for reading. He gave her the wo=
rks
of Dostoievsky and Tourgenieff to read. Those descriptive of the beauties of
nature she liked best. Their conversations were but momentary, when they me=
t in
the corridor, on the veranda, in the court-yard, or in the room of the aunt=
s'
old servant, Matriena Pavlovna, with whom Katiousha roomed, or in the serva=
nts'
chamber, whither Nekhludoff sometimes went to drink tea. And these conversa=
tions
in the presence of Matriena Pavlovna were the pleasantest. When they were a=
lone
their conversation flagged. Then the eyes would speak something different, =
more
important, than the mouth; the lips were drawn up, they felt uncomfortable,=
and
quickly parted.
These relations continued during the time of h=
is
first visit to his aunts. The aunts noticed them, were dismayed, and
immediately wrote to the Princess Elena Ivanovna, Nekhludoff's mother. But
their anxiety was unfounded; Nekhludoff, without knowing it, loved Katioush=
a,
as innocent people love, and this very love was the principal safeguard aga=
inst
either his or her fall. Not only did he not desire to possess her physicall=
y,
but the very thought of such relation horrified him. There was more reason =
in
the poetical Sophia Ivanovna's fear that Nekhludoff's having fallen in love
with a girl, might take a notion to marry her without regard to her birth or
station.
If Nekhludoff were clearly conscious of his lo=
ve
for Katiousha; especially if it were sought to persuade him that he could a=
nd
must not link his fate to that of the girl, he would very likely have decid=
ed
in his plumb-line mind that there was no reason why he should not marry her=
, no
matter who she was, provided he loved her. But the aunts did not speak of t=
heir
fears, and he departed without knowing that he was enamored of Katiousha.
He was certain that his feeling toward Katious=
ha
was but a manifestation of that joy which pervaded his entire being, and wh=
ich was
shared by that lovely, cheerful girl. However, when he was taking leave, and
Katiousha, standing on the veranda with the aunts, followed him with her bl=
ack,
tearful and somewhat squinting eyes, he felt that he was leaving behind him
something beautiful, precious, which would never recur. And he became very =
sad.
"Good-by, Katiousha. I thank you for
everything," he said, over the cap of Sophia Ivanovna, and seated hims=
elf
in the cabriolet.
"Good-by, Dmitri Ivanovich," she sai=
d,
in her pleasant, caressing voice, and holding back the tears which filled h=
er
eyes, ran into her room, where she could cry freely.
=
=
For
three years afterward Nekhludoff did not see Katiousha. But when, as
staff-officer, he was on his way to his army post, he paid a short visit to=
his
aunts, but an entirely different man. Three years ago he was an honest,
self-denying youth, ready to devote himself to every good cause; now he was=
a
corrupt and refined egotist, given over to personal enjoyment. Then, the wo=
rld
appeared to him as a mystery which he joyfully and enthusiastically tried to
solve; now, everything in this world was plain and simple, and was determin=
ed
by those conditions of life in which he found himself. Then, it was necessa=
ry and
important to hold communion with nature and with those people who lived,
thought and felt before him (philosophers, poets); now, human institutions =
were
the only things necessary and important, and communion he held with his
comrades. Woman, then, appeared to him a mysterious and charming creature; =
now,
he looked on woman, on every woman, except nearest relations and wives of
friends, as a means of gratifying now tried pleasures. Then, he needed no
money, and wanted not a third part what his mother gave him, disclaimed tit=
le
to his father's land, distributing it among the peasants; now, the fifteen =
hundred
rubles' monthly allowance he received from his mother did not suffice for h=
is
needs, and he often made it the cause of unpleasant conversation with her. =
His
true self he then considered his spiritual being; now, his healthy, vigorou=
s,
animal self was his true ego.
And all this terrible transformation took plac=
e in
him only because he ceased to have faith in himself, and began to believe in
others. To live according to the faith that was in him was burdensome; ever=
y question
would have to be decided almost always against his animal ego, which was
seeking light pleasures; but reposing his faith in others, there remained
nothing to decide, everything having been decided, and decided always again=
st
the spiritual and in favor of the animal ego. Besides, following his inner
faith, he was always subject to the censure of people; in the other case he
received the approval of the people that surrounded him.
Thus, when Nekhludoff was thinking, reading,
speaking of God, of truth, of wealth, of poverty, everybody considered it o=
ut
of place and somewhat queer, while his mother and aunt, with good-natured
irony, called him notre cher philosophe. When, however, he was reading nove=
ls,
relating indecent anecdotes or seeing droll vaudevilles in the French theat=
re,
and afterward merrily repeated them, everybody praised and encouraged him. =
When
he considered it necessary to curtail his needs, wore an old coat and gave =
up
wine-drinking, everybody considered it eccentric and vain originality; but =
when
he spent large sums in organizing a chase, or building an unusual, luxurious
cabinet, everybody praised his taste and sent him valuable gifts. When he w=
as chaste,
and wished to preserve his chastity till marriage, his relatives were anxio=
us
about his health, and his mother, so far from being mortified, rather rejoi=
ced
when she learned that he had become a real man, and had enticed the French
mistress of some friend of his. As to the Katiousha episode--that the thoug=
ht
might occur to him of marrying her, she could not even think of without hor=
ror.
Similarly, when Nekhludoff, on reaching his
majority, distributed the estate he inherited from his father among the
peasants, because he considered the ownership of land unjust, this act of h=
is
horrified his mother and relatives, who constantly reproached and ridiculed=
him
for it. He was told unceasingly that so far from enriching it only impoveri=
shed
the peasants, who opened three liquor stores and stopped working entirely.
When, however, Nekhludoff joined the Guards, and spent and gambled away so =
much
money that Elena Ivanovna had to draw from her capital, she scarcely grieve=
d,
considering it quite natural and even beneficial to be thus inoculated when
young and in good society.
Nekhludoff at first struggled, but the struggle
was very hard, for whatever he did, following the faith that was in him, was
considered wrong by others, and, contrariwise, whatever he considered wrong=
was
approved of by his relatives. The result was that Nekhludoff ceased to have
faith in himself and began to follow others. At first this renunciation of =
self
was unpleasant, but it was short lived, and Nekhludoff, who now began to sm=
oke
and drink wine, soon ceased to experience this unpleasant feeling, and was =
even
greatly relieved.
Passionate by nature, Nekhludoff gave himself =
up
entirely to this new life, approved of by all those that surrounded him, and
completely stifled in himself that voice which demanded something different=
. It
commenced with his removal to St. Petersburg, and ended with his entry upon
active service.
During this period of his life Nekhludoff felt=
the
ecstasy of freedom from all those moral impediments which he had formerly
placed before himself, and continued in a chronic condition of insane egoti=
sm.
He was in this condition when, three years
afterward, he visited his aunts.
=
=
Nekhludoff
called at his aunts because their manor lay on the road through which his
regiment had preceded him, and also because they requested him to do so, but
principally in order that he might see Katiousha. It may be that in the dep=
th
of his soul there was already a mischievous intention toward Katiousha,
prompted by his now unbridled animal ego, but he was not aware of it, he me=
rely
desired to visit those places in which he lived so happily, and see his
somewhat queer, but amiable and good-natured, aunts, who always surrounded =
the atmosphere
around him with love and admiration, and also to see the lovely Katiousha, =
of
whom he had such pleasant recollections.
He arrived toward the end of March, on Good
Friday, in the season of bad roads, when the rain was falling in torrents, =
and
was wet all through, and chilled to the marrow of his bones, but courageous=
and
excited, as he always felt at that time of the year.
"I wonder if she is still there?" he
thought, as he drove into the familiar court-yard of the old manor, which w=
as
covered with snow that fell from the roofs, and was surrounded by a low bri=
ck
wall. He expected that the ringing of the bell would bring her running to m=
eet him,
but on the perron of the servants' quarters appeared two bare-footed women =
with
tucked-up skirts, carrying buckets, who were apparently scrubbing floors. S=
he
was not on the front perron, either; only Timon, the lackey, came forth in =
an
apron, also apparently occupied with cleaning. Sophia Ivanovna came into the
ante-chamber, attired in a silk dress and cap.
"How glad I am that you came!" said
Sophia Ivanovna. "Masheuka[B] is somewhat ill. We were to church,
receiving the sacrament. She is very tired."
"I congratulate you, Aunt Sonia,"[C]
said Nekhludoff, kissing the hand of Sophia Ivanovna. "Pardon me, I ha=
ve
soiled you."
"Go to your room. You are wet all through.
Oh, what a mustache! Katiousha! Katiousha! Bring him some coffee quickly.&q=
uot;
"All right!" responded a familiar,
pleasant voice. Nekhludoff's heart fluttered. "She is here!" To h=
im
it was like the sun rising from behind the clouds, and he cheerfully went w=
ith
Timon to his old room to change his clothing.
Nekhludoff wished to ask Timon about Katiousha.
Was she well? How did she fare? Was she not engaged to be married? But Timon
was so respectful, and at the same time so rigid; he so strictly insisted o=
n himself
pouring the water from the pitcher over Nekhludoff's hands, that the latter
could not decide to ask him about Katiousha, and only inquired about his
grand-children, about the old stallion, about the watch-dog Polkan. They we=
re
all well, except Polkan, who had gone mad the previous year.
After he had thrown off his wet clothes, and a=
s he
was about to dress himself, Nekhludoff heard quick steps and a rapping at t=
he
door. He recognized both the steps and the rapping. Only _she_ walked and r=
apped
thus.
It was Katiousha--the same Katiousha--only more
lovely than before. The naive, smiling, somewhat squinting black eyes still
looked up; she wore a clean white apron, as before. She brought a perfumed
piece of soap, just taken from the wrapper, and two towels--one Russian and=
the
other Turkish. The freshly unpacked soap, the towels and she herself, were =
all
equally clean, fresh, pure and pleasant. The lovely, firm, red lips became
creased from unrestrainable happiness at sight of him.
"How do you do, Dmitri Ivanovich?" s=
he
said, with difficulty, her face becoming flushed.
"How art--how are you?" He did not k=
now
whether to "thou" her or not, and became as red in the face as she
was.[D] "Are you well?"
"Very well. Your aunt sent you your favor=
ite
soap, rose-scented," she said, placing the soap on the table, and the
towels on the arms of the chair.
"The gentleman has his own," Timon s=
tood
up for the independence of the guest, proudly pointing to the open traveling
bag with silver lids, containing a large number of bottles, brushes, perfum=
es
and all sorts of toilet articles.
"My thanks to auntie. But how glad I am t=
hat
I came," said Nekhludoff, feeling the old brightness and emotions
recurring to his soul.
In answer to this she only smiled and left the
room.
The aunts, who always loved Nekhludoff, receiv=
ed
him this time with greater joy than usual. Dmitri was going to active servi=
ce,
where he might be wounded or killed. This affected the aunts.
Nekhludoff had arranged his trip so that he mi=
ght
spend twenty-four hours with his aunts, but, seeing Katiousha, decided to
remain over Easter Sunday, which was two days later, and wired to his friend
and commander Shenbok, whom he was to meet at Odessa, to come to his aunts.=
From the very first day Nekhludoff experienced=
the
old feeling toward Katiousha. Again he could not see without agitation the
white apron of Katiousha; he could not listen without joy to her steps, her
voice, her laugh; he could not, without emotion, look into her black eyes, =
especially
when she smiled; he could not, above all, see, without confusion, how she b=
lushed
when they met. He felt that he was in love, but not as formerly, when this =
love
was to him a mystery, and he had not the courage to confess it to himself; =
when
he was convinced that one can love only once. Now he loved knowingly, rejoi=
ced
at it, and confusedly knowing, though he concealed it from himself, what it=
consisted
of, and what might come of it.
In Nekhludoff, as in all people, there were two
beings; one spiritual, who sought only such happiness for himself as also
benefited others; and the animal being, seeking his own happiness for the s=
ake
of which he is willing to sacrifice that of the world. During this period o=
f his
insane egotism, called forth by the life in the army and in St. Petersburg,=
the
animal man dominated him and completely suppressed the spiritual man. But,
seeing Katiousha, and being again imbued with the feelings he formerly
experienced toward her, the spiritual man raised his head and began to asse=
rt
his rights. And during the two days preceding Easter an incessant struggle =
was
going on within Nekhludoff of which he was quite unconscious.
In the depth of his soul he knew that he had to
depart; that his stay at his aunts was unnecessary, that nothing good could
come of it, but it was so joyous and pleasant that he did not heed it, and
remained.
On the eve of Easter Sunday, the priest and de=
acon
who, as they afterward related, with difficulty covered the three miles from
the church to the aunts' manor, arrived on a sleigh to perform the morning =
services.
Nekhludoff, with his aunts and the servants, w=
ent
through the motions, without ceasing to look on Katiousha, who brought a ce=
nser
and was standing at the door; then, in the customary fashion, kissed the pr=
iest
and the aunts, and was about to retire to his room when he heard Matriena
Pavlovna, the old servant of Maria Ivanovna, making preparations with Katio=
usha
to go to church and witness the consecration of the paschal bread. "I =
will
go there, too," he thought.
There was no wagon or sleigh road to the churc=
h,
so Nekhludoff gave command, as he would in his own house, to have a horse
saddled, and, instead of going to bed, donned a brilliant uniform and tight=
knee-breeches,
threw on his military coat, and, mounting the snorting and constantly neigh=
ing,
heavy stallion, he drove off to the church in the dark, over pools and snow
mounds.
FOOTNOTES:
[Footnote B: Diminutive of Maria.]
[Footnote C: Diminutive of Sophia.]
[Footnote D: The Russian thou cannot be render=
ed
into English with any degree of accuracy. The greeting to which the impulsi=
ve
Nekhludoff was about to give expression is that used toward a beloved perso=
n.]
=
That
morning service formed the brightest and most impressive reminiscence of
Nekhludoff's after life.
The darkness of the night was only relieved he=
re
and there by white patches of snow, and as the stallion, splashing through =
the
mud-pools, and his ears pricked up at the sight of the fire-pots surrounding
the church, entered its inclosure, the service had already begun.
The peasants, recognizing Maria Ivanovna's nep=
hew,
led his horse to the driest spot, where he dismounted, then they escorted h=
im
to the church filled with a holiday crowd.
To the right were the male peasants; old men in
homespun coats and bast shoes, and young men in new cloth caftans,
bright-colored belts and boots. To the left the women, with red silk 'kerch=
iefs
on their heads, shag caftans with bright red sleeves, and blue, green, red,=
striped
and dotted skirts and iron-heeled shoes. Behind them stood the more modest
women in white 'kerchiefs and gray caftans and ancient skirts, in shoes or =
bast
slippers. Among these and the others were dressed-up children with oiled ha=
ir.
The peasants made the sign of the cross and bowed, disheveling their hair; =
the
women, especially the old women, gazing with their lustreless eyes on one
image, before which candles burned, pressed hard with the tips of their fin=
gers
on the 'kerchief of the forehead, the shoulders and the abdomen, and, mumbl=
ing
something, bent forward standing, or fell on their knees. The children,
imitating their elders, prayed fervently when they were looked at. The gold
iconostasis was aflame with innumerable candles, which surrounded a large o=
ne
in the centre wound in a narrow strip of gilt paper. The church lustre was
dotted with candles, joyful melodies of volunteer singers with roaring bass=
and
piercing contralto mingled with the chant of the choir.
Nekhludoff went forward. In the middle of the
church stood the aristocracy; a country squire with his wife and son in a
sailor blouse, the commissary of the rural police, a telegraph operator, a =
merchant
in high boots, the local syndic with a medal on his breast, and to the righ=
t of
the tribune, behind the squire's wife, Matriena Pavlovna, in a lilac-colored
chatoyant dress and white shawl with colored border, and beside her was
Katiousha in a white dress, gathered in folds at the waist, a blue belt, an=
d a
red bow in her black hair.
Everything was solemn, joyous and beautiful; t=
he
priest in his bright, silver chasuble, dotted with gilt crosses, the deacon,
the chanters in holiday surplice of gold and silver, the spruce volunteer
singers with oiled hair, the joyous melodies of holiday songs, the ceaseles=
s blessing
of the throng by the priests with flower-bedecked tern candles with the
constantly repeated exclamations: "Christ has risen! Christ has
risen!" Everything was beautiful, but more beautiful than all was
Katiousha, in her white dress, blue belt and red bow in her hair, and her e=
yes
radiant with delight.
Nekhludoff felt that she saw him without turni=
ng
round. He saw it while passing near her to the altar. He had nothing to tell
her, but tried to think of something, and said, when passing her:
"Auntie said that she would receive the
sacrament after mass."
Her young blood, as it always happened when she
looked at him, rose to her cheeks, and her black eyes, naively looking up,
fixed themselves on Nekhludoff.
"I know it," she said, smiling.
At that moment a chanter with a copper coffee-= pot in his hand passed close to Katiousha, and, without looking at her, grazed = her with the skirt of the surplice. The chanter, evidently out of respect for N= ekhludoff, wished to sweep around him, and thus it happened that he grazed Katiousha.<= o:p>
Nekhludoff, however, was surprised that that
chanter did not understand that everything in the church, and in the whole
world, for that matter, existed only for Katiousha, and that one might spurn
the entire world, but must not slight her, because she was the centre of it=
. It
was for her that the gold iconostasis shone brightly, and these candles in =
the
church-lustre burned; for her were the joyful chants: "Be happy, man; =
it
is the Lord's Easter." All the good in the world was for her. And it
seemed to him that Katiousha understood that all this was for her. It seeme=
d to
Nekhludoff, when he looked at her erect figure in the white dress with litt=
le
folds at the waist, and by the expression of her happy face, that the very
thing that filled his soul with song, also filled hers.
In the interval between early and late mass
Nekhludoff left the church. The people made way for him and bowed. Some
recognized him; others asked: "Who is he?" He stopped at the porc=
h.
Beggars surrounded him, and, distributing such change as he had in his pock=
et,
he descended the stairs.
The day began to break, but the sun was yet be=
yond
the horizon. The people seated themselves on the grass around the church-ya=
rd,
but Katiousha remained in the church, and Nekhludoff waited on the porch for
her appearance.
The crowd was still pouring out of the church,
their hob-nailed shoes clattering against the stone pavement, and spread ab=
out
the cemetery.
An old man, confectioner to Maria Ivanovna,
stopped Nekhludoff and kissed him, and his wife, an old woman with a wrinkl=
ed
Adam's apple under a silk 'kerchief, unrolled a yellow saffron egg from her=
handkerchief
and gave it to him. At the same time a young, smiling and muscular peasant,=
in
a new caftan, approached.
"Christ has risen!" he said, with
smiling eyes and, nearing Nekhludoff, spread around him a peculiar, pleasan=
t,
peasant odor, and, tickling him with his curly beard, three times kissed hi=
m on
the lips.
While Nekhludoff was thus exchanging the custo= mary kisses with the peasant and taking from him a dark-brown egg, he noticed the chatoyant dress of Matriena Pavlovna and the lovely head with the red bow.<= o:p>
No sooner did she catch sight of him over the
heads of those in front of her, than her face brightened up.
On reaching the porch they also stopped,
distributing alms. One of the beggars, with a red, cicatrized slough instea=
d of
a nose, approached Katiousha. She produced some coins from her handkerchief,
gave them to him, and without the slightest expression of disgust, but, on =
the contrary,
her eyes beaming with delight, kissed him three times. While she was thus
kissing with the beggar, her eyes met those of Nekhludoff, and she seemed to
ask him: "Is it not right? Is it not proper?"
"Yes, yes, darling; it is right; everythi=
ng
is beautiful. I love you."
As they descended the stairs he came near her.=
He
did not wish to kiss her, but merely wished to be by her side.
"Christ has risen!" said Matriena
Pavlovna, leaning her head forward and smiling. By the intonation of her vo=
ice
she seemed to say, "All are equal to-day," and wiping her mouth w=
ith
a bandana handkerchief which she kept under her arm-pit, she extended her l=
ips.
"He has risen, indeed," answered
Nekhludoff, and they kissed each other.
He turned to look at Katiousha. She flushed an=
d at
the same moment approached him.
"Christ has risen, Dmitri Ivanovich."=
;
"He has risen, indeed," he said. They
kissed each other twice, and seemed to be reflecting whether or not it was
necessary to kiss a third time, and having decided, as it were, that it was
necessary, they kissed again.
"Will you go to the priest?" asked
Nekhludoff.
"No, we will stay here, Dmitri
Ivanovich," answered Katiousha, laboriously, as though after hard,
pleasant exertion, breathing with her full breast and looking straight in h=
is
eyes, with her submissive, chaste, loving and slightly squinting eyes.
There is a point in the love between man and w=
oman
when that love reaches its zenith; when it is free from consciousness, reas=
on
and sensuality. Such a moment arrived for Nekhludoff that Easter morn.
Now, whenever he thought of Katiousha, her
appearance at that moment obscured every other recollection of her. The dar=
k,
smooth, resplendent head; the white dress with folds clinging to her gracef=
ul bust
and undulating breast; those vermilion cheeks, those brilliant black eyes, =
and
two main traits in all her being: the virgin purity of her love, not only f=
or
himself, but for everything and everybody--he knew it--not only the good and
beautiful, but even that beggar whom she had kissed.
He knew that she possessed that love, because =
that
night and that morning he felt it within him, and felt that in that love his
soul mingled into one with hers.
Ah, if that feeling had continued unchanged!
"Yes, that awful affair occurred after that notable commemoration of
Christ's resurrection!" he thought now, sitting at the window of the
jury-room.
=
=
Returning
from the church, Nekhludoff broke his fast with the aunts, and to repair his
strength, drank some brandy and wine--a habit he acquired in the army--and
going to his room immediately fell asleep with his clothes on. He was awake=
ned
by a rap at the door. By the rap he knew that it was she, so he rose, rubbi=
ng
his eyes and stretching himself.
"Is it you, Katiousha? Come in," he
said, rising.
She opened the door.
"You are wanted to breakfast," she s=
aid.
She was in the same white dress, but without the bow in her hair.
As she looked in his eyes she brightened up, a=
s if
she had announced something unusually pleasant.
"I shall come immediately," he answe=
red,
taking a comb to rearrange his hair.
She lingered for a moment. He noticed it, and
putting down the comb, he moved toward her. But at the same moment she quic=
kly
turned and walked off with her customary light and agile step along the nar=
row mat
of the corridor.
"What a fool I am!" Nekhludoff said =
to
himself. "Why did I not detain her?" And he ran after her.
He did not know himself what he wished of her,=
but
it seemed to him that when she entered his room he ought to have done somet=
hing
that any one in his place would have done, but which he failed to do.
"Wait, Katiousha," he said.
She looked around.
"What is it?" she said, stopping.
"Nothing. I only----"
With some effort he overcame his shyness, and
remembering how people generally act in such a case, he put his arm about
Katiousha's waist.
She stopped and looked in his eyes.
"Don't, Ivanovich, don't," she said,
blushing until her eyes filled with tears. Then with her rough, strong hands
she removed his arm.
Nekhludoff released her, and for a moment felt=
not
only awkward and ashamed, but seemed odious to himself. He should have beli=
eved
in himself, but he failed to understand that this awkwardness and shame were
the noblest feelings of his soul begging for recognition, and, on the contr=
ary,
it seemed to him that it was his foolishness that was speaking within him, =
that
he ought to have done as everybody does in a similar case.
He overtook her again, again embraced her and
kissed her on the neck. This kiss was entirely unlike the other two kisses.=
The
first was given unconsciously, behind the lilac bush; the second, in the
morning in church. The last one was terrible, and she felt it.
"But what are you doing?" she exclai=
med
in such a voice, as if he had irrecoverably destroyed something infinitely
precious, and ran away from him.
He went to the dining-room. His aunts in holid=
ay
attire, the doctor and a neighbor were taking lunch standing. Everything wa=
s as
usual, but a storm raged in Nekhludoff's soul. He did not understand what w=
as said
to him, his answers were inappropriate, and he was thinking only of Katious=
ha,
recalling the sensation of the last kiss he gave her when he overtook her in
the corridor. He could think of nothing else. When she entered the room,
without looking at her, he felt her presence with all his being, and had to
make an effort not to look at her.
After lunch he went immediately to his room, a=
nd
in great agitation walked to and fro, listening to the sounds in the house =
and
waiting to hear her steps. The animal man that dwelled in him not only rais=
ed
his head, but crushed under foot the spiritual man that he was when he first
arrived at the manor, and was even this very morning in church, and that
terrible animal man now held sway in his soul. Although Nekhludoff was watc=
hing
an opportunity to meet Katiousha that day, he did not succeed in seeing her
face to face even once. She was probably avoiding him. But in the evening it
happened that she had to enter a room adjoining his. The physician was to
remain over night, and Katiousha had to make the bed for him. Hearing her
steps, Nekhludoff, stepping on tip-toe and holding his breath, as though
preparing to commit a crime, followed her into the room.
Thrusting both her hands into a white pillow-c=
ase,
and taking hold of two corners of the pillow, she turned her head and looke=
d at
him smiling, but it was not the old, cheerful, happy smile, but a frightene=
d,
piteous smile. The smile seemed to tell him that what he was doing was wron=
g.
For a moment he stood still. There was still the possibility of a struggle.
Though weak, the voice of his true love to her was still heard; it spoke of
her, of her feelings, of her life. The other voice reminded him of his
enjoyment, his happiness. And this second voice stifled the first. He
approached her with determination. And the terrible, irresistible animal
feeling mastered him.
Without releasing her from his embrace, Nekhlu=
doff
seated her on the bed, and feeling that something else ought to be done, se=
ated
himself beside her.
"Dmitri Ivanovich, darling, please let me=
go,"
she said in a piteous voice. "Matriena Pavlovna is coming!" she
suddenly exclaimed, tearing herself away.
Matriena Pavlovna was really approaching the d=
oor.
She entered the room, holding a quilt on her arm, and, looking reproachfull=
y at
Nekhludoff, angrily rebuked Katiousha for taking the wrong quilt.
Nekhludoff went out in silence. He was not even
ashamed. By the expression of Matriena Pavlovna's face he saw that she
condemned him, and justly so; he knew that what he was doing was wrong, but=
the
animal feeling, which succeeded his former feeling of pure love to her, sei=
zed
him and held sole sway over him; recognizing no other feeling. He knew now =
what
was necessary to do in order to satisfy that feeling, and was looking for m=
eans
to that end.
He was out of sorts all that night. Now he wou=
ld
go to his aunts; now he returned to his room, or went to the perron, thinki=
ng
but of one thing: how to meet her alone. But she avoided him, and Matriena =
Pavlovna
strove not to lose sight of her.
=
Thus
the entire evening passed, and when night came the doctor went to bed. The
aunts were also preparing to retire. Nekhludoff knew that Matriena Pavlovna=
was
in the aunts' dormitory, and that Katiousha was in the servants'
quarters--alone. He again went out on the perron. It was dark, damp and war=
m,
and that white mist which in the spring thaws the last snow, filled the air.
Strange noises came from the river, which was a hundred feet from the house=
. It
was the breaking up of the ice.
Nekhludoff came down from the perron, and step=
ping
over pools and the thin ice-covering formed on the snow, walked toward the
window of the servants' quarters. His heart beat so violently that he could
hear it; his breathing at times stopped, at others it escaped in a heavy si=
gh. A
small lamp was burning in the maid-servants' room.
Katiousha was sitting at the table alone, musi=
ng
and looking at the wall before her. Without moving Nekhludoff for some time
stood gazing at her, wishing to know what she would do while thinking herse=
lf unobserved.
For about two minutes she sat motionless, then raised her eyes, smiled,
reproachfully shook her head, at herself apparently, and, changing her
position, with a start placed both hands on the table and fixed her eyes be=
fore
her.
He remained looking at her, and involuntarily
listened to the beating of his heart and the strange sounds coming from the
river. There, on the misty river some incessant, slow work was going on. Now
something snuffled, then it crackled, and again the thin layer of ice resou=
nded
like a mass of crushed glass.
He stood looking at the thoughtful face of
Katiousha, tormented by an internal struggle, and he pitied her. But, stran=
ge
to say, this pity only increased his longing for her.
He rapped at the window. She trembled from hea=
d to
foot, as if an electric current had passed through her, and terror was
reflected on her face. Then she sprang up, and, going to the window, placed=
her
face against the window-pane. The expression of terror did not leave her ev=
en
when, shading her eyes with the palms of her hands, she recognized him. Her
face was unusually grave--he had never seen such an expression on it. When =
he
smiled she smiled also--she smiled as if only in submission to him, but in =
her
soul, instead of a smile, there was terror. He motioned her with his hand to
come out. But she shook her head and remained at the window. Again he leaned
toward the window and was about to speak when she turned toward the door. S=
ome
one had apparently called her. Nekhludoff moved away from the window. The f=
og was
so dense that when five feet away he saw only a darkening mass from which a
red, seemingly large, light of the lamp was reflected. From the river came =
the
same strange sounds of snuffling, crackling and grinding of the ice. In the=
court-yard
a cock crowed, others near by responded; then from the village, first singl=
y,
interrupting each other, then mingling into one chorus, was heard the crowi=
ng
of all the cocks. Except for the noise of the river, it was perfectly quiet=
all
around.
After walking twice around the corner of the
house, and stepping several times into mud-pools, Nekhludoff returned to the
window of the maid-servants' quarters. The lamp was still burning, and
Katiousha sat alone at the table as if in indecision. As soon as he came ne=
ar
the window she looked at him. He rapped. Without stopping to see who had ra=
pped,
she immediately ran from the room, and he heard the opening and closing of =
the
door. He was already waiting for her in the passage, and immediately silent=
ly
embraced her. She pressed against his bosom, lifted her head, and with her =
lips
met his kiss.
*
When Nekhludoff returned to his room it was
getting brighter. Below, the noises on the river increased, and a buzzing w=
as
added to the other sounds. The mist began to settle, and from behind the wa=
ll
of mist the waning moon appeared, gloomily, lighting up something dark and
terrible.
"Is it good fortune or a great misfortune
that has happened to me?" he asked himself. "It is always thus; t=
hey
all act in that way," and he returned to his room.
=
On the
following day the brilliant and jovial Shenbok called at the aunts for
Nekhludoff, and completely charmed them with his elegance, amiability,
cheerfulness, liberality, and his love for Dmitri. Though his liberality
pleased the aunts, they were somewhat perplexed by the excess to which he
carried it. He gave a ruble to a blind beggar; the servants received as tips
fifteen rubles, and when Sophia Ivanovna's lap-dog, Suzette, hurt her leg so
that it bled, he volunteered to bandage it, and without a moment's
consideration tore his fine linen handkerchief (Sophia Ivanovna knew that t=
hose
handkerchiefs were worth fifteen rubles a dozen) and made bandages of it for
the dog. The aunts had never seen such men, nor did they know that his debts
ran up to two hundred thousand rubles, which--he knew--would never be paid,=
and
that therefore twenty-five rubles more or less made no appreciable differen=
ce
in his accounts.
Shenbok remained but one day, and the following
evening departed with Nekhludoff. They could remain no longer, for the time=
for
joining their regiment had arrived.
On this last day spent at the aunts, when the
events of the preceding evening were fresh in his memory, two antagonistic
feelings struggled in Nekhludoff's soul; one was the burning, sensual
recollection of love, although it failed to fulfill its promises, and some =
satisfaction
of having gained his ends; the other, a consciousness of having committed a=
wrong,
and that that wrong must be righted--not for her sake, but for his own sake=
.
In that condition of insane egotism Nekhludoff
thought only of himself--whether he would be condemned, and how far, if his=
act
should be discovered, but never gave a thought to the question, "How d=
oes
she feel about it, and what will become of her?"
He thought that Shenbok divined his relations =
to
Katiousha, and his ambition was flattered.
"That's why you so suddenly began to like
your aunts," Shenbok said to him when he saw Katiousha. "In your
place I should stay here even longer. She is charming!"
He also thought that while it was a pity to le=
ave
now, without enjoying his love in its fullness, the necessity of going was =
advantageous
in that he was able to break the relations which it were difficult to keep =
up.
He further thought it was necessary to give her money, not because she might
need it, but because it was customary to do so. So he gave as much money as=
he
thought was proper, considering their respective positions.
On the day of his departure, after dinner he
waited in the passage until she came by. She flushed as she saw him, and wi=
shed
to pass on, pointing with her eyes to the door of her room, but he detained
her.
"I came to bid you farewell," he sai=
d,
crumpling an envelope containing a hundred ruble bill. "How is----&quo=
t;
She suspected it, frowned, shook her head and
thrust aside his hand.
"Yes, take it," he murmured, thrusti=
ng
the envelope in the bosom of her waist, and, as if it had burned his finger=
s,
he ran to his room.
For a long time he paced his room to and fro,
frowning, and even jumping, and moaning aloud as if from physical pain, as =
he
thought of the scene.
But what is to be done? It is always thus. Thu=
s it
was with Shenbok and the governess whom he had told about; it was thus with
Uncle Gregory; with his father, when he lived in the country, and the illeg=
itimate
son Miteuka, who is still living, was born to him. And if everybody acts th=
us,
consequently it ought to be so. Thus he was consoling himself, but he could=
not
be consoled. The recollection of it stung his conscience.
In the depth of his soul he knew that his acti=
on
was so base, abominable and cruel that, with that action upon his conscienc=
e,
not only would he have no right to condemn others but he should not be able=
to
look others in the face, to say nothing of considering himself the good, no=
ble,
magnanimous man he esteemed himself. And he had to esteem himself as such in
order to be able to continue to lead a valiant and joyous life. And there w=
as
but one way of doing so, and that was not to think of it. This he endeavore=
d to
do.
The life into which he had just entered--new
scenes, comrades, and active service--helped him on. The more he lived, the
less he thought of it, and in the end really forgot it entirely.
Only once, on his return from active service,
when, in the hope of seeing her, he paid a visit to his aunts, he was told =
that
Katiousha, soon after his departure, had left them; that she had given birt=
h to
a child, and, as the aunts were informed, had gone to the bad. As he heard =
it
his heart was oppressed with grief. From the statement of the time when she
gave birth to the child it might be his, and it might not be his. The aunts
said that she was vicious and of a depraved nature, just like her mother. A=
nd
this opinion of the aunts pleased him, because it exculpated him, as it wer=
e.
At first he intended to find her and the child, but as it pained him very m=
uch,
and he was ashamed to think of it, he did not make the necessary efforts, a=
nd gradually
ceased to think of his sin.
But now, this fortuitous meeting brought
everything to his mind, and compelled the acknowledgment of his heartlessne=
ss,
cruelty and baseness which made it possible for him to live undisturbed by =
the
sin which lay on his conscience. He was yet far from such acknowledgment, a=
nd
at this moment was only thinking how to avoid disclosure which might be mad=
e by
her, or her attorney, and thus disgrace him before everybody.
=
Nekhludoff
was in this state of mind when he left the court-room and entered the
jury-room. He sat near the window, listening to the conversations of his fe=
llow
jurymen, and smoked incessantly.
The cheerful merchant evidently sympathized wi=
th
Merchant Smelkoff's manner of passing his time.
"Well, well! He went on his spree just li=
ke a
Siberian! Seems to have known a good thing when he saw it. What a beauty!&q=
uot;
The foreman expressed the opinion that the who=
le
case depended on the expert evidence. Peter Gerasimovich was jesting with t=
he
Jewish clerk, and both of them burst out laughing. Nekhludoff answered all
questions in monosyllables, and only wished to be left in peace.
When the usher with the sidling gait called the
jury into court Nekhludoff was seized with fear, as if judgment was to be
passed on him, and not he to pass judgment on others.
In the depth of his soul he already felt that =
he
was a rascal, who ought to be ashamed to look people in the face, and yet, =
by
force of habit, he walked to the elevation with his customary air of self-c=
onfidence,
and took his seat next to the foreman, crossed his legs and began to play w=
ith
his pince-nez.
The prisoners, who had also been removed from =
the
court, were brought in again.
The new faces of witnesses were now seen in the
court-room, and Nekhludoff noticed Maslova constantly turning her head in t=
he direction
of a smartly attired, stout woman in silk and plush, with an elegant reticu=
le
hanging on her half-bare arm. This was, as Nekhludoff afterward learned,
Maslova's mistress and a witness against her.
The examination of the witnesses began as to t=
heir
names, age, religion, et cetera. After being questioned as to whether they =
preferred
to testify under oath, the same old priest, with difficulty moving his legs,
came, and again arranging the gold cross on his silk-covered breast, with t=
he
same calmness and confidence, began to administer the oath to the witnesses=
and
the expert. When the swearing in was over, the witnesses were removed to an
adjoining room, leaving only Kitaeva, Maslova's mistress. She was asked what
she knew of the affair. Kitaeva, with a feigned smile, a German accent, and=
straightening
her hat at every sentence, fluently and circumstantially related the follow=
ing:
Simon came first to her house for Liubasha.[E]=
In
a little while Liubasha returned with the merchant. "The merchant was
already in ecstasy," slightly smiling, said Kitaeva, "and he
continued to drink and treat himself, but as he was short of money he sent =
to
his room this same Liubasha, for whom he acquired a predilection," she
said, looking at Maslova.
It seemed to Nekhludoff that Maslova smiled at
this, and the smile seemed to him disgusting. A strange feeling of
squeamishness mingled with compassion rose in his breast.
"What opinion did you entertain of Maslov=
a?"
timidly and blushingly asked the attorney assigned by the court to defend
Maslova.
"Very excellent," answered Kitaeva.
"The girl is very well educated and elegant in her manners. She was ra=
ised
in a very good family, and could read French. She sometimes drank a little =
too
much, but she never forgot herself. She is a very good girl."
Katiousha looked at her mistress, then suddenly
turned her eyes on the jury and rested them on Nekhludoff, her face becoming
serious and even stern. One of the stern eyes squinted. These strangely gaz=
ing
eyes were turned on Nekhludoff for a considerable time. Notwithstanding the=
terror
that seized him, he could not remove his own gaze from those squinting eyes
with their shining whites. He recalled that awful night with the breaking i=
ce,
the fog, and especially that waning, upturned moon which rose in the morning
and lit up something dark and terrible. These two black eyes which looked at
and at the same time by him reminded him of something dark and terrible.
"She recognized me!" he thought. And
Nekhludoff shrank, as it were, waiting for the blow. But she did not recogn=
ize
him. She sighed calmly and again fixed her eyes on the justiciary. Nekhludo=
ff
also sighed. "Ah, if they would only hasten it through," he thoug=
ht.
He felt now as he did once when out game shooting, when he was obliged to k=
ill
a wounded bird--he was filled with disgust, pity and vexation. The wounded =
bird
is struggling in the game bag; he feels disgust and pity, and wishes to kil=
l it
quickly and forget it.
Such mingled feelings filled Nekhludoff's brea=
st
as he sat listening to the examination of the witnesses.
FOOTNOTES:
[Footnote E: A contemptuous diminutive of Liub=
a.
Tr.]
=
As if
to spite him, the case dragged out to a weary length. After the examination=
of
the witnesses and the expert, and after all the unnecessary questions by the
prosecutor and the attorneys, usually made with an important air, the
justiciary told the jury to look at the exhibits, which consisted of an
enormous ring with a diamond rosette, evidently made for the forefinger, an=
d a
glass tube containing the poison. These were sealed and labeled.
The jury were preparing to view these things, =
when
the prosecutor rose again and demanded that before the exhibits were examin=
ed the
medical report of the condition of the body be read.
The justiciary was hurrying the case, and thou=
gh
he knew that the reading of the report would only bring ennui and delay the
dinner, and that the prosecutor demanded it only because he had the right t=
o do
so, he could not refuse the request and gave his consent. The secretary
produced the report, and, lisping the letters l and r, began to read in a s=
ad
voice.
The external examination disclosed:
1. The height of Therapout Smelkoff was six fe=
et
five inches.
"But what a huge fellow," the mercha=
nt
whispered in Nekhludoff's ear with solicitude.
2. From external appearances he seemed to be a=
bout
forty years of age.
3. The body had a swollen appearance.
4. The color of the pall was green, streaked w=
ith dark
spots.
5. The skin on the surface of the body rose in
bubbles of various sizes, and in places hung in patches.
6. The hair was dark and thick, and fell off a=
t a
slight touch.
7. The eyes came out of their orbits, and the
pupils were dull.
8. A frothy, serous fluid flowed continuously =
from
the cavity of the mouth, the nostrils and ears. The mouth was half open.
9. The neck almost disappeared in the swelling=
of
the face and breast, et cetera, et cetera.
Thus, over four pages and twenty-seven clauses,
ran the description of the external appearance of the terrible, large, stou=
t,
swollen and decomposing body of the merchant who amused himself in the city.
The loathing which Nekhludoff felt increased with the reading of the descri=
ption.
Katiousha's life, the sanies running from the nostrils, the eyes that came =
out
of their sockets, and his conduct toward her--all seemed to him to belong to
the same order, and he was surrounded and swallowed up by these things. When
the reading was finally over, the justiciary sighed deeply and raised his h=
ead
in the hope that it was all over, but the secretary immediately began to re=
ad the
report on the internal condition of the body.
The justiciary again bent his head, and, leani=
ng
on his hand, closed his eyes. The merchant, who sat near Nekhludoff, barely
kept awake, and from time to time swayed his body. The prisoners as well as=
the
gendarmes behind them sat motionless.
The internal examination disclosed:
1. The skin covering of the skull easily detac=
hed,
and no hemorrhage was noticeable. 2. The skull bones were of average thickn=
ess
and uninjured. 3. On the hard membrane of the skull there were two small di=
scolored
spots of about the size of four centimetres, the membrane itself being of a
dull gray color, et cetera, et cetera, to the end of thirteen more clauses.=
Then came the names of the witnesses, the
signature and deduction of the physician, from which it appeared that the
changes found in the stomach, intestines and kidneys justified the conclusi=
on
"to a large degree probable" that the death of Smelkoff was due to
poison taken into the stomach with a quantity of wine. That it was impossib=
le
to tell by the changes in the stomach and intestines the name of the poison;
and that the poison came into the stomach mixed with wine could be inferred
from the fact that Smelkoff's stomach contained a large quantity of wine.
"He must have drank like a fish," ag=
ain
whispered the awakened merchant.
The reading of this official report, which las=
ted
about two hours, did not satisfy, however, the prosecutor. When it was over=
the
justiciary turned to him, saying:
"I suppose it is superfluous to read the
record of the examination of the intestines."
"I would ask that it be read," stern=
ly
said the prosecutor without looking at the justiciary, sidewise raising
himself, and impressing by the tone of his voice that it was his right to
demand it, that he would insist on it, and that a refusal would be ground f=
or
appeal.
The associate with the long beard and kind,
drooping eyes, who was suffering from catarrh, feeling very weak, turned to=
the
justiciary:
"What is the good of reading it? It will =
only
drag the matter out. These new brooms only take a longer time to sweep, but=
do
not sweep any cleaner."
The associate in the gold eye-glasses said
nothing, and gloomily and determinedly looked in front of him, expecting
nothing good either from his wife or from the world.
The report commenced thus: "February 15th,
188-. The undersigned, in pursuance of an order, No. 638, of the Medical De=
partment,"
began the secretary with resolution, raising the pitch of his voice, as if =
to dispel
the drowsiness that seized upon every one present, "and in the presenc=
e of
the assistant medical director, examined the following intestines:
"1. The right lung and heart (contained i=
n a
five-pound glass vial).
"2. The contents of the stomach (containe=
d in
a five-pound glass vial).
"3. The stomach itself (contained in a
five-pound glass vial).
"4. The kidneys, liver and spleen (contai=
ned
in a two-and-a-half-pound glass vial).
"5. The entrails (contained in a five-pou=
nd
earthen jar)."
As the reading of this report began the justic=
iary
leaned over to one of his associates and whispered something, then to the
other, and, receiving affirmative answers, interrupted the reading at this
point.
"The Court finds the reading of the report
superfluous," he said.
The secretary closed reading and gathered up h=
is
papers, while the prosecutor angrily began to make notes.
"The gentlemen of the jury may now view t=
he
exhibits," said the justiciary.
The foreman and some of the jury rose from the=
ir
seats, and, holding their hands in awkward positions, approached the table =
and
looked in turn on the ring, vials and jars. The merchant even tried the rin=
g on
his finger.
"What a finger he had," he said,
returning to his seat. "It must have been the size of a large
cucumber," he added, evidently amused by the giant figure of the merch=
ant,
as he imagined him.
=
When
the examination of the exhibits was over, the justiciary announced the
investigation closed, and, desiring to end the session, gave the word to the
prosecutor, in the hope that as he, too, was mortal, he might also wish to
smoke or dine, and would have pity on the others. But the prosecutor pitied
neither himself nor them. When the word was given him, he rose slowly,
displaying his elegant figure, and, placing both hands on the desk, and
slightly bending his head, he cast a glance around the court-room, his eyes
avoiding the prisoners.
"Gentlemen of the jury, the case which is=
now
to be submitted to your consideration," he began his speech, prepared
while the indictment and reports were being read, "is a characteristic
crime, if I may so express myself."
The speech of a prosecuting attorney, accordin=
g to
his idea, had to be invested with a social significance, according to the
manner of those lawyers who became famous. True, among his hearers were thr=
ee
women; a seamstress, a cook and Simon's sister, also a driver, but that mad=
e no
difference. Those celebrities also began on a small scale. The prosecutor m=
ade
it a rule to view the situation from the eminence of his position, i. e., to
penetrate into the profound psychological meaning of crime, and bare the ul=
cers
of society.
"Here is before you, gentlemen of the jur=
y, a
crime characteristic, if I may so express myself, of the end of our century,
bearing, as it were, all the specific features of the first symptoms of dec=
omposition,
to which those elements of our society, which are exposed, as it were, to t=
he
more scorching rays of that process, are subject."
The prosecutor spoke at great length, endeavor=
ing
on the one hand to remember all those wise sayings which he had prepared for
the occasion, and on the other, most important, hand, not to stop for a mom=
ent,
but to make his speech flow uninterruptedly for an hour and a quarter. He
stopped only once, for a long time swallowing his saliva, but he immediately
mastered himself and made up for the lost time by a greater flow of eloquen=
ce.
He spoke in a gentle, insinuating voice, resting now on one foot, now on the
other, and looking at the jury; then changed to a calm, business tone,
consulting his note-book, and again he thundered accusations, turning now to
the spectators, now to the jury. But he never looked at the prisoners, all
three of whom stared at him. He incorporated into his speech all the latest
ideas then in vogue in the circle of his acquaintances, and what was then a=
nd
is now received as the last word of scientific wisdom. He spoke of heredity=
, of
innate criminality, of Lombroso, of Charcot, of evolution, of the struggle =
for
existence, of hypnotism, of hypnotic suggestion, and of decadence.
The merchant Smelkoff, according to the
prosecutor, was a type of the great, pure Russian, with his broad nature, w=
ho,
in consequence of his trusting nature and generosity, had become a victim o=
f a
gang of corrupt people, into whose hands he had fallen.
Simon Kartinkin was the atavistic production of
serfdom, stupid, without education, and even without religion. Euphemia was=
his
mistress, and a victim of heredity. All the symptoms of degenerate life wer=
e in
her. But the ruling spirit in this crime was Maslova, who was the mouthpiec=
e of
the lowest phenomenon of decadence. "This woman," said the prosec=
utor
without looking at her, "received an education--you have heard here the
evidence of her mistress. Not only can she read and write, but she can speak
French. She is an orphan, and probably bears the germs of criminality in he=
r.
She was raised in an intelligent, noble family, and could make her living by
honest toil, but she leaves them, yields to her passions, and displays an i=
ntelligence,
and especially, as you have heard here, gentlemen of the jury, an ability to
exert influence on people by that mysterious, lately discovered by science,
especially by the school of Charcot, power known by the name of hypnotic
suggestion. By the aid of this power she gets control over this hero--a kin=
d,
trustful, rich guest, and uses his confidence first to rob him, and then to
pitilessly murder him."
"But he is wandering away," said the
justiciary, smiling and leaning over to the stern associate.
"What an awful blockhead!" said the
stern associate.
"Gentlemen of the jury!" the prosecu=
tor
continued meanwhile, gracefully swaying his slim body. "The fate of th=
ese
people is in your hands, as is to some extent the fate of society, which is
influenced by your verdict. You must fathom the significance of this crime,=
the
danger to society that lurks in such pathological, as it were, individuals =
as
Maslova. You must guard it against infection; it is your duty to guard the
innocent, healthy elements of society against contagion, if not
destruction."
And as if himself impressed with the importanc=
e of
the verdict, and evidently greatly delighted with his speech, the prosecutor
took his seat.
The burden of his speech, if we eliminate the
flights of eloquence, was to the effect that Maslova, after gaining the
merchant's confidence, hypnotized him, and that, arriving at the inn with t=
he
key to the merchant's trunk, she intended to steal the money herself, but, =
being
discovered by Simon and Euphemia, was obliged to divide with them. That
afterward, desiring to conceal the traces of her crime, she returned with t=
he
merchant to the inn and administered poison to him.
When the prosecutor had finished his speech, a
middle-aged man, in a dress coat and wide semi-circle of starched shirt fro=
nt,
rose from the lawyer's bench, and boldly began to deliver a speech in defen=
se
of Kartinkin and Bochkova. He was a lawyer hired by them for three hundred
rubles. He declared them both innocent, and threw all the blame on Maslova.=
He belittled the deposition of Maslova relatin=
g to
the presence of Bochkova and Kartinkin when she took the money, and insisted
that, as she had confessed to poisoning the merchant, her evidence could ha=
ve no
weight. The twenty-five hundred rubles could have been earned by two hard
working and honest persons, who were receiving in tips three to four rubles=
a
day from guests. The merchant's money was stolen by Maslova, who either gav=
e it
to some one for safe keeping, or lost it, which was not unlikely, as she was
not in a normal condition. The poisoning was done by Maslova alone.
For these reasons he asked the jury to acquit
Kartinkin and Bochkova of stealing the money; or, if they found them guilty=
of
stealing he asked for a verdict of theft, but without participation in the =
poisoning,
and without conspiracy.
In conclusion, this lawyer made a thrust at the prosecuting attorney by remarking that, although the splendid reasonings of= the prosecutor on heredity explain the scientific questions of heredity, they hardly hold good in the case of Bochkova, since her parentage was unknown.<= o:p>
The prosecutor, growling, began to make notes,=
and
shrugged his shoulders in contemptuous surprise.
Next rose Maslova's lawyer, and timidly and
falteringly began his speech in her defense. Without denying that Maslova
participated in the theft, he insisted that she had no intention of poisoni=
ng Smelkoff,
but gave him the powder in order to make him sleep. When he described Maslo=
va's
unfortunate life, telling how she had been drawn into a life of vice by a m=
an
who went unpunished, while she was left to bear the whole burden of her fal=
l,
he attempted to become eloquent, but his excursion into the domain of
psychology failed, so that everybody felt awkward. When he began to mutter
about man's cruelty and woman's helplessness, the justiciary, desiring to h=
elp
him, asked him to confine himself to the facts of the case.
After this lawyer had finished the prosecutor =
rose
again and defended his position on the question of heredity against the fir=
st
lawyer, stating that the fact that Bochkova's parentage was unknown did not=
invalidate
the truth of the theory of heredity; that the law of heredity is so well
established by science that not only can one deduce the crime from heredity,
but heredity from the crime. As to the statement of the defense that Maslova
was drawn into a vicious life by an imaginary (he pronounced the word imagi=
nary
with particular virulence) man, he could say that all facts rather pointed =
to
her being the seducer of many victims who were unfortunate enough to fall i=
nto
her hands. Saying which he sat down in triumph.
The prisoners were then allowed to make any
statements they wished in their behalf.
Euphemia Bochkova repeated her statement that =
she
knew nothing, had not taken part in anything, and persistently pointed at
Maslova as the only guilty person. Simon only repeated several times:
"Do what you please with me, only it is a=
ll
for nothing."
Maslova was silent. When asked what she had to=
say
in her defense, she only lifted her eyes on the justiciary, looked around l=
ike
a hunted animal, and immediately lowering them began to sob aloud.
"What is the matter?" asked the merc=
hant
of Nekhludoff, hearing a strange sound escaping the latter's lips. It was a
suppressed sob.
Nekhludoff did not yet realize the significanc=
e of
his present position, and the scarcely suppressed sob and the tears that we=
lled
up in his eyes he ascribed to the weakness of his nerves. He put on his pin=
ce-nez
to hide them, and, drawing a handkerchief from his pocket, began to blow his
nose.
His fear of the disgrace that would fall upon =
him
if everybody in the court-room were to find out his conduct toward her stif=
led
the struggle that was going on within him. At this time fear outweighed in =
him
every other feeling.
=
After
the last words of the prisoners had been heard, and the lengthy arguments o=
ver
the form in which the questions were to be put to the jury were over, the
questions were finally agreed upon, and the justiciary began to deliver his
instructions to the jury.
Although he was anxious to finish the case, he=
was
so carried away that when he started to speak he could not stop himself. He
told the jury at great length that if they found the prisoners guilty, they=
had
the right to return a verdict of guilty, and if they found them not guilty,
they had the right to return a verdict of not guilty. If, however they found
them guilty of one charge, and not guilty of the other, they might bring in=
a
verdict of guilty of the one and not guilty of the other. He further explai=
ned
to them that they must exercise this power intelligently. He also intended =
to
explain to them that if they gave an affirmative answer to a question, they
would thereby affirm everything involved in the question, and that if they =
did
not desire to affirm everything involved in the question, they must disting=
uish
the part they affirmed from the part they disaffirmed. But, seeing on the c=
lock
that it was five minutes of three, he decided to pass over to a statement of
the case.
"The facts of this case are the
following," he began, repeating everything that had been stated over a=
nd
over again by the defendants' attorneys, the prosecutor and the witnesses.
While the justiciary was charging the jury his associates thoughtfully
listened, and now and then glanced at the clock. They thought that although=
his
charge was sound, i. e., as it should be, it was too long. Of the same opin=
ion
was the prosecutor, as well as all those connected with the court, including
the spectators. The justiciary concluded his charge.
It was thought he had finished. But the justic=
iary
found it necessary to add a few words concerning the importance of the power
given to the jury; that it should be used with care, and should not be abus=
ed; that
they had taken an oath; that they were the conscience of society, and that =
the
secrecy of the consultation room was sacred, etc., etc.
From the moment the justiciary began to speak,
Maslova kept her eyes on him, as if she feared to miss a word, so that
Nekhludoff was not afraid to meet her gaze, and constantly looked at her. A=
nd
before his imagination arose that common phenomenon of the appearance of a =
long
absent, beloved face, which, after the first shock produced by the external
changes which have taken place during the long absence, gradually becomes t=
he
same as it was many years ago--all the past changes disappear, and before t=
he
spiritual eyes stands forth the main expression of the peculiar spiritual
individuality. This happened with Nekhludoff.
Yes, notwithstanding the prison garb, the bloa=
ted
body and the high breast; notwithstanding the distended lower part of the f=
ace,
the wrinkles on the forehead and the temples, and the swelling under the ey=
es,
it was undoubtedly that same Katiousha who on Easter Sunday looked up to hi=
m,
her beloved, with her enamored, smiling, happy, lively eyes.
"What a remarkable coincidence! That this
case should be tried during my term! That, without seeing her for ten years=
, I
should meet her here in the prisoner's dock! And what will be the end? Ah, I
wish it were over!"
He would not yield to the feeling of repentance
which spoke within him. He considered it an incident which would soon pass =
away
without disturbing his life. He felt himself in the position of a puppy who=
had
misbehaved in his master's rooms, and whom his master, taking him by the ne=
ck,
thrust into the dirt he had made. The puppy squeals, pulls back in his effo=
rt
to escape the consequences of his deed, which he wishes to forget, but the
inexorable master holds him fast. Thus Nekhludoff felt the foulness of his =
act,
and he also felt the powerful hand of the master, but did not yet understand
the significance of his act, did not recognize the master. He did not wish =
to
believe that what he saw before him was the result of his own deed. But the=
inexorable,
invisible hand held him fast, and he had a foreboding that he should not
escape. He summoned up his courage, crossed his legs, as was his wont, and,
negligently playing with his pince-nez, he sat with an air of self-confiden=
ce
on the second chair of the front row. Meanwhile he already felt in the dept=
h of
his soul all the cruelty, dastardliness and baseness not only of that act of
his, but of his whole idle, dissolute, cruel and wayward life. And the terr=
ible
veil, which during these twelve years in such marvelous manner had hidden f=
rom
him that crime and all his subsequent life, already began to stir, and now =
and
then he caught a glimpse behind it.
=
The
justiciary finally finished his speech and handed the list of questions to =
the
foreman. The jury rose from their seats, glad of an opportunity to leave the
court-room, and, not knowing what to do with their hands, as if ashamed of
something, they filed into the consultation-room. As soon as the door closed
behind them a gendarme, with drawn sword resting on his shoulder, placed
himself in front of it. The judges rose and went out. The prisoners also we=
re
led away.
On entering the consultation-room the jury
immediately produced cigarettes and began to smoke. The sense of their
unnatural and false position, of which they were to a greater or less degree
cognizant, while sitting in the court-room, passed away as soon as they ent=
ered
their room and lighted their cigarettes, and, with a feeling of relief, they
seated themselves and immediately started an animated conversation.
"The girl is not guilty, she was
confused," said the kind-hearted merchant.
"That is what we are going to consider,&q=
uot;
retorted the foreman. "We must not yield to our personal
impressions."
"The judge's summing up was good," s=
aid
the colonel.
"Do you call it good? It nearly sent me to
sleep."
"The important point is that the servants
could not have known that there was money in the room if Maslova had no
understanding with them," said the clerk with the Jewish face.
"So you think that she stole it?" as=
ked
one of the jury.
"I will never believe that," shouted=
the
kind-hearted merchant. "It is all the work of that red-eyed wench.&quo=
t;
"They are all alike," said the colon=
el.
"But she said that she did not go into the
room."
"Do you believe her more than the other? I
should never believe that worthless woman."
"That does not decide the question,"
said the clerk.
"She had the key."
"What if she had?" answered the
merchant.
"And the ring?"
"She explained it," again shouted the
merchant. "It is quite likely that being drunk he struck her. Well, and
then he was sorry, of course. 'There, don't cry! Take this ring.' And what a
big man! They said he weighed about two hundred and fifty pounds, I
believe."
"That is not the point," interrupted
Peter Gerasimovich. "The question is, Was she the instigator, or were =
the
servants?"
"The servants could not have done it with=
out
her. She had the key."
This incoherent conversation lasted for a long
time.
"Excuse me, gentlemen," said the
foreman. "Let us sit down and consider the matter. Take your seats,&qu=
ot;
he added, seating himself in the foreman's chair.
"These girls are rogues," said the
clerk, and to sustain his opinion that Maslova was the chief culprit, he
related how one of those girls once stole a watch from a friend of his.
As a case in point the colonel related the bol=
der
theft of a silver _samovar_.
"Gentlemen, let us take up the
questions," said the foreman, rapping on the table with a pencil.
They became silent. The questions submitted we=
re:
1. Is the peasant of the village of Barkoff,
district of Krapivensk, Simon Petroff Kartinkin, thirty-three years of age,
guilty of having, with the design of taking the life of Smelkoff and robbing
him, administered to him poison in a glass of brandy, which caused the deat=
h of
Smelkoff, and of afterward robbing him of twenty-five hundred rubles and a
diamond ring?
2. Is the burgess Euphemia Ivanovna Bochkova,
forty-seven years of age, guilty of the crime mentioned in the first questi=
on?
3. Is the burgess Katherine Michaelovna Maslov=
a,
twenty-seven years of age, guilty of the crime mentioned in the first quest=
ion?
4. If the prisoner Euphemia Bochkova is not gu=
ilty
of the crime set forth in the first question, is she not guilty of secretly
stealing, while employed in the Hotel Mauritania, on the 17th day of Januar=
y, 188-,
twenty-five hundred rubles from the trunk of the merchant Smelkoff, to which
end she opened the trunk in the hotel with a key brought and fitted by her?=
The foreman read the first question.
"Well, gentlemen, what do you think?"=
;
This question was quickly answered. They all
agreed to answer "Guilty." The only one that dissented was an old
laborer, whose answer to all questions was "Not guilty."
The foreman thought that he did not understand=
the
questions and proceeded to explain that from all the facts it was evident t=
hat Kartinkin
and Bochkova were guilty, but the laborer answered that he did understand t=
hem,
and that he thought that they ought to be charitable. "We are not sain=
ts
ourselves," he said, and did not change his opinion.
The second question, relating to Bochkova, aft=
er
many arguments and elucidations, was answered "Not guilty," becau=
se
there was no clear proof that she participated in the poisoning--a fact on
which her lawyer put much stress.
The merchant, desiring to acquit Maslova, insi=
sted
that Bochkova was the author of the conspiracy. Many of the jurymen agreed =
with
him, but the foreman, desiring to conform strictly to the law, said that th=
ere was
no foundation for the charge of poisoning against her. After a lengthy argu=
ment
the foreman's opinion triumphed.
The fourth question, relating to Bochkova, was
answered "Guilty," but at the insistence of the laborer, she was
recommended to the mercy of the court.
The third question called forth fierce argumen=
t.
The foreman insisted that she was guilty of both the poisoning and robbery;=
the
merchant, colonel, clerk and laborer opposed this view, while the others he=
sitated,
but the opinion of the foreman began to predominate, principally because the
jury were tired out, and they willingly joined the side which promised to
prevail the sooner, and consequently release them quicker.
From all that occurred at the trial and his
knowledge of Maslova, Nekhludoff was convinced that she was innocent, and at
first was confident that the other jurors would so find her, but when he sa=
w that
because of the merchant's bungling defense of Maslova, evidently prompted by
his undisguised liking for her, and the foreman's resistance which it cause=
d,
but chiefly because of the weariness of the jury, there was likely to be a =
verdict
of guilty, he wished to make objection, but feared to speak in her favor le=
st
his relations toward her should be disclosed. At the same time he felt that=
he
could not let things go on without making his objections. He blushed and gr=
ew
pale in turn, and was about to speak, when Peter Gerasimovich, heretofore
silent, evidently exasperated by the authoritative manner of the foreman,
suddenly began to make the very objections Nekhludoff intended to make.
"Permit me to say a few words," he
began. "You say that she stole the money because she had the key; but =
the
servants could have opened the trunk with a false key after she was gone.&q=
uot;
"Of course, of course," the merchant
came to his support.
"She could not have taken the money becau=
se
she would have nowhere to hide it."
"That is what I said," the merchant
encouraged him.
"It is more likely that her coming to the
hotel for the money suggested to the servants the idea of stealing it; that
they stole it and then threw it all upon her."
Peter Gerasimovich spoke provokingly, which
communicated itself to the foreman. As a result the latter began to defend =
his
position more persistently. But Peter Gerasimovich spoke so convincingly th=
at
he won over the majority, and it was finally decided that she was not guilt=
y of
the theft. When, however, they began to discuss the part she had taken in t=
he
poisoning, her warm supporter, the merchant, argued that this charge must a=
lso
be dismissed, as she had no motive for poisoning him. The foreman insisted =
that
she could not be declared innocent on that charge, because she herself
confessed to giving him the powder.
"But she thought that it was opium,"
said the merchant.
"She could have killed him even with the
opium," retorted the colonel, who liked to make digressions, and he be=
gan
to relate the case of his brother-in-law's wife, who had been poisoned by o=
pium
and would have died had not antidotes promptly been administered by a physi=
cian
who happened to be in the neighborhood. The colonel spoke so impressively a=
nd
with such self-confidence and dignity that no one dared to interrupt him. O=
nly
the clerk, infected by the example set by the colonel, thought of telling a
story of his own.
"Some people get so accustomed to
opium," he began, "that they can take forty drops at a time. A
relative of mine----"
But the colonel would brook no interruption, a=
nd
went on to tell of the effect of the opium on his brother-in-law's wife.
"It is five o'clock, gentlemen," said
one of the jury.
"What do you say, gentlemen," said t=
he
foreman. "We find her guilty, but without the intent to rob, and witho=
ut
stealing any property--is that correct?"
Peter Gerasimovich, pleased with the victory he
had gained, agreed to the verdict.
"And we recommend her to the mercy of the
court," added the merchant.
Every one agreed except the laborer, who insis=
ted
on a verdict of "Not guilty."
"But that is the meaning of the
verdict," explained the foreman. "Without the intent to rob, and
without stealing any property--hence she is not guilty."
"Don't forget to throw in the recommendat=
ion
to mercy. If there be anything left that will wipe it out," joyfully s=
aid
the merchant. They were so tired and the arguments had so confused them tha=
t it
did not occur to any one to add "but without the intent to cause the d=
eath
of the merchant."
Nekhludoff was so excited that he did not noti=
ce
it. The answers were in this form taken to the court.
Rabelais relates the story of a jurist who was
trying a case, and who, after citing innumerable laws and reading twenty pa=
ges
of incomprehensible judicial Latin, made an offer to the litigants to throw
dice; if an even number fell then the plaintiff was right; if an odd number=
the
defendant was right.
It was the same here. The verdict was reached =
not
because the majority of the jury agreed to it, but first because the justic=
iary
had so drawn out his speech that he failed to properly instruct the jury; s=
econd,
because the colonel's story about his brother-in-law's wife was tedious; th=
ird,
because Nekhludoff was so excited that he did not notice the omission of the
clause limiting the intent in the answer, and thought that the words
"without intent to rob" negatively answered the question; fourth,
because Peter Gerasimovich was not in the room when the foreman read the
questions and answers, and chiefly because the jury were tired out and were
anxious to get away, and therefore agreed to the verdict which it was easie=
st
to reach.
They rang the bell. The gendarme sheathed his
sword and stood aside. The judges, one by one, took their seats and the jury
filed out.
The foreman held the list with a solemn air. He
approached the justiciary and handed it to him. The justiciary read it, and,
with evident surprise, turned to consult with his associates. He was surpri=
sed
that the jury, in limiting the charge by the words, "without intent to
rob," should fail to add also "without intent to cause death.&quo=
t;
It followed from the decision of the jury, that Maslova had not stolen or
robbed, but had poisoned a man without any apparent reason.
"Just see what an absurd decision they ha=
ve
reached," he said to the associate on his left. "This means hard
labor for her, and she is not guilty."
"Why not guilty?" said the stern
associate.
"She is simply not guilty. I think that
chapter 818 might properly be applied to this case." (Chapter 818 gives
the court the power to set aside an unjust verdict.)
"What do you think?" he asked the ki=
nd
associate.
"I agree with you."
"And you?" he asked the choleric
associate.
"By no means," he answered, decidedl=
y.
"As it is, the papers say that too many criminals are discharged by
juries. What will they say, then, if the court should discharge them? I will
not agree under any circumstances."
The justiciary looked at the clock.
"It is a pity, but what can I do?" a=
nd
he handed the questions to the foreman.
They all rose, and the foreman, standing now on
one foot, now on the other, cleared his throat and read the questions and
answers. All the officers of the court--the secretary, the lawyers and even=
the
prosecutor--expressed surprise.
The prisoners, who evidently did not understand
the significance of the answers, were serene. When the reading was over, the
justiciary asked the prosecutor what punishment he thought should be impose=
d on
the prisoners.
The prosecutor, elated by the successful verdi=
ct
against Maslova, which he ascribed to his eloquence, consulted some books, =
then
rose and said:
"Simon Kartinkin, I think, should be puni=
shed
according to chapter 1,452, sec. 4, and chapter 1,453; Euphemia Bochkova
according to chapter 1,659, and Katherine Maslova according to chapter
1,454."
All these were the severest punishments that c=
ould
be imposed for the crimes.
"The court will retire to consider their
decision," said the justiciary, rising.
Everybody then rose, and, with a relieved and
pleasant feeling of having fulfilled an important duty, walked around the
court-room.
"What a shameful mess we have made of it," said Peter Gerasimovitch, approaching Nekhludoff, to whom the for= eman was telling a story. "Why, we have sentenced her to hard labor."<= o:p>
"Is it possible?" exclaimed Nekhludo=
ff,
taking no notice at all this time of the unpleasant familiarity of the tuto=
r.
"Why, of course," he said. "We =
have
not inserted in the answer, 'Guilty, but without intent to cause death.' The
secretary has just told me that the law cited by the prosecutor provides
fifteen years' hard labor."
"But that was our verdict," said the
foreman.
Peter Gerasimovitch began to argue that it was
self-evident that as she did not steal the money she could not have intende=
d to
take the merchant's life.
"But I read the questions before we left =
the
room," the foreman justified himself, "and no one objected."=
"I was leaving the room at the time,"
said Peter Gerasimovitch. "But how did you come to miss it?"
"I did not think of it," answered
Nekhludoff.
"You did not!"
"We can right it yet," said Nekhludo=
ff.
"No, we cannot--it is all over now."=
Nekhludoff looked at the prisoners. While their
fate was being decided, they sat motionless behind the grating in front of =
the soldiers.
Maslova was smiling.
Nekhludoff's soul was stirred by evil thoughts.
When he thought that she would be freed and remain in the city, he was
undecided how he should act toward her, and it was a difficult matter. But
Siberia and penal servitude at once destroyed the possibility of their meet=
ing again.
The wounded bird would stop struggling in the game-bag, and would no longer
remind him of its existence.
=
=
The
apprehensions of Peter Gerasimovitch were justified.
On returning from the consultation-room the
justiciary produced a document and read the following:
"By order of His Imperial Majesty, the
Criminal Division of the ---- Circuit Court, in conformity with the finding=
of
the jury, and in accordance with ch. 771, s. 3, and ch. 776, s. 3, and ch. =
777
of the Code of Criminal Procedure, this 28th day of April, 188-, decrees th=
at
Simon Kartinkin, thirty-three years of age, and Katherine Maslova, twenty-s=
even
years of age, be deprived of all civil rights, and sent to penal servitude,
Kartinkin for eight, Maslova for the term of four years, under conditions
prescribed by ch. 25 of the Code. Euphemia Bochkova is deprived of all civil
and special rights and privileges, and is to be confined in jail for the pe=
riod
of three years under conditions prescribed by ch. 49 of the Code, with the =
costs
of the trial to be borne by all three, and in case of their inability to pa=
y,
to be paid out of the treasury.
"The exhibits are to be sold, the ring
returned, and the vials destroyed."
Kartinkin stood like a post, and with outstret=
ched
fingers held up the sleeves of his coat, moving his jaws. Bochkova seemed t=
o be
calm. When Maslova heard the decision, she turned red in the face.
"I am innocent, I am innocent!" she
suddenly cried. "It is a sin. I am innocent. I never wished; never
thought. It is the truth." And sinking to the bench, she began to cry
aloud.
When Kartinkin and Bochkova left the court-room
she was still standing and crying, so that the gendarme had to touch the sl=
eeve
of her coat.
"She cannot be left to her fate," sa=
id
Nekhludoff to himself, entirely forgetting his evil thoughts, and, without
knowing why, he ran into the corridor to look at her again. He was detained=
at
the door for a few minutes by the jostling, animated crowd of jurors and
lawyers, who were glad that the case was over, so that when he reached the
corridor Maslova was some distance away. Without thinking of the attention =
he was
attracting, with quick step he overtook her, walked a little ahead of her a=
nd
stopped. She had ceased to cry, only a sob escaped her now and then while s=
he
wiped her tears with a corner of her 'kerchief. She passed him without turn=
ing
to look at him. He then hastily returned to see the justiciary. The latter =
had
left his room, and Nekhludoff found him in the porter's lodge.
"Judge," said Nekhludoff, approaching
him at the moment when he was putting on a light overcoat and taking a
silver-handled cane which the porter handed him, "may I speak to you a=
bout
the case that has just been tried? I am a juror."
"Why, of course, Prince Nekhludoff! I am
delighted to see you. We have met before," said the justiciary, pressi=
ng
his hand, and recalling with pleasure that he was the jolliest fellow and b=
est
dancer of all the young men on the evening he had met him. "What can I=
do
for you?"
"There was a mistake in the jury's finding
against Maslova. She is not guilty of poisoning, and yet she is sent to pen=
al
servitude," he said, with a gloomy countenance.
"The court gave its decision in accordance
with your own finding," answered the justiciary, moving toward the doo=
r,
"although the answers did not seem to suit the case."
He remembered that he intended to explain to t=
he
jury that an answer of guilty without a denial of intent to kill involved an
intent to kill, but, as he was hastening to terminate the proceedings, he
failed to do so.
"But could not the mistake be
rectified?"
"Cause for appeal can always be found. You
must see a lawyer," said the justiciary, putting on his hat a little on
one side and continuing to move toward the door.
"But this is terrible."
"You see, one of two things confronted
Maslova," the justiciary said, evidently desiring to be as pleasant and
polite with Nekhludoff as possible. Then, arranging his side-whiskers over =
his
coat collar, and taking Nekhludoff's arm, he led him toward the door. "=
;You
are also going?" he continued.
"Yes," said Nekhludoff, hastily donn=
ing
his overcoat and following him.
They came out into the bright, cheerful sunlig=
ht,
where the rattling of wheels on the pavement made it necessary to raise the=
ir
voices.
"The situation, you see, is a very curious
one," continued the justiciary. "Maslova was confronted by one of=
two
things: either a short term in jail, in which case her lengthy confinement =
would
have been taken into consideration, or penal servitude; no other sentence w=
as
possible. Had you added the words, 'without intent to kill,' she would have
been discharged."
"It is unpardonable neglect on my part,&q=
uot;
said Nekhludoff.
"That is the whole trouble," the
justiciary said, smiling and looking at his watch.
There was only three-quarters of an hour left =
to
the latest hour fixed in Clara's appointment.
"You can apply to a lawyer, if you wish. =
It
is necessary to find grounds for appeal. But that can always be found. To t=
he Dvorianskaia,"
he said to the cab-driver. "Thirty kopecks--I never pay more."
"All right, Your Excellency."
"Good-day. If I can be of any service to =
you,
please let me know. You will easily remember my address: Dvornikoff's house=
, on
the Dvorinskaia."
And, making a graceful bow, he rode off.
=
=
The
conversation with the justiciary and the pure air somewhat calmed Nekhludof=
f.
The feeling he experienced he now ascribed to the fact that he had passed t=
he
day amid surroundings to which he was unaccustomed.
"It is certainly a remarkable coincidence=
! I
must do what is necessary to alleviate her lot, and do it quickly. Yes, I m=
ust
find out here where Fanarin or Mikishin lives." Nekhludoff called to m=
ind
these two well-known lawyers.
Nekhludoff returned to the court-house, took o=
ff
his overcoat and walked up the stairs. In the very first corridor he met
Fanarin. He stopped him and told him that he had some business with him.
Fanarin knew him by sight, and also his name. He told Nekhludoff that he wo=
uld be
glad to do anything to please him.
"I am rather tired, but, if it won't take
long, I will listen to your case. Let us walk into that room."
And Fanarin led Nekhludoff into a room, probab=
ly
the cabinet of some judge. They seated themselves at a table.
"Well, state your case."
"First of all, I will ask you," said
Nekhludoff, "not to disclose that I am interesting myself in this
case."
"That is understood. Well?"
"I was on a jury to-day, and we sent an
innocent woman to Siberia. It torments me."
To his own surprise, Nekhludoff blushed and
hesitated. Fanarin glanced at him, then lowered his eyes and listened.
"Well?"
"We condemned an innocent woman, and I wo=
uld
like to have the case appealed to a higher court."
"To the Senate?" Fanarin corrected h=
im.
"And I wish you to take the case."
Nekhludoff wanted to get through the most
difficult part, and therefore immediately added:
"I take all expenses on myself, whatever =
they
may be," he said, blushing.
"Well, we will arrange all that," sa=
id
the lawyer, condescendingly smiling at Nekhludoff's inexperience.
"What are the facts of the case?"
Nekhludoff related them.
"Very well; I will examine the record
to-morrow. Call at my office the day after--no, better on Thursday, at six
o'clock in the evening, and I will give you an answer. And now let us go; I
must make some inquiries here."
Nekhludoff bade him good-by, and departed.
His conversation with the lawyer, and the fact
that he had already taken steps to defend Maslova, still more calmed his
spirit. The weather was fine, and when Nekhludoff found himself on the stre=
et,
he gladly inhaled the spring air. Cab drivers offered their services, but he
preferred to walk, and a swarm of thoughts and recollections of Katiousha a=
nd
his conduct toward her immediately filled his head. He became sad, and
everything appeared to him gloomy. "No, I will consider it later,"=
; he
said to himself, "and now I must have some diversion from these painful
impressions."
The dinner at the Korchagin's came to his mind,
and he looked at his watch. It was not too late to reach there for dinner. A
tram-car passed by. He ran after it, and boarded it at a bound. On the squa=
re he
jumped off, took one of the best cabs, and ten minutes later he alighted in
front of Korchagin's large dwelling.
=
=
"Walk
in, Your Excellency, you are expected," said the fat porter, pushing o=
pen
the swinging, oaken door of the entrance. "They are dining, but I was =
told
to admit you."
The porter walked to the stairway and rang the
bell.
"Are there any guests?" Nekhludoff
asked, while taking off his coat.
"Mr. Kolosoff, also Michael Sergeievich,
besides the family," answered the porter.
A fine-looking lackey in dress coat and white
gloves looked down from the top of the stairs.
"Please to walk in, Your Excellency,"=
; he
said.
Nekhludoff mounted the stairs, and through the
spacious and magnificent parlor he entered the dining-room. Around the table
were seated the entire family, except Princess Sophia Vasilievna, who never=
left
her own apartments. At the head of the table sat old Korchagin, on his left=
the
physician; on his right, a visitor, Ivan Ivanovich Kolosoff, an ex-district
commander, and now a bank manager, who was a friend of the family, and of
liberal tendencies; further to the left was Miss Rader, governess to Missy's
four-year-old sister, with the little girl herself; then to the right, Miss=
y's
only brother, Peter, a high-school pupil, on account of whose forthcoming
examinations the entire family remained in the city, and his tutor, also a
student; then again to the left, Katherine Alexeievna, a forty-year-old gir=
l Slavophile;
opposite to her was Michael Sergeievich, or Misha Telegin, Missy's cousin, =
and
at the foot of the table, Missy herself, and beside her, on the table, lay =
an
extra cover.
"Ah, very glad you came! Take a seat! We =
are
still at the fish," chewing carefully with his false teeth old Korchag=
in
said, lifting his bloodshot eyes on Nekhludoff. "Stepan!" he turn=
ed
with a full mouth to the fat, majestic servant, pointing with his eyes to
Nekhludoff's plate. Although Nekhludoff had often dined with and knew Korch=
agin
well, this evening his old face, his sensual, smacking lips, the napkin stu=
ck
under his vest, the fat neck, and especially the well-fed, military figure =
made
an unpleasant impression on him.
"It is all ready, Your Excellency," =
said
Stepan, taking a soup ladle from the sideboard and nodding to the fine-look=
ing
servant with the side-whiskers, who immediately began to set the table besi=
de
Missy.
Nekhludoff went around the table shaking hands
with every one. All, except Korchagin and the ladies, rose from their seats
when he approached them. And this walking around the table and his handshak=
ing,
although most of the people were comparative strangers to him, this evening
seemed to Nekhludoff particularly unpleasant and ridiculous. He excused him=
self
for his late coming, and was about to seat himself at the end of the table
between Missy and Katherine Alexeievna, when old Korchagin demanded that, s=
ince
he would not take any brandy, he should first take a bite at the table, on
which were lobster, caviare, cheese and herring. Nekhludoff did not know he=
was
as hungry as he turned out to be, and when he tasted of some cheese and bre=
ad
he could not stop eating, and ate ravenously.
"Well? Have you been undermining the base=
s of
society?" asked Kolosoff, ironically, using an expression of a
retrogressive newspaper, which was attacking the jury system. "You have
acquitted the guilty and condemned the innocent? Have you?"
"Undermining the bases--undermining the
bases"--smilingly repeated the Prince, who had boundless confidence in=
the
intelligence and honesty of his liberal comrade and friend.
Nekhludoff, at the risk of being impolite, did=
not
answer Kolosoff, and, seating himself before the steaming soup, continued to
eat.
"Do let him eat," said Missy, smilin=
g.
By the pronoun "him," she meant to call attention to her intimacy
with Nekhludoff.
Meanwhile Kolosoff was energetically and loudly
discussing the article against trial by jury which had roused his indignati=
on.
Michael Sergeievich supported his contentions and quoted the contents of an=
other
similar article.
Missy, as usual, was very _distingue_ and
unobtrusively well dressed. She waited until Nekhludoff had swallowed the
mouthful he was chewing, and then said: "You must be very tired and
hungry."
"Not particularly. Are you? Have you been=
to
the exhibition?" he asked.
"No, we postponed it. But we went to play
lawn tennis at the Salamatoff's. Mister Crooks is really a remarkable
player."
Nekhludoff had came here for recreation, and it
was always pleasant to him to be in this house, not only because of the ele=
gant
luxury, which acted pleasantly on his senses, but because of the adulating =
kindnesses
with which they invisibly surrounded him. To-day, however--it is wonderful =
to
relate--everything in this house disgusted him; the porter, the broad stair=
way,
the flowers, the lackeys, the table decorations, and even Missy herself, wh=
o,
just now, seemed to him unattractive and unnatural. He was disgusted with t=
hat self-confident,
vulgar, liberal tone of Kolosoff, the bull-like, sensual, figure of old
Korchagin, the French phrases of the Slavophile maiden, the ceremonious fac=
es
of the governess and the tutor. But above all, he was disgusted with the
pronoun "him" that Missy had used. Nekhludoff was always wavering
between two different relations he sustained toward Missy. Sometimes he loo=
ked
at her as through blinking eyes or by moonlight, and then she seemed to him
beautiful, fresh, pretty, clever and natural. At other times he looked at h=
er
as if under a bright sun, and then he saw only her defects. To-day was such=
a
day. He saw the wrinkles on her face; saw the artificial arrangement of her
hair; the pointed elbows, and, above all, her large thumb nail, resembling =
that
of her father.
"It is the dullest game," Kolosoff s=
aid,
speaking of tennis, "baseball, as we played it when we were boys, is m=
uch
more amusing."
"You have not tried it. It is awfully int=
eresting,"
retorted Missy, unnaturally accentuating the word "awfully," as it
seemed to Nekhludoff.
A discussion arose in which Michael Sergeievich
and Katherine Alexeievna took part. Only the governess, the tutor and the
children were silent, evidently from ennui.
"They are eternally disputing!" laug=
hing
aloud, said old Korchagin. He pulled the napkin from his vest, and, noisily
pushing back his chair, which was immediately removed by a servant, rose fr=
om
the table. They all rose after him and went to a small table, on which stood
figured bowls filled with perfumed water; then they washed their finger-tip=
s and
rinsed their mouths, and continued their conversation, in which no one took=
any
interest.
"Is it not true?" Missy said to
Nekhludoff, desiring to receive confirmation of her opinion that man's
character can best be learned in play. She noticed on his thoughtful face an
expression of reproach, which inspired her with fear, and she wished to know
the cause of it.
"I really don't know. I never thought of
it," answered Nekhludoff.
"Will you go to mamma?" asked Missy.=
"Yes, yes," he said, producing a
cigarette. The tone of his voice plainly betrayed that he did not wish to g=
o.
She looked at him inquiringly, but was silent.=
He
felt ashamed. "It is hardly proper for me to come here to put people o=
ut
of temper," he thought, and, in an effort to be pleasant, he said that=
he
would go with pleasure if the Princess were in a mood to receive him.
"Yes, yes; mamma will be glad. You can sm=
oke
there also. And Ivan Ivanovich is with her."
The mistress of the house, Sophia Vasilievna, =
was
an invalid. For eight years she had reclined in laces and ribbons, amid vel=
vet,
gilding, ivory, bronzes and flowers. She never drove out, and received only=
her
"friends," i. e., whoever, according to her view, in any way dist=
inguished
himself from the crowd. Nekhludoff was one of these friends, not only becau=
se
he was considered a clever young man, but also because his mother was a clo=
se
friend of the family and he was a desirable match for Missy.
Her room was beyond the small and large
drawing-rooms. In the large drawing-room Missy, who preceded Nekhludoff,
suddenly stopped, and placing her hands on the back of a gilt chair, looked=
at
him.
Missy was very anxious to be married, and
Nekhludoff was a desirable party. Besides, she liked him, and had become
accustomed to the thought that he would belong to her, and not she to him, =
and,
with the unconscious but persistent craftiness of heart-sick persons, she g=
ained
her end. She addressed him now with the intention of bringing forth an
explanation.
"I see that something has happened to
you," she said. "What is the matter with you?"
The meeting in the court came to his mind, and=
he
frowned and blushed.
"Yes, something has happened," he sa=
id,
desiring to be truthful. "It was a strange, extraordinary and important
event."
"What was it? Can't you tell me?"
"Not now. Don't press me for an answer. I
have not had the time to think over the matter," he said, blushing sti=
ll
more.
"And you will not tell me?" The musc=
les
on her cheek quivered, and she pushed away the chair.
"No, I cannot," he answered, feeling
that answering her thus he answered himself--admitted to himself that somet=
hing
very important had really happened to him.
"Well, then, come!"
She shook her head as if desiring to drive away
undesirable thoughts, and walked forward with a quicker step than usual.
It seemed to him that she unnaturally compress=
ed
her lips in order to suppress her tears. It was painful to him to grieve he=
r,
but he knew that the slightest weakness would ruin him, i. e., bind him. And
this he feared more than anything else to-day, so he silently followed her =
to
the door of the Princess' apartments.
=
=
Princess
Sophia Vasilievna had finished her meal of choice and nourishing dishes, wh=
ich
she always took alone, that no one might see her performing that unpoetical
function. A cup of coffee stood on a small table near her couch, and she was
smoking a cigarette. Princess Sophia Vasilievna was a lean and tall brunett=
e,
with long teeth and large black eyes, who desired to pass for a young woman=
.
People were making unpleasant remarks about her
relations with the doctor. Formerly Nekhludoff had paid no attention to the=
m.
But to-day, the sight of the doctor, with his oily, sleek head, which was
parted in the middle, sitting near her couch, was repulsive to him.
Beside the Princess sat Kolosoff, stirring the
coffee. A glass of liquor was on the table.
Missy entered, together with Nekhludoff, but s=
he
did not remain in the room.
"When mamma gets tired of you and drives =
you
away, come to my room," she said, turning to Nekhludoff, as if nothing=
had
happened, and, smiling cheerfully, she walked out of the room, her steps
deadened by the heavy carpet.
"Well, how do you do, my friend? Sit down=
and
tell us the news," said Sophia Vasilievna, with an artful, feigned,
resembling a perfectly natural, smile, which displayed her beautiful, long,
skillfully made, almost natural-looking teeth. "I am told that you ret=
urned
from the court in very gloomy spirits. It must be very painful to people wi=
th a
heart," she said in French.
"Yes, that is true," said Nekhludoff.
"One often feels his--feels that he has no right to judge others."=
;
"Comme c'est vrai!" she exclaimed, a=
s if
struck by the truth of the remark, and, as usual, artfully flattering her
friend.
"And what about your picture? It interest=
s me
very much," she added. "Were it not for my indisposition, I should
have visited you long ago."
"I have given up painting entirely,"=
he
answered dryly. Her unjust flattery was as apparent to him to-day as was her
age, which she attempted to conceal. Try as he would, he could not force
himself to be pleasant.
"It is too bad! You know, Riepin himself =
told
me that Nekhludoff possesses undoubted talent," she said, turning to
Kolosoff.
"What a shameless liar!" Nekhludoff
thought, frowning.
Seeing that Nekhludoff was in ill humor, and c=
ould
not be drawn into pleasant and clear conversation, Sophia Vasilievna turned=
to
Kolosoff for his opinion of the new drama, with an air as if Kolosoff's opi=
nion
would dispel all doubt and every word of his was destined to become immorta=
lized.
Kolosoff condemned the drama and took occasion to state his views on art. T=
he
correctness of his views seemed to impress her; she attempted to defend the
author of the drama, but immediately yielded, or found a middle ground.
Nekhludoff looked and listened and yet saw and heard but little.
Listening now to Sophia Vasilievna, now to Kolosoff, Nekhludoff saw, first, that neither of them cared either for the drama or for each other, and that they were talking merely to satisfy a physiological craving to exercise, after dinner, the muscles of the tongue = and throat. Secondly, he saw that Kolosoff, who had drunk brandy, wine and liquors, was somewhat tipsy--not as drunk as a drinking peasant, but like a man to whom wine-drinking has become a habit. He did not reel, nor did he talk nonsense, but was in an abnormal, excited and contented condition. Thirdly, Nekhludoff saw that Princess Sophia Vasilievna, during the conversation, now and again anxiously glanced at the window, through which a slanting ray of the sun was creeping toward her, threatening to throw too much light on her aged face.<= o:p>
"How true it is," she said of some
remark of Kolosoff, and pressed a button on the wall near the couch.
At this moment the doctor rose with as little
ceremony as one of the family, and walked out of the room. Sophia Vasilievna
followed him with her eyes.
"Please, Phillip, let down that
curtain," she said to the fine-looking servant who responded to the be=
ll,
her eyes pointing to the window.
"Say what you will, but there is something
mystical about him, and without mysticism there is no poetry," she sai=
d,
with one black eye angrily following the movements of the servant who was
lowering the curtain.
"Mysticism without poetry is superstition,
and poetry without mysticism is prose," she continued, smiling sadly,
still keeping her eye on the servant, who was smoothing down the curtain.
"Not that curtain, Phillip--the one at the
large window," she said in a sad voice, evidently pitying herself for =
the
efforts she was compelled to make to say these words, and to calm herself, =
with
her ring-bedecked hand, she lifted to her lips the fragrant, smoking cigare=
tte.
The broad-chested, muscular Phillip bowed
slightly, as if excusing himself, and submissively and silently stepped ove=
r to
the next window, and, carefully looking at the Princess, so arranged the cu=
rtain
that no stray ray should fall on her. It was again unsatisfactory, and again
the exhausted Princess was obliged to interrupt her conversation about
mysticism and correct the unintelligent Phillip, who was pitilessly torment=
ing
her. For a moment Phillip's eyes flashed fire.
"'The devil knows what you want,' he is
probably saying to himself," Nekhludoff thought, as he watched this pl=
ay.
But the handsome, strong Phillip concealed his impatience, and calmly carri=
ed
out the instructions of the enervated, weak, artificial Princess Sophia Vas=
ilievna.
"Of course there is considerable truth in
Darwin's theory," said the returning Kolosoff, stretching himself on a=
low
arm-chair and looking through sleepy eyes at the Princess, "but he goes
too far."
"And do you believe in heredity?" sh=
e asked
Nekhludoff, oppressed by his silence.
"In heredity?" repeated Nekhludoff.
"No, I do not," he said, being entirely absorbed at the moment by
those strange forms which, for some reason, appeared to his imagination.
Alongside of the strong, handsome Phillip, whom he looked upon as a model, =
he
imagined Kolosoff, naked, his abdomen like a water-melon, bald-headed, and =
his
arms hanging like two cords. He also dimly imagined what the silk-covered
shoulders of Sophia Vasilievna would appear like in reality, but the picture
was too terrible, and he drove it from his mind.
Sophia Vasilievna scanned him from head to foo=
t.
"Missy is waiting for you," she said.
"Go to her room; she wished to play for you a new composition by Schum=
an.
It is very interesting."
"It isn't true. Why should she lie so!&qu=
ot;
Nekhludoff thought, rising and pressing her transparent, bony, ring-bedecked
hand.
In the drawing-room he met Katherine Alexeievn= a, returning to her mother's apartments. As usual, she greeted him in French.<= o:p>
"I see that the duties of juryman act
depressingly upon you," she said.
"Yes, pardon me. I am in low spirits to-d=
ay,
and I have no right to bore people," answered Nekhludoff.
"Why are you in low spirits?"
"Permit me not to speak of it," he s=
aid,
looking for his hat as they entered the Princess' cabinet.
"And do you remember telling us that one
ought to tell the truth? And what cruel truths you used to tell us! Why don=
't
you tell us now? Do you remember, Missy?" the Princess turned to Missy,
who had just entered.
"Because that was in play," answered
Nekhludoff gravely. "In play it is permissible, but in reality we are =
so
bad, that is, I am so bad, that I, at least, cannot tell the truth."
"Don't correct yourself, but rather say t=
hat
we are so bad," said Katherine Alexeievna, playing with the words, and
pretending not to see Nekhludoff's gravity.
"There is nothing worse than to confess b=
eing
in low spirits," said Missy. "I never confess it to myself, and t=
hat
is why I am always cheerful. Well, come to my room. We shall try to drive a=
way
your mauvais humeur."
Nekhludoff experienced the feeling which a hor=
se
must feel when brushed down before the bridle is put on and it is led to be
harnessed to the wagon. But to-day he was not at all disposed to draw. He e=
xcused
himself and began to take leave. Missy kept his hand longer than usual.
"Remember that what is important to you is
important to your friends," she said. "Will you come to-morrow?&q=
uot;
"I don't think I will," said Nekhlud=
off.
And feeling ashamed, without knowing himself whether for her or for himself=
, he
blushed and hastily departed.
"What does it mean? Comme cela
m'intrigue," said Katherine Alexeievna, when Nekhludoff had left. &quo=
t;I
must find it out. Some affaire d'amour propre; il est très susceptib=
le
notre cher Mitia."
"Plutôt une affaire d'amour sale,&q=
uot;
Missy was going to say. Her face was now wan and pale. But she did not give
expression to that passage, and only said: "We all have our bright days
and gloomy days."
"Is it possible that he, too, should dece=
ive
me?" she thought. "After all that has happened, it would be very
wrong of him."
If Missy had had to explain what she meant by =
the
words, "After all that has happened," she could have told nothing
definite, and yet she undoubtedly knew that not only had he given her cause=
to
hope, but he had almost made his promise--not in so many words, but by his
glances, his smiles, his innuendos, his silence. She considered him her own=
, and
to lose him would be very painful to her.
=
"It
is shameful and disgusting," Nekhludoff meditated, while returning hom=
e on
foot along the familiar streets. The oppressive feeling which he had
experienced while speaking to Missy clung to him. He understood that nomina=
lly,
if one may so express himself, he was in the right; he had never said anyth=
ing
to bind himself to her; had made no offer, but in reality he felt that he h=
ad
bound himself to her, that he had promised to be hers. Yet he felt in all h=
is
being that he could not marry her.
"It is shameful and disgusting," he
repeated, not only of his relations to Missy, but of everything.
"Everything is disgusting and shameful," he repeated to himself, =
as
he ascended the steps of his house.
"I shall take no supper," he said to
Kornei, who followed him into the dining-room, where the table was set for =
his
supper. "You may go."
"All right," said Kornei, but did not
go, and began to clear the table. Nekhludoff looked at Kornei and an ill
feeling sprung up in his heart toward him. He wished to be left in peace, a=
nd
it seemed as if everybody were spitefully worrying him. When Kornei had lef=
t, Nekhludoff
went over to the _samovar_, intending to make some tea, but, hearing the
footsteps of Agrippina Petrovna, he hastily walked into the drawing-room,
closing the door behind him. This was the room in which, three months ago, =
his
mother had died. Now, as he entered this room, lighted by two lamps with
reflectors--one near a portrait of his father, the other near a portrait of=
his
mother--he thought of his relations toward his mother, and these relations
seemed to him unnatural and repulsive. These, too, were shameful and
disgusting. He remembered how, during her last sickness, he wished her to d=
ie.
He said to himself that he wished it so that she might be spared the suffer=
ing,
but in reality he wished to spare himself the sight of her suffering.
Desiring to call forth pleasant recollections
about her, he looked at her portrait, painted by a famous artist for five
thousand rubles. She was represented in a black velvet dress with bared bre=
ast.
The artist had evidently drawn with particular care the breast and the
beautiful shoulders and neck. That was particularly shameful and disgusting=
. There
was something revolting and sacriligious to him in this representation of h=
is
mother as a denuded beauty, the more so because three months ago she lay in
this very room shrunken like a mummy, and filling the entire house with an
oppressive odor. He thought he could smell the odor now. He remembered how,=
on
the day before she died, she took his strong, white hand into her own
emaciated, discolored one, and, looking into his eyes, said: "Do not j=
udge
me, Mitia, if I have not done as I should," and her faded eyes filled =
with
tears.
"How disgusting!" he again repeated =
to
himself, glancing at the half-nude woman with splendid marble shoulders and
arms and a triumphant smile on her lips. The bared bosom of that portrait r=
eminded
him of another young woman whom he had seen dressed in a similar way a few =
days
before. It was Missy, who had invited him to the house under some pretext, =
in
order to display before him her ball-dress. He recalled with disgust her
beautiful shoulders and arms; and her coarse, brutal father, with his dark
past, his cruelties, and her mother with her doubtful reputation. All this =
was
disgusting and at the same time shameful.
"No, no; I must free myself from all these
false relations with the Korchagins, with Maria Vasilievna, with the
inheritance and all the rest," he thought. "Yes, to breathe freel=
y;
to go abroad--to Rome--and continue to work on my picture." He remembe=
red
his doubts about his talent. "Well, it is all the same; I will simply
breathe freely. First, I will go to Constantinople, then to Rome--away from
this jury duty. Yes, and to fix matters with the lawyer----"
And suddenly, before his imagination, appeared
with uncommon vividness the picture of the prisoner with the black, squinti=
ng
eyes. And how she wept when the last words of the prisoners were spoken! He
hastily crushed the cigarette he was smoking, lit another, and began pacing=
up and
down the room. One after another the scenes he had lived through with her r=
ose
up in his mind. He recalled their last meeting, the passion which seized hi=
m at
the time, and the disappointment that followed. He recalled the white dress
with the blue ribbon; he recalled the morning mass. "Why, I loved her =
with
a pure love that night; I loved her even before, and how I loved her when I
first came to my aunts and was writing my composition!" That freshness,
youth, fullness of life swept over him and he became painfully sad.
The difference between him as he was then and =
as
he was now was great; it was equally great, if not greater, than the differ=
ence
between Katiousha in the church and that girl whom they had tried this morn=
ing.
Then he was a courageous, free man, before whom opened endless possibilitie=
s;
now he felt himself caught in the tenets of a stupid, idle, aimless, misera=
ble
life, from which there was no escape; aye, from which, for the most part, he
would not escape. He remembered how he once had prided himself upon his
rectitude; how he always made it a rule to tell the truth, and was in reali=
ty
truthful, and how he was now steeped in falsehood--falsehood which was reco=
gnized
as truth by all those around him.
And there was no escape from this falsehood; at
all events, he did not see any escape. He had sunk in it, became accustomed=
to
it, and indulged himself in it.
The questions that absorbed him now were: How = to break loose from Maria Vasilievna and her husband, so that he might be able= to look them in the face? How, without falsehood, to disentangle his relations= with Missy? How to get out of the inconsistency of considering the private holdi= ng of land unjust and keeping his inheritance? How to blot out his sin against Katiousha? "I cannot abandon the woman whom I have loved and content myself with paying money to the lawyer to save her from penal servitude, wh= ich she does not even deserve." To blot out the sin, as he did then, when = he thought that he was atoning for his wrong by giving her money! Impossible!<= o:p>
He vividly recalled the moment when he ran aft=
er
her in the corridor, thrust money in her bosom, and ran away from her.
"Oh, that money!" With the same horror and disgust he recalled th=
at
moment. "Oh, how disgusting!" he said aloud, as he did then.
"Only a scoundrel and rascal could do it! And I am that scoundrel, that
rascal!" he said aloud. "It is possible that I--" and he sto=
pped
in the middle of the room--"Is it possible that I am really a scoundre=
l?
Who but I?" he answered himself. "And is this the only thing?&quo=
t;
he continued, still censuring himself. "Are not my relations toward Ma=
ria
Vasilievna base and detestable? And my position with regard to property? Un=
der
the plea that I inherited it from my mother I am using wealth, the ownershi=
p of
which I consider unlawful. And the whole of this idle, abominable life? And=
to
crown all, my conduct toward Katiousha? Scoundrel! Villain! Let people judg=
e me
as they please--I can deceive them, but I cannot deceive myself."
And he suddenly understood that the disgust wh=
ich
he had lately felt toward everybody, and especially to-day toward the Prince
and Maria Vasilievna, and Missy, and Kornei, was disgust with himself. And =
in this
confession of his own baseness there was something painful, and at the same
time joyous and calming.
In the course of his life Nekhludoff often
experienced what he called a "cleansing of the soul." This happen=
ed
when, after a long period of retardation, or, perhaps, entire cessation of =
his
inner life, he suddenly became aware of it, and proceeded to cleanse his so=
ul
of all the accumulated filth that caused this standstill.
After such awakenings Nekhludoff always laid d=
own
some rules for himself which he intended to follow all the rest of his life;
kept a diary and began a new life, which he hoped he should never change ag=
ain--"turning
a new leaf," he used to call it. But the temptations of life entrapped=
him
anew, after every awakening, and, without knowing it, he sank again, often =
to a
lower depth than he was in before.
Thus he cleansed himself and revived several
times. His first cleansing happened when he visited his aunts. That was the
brightest and most enthusiastic awakening. And it lasted a long time. The n=
ext happened
when he left the civil service, and, desiring to sacrifice his life, he
entered, during the war, the military service. Here he began to sink quickl=
y.
The next awakening occurred when he retired from the military service, and,
going abroad, gave himself up to painting.
From that day to this there was a long period =
of
uncleanliness, the longest he had gone through yet, and, therefore, he had
never sunk so deep, and never before was there such discord between the dem=
ands
of his conscience and the life which he was leading. So, when he saw the ch=
asm
which separated the two, he was horrified.
The discord was so great, the defilement so
thorough, that at first he despaired of the possibility of a complete
cleansing. "Why, you have tried to improve before, and failed," t=
he
tempter in his soul whispered. "What is the good of trying again? You =
are
not the only one--all are alike. Such is life." But the free, spiritual
being which alone is true, alone powerful, alone eternal, was already awake=
in Nekhludoff.
And he could not help believing it. However great the difference between th=
at
which he was and that which he wished to be, for the awakened spiritual bei=
ng
everything was possible.
"I shall break this lie that binds me at =
any
cost. I will confess the truth to everybody, and will act the truth," =
he
said aloud, resolutely. "I will tell Missy the truth--that I am a
profligate and cannot marry her; that I have trifled with her. I will tell
Maria Vasilevna (the wife of the marshal of nobility)--but no, what is the =
good
of telling her? I will tell her husband that I am a scoundrel, that I have
deceived him. I will dispose of my inheritance in accordance with the deman=
ds
of justice. I will tell her, Katiousha, that I am a knave, that I have wron=
ged
her, and will do everything in my power to alleviate her condition. Yes, I
shall see her, and beg her forgiveness--I will beg like a child."
He stopped.
"I will marry her, if necessary."
He crossed his hands on his breast, as he used=
to
do when a child, raised his eyes and said:
"Lord, help me, teach me; come and enter
within me and purify me of all this abomination."
He prayed, asked God to help him and purify hi=
m,
while that which he was praying for had already happened. Not only did he f=
eel
the freedom, vigor and gladness of life, but he also felt the power of good=
. He
felt himself capable of doing the best that man can do.
There were tears in his eyes when he said these
things--tears of joy--on the awakening within him of that spiritual being, =
and
tears of emotion over his own virtue.
He felt warm and opened a window which looked =
into
a garden. It was a moonlit, fresh and quiet night. Past the street rattled =
some
vehicle, and then everything was quiet. Directly beneath the window a tall,=
denuded
poplar threw its shadow on the gravel of the landing-place, distinctly show=
ing
all the ramifications of its bare branches. To the left the roof of a shed
seemed white under the bright light of the moon; in front were the tangled
branches of the trees, through which was seen the dark shadow of the garden
inclosure.
Nekhludoff looked at the moonlit garden and ro=
of,
the shadows of the poplar, and drank in the fresh, invigorating air.
"How delightful! My God, how
delightful!" he said of that which was in his soul.
=
It was
six o'clock when Maslova returned to her cell, weary and foot-sore from the
long tramp over the stone pavement. Besides, she was crushed by the
unexpectedly severe sentence, and was also hungry.
When, during a recess, her guards had lunched =
on
bread and hard-boiled eggs her mouth watered and she felt that she was hung=
ry,
but considered it humiliating to ask them for some food. Three hours after =
that
her hunger had passed, and she only felt weak. In this condition she heard =
the
sentence. At first she thought that she misunderstood it; she could not bel=
ieve
what she heard, and could not reconcile herself to the idea that she was a
convict. But, seeing the calm, serious faces of the judges and the jury, who
received the verdict as something quite natural, she revolted and cried out
that she was innocent. And when she saw also that her outcry, too, was take=
n as
something natural and anticipated, and which could not alter the case, she
began to weep. She felt that she must submit to the cruel injustice which w=
as
perpetrated on her. What surprised her most was that she should be so cruel=
ly
condemned by men--not old men, but those same young men who looked at her so
kindly.
The prosecuting attorney was the only man whose
glances were other than kind. While she was sitting in the prisoners' room,=
and
during recesses she saw these men passing by her and entering the room unde=
r various
pretexts, but with the obvious intention of looking at her. And now these s=
ame
men, for some reason, sentenced her to hard labor, although she was innocen=
t of
the crime. For some time she wept, then became calm, and in a condition of
complete exhaustion she waited to be taken away. She desired but one thing
now--a cigarette. She was in this frame of mind when Bochkova and Kartinkin
were brought into the room. Bochkova immediately began to curse her.
"You are innocent, aren't you? Why weren't
you discharged, you vile thing? You got your deserts! You will drop your
fineries in Siberia!"
Maslova sat with lowered head, her hands folde=
d in
the sleeves of her coat, and gazed on the smoothly trampled ground.
"I am not interfering with you, so leave =
me
in peace," she repeated several times, then became silent. She became
enlivened again when, after Bochkova and Kartinkin had been removed from the
room, the guard entered, bringing her three rubles.
"Are you Maslova?" he asked.
"Yes."
"Here is some money which a lady sent
you," he said.
"What lady?"
"Take it, and ask no questions."
The money was sent by Kitaeva. When leaving the
court she asked the usher if she could send some money to Maslova, and,
receiving an affirmative answer, she removed a chamois glove, and, from the
back folds of her silk dress, produced a stylish pocket-book, and counted o=
ut
the money into the hands of the usher who, in her presence, handed it to the
guard.
"Please be sure to give it to her," =
said
Karolina Albertoona to the guard.
The guard was offended by this distrust shown =
to
him, which was the cause of his speaking angrily to Maslova.
Maslova was overjoyed by the receipt of the mo=
ney,
for it could give her the one thing she wished for now.
All her thoughts were now centered on her desi=
re
to inhale the smoke of a cigarette. So strong was this desire that she gree=
dily
inhaled the smoke-laden air which was wafted in from the corridor and throu=
gh the
cabinet door. But there was a long wait before her, for the secretary, who =
was
to deliver to the guard the order for her removal, forgetting the prisoners,
engaged one of the lawyers in the discussion of an editorial that had appea=
red
in a newspaper.
At five o'clock she was finally led down throu=
gh
the rear door. While in the waiting-room she gave one of the guards twenty
kopecks, asking him to buy for her two lunch rolls and some cigarettes. The
guard laughed, took the money, honestly made the purchase and returned the =
change
to her. She could not smoke on the road, so Maslova arrived at the jail with
the same unsatisfied craving for a cigarette. At that moment about a hundred
prisoners were brought from the railroad station. Maslova met them in the
passageway.
The prisoners, bearded, clean-shaven, old, you=
ng,
Russians and foreigners--some with half-shaved heads, and with a clinking of
iron fetters, filled the passage with dust, tramping of feet, conversation =
and
a sharp odor of perspiration. The prisoners, as they passed Maslova, scanned
her from head to foot; some approached and teased her.
"Fine girl, that!" said one. "My
compliments, auntie," said another, winking one eye. A dark man with a
shaven, blue neck and long mustache, tangling in his fetters, sprang toward=
her
and embraced her.
"Don't you recognize your friend? Come, d=
on't
put on such style!" he exclaimed, grinning as she pushed him away.
"What are you doing, you rascal?"
shouted the officer in charge of the prisoners.
The prisoner hastily hid himself in the crowd.=
The
officer fell upon Maslova.
"What are you doing here?"
Maslova was going to say that she had been bro=
ught
from the court, but she was very tired and too lazy to speak.
"She is just from the court, sir," s=
aid
one of the guards, elbowing his way through the passing crowd, and raising =
his
hand to his cap.
"Then take her to the warden. What
indecencies!"
"Very well, sir!"
"Sokoloff! Take her away!" shouted t=
he
officer.
Sokoloff came and angrily pushed Maslova by the
shoulder, and, motioning to her to follow him, he led her into the woman's
corridor. There she was thoroughly searched, and as nothing was found upon =
her (the
box of cigarettes was hidden in the lunch roll), she was admitted into the =
same
cell from which she had emerged in the morning.
=
The
cell in which Maslova was confined was an oblong room, twenty feet by fifte=
en.
The kalsomining of the walls was peeled off, and the dry boards of the cots
occupied two-thirds of the space. In the middle of the room, opposite the d=
oor,
was a dark iron, with a wax candle stuck on it, and a dusty bouquet of
immortelles hanging under it. To the left, behind the door, on a darkened s=
pot
of the floor, stood an ill-smelling vat. The women had been locked up for t=
he night.
There were fifteen inmates of this cell, twelve
women and three children.
It was not dark yet, and only two women lay in
their cots; one a foolish little woman--she was constantly crying--who had =
been
arrested because she had no written evidence of her identity, had her head =
covered
with her coat; the other, a consumptive, was serving a sentence for theft. =
She
was not sleeping, but lay, her coat under her head, with wide-open eyes, and
with difficulty retaining in her throat the tickling, gurgling phlegm, so as
not to cough. The other women were with bare heads and skirts of coarse lin=
en;
some sat on their cots sewing; others stood at the window gazing on the pas=
sing
prisoners. Of the three women who were sewing, one, Korableva, was the one =
who
had given Maslova the instructions when the latter left the cell. She was a
tall, strong woman, with a frowning, gloomy face, all wrinkled, a bag of sk=
in
hanging under her chin, a short braid of light hair, turning gray at the
temples, and a hairy wart on her cheek. This old woman was sentenced to pen=
al
servitude for killing her husband with an axe. The killing was committed
because he annoyed her daughter with improper advances. She was the oversee=
r of
the cell, and also sold wine to the inmates. She was sewing with eye-glasse=
s,
and held the needle, after the fashion of the peasants, with three fingers,=
the
sharp point turned toward her breast. Beside her, also sewing, sat a little
woman, good-natured and talkative, dark, snub-nosed and with little black e=
yes.
She was the watch-woman at a flag-station, and was sentenced to three month=
s'
imprisonment for negligently causing an accident on the railroad. The third=
of
the women who were occupied with sewing was Theodosia--called Fenichka by h=
er
fellow-prisoners--of light complexion, and with rosy cheeks; young, lovely,
with bright, childish blue eyes, and two long, flaxen braids rolled up on h=
er
small head. She was imprisoned for attempting to poison her husband. She wa=
s sixteen
years old when she was married, and she made the attempt immediately after =
her
marriage. During the eight months that she was out on bail, she not only be=
came
reconciled to her husband, but became so fond of him that the court officers
found them living in perfect harmony. In spite of all the efforts of her
husband, her father-in-law, and especially her mother-in-law, who had grown
very fond of her, to obtain her discharge, she was sentenced to hard labor =
in
Siberia. The kind, cheerful and smiling Theodosia, whose cot was next to
Maslova's, not only took a liking to her, but considered it her duty to help
her in every possible way. Two other women were sitting idly on their cots;=
one
of about forty years, who seemed to have been pretty in her youth, but was =
now
pale and slim, was feeding a child with her long, white breast. Her crime
consisted in that, when the people of the village she belonged to attempted=
to
stop a recruiting officer who had drafted, illegally, as they thought, her =
nephew,
she was the first to take hold of the bridle of his horse. There was another
little white-haired, wrinkled woman, good-natured and hunch-backed, who sat
near the oven and pretended to be catching a four-year-old, short-haired and
stout boy, who, in a short little shirt, was running past her, laughing and
repeating: "You tan't tatch me!" This old woman, who, with her so=
n,
was charged with incendiarism, bore her confinement good-naturedly, grieving
only over her son, who was also in jail, but above all, her heart was break=
ing
for her old man who, she feared, would be eaten up by lice, as her
daughter-in-law had returned to her parents, and there was no one to wash h=
im.
Besides these seven women, there were four oth=
ers
who stood near the open windows, their hands resting on the iron gratings, =
and
conversing by signs and shouts with the prisoners whom Maslova had met in t=
he passageway.
One of these, who was serving a sentence for theft, was a flabby, large, he=
avy,
red-haired woman with white-yellow freckles over her face, and a stout neck
which was exposed by the open waist collar. In a hoarse voice she shouted
indecent words through the window. Beside her stood a woman of the size of a
ten-year-old girl, very dark, with a long back and very short legs. Her face
was red and blotched; her black eyes wide open, and her short, thick lips
failed to hide her white, protruding teeth. She laughed in shrill tones at =
the
antics of the prisoners. This prisoner, who was nicknamed Miss Dandy, becau=
se
of her stylishness, was under indictment for theft and incendiarism. Behind=
them,
in a very dirty, gray shirt, stood a wretched-looking woman, big with child,
who was charged with concealing stolen property. This woman was silent, but=
she
approvingly smiled at the actions of the prisoners without. The fourth of t=
he women
who stood at the window, and was undergoing sentence for illicit trading in
spirits, was a squat little country woman with bulging eyes and kindly face.
She was the mother of the boy who was playing with the old woman, and of
another seven-year-old girl, both of whom were in jail with her, because th=
ey
had no one else to take care of them. Knitting a stocking, she was looking
through the window and disapprovingly frowned and closed her eyes at the
language used by the passing prisoners. The girl who stood near the red-hai=
red
woman, with only a shirt on her back, and clinging with one hand to the wom=
an's
skirt, attentively listened to the abusive words the men were exchanging wi=
th
the women, and repeated them in a whisper, as if committing them to memory.=
The
twelfth was the daughter of a church clerk and chanter who had drowned her
child in a well. She was a tall and stately girl, with large eyes and tangl=
ed
hair sticking out of her short, thick, flaxen braid. She paid no attention =
to
what was going on around her, but paced, bare-footed, and in a dirty gray
shirt, over the floor of the cell, making sharp and quick turns when she
reached the wall.
=
When
with a rattling of chains the cell door was unlocked and Maslova admitted, =
all
eyes were turned toward her. Even the chanter's daughter stopped for a mome=
nt
and looked at her with raised eyebrows, but immediately resumed walking with
long, resolute strides. Korableva stuck her needle into the sack she was se=
wing
and gazed inquiringly through her glasses at Maslova.
"Ah me! So she has returned," she sa=
id
in a hoarse basso voice. "And I was sure she would be set right. She m=
ust
have got it."
She removed her glasses and placed them with h=
er
sewing beside her.
"I have been talking with auntie, dear, a=
nd
we thought that they might discharge you at once. They say it happens. And =
they
sometimes give you money, if you strike the right time," the watch-wom=
an
started in a singing voice. "What ill-luck! It seems we were wrong. God
has His own way, dear," she went on in her caressing and melodious voi=
ce.
"It is possible that they convicted
you?" asked Theodosia, with gentle compassion, looking at Maslova with=
her
childish, light-blue eyes, and her cheerful, young face changed, and she se=
emed
to be ready to cry.
Maslova made no answer, but silently went to h=
er
place, next to Korableva's, and sat down.
"You have probably not eaten anything,&qu=
ot;
said Theodosia, rising and going over to Maslova.
Again Maslova did not answer, but placed the t=
wo
lunch-rolls at the head of the cot and began to undress. She took off the d=
usty
coat, and the 'kerchief from her curling black hair and sat down.
The hunch-backed old woman also came and stopp=
ed
in front of Maslova, compassionately shaking her head.
The boy came behind the old woman, and, with a
protruding corner of the upper lip and wide-open eyes, gazed on the rolls
brought by Maslova. Seeing all these compassionate faces, after what had ha=
ppened,
Maslova almost cried and her lips began to twitch. She tried to and did
restrain herself until the old woman and the child approached. When, howeve=
r,
she heard the kind, compassionate exclamation of pity from the old woman, a=
nd,
especially, when her eyes met the serious eyes of the boy who looked now at
her, now at the rolls, she could restrain herself no longer. Her whole face
began to twitch and she burst into sobs.
"I told her to take a good lawyer," =
said
Korableva. "Well? To Siberia?" she asked.
Maslova wished to answer but could not, and,
crying, she produced from the roll the box of cigarettes, on which a pictur=
e of
a red lady with a high chignon and triangle-shaped, low cut neck was printe=
d,
and gave it to Korableva. The latter looked at the picture, disapprovingly =
shook
her head, chiefly because Maslova spent money so foolishly, and, lighting a
cigarette over the lamp, inhaled the smoke several times, then thrust it at
Maslova. Maslova, without ceasing to cry, eagerly began to inhale the smoke=
.
"Penal servitude," she murmured,
sobbing.
"They have no fear of God, these cursed
blood-suckers!" said Korableva. "They have condemned an innocent
girl."
At this moment there was a loud outburst of
laughter among those standing near the window. The delicate laughter of the
little girl mingled with the hoarse and shrill laughter of the women. This =
merriment
was caused by some act of a prisoner without.
"Oh, the scoundrel! See what he is
doing!" said the red-headed woman, pressing her face against the grati=
ng,
her whole massive frame shaking.
"What is that drum-hide shouting about?&q=
uot;
said Korableva, shaking her head at the red-haired woman, and then again
turning to Maslova. "How many years?"
"Four," said Maslova, and the flow of
her tears was so copious that one of them fell on the cigarette. She angrily
crushed it, threw it away and took another.
The watch-woman, although she was no smoker,
immediately picked up the cigarette-end and began to straighten it, talking=
at
the same time.
"As I said to Matveievna, dear," she
said, "it is ill-luck. They do what they please. And we thought they w=
ould
discharge you. Matveievna said you would be discharged, and I said that you
would not, I said. 'My heart tells me,' I said, 'that they will condemn her=
,'
and so it happened," she went on, evidently listening to the sounds of=
her
own voice with particular pleasure.
The prisoners had now passed through the
court-yard, and the four women left the window and approached Maslova. The
larged-eyed illicit seller of spirits was the first to speak.
"Well, is the sentence very severe?"=
she
asked, seating herself near Maslova and continuing to knit her stocking.
"It is severe because she has no money. If
she had money to hire a good lawyer, I am sure they would not have held
her," said Korableva. "That lawyer--what's his name?--that clumsy,
big-nosed one can, my dear madam, lead one out of the water dry. That's the=
man
you should take."
"To hire him!" grinned Miss Dandy. "Why, he would not look at you for less than a thousand rubles."<= o:p>
"It seems to be your fate," said the=
old
woman who was charged with incendiarism. "I should say he is severe! He
drove my boy's wife from her; put him in jail, and me, too, in my old
age," for the hundredth time she began to repeat her story. "Pris=
on
and poverty are our lot. If it is not prison, it is poverty."
"Yes, it is always the same with them,&qu=
ot;
said the woman-moonshiner, and, closely inspecting the girl's head, she put=
her
stocking aside, drew the girl over between her overhanging legs and with
dexterous fingers began to search in her head. "Why do you deal in win=
e?
But I have to feed my children," she said, continuing her search.
These words reminded Maslova of wine.
"Oh, for a drop of wine," she said to
Korableva, wiping her tears with the sleeve of her shirt and sobbing from t=
ime
to time.
"Some booze? Why, of course!" said
Korableva.
=
Maslova
produced the money from one of the lunch-rolls and gave it to Korableva, who
climbed up to the draught-hole of the oven for a flask of wine she had hidd=
en
there. Seeing which, those women who were not her immediate neighbors went =
to
their places. Meantime Maslova shook the dust from her 'kerchief and coat,
climbed up on her cot and began to eat a roll.
"I saved some tea for you, but I fear it =
is
cold," said Theodosia, bringing down from a shelf a pot, wrapped in a =
rag,
and a tin cup.
The beverage was perfectly cold, and tasted mo=
re
of tin than of tea, but Maslova poured out a cupful and began to drink.
"Here, Finashka!" she called, and
breaking a piece from the roll thrust it toward the boy, who gazed at her
open-mouthed.
Korableva, meanwhile, brought the flask of win=
e.
Maslova offered some to Korableva and Miss Dandy. These three prisoners
constituted the aristocracy of the cell, because they had money and divided
among themselves what they had.
In a few minutes Maslova became brighter and
energetically began to relate what had transpired at the court, mockingly
imitating the prosecutor and rehearsing such parts as had appealed to her m=
ost.
She was particularly impressed by the fact that the men paid considerable a=
ttention
to her wherever she went. In the court-room every one looked at her, she sa=
id,
and for that purpose constantly came into the prisoners' room.
"Even the guard said: 'It is to look at y=
ou
that they come here.' Some one would come and ask for some document or
something, but I saw that it was not for the document that he came. He would
devour me with his eyes," she said, smiling and shaking her head as if
perplexed. "They are good ones!"
"Yes, that is how it is," chimed in =
the
watch-woman in her melodious voice. "They are like flies on sugar. If =
you
needed them for any other purpose, be sure they would not come so quickly. =
They
know a good thing when they see it."
"It was the same here," interrupted
Maslova. "As soon as I was brought here I met with a party coming from=
the
depot. They gave me no rest, and I could hardly get rid of them. Luckily the
warden drove them off. One of them bothered me particularly."
"How did he look?" asked Miss Dandy.=
"He had a dark complexion, and wore a
mustache."
"It is he."
"Who?"
"Stchegloff. He passed here just now.&quo=
t;
"Who is Stchegloff?"
"She don't know Stchegloff! He twice esca=
ped
from Siberia. Now he has been caught, but he will escape again. Even the
officers fear him," said Miss Dandy, who delivered notes to prisoners,=
and
knew everything that transpired in the jail. "He will surely escape.&q=
uot;
"If he does he won't take either of us wi=
th
him," said Korableva. "You'd better tell me this: What did the la=
wyer
say to you about a petition--you must send one now."
Maslova said that she did not know anything ab=
out
a petition.
At this moment the red-haired woman, burying h=
er
two freckled hands into her tangled, thick hair, and scratching her head wi=
th
her nails, approached the wine-drinking aristocrats.
"I will tell you, Katherine,
everything," she began. "First of all, you must write on paper: '=
I am
not satisfied with the trial,' and then hand it to the prosecutor."
"What do you want here?" Korableva
turned to her, speaking in an angry basso. "You have smelled the wine!=
We
know you. We don't need your advice; we know what we have to do."
"Who is talking to you?"
"You want some wine--that's what you
want."
"Let her alone. Give her some," said
Maslova, who always divided with others what she had.
"Yes, I will give her," and Korableva
clenched her fist.
"Try it! Try it!" moving toward
Korableva, said the red-haired woman. "I am not afraid of you."
"You jail bird!"
"You are another!"
"You gutter rake!"
"I am a rake--am I? You convict,
murderess!" shrieked the red-haired woman.
"Go away, I tell you!" said Korableva
frowning.
But the red-haired woman only came nearer, and
Korableva gave her a push on the open, fat breast. The other seemingly only
waited for this, for with an unexpected, quick movement of one hand she sei=
zed Korableva's
hair and was about to strike her in the face with the other, when Korableva
seized this hand. Maslova and Miss Dandy sprang up and took hold of the han=
ds
of the red-haired woman, endeavoring to release her hold on Korableva, but =
the
hand that clutched the hair would not open. For a moment she released the h=
air,
but only to wind it around her fist. Korableva, her head bent, with one hand
kept striking her antagonist over the body and catching the latter's hand w=
ith
her teeth. The women crowded around the fighters, parting them and shouting.
Even the consumptive came near them, and, coughing, looked on. The children
huddled together and cried. The noise attracted the warden and the matron. =
They
were finally parted. Korableva loosened her gray braid and began to pick out
the pieces of torn hair, while the other held the tattered remnant of her s=
hirt
to her breast--both shouting, explaining and complaining against one anothe=
r.
"I know it is the wine--I can smell it,&q=
uot;
said the matron. "I will tell the superintendent to-morrow. Now, remove
everything, or there will be trouble. There is no time to listen to you. To
your places, and be silent!"
But for a long time there was no silence. The
women continued to curse each other; they began to relate how it all commen=
ced,
and whose fault it was. The warden and matron finally departed; the women
quieted down and took to their cots. The old woman stood up before the image
and began to pray.
"Two Siberian convicts," suddenly sa=
id
the red-haired woman in a hoarse voice, accompanying every word with a torr=
ent
of abuse.
"Look out, or you will get it again,"
quickly answered Korableva, adding similar revilement. Then they became sil=
ent.
"If they had not prevented me, I should h=
ave
knocked out your eyes," the red-haired one began again, and again came=
a
quick and sharp retort.
Then came another interval of silence, followe=
d by
more abuse. The intervals became longer and longer, and finally silence set=
tled
over the cell.
They were all falling asleep; some began to sn=
ore;
only the old woman, who always prayed for a long time, was still bowing bef=
ore
the image, while the chanter's daughter, as soon as the matron left the cel=
l, came
down from her cot and began to walk up and down the cell.
Maslova was awake and incessantly thinking of
herself as a convict, the word which had been twice applied to her--once by
Bochkova, and again by the red-haired woman. She could not be reconciled to=
the
thought. Korableva, who was lying with her back turned toward Maslova, turn=
ed
around.
"I never dreamed of such a thing," s=
he
said, in a low voice. "Others commit heaven knows what crimes, and the=
y go
scot free, while I must suffer for nothing."
"Don't worry, girl. People live also in
Siberia. You will not be lost even there," Korableva consoled her.
"I know that I will not be lost, but it is
painful to be treated that way. I deserved a better fate. I am used to a
comfortable life."
"You can do nothing against God's will,&q=
uot;
Korableva said, with a sigh. "You can do nothing against His will.&quo=
t;
"I know, auntie, but it is hard,
nevertheless."
They became silent.
"Listen to that wanton," said Korabl=
eva,
calling Maslova's attention to the strange sounds that came from the other =
end
of the cell.
These sounds were the suppressed sobbing of the
red-haired woman. She wept because she had just been abused, beaten, and go=
t no
wine, for which she so yearned. She also wept because her whole life was on=
e round
of abuse, scorn, insults and blows. She meant to draw some consolation from=
the
recollection of her first love for the factory hand, Fedka Molodenkoff, but,
recalling this first love, she also recalled the manner of its ending. The =
end
of it was that this Molodenkoff, while in his cups, by way of jest, smeared=
her
face with vitriol, and afterward laughed with his comrades as he watched he=
r writhing
in pain. She remembered this, and she pitied herself; and, thinking that no=
one
heard her, she began to weep, and wept like a child--moaning, snuffling and
swallowing salty tears.
=
=
Nekhludoff
rose the following morning with a consciousness that some change had taken
place within him, and before he could recall what it was he already knew th=
at
it was good and important.
"Katiousha--the trial. Yes, and I must st=
op
lying, and tell all the truth." And what a remarkable coincidence! That
very morning finally came the long-expected letter of Maria Vasilievna, the
wife of the marshal of the nobility--that same letter that he wanted so bad=
ly
now. She gave him his liberty and wished him happiness in his proposed marr=
iage.
"Marriage!" he repeated ironically.
"How far I am from it!"
And his determination of the day before to tell
everything to her husband, to confess his sin before him, and to hold himse=
lf
ready for any satisfaction he might demand, came to his mind. But this morn=
ing it
did not seem to him so easy as it had yesterday. "And then, what is the
good of making a man miserable? If he asks me, I will tell him; but to call=
on
him specially for that purpose---- No, it is not necessary."
It seemed to him equally difficult this mornin=
g to
tell all the truth to Missy. He thought it would be offering an insult. It =
was inevitable,
as in all worldly affairs, that there should remain something unexpressed b=
ut
understood. One thing, however, he decided upon this morning--that he would=
not
go there, and would tell the truth when asked. But in his relations toward
Katiousha there was to be nothing unsaid.
"I will go to the jail--will tell her, be=
g of
her to forgive me. And, if necessary--yes, if necessary--I will marry
her," he thought.
The idea that for the sake of moral satisfacti=
on
he would sacrifice everything and marry her this morning particularly affec=
ted
him.
It was a long time since he had risen with so =
much
energy in him. When Agrippina Petrovna entered his room he declared to her =
with
a determination which he himself did not expect, that he had no further nee=
d of
the house, and that he would dispense with her services. There was a tacit
understanding that the large house was kept up for his contemplated marriag=
e.
The closing up of the house consequently had some particular significance.
Agrippina Petrovna looked at him with surprise.
"I thank you very much, Agrippina Petrovn=
a,
for your solicitude in my behalf, but I do not now need such a large house,=
or
any of the servants. If you wish to help me, then be so kind as to pack away
the things as you used to do in mamma's lifetime. Natasha will dispose of t=
hem
when she arrives." Natasha was Nekhludoff's sister.
Agrippina Petrovna shook her head.
"Dispose of them? Why, they will be
needed," she said.
"No, they will not, Agrippina Petrovna--t=
hey
will positively not be needed," said Nekhludoff, answering what she me=
ant
by shaking his head. "Please tell Kornei that his salary will be paid =
for
two months in advance, but that I do not need him."
"You are wrong in doing this, Dmitri
Ivanovich," she said. "You will need a house even if you go
abroad."
"You misunderstand me, Agrippina Petrovna=
. I
will not go abroad, and if I do go, it will be to an entirely different
place."
His face suddenly turned a purple color.
"Yes, it is necessary to tell her," =
he
thought. "I must tell all to everybody.
"A very strange and important thing has
happened to me. Do you remember Katiousha, who lived with Aunt Maria
Ivanovna?"
"Of course; I taught her to sew."
"Well, then, she was tried in court
yesterday, and I was one of the jury."
"Ah, good Lord! what a pity!" said
Agrippina Petrovna. "What was she tried for?"
"Murder, and it was all caused by me.&quo=
t;
"How could you have caused it? You are
talking very strangely," said Agrippina Petrovna, and fire sparkled in=
her
old eyes.
She knew of the incident with Katiousha.
"Yes, it is my fault. And this causes me =
to
change my plans."
"What change can this cause in your
plans?" said Agrippina Petrovna, suppressing a smile.
"This: That since it was through my fault
that she is in her present condition, I consider it my duty to help her to =
the
extent of my ability."
"That is your affair, but I cannot see th=
at
you are so much in fault. It happens to everybody, and if one is guided by
common sense the matter is usually arranged and forgotten, and one lives on
like the rest of the world," said Agrippina Petrovna, sternly and
seriously. "There is no reason why you should take it so much to heart=
. I
heard long ago that she had gone to the bad, so whose fault is it?"
"It is my fault, and that is why I wish to
make amends."
"Well, it is hard to set that right."=
;
"That is my affair. If you are thinking of
yourself, then that which mother wished----"
"I am not thinking of myself. Your deceas=
ed
mother showed me so many favors that I do not desire anything. My niece,
Lizauka, wishes me to come to her, so I will go as soon as you need me no
longer. Only you are taking it too much to heart; it happens with
everybody."
"Well, I do not think so. I still ask you=
to
help me rent the house and pack away the things. And do not be angry with m=
e. I
am very, very thankful to you for everything."
It is remarkable that since Nekhludoff underst=
ood
that he was disgusted with himself, others ceased to be repulsive to him. On
the contrary, he had a kindly and respectful feeling for Agrippina Petrovna=
and
Kornei. He wished to confess also before Kornei, but the latter was so impr=
essively
respectful that he could not make up his mind to do it.
On his way to the court, passing along the
familiar streets and in the same carriage, Nekhludoff was himself surprised
what a different man he felt himself to-day.
His marriage to Missy, which but yesterday see=
med
to be so near, to-day appeared to him absolutely impossible. Yesterday he
understood his position to be such that there could be no doubt that she wo=
uld
be happy to marry him; to-day he felt himself unworthy not only of marrying
her, but of being her friend. "If she only knew who I was, she would n=
ever
receive me, and yet I taunted her with coquetting with that gentleman. But =
no,
even if she married me I should never have peace, even though I were happy,
while that one is in jail, and may any day be sent under escort to Siberia.
While the woman whom I have ruined is tramping the weary road to penal
servitude, I will be receiving congratulations, and paying visits with my y=
oung
wife. Or I will be counting the votes for and against school inspection, et=
c., with
the marshal, whom I have shamefully deceived, and afterward make appointmen=
ts
with his wife (what abomination!). Or I will work on my picture, which will,
evidently, never be finished, for I had no business to occupy myself with s=
uch
trifles. And I can do neither of these things now," he said to himself,
happy at the inward change which he felt.
"First of all," he thought, "I =
must
see the lawyer, and then--then see her in jail--the convict of yesterday--a=
nd
tell her everything."
And when he thought how he would see her, conf=
ess
his guilt before her, how he would declare to her that he would do everythi=
ng
in his power, marry her in order to wipe out his guilt, he became enrapture=
d,
and tears filled his eyes.
=
Arriving
at the court-house, Nekhludoff met the usher in the corridor and asked him
where the prisoners already sentenced were kept, and from whom permission c=
ould
be obtained to see them. The usher told him that the prisoners were kept in
various places, and that before final judgment the public prosecutor was the
only person from whom permission to see them could be obtained. "The
prosecutor has not arrived yet; when he does I will let you know, and will
escort you myself to him after the session. And now, please to walk into th=
e court.
The session is commencing."
Nekhludoff thanked the usher, who seemed to him
particularly pitiful to-day, and went into the jury-room.
As Nekhludoff was approaching the jury-room his
fellow jurors were coming out, repairing to the court-room. The merchant wa=
s as
cheerful, had lunched as well as yesterday, and greeted Nekhludoff like an =
old friend.
The loud laughter and familiarity of Peter Gerasimovitch did not give rise
to-day in Nekhludoff of the unpleasant sensation of yesterday.
Nekhludoff wished to tell all the jurymen of h=
is
relations to the woman whom they had convicted yesterday. "It would ha=
ve
been proper," he thought, "yesterday to rise in court and publicly
confess my guilt." But when with the other jurymen he entered the
court-room and witnessed the same procedure, the same "Hear ye! Hear
ye!" the three judges in high collars on the elevation, the silence, t=
he
seating of the jury on high-backed chairs, the gendarmes, the priest--he fe=
lt that,
though it was necessary to do it, he would not have been able even yesterda=
y to
break this solemnity.
They went through the same preliminaries, exce=
pt
the swearing in of the jury and the justiciary's speech to them.
A case of burglary was before the court. The
prisoner, who was guarded by two gendarmes with unsheathed swords, was a
twenty-year-old boy with a bloodless face and in a gray coat. He sat alone =
on
the prisoners' bench and scanned from under his eyebrows all those that ent=
ered
the court-room. This boy and another were charged with breaking the lock of=
a
shed and stealing therefrom mats of the value of three rubles and sixty-sev=
en
kopecks. It appeared from the indictment that a policeman caught the boy wh=
en
he was walking with the other, who carried the mats on his shoulder. Both of
them immediately confessed, and they were put in jail. The comrade of this =
boy,
a locksmith, died in jail, and he was tried alone. The old mats lay on the
table reserved for exhibits.
The case was conducted in the same order as
yesterday, with all the proofs, witnesses, experts, oath-taking, examinatio=
ns
and cross-examinations. The policeman, when questioned by the justiciary, c=
omplainant
and the defense, made listless answers--"Yes, sir," "Can't t=
ell,"
and again "Yes, sir"--but notwithstanding this, it was apparent t=
hat
he pitied the boy and testified involuntarily against him.
Another witness, a splenetic old man who owned
those mats, when asked if they belonged to him, unwillingly testified that =
they
were his. When, however, the prosecutor asked him what use he intended to m=
ake of
them, and whether he needed them much, he became angry and answered: "I
wish they had been lost entirely, these mats. I don't need them at all. And=
if
I had known that you would make so much fuss about them, I would gladly have
given ten rubles, or twenty, rather than be dragged into court. I have spent
five rubles on carriages coming here and going back again. And I am sick; I=
am
suffering from rupture and rheumatism."
The prisoner admitted the charge against him, =
and,
like a trapped animal, stupidly looked now to one side, now to the other, a=
nd
in a halting voice related everything as it happened.
It was a clear case, but the prosecutor, as he=
did
yesterday, raised his shoulders and propounded subtle questions which were
calculated to entrap the clever criminal.
In his speech he argued that the theft was
committed in a dwelling-house by breaking and entering it, and that therefo=
re
the severest punishment should be meted out to him.
Counsel for the defense, appointed by the cour=
t,
argued that the theft was committed not in a dwelling-house, and that, thou=
gh
the prisoner pleaded guilty, he was not as dangerous to society as the pros=
ecutor
would have them believe.
The justiciary was the personification of
impartiality and justice, and endeavored to impress on the jury that which =
they
already knew and could not help knowing. Again they took recesses and smoke=
d cigarettes,
and again the usher shouted "Hear ye!" and the two gendarmes sat
trying to keep awake.
It developed during the trial that this boy had
been apprenticed in a tobacco factory, in which he worked five years. This =
year
he was discharged by his employer after a misunderstanding with the employe=
es,
and, going idly about the city, he spent all he had on drink. At an inn he =
met
a locksmith who had also been discharged and was drinking hard, and the two
went at night, while drunk, to that shed, broke the lock, and took the first
thing they saw. They were caught, and as they confessed they were imprisone=
d.
The locksmith, while waiting for a trial, died. The boy was now being tried=
as
a dangerous creature from whom it was necessary to protect society.
"As dangerous a creature as the prisoner =
of
yesterday," Nekhludoff thought while watching the proceedings. "T=
hey
are dangerous, but are we not dangerous? I am a libertine, an impostor; and=
all
of us, all those that know me as I am, not only do not detest but respect
me."
It is evident that this boy is no villain, but=
a
very ordinary person--every one sees that--and that he became what he is on=
ly because
he lived amid conditions that beget such people. It is therefore plain that
such boys will exist as long as the conditions producing these unfortunates
remain unchanged. If any one had taken pity on this boy, Nekhludoff thought
while looking at the sickly, frightened face of the boy, before want had dr=
iven
him from the village to the city, and relieved that want, or, when, after
twelve hours' work in the factory, he was visiting inns with grown-up comra=
des,
some one had told him, "Don't go, Vania; it is bad," the boy would
not have gone, or got drunk, and the burglary would never have occurred.
But no one pitied the boy during the time that=
he,
like an animal, spent his school years in the city, and, with close-cropped=
hair,
to prevent his getting vermin, ran errands for the workmen. On the contrary,
the only thing he had heard from the workmen and his comrades was to the ef=
fect
that a brave fellow was he who cheated, drank, reviled, fought, or led a
depraved life.
And when, sickly and depraved from the unhealt=
hy
work, from drink and lewdness, foolish and capricious, he aimlessly prowled
around the city, as in a dream, entered some shed and abstracted a few
worthless mats, then, instead of destroying the causes that led this boy in=
to his
present condition, we intend to mend matters by punishing him!
It is dreadful!
Thus Nekhludoff thought, and no longer listene=
d to
what was going on around him. He was himself terrified at this revelation. =
He
wondered why he had not seen it before--how others failed to see it.
=
As
soon as the first recess was taken, Nekhludoff rose and went out of the cou=
rt,
intending to return no more. They might do with him what they pleased, but =
he
could no longer take part in that farce.
Having inquired where the prosecutor's room wa=
s,
he directed his steps toward that dignitary. The messenger would not admit =
him,
declaring that the prosecutor was busy, but Nekhludoff brushed past him and=
asked
an officer who met him to announce him to the prosecutor, saying that he wa=
s on
important business. His title and dress helped Nekhludoff. The officer
announced him, and he was admitted. The prosecutor received him standing,
evidently dissatisfied with Nekhludoff's persistence in seeking an audience
with him.
"What do you wish?" the prosecutor
asked, sternly.
"I am a juryman, my name is Nekhludoff, a=
nd I
want to see the prisoner Maslova," he said, resolutely and quickly. He
blushed, and felt that his act would have a decisive influence on his life.=
The prosecutor was a tall, swarthy man with sh=
ort
hair just turning gray, bright eyes and a trimmed, bushy beard on the
protruding lower jaw.
"Maslova? Yes, I know her. She was charged
with poisoning," he said calmly. "Why do you want to see her?&quo=
t; And
then, as if desiring to soften his harsh demeanor, he added: "I cannot
give you the permission before I know what you want to see her for."
"It is very important for me to see
her," Nekhludoff burst out.
"I see," said the prosecutor, and,
raising his eyes, looked intently at Nekhludoff. "Has her case been
tried?"
"She was tried yesterday and sentenced to
four years' penal servitude. The conviction was irregular; she is
innocent."
"I see. If she has only been sentenced
yesterday," said the prosecutor without paying attention to Nekhludoff=
's
declaration about her innocence, "then she will be detained until final
judgment in the place where she is now. The jail is open to visitors on cer=
tain
days only. I advise you to apply there."
"But I must see her as soon as
possible," with trembling lower jaw Nekhludoff said, feeling that a
critical moment was approaching.
"Why are you so anxious about seeing
her?" the prosecutor asked, raising his eyebrows with some alarm.
"Because she is innocent of the crime for
which she was sentenced to penal servitude. The guilt is mine, not hers,&qu=
ot;
Nekhludoff said in a trembling voice, feeling that he was saying what he sh=
ould
not.
"How so?" asked the prosecutor.
"I deceived her, and brought her to the
condition in which she is now. If I had not driven her to the position in w=
hich
she was, she would not have been charged here with such a crime."
"Still I fail to see what all this has to=
do
with visiting her."
"It has, because I want to follow her
and--marry her," said Nekhludoff. And, as it usually happened when he
spoke of this, his eyes filled with tears.
"Ah, is that so?" said the prosecuto=
r.
"This is really an exceptional case. Are you not a member of the
Krasnopersk town council?" asked the prosecutor, as if recalling that =
he
had heard of this Nekhludoff who was now making such a strange statement.
"Excuse me, but I fail to see what this h=
as
to do with my request," fuming, Nekhludoff answered with rancor.
"Nothing, of course," the prosecutor
said, with a faint smile on his face, and not in the least disturbed. "=
;But
your request is so unusual and beside all customary forms----"
"Well, can I get the permission?"
"Permission? Why, yes. I will give you a =
pass
immediately. Please be seated."
He went to the table, sat down and began to wr=
ite.
"Please be seated."
Nekhludoff stood still.
When he had made out the pass the prosecutor
handed it to Nekhludoff and eyed him with curiosity.
"I must also tell you," said Nekhlud=
off,
"that I cannot continue to serve as juror."
"As you know, satisfactory reasons must be
given to the court in such cases."
"The reasons are that I consider all cour=
ts
useless and immoral."
"I see," said the prosecutor, with t=
he
same faint smile which seemed to indicate that such statements were familia=
r to
him, and belonged to an amusing class of people well known to him. "I =
see,
but you understand that, as public prosecutor, I cannot agree with you. I t=
herefore
advise you to state so to the court, which will either find your reasons
satisfactory or unsatisfactory, and in the latter case will impose a fine on
you. Apply to the court."
"I have already stated my reasons, and I =
will
not go there," Nekhludoff said angrily.
"I have the honor to salute you," sa=
id
the prosecutor, bowing, evidently desiring to rid himself of the strange
visitor.
"Who was the man that just left your
room?" asked one of the judges who entered the prosecutor's cabinet af=
ter
Nekhludoff had left.
"Nekhludoff. You know, the one who made s=
uch
strange suggestions in the Krasnopersk town council. Just imagine, he is on=
the
jury, and among the prisoners there was a woman, or girl, who was sentenced=
to penal
servitude, and who, he says, was deceived by him. And now he wishes to marry
her."
"It is impossible!"
"That is what he told me. And how strange=
ly
excited he was!"
"There is something wrong with our young
men."
"He is not so very young."
"What a bore your famous Ivasheukoff is, =
my
dear! He wins his cases by tiring us out--there is no end to his talking.&q=
uot;
"They must be curbed, or they become real
obstructionists."
=
=
From
the public prosecutor Nekhludoff went straight to the detention-house. But =
no
one by the name of Maslova was there. The inspector told him that she might=
be
found in the old temporary prison. Nekhludoff went there and found that
Katherine Moslova was one of the inmates.
The distance between the detention-house and t=
he
old prison was great, and Nekhludoff did not arrive there until toward even=
ing.
He was about to open the door of the huge, gloomy building, when the guard
stopped him and rang the bell. The warden responded to the bell. Nekhludoff=
showed
the pass, but the warden told him that he could not be admitted without
authority from the inspector. While climbing the stairs to the inspector's
dwelling, Nekhludoff heard the sounds of an intricate bravura played on the
piano. And when the servant, with a handkerchief tied around one eye, opened
the door, a flood of music dazed his senses. It was a tiresome rhapsody by
Lizst, well played, but only to a certain place. When that place was reache=
d,
the melody repeated itself. Nekhludoff asked the servant if the inspector w=
as
in.
The servant said that he was not.
"Will he be in soon?"
The rhapsody again ceased, and with a noisy
flourish again repeated itself.
"I will go and inquire." And the ser=
vant
went away.
The rhapsody again went on at full speed, when
suddenly, reaching a certain point, it came to a stand-still and a voice fr=
om
within was heard.
"Tell him that he is not home, and will n=
ot come
to-day. He is visiting--why do they bother us?" a woman's voice was he=
ard
to say, and the rhapsody continued, then ceased, and the sound of a chair m=
oved
back was heard. The angry pianist herself evidently wished to reprimand the
importunate visitor who came at such a late hour.
"Papa is not home," angrily said a p=
ale,
wretched looking girl with puffed-up hair and blue spots under her eyes, who
came to the door. Seeing a young man in a good overcoat, she became calm.
"Walk in, please. What do you wish to see him for?"
"I would like to see a prisoner. I hold a
pass from the prosecutor."
"Well, I don't know; papa is not in. Why,
walk in, please," she again called from the entrance hall. "Or ap=
ply
to his assistant, who is now in the office. You may talk to him. And what is
your name?"
"Thank you," said Nekhludoff, without
answering the question, and went away.
Scarcely had the door closed when the same
vigorous, merry sound, so inappropriate to the place and so persistently
rehearsed by the wretched girl, was heard. In the court-yard Nekhludoff met=
a
young officer with a stiff, dyed mustache, of whom he inquired for the assi=
stant.
He himself was the assistant. He took the pass, looked at it, and said that=
he
could not admit any one to the prison on a pass for the detention-house.
Besides, it was late.
"At ten o'clock to-morrow the prison is o=
pen
to all visitors, and the inspector will be here. You could then see her in =
the
common reception-room, or, if the inspector permits it, in the office."=
;
So, without gaining an interview, Nekhludoff
returned home. Agitated by the expectation of seeing her, he walked along t=
he
streets, thinking not of the court, but of his conversations with the prose=
cutor
and the inspectors. That he was seeking an interview with her, and told the
prosecutor of his intention, and visited two prisons preparing for the orde=
al,
had so excited him that he could not calm down. On returning home he
immediately brought forth his unused diary, read some parts and made the
following entry: "For two years I have kept no diary, and thought that=
I
should never again return to this childishness. But it was no childishness,=
but
a discourse with myself, with that true, divine _I_ which lives in every ma=
n.
All this time this _I_ was slumbering and I had no one to discourse with. It
was awakened by the extraordinary event of the 28th of April, in court, whe=
re I
sat as jurymen. I saw her, Katiousha, whom I had deceived, on the prisoners'
bench, in a prison coat. Through a strange misunderstanding and my mistake,=
she
was sentenced to penal servitude. I have just returned from the prosecutor =
and
the prison. I was not permitted to see her, but I am determined to do anyth=
ing
to see her, acknowledge my guilt and make reparation even by marrying her.
Lord, help me! My soul is rejoicing."
=
For a
long time that night Maslova lay awake with open eyes, and, looking at the
door, mused.
She was thinking that under no circumstances w=
ould
she marry a convict on the island of Saghalin, but would settle down some o=
ther
way--with some inspector, or clerk, or even the warden, or an assistant. Th=
ey are
all eager for such a thing. "Only I must not get thin. Otherwise I am =
done
for." And she recalled how she was looked at by her lawyer, the
justiciary--in fact, everybody in the court-room. She recalled how Bertha, =
who
visited her in prison, told her that the student, whom she loved while she =
was
an inmate at Kitaeva's, inquired about her and expressed his regrets when t=
old
of her condition. She recalled the fight with the red-haired woman, and pit=
ied
her. She called to mind the baker who sent her an extra lunch roll, and many
others, but not Nekhludoff. Of her childhood and youth, and especially of h=
er
love for Nekhludoff, she never thought. That was too painful. These recolle=
ctions
were hidden deeply in her soul. She never saw Nekhludoff even in a dream. S=
he
failed to recognize him in court, not so much because when she last saw him=
he
was an army officer, beardless, with small mustache and thick, short hair, =
while
now he was no longer young in appearance, and wore a beard, but more because
she never thought of him. She had buried all recollections of her past
relations with him in that terrible dark night when, on his return from the
army, he visited his aunts.
Up to that night, while she hoped for his retu=
rn,
the child which she bore under her heart was not irksome to her. But from t=
hat
night forward everything changed, and the coming child was only a hindrance=
.
The aunts had asked Nekhludoff to stop off at =
their
station and call on them, but he wired that he would not be able to do it, =
as
he had to reach St. Petersburg in time. When Katiousha learned this, she
decided to go to the railroad station to see him. The train was to pass at =
two o'clock
in the morning. Katiousha helped the ladies to bed, and, having induced the
cook's girl, Mashka, to accompany her, she put on an old pair of shoes, thr=
ew a
shawl over her head, gathered up her skirts and ran to the station.
It was a dark, rainy, windy, autumn night. The
rain now poured down in large, warm drops, now ceased. The road could not be
distinguished in the field, and it was pitch dark in the woods. Although
Katiousha was familiar with the road she lost her way in the woods, and rea=
ched
a sub-station, where the train only stopped for three minutes. Running on t=
he
platform, she espied Nekhludoff through the window of a first-class car. The
car was brightly illuminated. Two officers sat on plush seats playing cards=
. On
the table near the window two thick candles were burning. Nekhludoff sat on=
the
arm of the seat, his elbow resting on the back, laughing. As soon as she
recognized him she tapped on the window with her cold hand. But at that mom=
ent
the third bell rang, and the train began to move, the cars jostling each ot=
her forward.
One of the players rose with the cards in his hands and began to look throu=
gh
the window. She tapped again, and pressed her face against the window-pane.=
At
that moment the car beside which she stood was tugged forward, and it moved=
along.
She ran alongside, looking in the window. The officer tried to lower the
window, but could not. Nekhludoff rose, and, pushing the officer aside, beg=
an
lowering it. The train went faster, so that Katiousha was obliged to run. T=
he
train moved still faster when the window was lowered. At that moment the co=
nductor
pushed her aside and jumped on the car. She fell back, but continued to run
along the wet boards of the platform, and when she reached the end of the
platform and began to descend the steps to the ground, she almost fell
exhausted. The first-class car was far ahead of her, and while she was runn=
ing
the second-class cars passed her, then came with greater speed those of the
third class. When the last car with the lanterns flew by her she was already
beyond the water-tank, unsheltered from the wind which lashed her, blowing =
the shawl
from her head and tangling her feet in her skirt. But still she ran on.
"Aunt Michaelovna!" shouted the litt=
le
girl, "you have lost your shawl."
Katiousha stopped, threw back her head, and,
covering her face with her hands, began to sob.
"He is gone!" she cried.
"While he is in a lighted car, sitting on= a plush seat, jesting and drinking, I stand here in the mud, rain and wind, crying," she thought. She sat down on the ground and began to sob alou= d. The little girl was frightened, and, embracing her wet clothing, she said:<= o:p>
"Auntie, let's go home."
"I will wait for the next train, throw my=
self
under the wheels, and that will end it all," Katiousha was meanwhile
thinking, not heeding the girl.
She made up her mind to carry out her intentio=
n.
But as it always happens in the first moment of calm after a period of
agitation, the child, _his_ child, suddenly shuddered. Immediately all that
which so tortured her that she was willing to die, all her wrath and her de=
sire
to revenge herself even by death, passed. She became calm, arranged her
clothing, put the shawl on her head, and went away.
She returned home exhausted, wet and muddy. Fr=
om
that day began in her that spiritual transformation which ended in her pres=
ent
condition. From that terrible night on she ceased to believe in God and in =
goodness.
Before that night she herself believed in God, and believed that other peop=
le
believed in Him; but after that night she became convinced that no one
believed, and all that was said of God and His law was false and wrong. The=
one
whom she loved, and who loved her--she knew it--abandoned her and made spor=
t of
her feelings. And he was the best of all the men she knew. All the others w=
ere
even worse. This she saw confirmed in all that had happened. His aunts, pio=
us
old ladies, drove her out when she was no longer as useful as she used to b=
e.
All the women with whom she came in contact tried to make money by her; the
men, beginning with the commissary and down to the prison officers, all loo=
ked
upon her as a means of pleasure. The whole world was after pleasure. Her be=
lief
in this was strengthened by the old author whom she met during the second y=
ear
of her independent life. He had told her frankly that this--he called it
poetical and esthetic--is all of life's happiness.
Every one lived for himself only, for his own
pleasure, and all the words about God and goodness were deception. And if t=
he
questions sometimes occurred to her, Why were the affairs of the world so i=
ll arranged
that people harm each other, and all suffer, she thought it best not to dwe=
ll
on it. If she became lonesome, she took a drink, smoked a cigarette, and the
feeling would pass away.
=
=
When
at five o'clock the following morning, which was Sunday, the customary whis=
tle
blew, Korableva, who was already awake, roused Maslova.
"A convict," Maslova thought with
horror, rubbing her eyes and involuntarily inhaling the foul morning air. S=
he
wished to fall asleep again, to transfer herself into a state of
unconsciousness, but fear overcame her drowsiness. She raised herself, cros=
sed
her legs under her, and looked around. The women were already up, only the =
children
were still sleeping. The moonshining woman with bulging eyes was carefully
removing her coat from under them. The rioter was drying near the oven some
rags which served for swaddling cloths, while the child, in the hands of the
blue-eyed Theodosia, was crying at the top of its lungs, the woman lulling =
it
in a gentle voice. The consumptive, seizing her breast, coughed violently, =
and,
sighing at intervals, almost screamed. The red-headed woman lay prone on her
back relating a dream she had had. The old incendiary stood before the imag=
e, whispering
the same words, crossing herself and bowing. The chanter's daughter sat
motionless on her cot, and with dull, half-open eyes was looking into space.
Miss Dandy was curling on her finger her oily, rough, black hair.
Presently resounding steps were heard in the
corridor, the lock creaked open, and two prisoners in short jackets and gray
trousers scarcely reaching their ankles entered, and, raising the ill-smell=
ing vat
on a yoke, carried it away. The women went to the faucets in the corridor to
wash themselves. The red-headed woman got into a quarrel with a woman from =
the
adjoining cell. Again there were cursing, shouting and complaints.
"You will get into the dark-room yet,&quo=
t;
shouted the warden, and he slapped the red-headed woman on her fat, bare ba=
ck,
so that it resounded through the entire corridor. "Don't let me hear y=
ou
again."
"Fooling again, you old man?" she sa=
id,
treating it as a caress.
"Hurry up! It is time for mass."
Scarcely had Maslova arranged her hair when the
inspector entered with his attendants.
"Make ready for inspection!" shouted=
the
warden.
The women of the two cells formed in two rows
along the corridor, those of the back row placing their hands on the should=
ers
of the women in the front row. Then they were counted.
After the count came the woman inspector and l=
ed
the prisoners to the church. Maslova and Theodosia were in the middle of the
column, which consisted of over a hundred women from all the cells. They all
had white 'kerchiefs on their heads, and some few wore their own colored dr=
esses.
These were the wives and children of convicts. The procession covered the w=
hole
stairway. A soft clatter of prison shoes was heard, here and there some
conversation, and sometimes laughter. At a turn Maslova noticed the malicio=
us
face of her enemy, Bochkova, who was walking in the front row, and pointed =
her
out to Theodosia. At the foot of the stairs the women became silent, and,
making the sign of the cross and bowing, they filed into the open door of t=
he
empty, gold-bedecked chapel. Their place was on the right, where, crowding =
each
other, they began to arrange themselves in rows, standing. Behind the women
came the male convicts who were serving terms or detained for transportation
under sentence by the communities. Loudly clearing their throats, they form=
ed a
dense crowd on the left and the middle of the chapel. Above, on the gallery,
were other convicts with heads half shaven, whose presence was manifested b=
y a
clanking of chains.
This prison chapel had been rebuilt and remode=
led
by a rich merchant, who had spent about thirty thousand rubles on it, and it
was all ornamented with gilt and bright colors.
For a few seconds there was silence, which was
broken only by the blowing of noses, coughing, and clanking of chains. Sudd=
enly
the prisoners who stood in the middle began to press back, making a passage=
for
the inspector, who walked to the middle of the chapel, and the services
commenced.
=
Nekhludoff
left the house early. A peasant was driving along a side alley, shouting in=
a strange
voice: "Milk! milk! milk!"
The first warm, spring rain had fallen the eve=
ning
before. Wherever there was a patch of unpaved ground the green grass burst
forth; the lindens were covered with green nap; the fowl-cherry and poplar =
unfolded
their long, fragrant leaves. In the market-place, through which Nekhludoff =
had
to pass, dense crowds in rags swarmed before the tents, some carrying boots
under their arms, others smoothly pressed trousers and vests on their
shoulders.
The working people were already crowding near =
the
traktirs (tea-houses), the men in clean, long coats gathered in folds in th=
e back
of the waist, and in shining boots; the women in bright-colored silk shawls=
and
cloaks with glass-bead trimmings. Policemen, with pistols attached to yellow
cords fastened around their waists, stood at their posts. Children and dogs
played on the grass-plots, and gay nurses sat chatting on the benches.
On the streets, the left sides of which were y=
et
cool, moist and shady, heavy carts and light cabs rumbled and jostled, the
tram-cars rang their bells. The air was agitated by the pealing of the chur=
ch-bells
summoning the people to mass.
The driver stopped at a turn some distance from
the prison. A few men and women stood around, most of them with bundles in
their hands. To the right stood a few frame houses; to the left a two-story
building over which hung a large sign. The large prison itself was directly=
in front.
An armed soldier walked to and fro challenging every one attempting to pass
him.
At the gate of the frame buildings sat the war=
den
in uniform, with an entry booklet in his hand. He made entries of visitors =
and
those whom they wished to see. Nekhludoff approached him, gave his name and
that of Moslova, and the officer entered them in his book.
"Why don't they open the door?" asked
Nekhludoff.
"The morning service is on. As soon as it=
is
over you will be admitted."
Nekhludoff returned among the waiting crowd.
A man in threadbare clothing, rumpled hat and
slippers on his bare feet, and his face full of red lines, pushed his way
through the crowd and walked toward the prison door.
"Where are you going?" shouted the
soldier.
"What are you bawling about?" answer=
ed
the man, entirely undisturbed by the soldier's challenge. "If I can't =
go
in, I will wait. No use bawling as if you were a general."
The crowd laughed approvingly. Most of the
visitors were poorly dressed, even ragged, but, judging by outward appearan=
ce,
there were also some decent men and women among them. Beside Nekhludoff sto=
od a
well-dressed man, clean shaven, stout and with rosy cheeks, who carried a
bundle of what looked like linen. Nekhludoff asked him if that was his first
visit. The man answered that he came there every Sunday, and they entered i=
nto
conversation. He was an employee of a bank, whose brother was under indictm=
ent
for forgery. This kind-hearted man told Nekhludoff all his story, and was a=
bout
to ask him about his own when their attention was attracted by a rubber-tir=
ed carriage
drawn by a blooded chestnut horse. The carriage was occupied by a student a=
nd a
lady whose face was hidden under a veil. The student alighted, holding in h=
is
hand a large bundle. He approached Nekhludoff and asked him where and how he
should deliver the loaves of bread he had brought for the prisoners. "I
brought them at the request of my bride. That is my bride. Her parents advi=
sed
us to bring some alms for the prisoners."
"I really don't know, for I am here for t=
he
first time, but I think that that officer will tell you," said Nekhlud=
off,
pointing to the warden in the crown-laced uniform.
While Nekhludoff was talking to the student the
large iron gate of the prison opened and a uniformed officer with another
warden came out. The one with the booklet in his hand announced that the pr=
ison
was open for visitors. The guard stood aside, and all the visitors, as if f=
earing
to be late, with quick step, and some even running, pressed toward the pris=
on
gate. One of the wardens stationed himself at the gate, and in a loud voice
counted the passing visitors--16, 17, 18, etc. The other warden, within the
gate, touching each with his hand, also counted the visitors as they entered
another door. This was to make sure that at their departure no visitor rema=
ined
in prison, and no prisoner made his way out. The tallying officer, without
regard to the person of the visitor, slapped Nekhludoff on the back. This a=
t first
offended the latter, but he immediately remembered his mission, and he beca=
me
ashamed that his feelings should be thus wounded.
The second door opened into a large, vaulted r=
oom
with small iron-grated windows. In this room, which was called the
meeting-room, Nekhludoff saw in a niche a large image of the Crucifixion.
Nekhludoff went on slowly, letting the hurrying
visitors pass before, and experienced a mingled feeling of horror at the
malefactors imprisoned in this jail, compassion for those innocent people w=
ho, like
the boy and Katiousha, must be here, and timidity and tenderness before the
meeting that was before him. When he reached the end of the room the warden
said something, but Nekhludoff, who was absorbed in his thoughts, paid no
attention to it, and followed in the direction led by the crowd, that is, to
the men's ward instead of the women's.
Letting the hurrying visitors pass, he walked =
into
the next room designated for interviews. On opening the door he was struck =
by
the deafening shouts of a hundred throats turned into a continuous humming =
noise.
Only as he neared the people, who, like flies swarming on sugar pressed the=
ir
faces against a net which divided the room in two, did Nekhludoff understand
the cause of the noise. This room with windows in the rear wall was divided=
in
two not by one, but by two wire nets which stretched from the ceiling to the
floor. Two wardens walked between the nets. The prisoners were on the other
side of the nets, between which there was a space of about seven feet for
visitors, so that not only was it difficult to converse with them but a sho=
rt-sighted
man could not even see the face of the prisoner he was visiting. In order t=
o be
heard, it was necessary to shout at the top of one's voice. On both sides,
pressing against the nets, were the faces of wives, husbands, fathers, moth=
ers,
children, who endeavored to see and speak to each other. But as every one t=
ried
to speak so that he could be heard by the person spoken to, and his neighbor
did the same, their voices interfered with each other, and each tried to ou=
tcry
the other. The result was the noise which astonished Nekhludoff when he ent=
ered
the room. It was absolutely impossible to understand the conversations. Onl=
y by
the expression of the people's faces could one judge what they were speaking
about, and what relation the speakers sustained toward each other. Near
Nekhludoff was an old woman with a small 'kerchief on her head, who, with
trembling chin, shouted to a pale young man with head half shaven. The
prisoner, knitting his brow, was listening to her with raised eyebrows. Bes=
ide
the old woman stood a young man in a long coat, who was nodding his head wh=
ile listening
to a prisoner with a weary face and beard turning gray, who greatly resembl=
ed
him. Further on stood a ragamuffin waving his hand, shouting and laughing. =
On
the floor beside this man sat a woman in a good woolen dress, with a child =
in
her arms. She wept bitterly, evidently seeing for the first time that
gray-haired man on the other side of the net, manacled, in a prison jacket,=
and
with head half shaven. Over this woman stood the bank employee shouting at =
the
top of his voice to a bald-headed prisoner with shining eyes.
Nekhludoff remained in this room about five
minutes, experiencing a strange feeling of anguish, a consciousness of his
impotence at the discord in the world, and he was seized with a sensation l=
ike
a rocking on board of a ship.
"But I must fulfill my mission," he =
said
to himself, taking heart. "What am I to do?"
As he looked around for some officer, he saw a
middle-sized man with mustache, wearing epaulets, who was walking behind the
crowd.
"Sir, could you not tell me where the wom=
en
are kept, and where it is permitted to see them?" he asked, making a
particular effort to be polite.
"You wish to go to the women's ward?"=
;
"Yes; I would like to see one of the women
prisoners," Nekhludoff said, with the same strained politeness.
"You should have said so in the meeting-r=
oom.
Whom do you wish to see, then?"
"I wish to see Katherine Maslova."
"Has she been sentenced?"
"Yes, she was sentenced the other day,&qu=
ot;
he said humbly, as if fearing to ruffle the temper of the officer, who seem=
ed
to be interested in him.
"Then this way, please," said the
inspector, who had evidently decided from Nekhludoff's appearance that he
deserved attention. "Sidoroff!" he turned to a warrant-officer
wearing a mustache, and medals on his breast. "Show this gentleman to =
the
women's ward."
"All right, sir."
At that moment heart-rending cries came from t=
he
direction of the grating.
All this seemed strange to Nekhludoff, and
strangest of all was that he was obliged to thank and feel himself under
obligation to the inspector and warden.
The warden led Nekhludoff from the men's ward =
into
the corridor, and through the open door opposite admitted him to the women'=
s meeting-room.
=
This
room, like the one in the men's ward, was also divided in three, by two net=
s,
but it was considerably smaller. There were also fewer visitors and fewer
prisoners, but the noise was as great as in the men's room. Here, also, the
authorities stood guard between the nets. The authorities were here represe=
nted
by a matron in uniform with crown-laced sleeves and fringed with blue braid=
and
a belt of the same color. Here, too, people pressed against the nets--in th=
e passage--city
folks in divers dresses; behind the nets, female prisoners, some in white,
others in their own dresses. The whole net was lined with people. Some stoo=
d on
tip-toe, speaking over the heads of others; others, again, sat on the floor=
and
conversed.
The most remarkable of the women prisoners, bo=
th
in her shouting and appearance, was a thin, ragged gipsy, with a 'kerchief
which had slipped from her head, who stood almost in the middle of the room=
, near
a post, behind the net, gesticulating and shouting to a short and tightly
belted gipsy in a blue coat. A soldier sat beside him on the floor, talking=
to
a prisoner. Beyond stood a young peasant with a light beard and in bast sho=
es,
pressing his flushed face to the net, evidently with difficulty suppressing=
his
tears. He was talking to a pretty, light-haired prisoner who gazed at him w=
ith
her bright, blue eyes. This was Theodosia, with her husband. Beside them st=
ood
a tramp, who was talking to a disheveled, broad-faced woman. Further on the=
re were
two women, a man, and again a woman, and opposite each was a prisoner. Masl=
ova
was not among them. But behind the prisoners stood another woman. Nekhludoff
felt the beating of his heart increasing and his breath failing him. The
decisive moment was approaching. He neared the net and recognized Katiousha.
She stood behind the blue-eyed Theodosia, and, smiling, listened to her
conversation. She did not wear the prison coat, but a white waist, tightly
belted, and rising high above the breast. As in the court, her black hair h=
ung
in curls over her 'kerchiefed forehead.
"It will all be over in a moment," he
thought. "Shall I address her, or shall I wait till she addresses
me?"
But she did not address him. She was waiting f=
or
Clara, and never thought that that man came to see her.
"Whom do you wish to see?" the matron
asked Nekhludoff, approaching him.
"Katherine Maslova," he stammered.
"Maslova, you are wanted," shouted t=
he
matron.
Maslova turned round, raised her head, and with
the familiar expression of submissiveness, came to the net. She did not
recognize Nekhludoff, and gazed at him in surprise. However, judging by his=
dress
that he was a rich man, she smiled.
"What are you?" she asked, pressing =
her
smiling face with squinting eyes against the net.
"I wish to see--" He did not know
whether to use the respectful "you" or the endearing
"thou," and decided on the former. He spoke no louder than usual.
"I wish to see you--I----"
"Don't give me any of your song and
dance----" the tramp beside him shouted. "Did you take it, or did=
you
not?"
"She is dying; she is very weak," so=
me
one shouted on the other side.
Maslova could not hear Nekhludoff, but the
expression of his face, as she spoke, suddenly reminded her of that which s=
he
did not wish to think of. The smile disappeared from her face, and a wrinkl=
e on
her brow evidenced her suffering.
"I cannot hear what you are saying,"=
she
shouted, blinking and still more knitting her brows.
"I came----"
"Yes, I am doing my duty; I am
repenting," thought Nekhludoff, and immediately tears filled his eyes,=
and
he felt a choking sensation in his throat. His fingers clutched at the net =
and
he made efforts to keep from sobbing.
"I should not have gone if you were
well," came from one side.
"I swear by God I know nothing about
it!" cried a prisoner from the other side.
Maslova noticed his agitation, and it communic=
ated
itself to her. Her eyes sparkled, and her puffy, white cheeks became covered
with red spots, but her face retained its severity, and her squinting eyes =
stared
past him.
"You are like him, but I don't know
you," she shouted.
"I came here to ask your forgiveness,&quo=
t; he
said in a loud voice, without intonation, as if repeating a lesson he had
learned by heart.
As he said these words he felt ashamed and loo=
ked
round. But the thought immediately came to his mind that it was well that he
was ashamed, for he ought to bear the shame. And in a loud voice he continu=
ed:
"I acted meanly, infamously--forgive
me."
She stood motionless, her squinting eyes fixed=
on
him.
He could not continue and left the net, making
efforts to stifle the sobbing which was convulsing his breast.
The inspector who directed Nekhludoff to the
women's ward, evidently becoming interested in him, came into the room, and,
seeing him in the middle of the passage, asked him why he was not speaking =
with
the prisoner he had inquired about. Nekhludoff blew his nose, and, endeavor=
ing
to assume an air of calmness, said:
"I can't speak through the net; nothing c=
an
be heard."
The inspector mused awhile.
"Well, then, she can be brought out for
awhile."
"Maria Karlovna!" he turned to the
matron. "Lead Maslova out."
=
A
moment afterward Maslova came out through a side door. With gentle step she
came up to Nekhludoff; stopped and glanced at him from under her lowered
eyebrows. Her black hair stood out on her forehead in curly ringlets; her
unhealthy, bloated, white face was pretty and very calm, only her
shining-black, squinting eyes sparkled from under their swollen lashes.
"You may talk here," said the inspec=
tor
and went aside.
Nekhludoff moved toward a bench standing beside
the wall.
Maslova glanced inquiringly at the inspector, =
and
shrugging her shoulders, as if in wonder, followed Nekhludoff to the bench,=
and
straightening her skirt, sat down beside him.
"I know that it is hard for you to forgive
me," began Nekhludoff, but feeling the tears flooding his eyes, again
stopped, "but if the past cannot be mended, I will do now everything i=
n my
power. Tell me----"
"How did you find me?" she asked wit= hout answering his question, her squinting eyes looking and not looking at him.<= o:p>
"Oh, Lord! Help me, teach me what to
do!" Nekhludoff said to himself as he looked at her face so completely
changed.
"I was on the jury when you were tried,&q=
uot;
he said. "You did not recognize me?"
"No, I did not. I had no time to recognize
you. Besides, I did not look," she answered.
"Wasn't there a child?" he asked, an=
d he
felt his face turning red.
"It died at that time, thank God," s=
he
said with bitterness, turning away her head.
"How did it happen?"
"I was ill myself--nearly died," she
said without raising her eyes.
"How could the aunts let you go?"
"Who would keep a servant with a child? As
soon as they noticed it they drove me out. But what is the use of talking! I
don't remember anything. It is all over now."
"No, it is not over. I cannot leave it th=
us.
I now wish to atone for my sin."
"There is nothing to atone for; what's go=
ne
is gone," she said, and, all unexpected to him, she suddenly looked at=
him
and smiled in an alluring and piteous manner.
His appearance was entirely unexpected to Masl=
ova,
especially at this time and place, and therefore the astonishment of the fi=
rst
moment brought to her mind that of which she never thought before. At the f=
irst
moment she hazily recalled that new, wonderful world of feeling and thought
which had been opened to her by that charming young man who loved her, and =
whom
she loved, and then his inexplicable cruelty and the long chain of humiliat=
ion
and suffering which followed as the direct result of that enchanting bliss,=
and
it pained her. But being unable to account for it all, she did the customary
thing for her--banished all these recollections from her mind, and endeavor=
ed
to obscure them by a life of dissipation. At first she associated this man =
who
sat beside her with that young man whom she had loved once, but as the thou=
ght
pained her, she drove it from her mind. And now this neatly dressed gentlem=
an,
with perfumed beard, was to her not that Nekhludoff whom she had loved, but=
one
of those people who, as opportunity afforded, were taking advantage of such
creatures as she, and of whom such creatures as she ought to take advantage=
as opportunity
offers. For this reason she smiled alluringly.
She was silent, thinking how to profit by him.=
"All that is over now," she said.
"And here I am, sentenced to penal servitude."
Her lips trembled as she spoke the terrible wo=
rd.
"I knew, I was certain that you were
innocent," said Nekhludoff.
"Of course I was innocent. I am no thief =
or
robber. They say here that it all depends on the lawyer; that it is necessa=
ry
to appeal. Only they say it comes very high----"
"Yes, certainly," said Nekhludoff.
"I have already seen a lawyer."
"One must not be sparing, and get a good
one," she said.
"I will do everything in my power."<= o:p>
They were silent. She again smiled as before.<= o:p>
"I would like to ask you--for some money,=
if
you have it--not much, say ten rubles," she said suddenly.
"Yes, yes," said Nekhludoff, abashed,
and thrust his hand in his pocket.
She quickly glanced at the inspector, who was
walking up and down the aisle.
"Don't let him see it, or he will take it
away."
Nekhludoff took out his pocketbook as soon as =
the
director turned his back on them, but before he could hand her the ten-ruble
bill the inspector turned round, facing them. He crumpled the bill in his h=
and.
"Why, she is a dead woman," thought
Nekhludoff as he looked at her once lovely, but now defiled, bloated face w=
ith
the unhealthy sparkle in her black, squinting eyes, which looked now at the
inspector, now at Nekhludoff's hand with the crumpled bill. And a moment of=
hesitation
came over him.
Again the tempter of the night before whispere=
d in
his soul, endeavoring to turn the question, What would be the best thing to=
do?
into, What will be the end of it?
"You can do nothing with that woman,"
whispered the voice. "She will be like a stone around your neck, which
will drag you down, and prevent your being useful to others. Give her all t=
he
money you have, bid her good-by and put an end to it for all time."
And immediately he became aware that something
important was taking place in his soul; that his inner life was on a waveri=
ng
scale, which could by the slightest effort be made to overbalance to one si=
de
or the other. And he made that effort, calling on that God whom the other d=
ay
he felt in his soul, and God immediately came to his aid. He resolved to te=
ll
her all.
"Katiousha! I came to ask your forgivenes=
s,
but you have not answered me whether you have forgiven me, or ever will for=
give
me," he said suddenly.
She was not listening to him, but looked now at
his hand, now at the inspector. When the latter turned away, she quickly
stretched forth her hand, seized the money from Nekhludoff's hand and stuck=
it
behind her belt.
"How funny!" she said, smiling
contemptuously as it seemed to him.
Nekhludoff saw that there was something inimic=
al
to him in her, which stood guard, as it were, over her as she was now, and
prevented him from penetrating into her heart.
But--wonderful to relate--so far from repulsing
him, this only drew him to her by some new peculiar force. He felt that he
ought to awaken her spirit; that it was extremely difficult to do so; but t=
he
very difficulty of the undertaking attracted him. He experienced a feeling =
toward
her which he had never experienced before, either toward her or any one els=
e,
and in which there was nothing personal. He desired nothing of her for hims=
elf,
and only wished her to to cease to be what she was now, and become what she=
had
been before.
"Katiousha, why do you speak thus? I know
you, I remember you as you were in Panoff----"
But she did not yield--she would not yield.
"Why recall the past!" she said dryl=
y,
frowning even more.
"Because I wish to efface, to expiate my =
sin.
Katiousha----" he began, and was about to tell her that he would marry
her, but he met her eyes in which he read something so terrible, rude and
repulsive that he could not finish.
At that moment the visitors began to take leav=
e.
The inspector approached Nekhludoff and told him that the time for intervie=
wing
was ended. Maslova rose and submissively waited to be dismissed.
"Good-by. I have a great deal to tell you
yet, but, as you see, I cannot do it now," said Nekhludoff, and extend=
ed
his hand. "I will call again."
"I think you have said everything----&quo=
t;
She extended her hand, but did not press his.<= o:p>
"No. I will try to see you again, where we
can speak together, and then I will tell you something very important,"
said Nekhludoff.
"Well, all right," she said, smiling=
as
she used to do when she wished to please a man.
"You are more to me than a sister," =
said
Nekhludoff.
"Funny," she repeated, and, shaking =
her
head, she went behind the grating.
=
Nekhludoff
expected that at the first meeting Katiousha, learning of his intention to
serve her, and of his repentance, would be moved to rejoicing, would become
again Katiousha, but to his surprise and horror, he saw that Katiousha was =
no
more; that only Maslova remained.
It surprised him particularly that not only was
Maslova not ashamed of her condition, but, on the contrary, she seemed to be
content with, and even took pride in it. And yet it could not be different.=
It is usually thought that a thief or murderer,
acknowledging the harmfulness of his occupation, ought to be ashamed of it.=
The
truth is just the contrary. People, whom fate and their sinful mistakes hav=
e placed
in a given condition, form such views of life generally that they are enabl=
ed
to consider their condition useful and morally tenable. In order, however, =
to
maintain such views they instinctively cling to such circles in which the s=
ame
views are held. We are surprised when we hear thieves boasting of their
cleverness, or murderers boasting of their cruelty, but that is only because
their circle is limited, and because we are outside of it.
This was the case also with Maslova. She was
sentenced to penal servitude, and yet she formed such views of life and her
place in it that she could find reasons for self-approval and even boast be=
fore
people of her condition.
The substance of this view was that the greate= st welfare of all men, without exception--young, old, students, generals, educ= ated and uneducated--consisted in associating with attractive women, and that th= erefore all men, while pretending to occupy themselves with other business, in real= ity desire nothing else. Now, she is an attractive woman, and can satisfy that desire of theirs, or not, as she wishes, hence she is a necessary and impor= tant person. All her life, past and present, attested the justice of this view.<= o:p>
Whomever she met during ten years, beginning w=
ith
Nekhludoff and the old commissary of police, and ending with the jailers, a=
ll
wanted her. She had not met any one who did not want her. Hence the world
appeared to her as an aggregation of people who watched her from all sides =
and by
all possible means--deceit, violence, gold or craftiness--strewn to possess
her.
With such an idea of life, Maslova considered
herself a most important person. And she cherished this view above all else=
in
the world, because to change it would be to lose that standing among people
which it assured her. And in order not to lose her standing she instinctive=
ly
clung to that circle which held the same views of life. Seeing, however, th=
at
Nekhludoff wished to lead her into another world, she resisted it, feeling =
that
in that other world into which he was luring her she would lose her present
standing which gave her confidence and self-respect. For the same reason she
drove from her mind all recollection of her first youth and her first relat=
ions
to Nekhludoff. These recollections clashed with her present views of life, =
and
for that reason were entirely effaced from her memory, or, rather, were
preserved somewhere in her memory, but were covered up, as it were, with a
thick plastering, to prevent any access to them. Nekhludoff was, therefore,=
to
her not that man whom she had loved with a pure love, but merely a rich
gentleman by whom one may and ought to profit, and who was to be treated li=
ke
any other man.
"I did not tell her the most important
thing," thought Nekhludoff, as with the other people he walked toward =
the
door. "I did not tell her that I would marry her, but I will do it.&qu=
ot;
The inspectors at the doors counted the visito=
rs
each with one hand slapping every visitor on the back. But Nekhludoff was n=
ot
offended by it now; he even took no notice of it.
=
=
It was
Nekhludoff's intention to alter his manner of living--discharge the servant=
s,
let the house and take rooms in a hotel. But Agrippina Petrovna argued that=
no
one would rent the house in the summer, and that as it was necessary to live
somewhere and keep the furniture and things, he might as well remain where =
he
was. So that all efforts of Nekhludoff to lead a simple, student life, came=
to
naught. Not only was the old arrangement of things continued, but, as in fo=
rmer
times, the house received a general cleaning. First were brought out and hu=
ng on
a rope uniforms and strange fur garments which were never used by anybody; =
then
carpets, furniture, and the porter, with his assistant, rolling up the slee=
ves
on their muscular arms, began to beat these things, and the odor of camphor
rose all over the house. Walking through the court-yard and looking out of =
the
window, Nekhludoff wondered at the great number of unnecessary things kept =
in
the house. The only purpose these things served, he thought, was to afford =
the servants
an opportunity of exercise.
"It isn't worth while to alter my mode of
life while Maslova's affair is unsettled," he thought. "Besides, =
it
is too hard. When she is discharged or transported and I follow her, things
will change of their own accord."
On the day appointed by the lawyer Fanirin,
Nekhludoff called on him. On entering the magnificently appointed apartment=
s of
the house owned by the lawyer himself, with its huge plants, remarkable
curtains and other evidences of luxury, attesting easily earned wealth,
Nekhludoff found in the reception-room a number of people sitting dejectedl=
y around
tables on which lay illustrated journals intended for their diversion. The
lawyer's clerk, who was sitting in this room at a high desk, recognizing
Nekhludoff, greeted him and said that he would announce him. But before the
clerk reached the door of the cabinet, the door opened and the animated voi=
ces
of a thick-set man with a red face and stubby mustache, wearing a new suit,=
and
Fanirin himself were heard. The expression on their faces was such as is se=
en
on people who had just made a profitable, but not very honest, bargain.
"It is your own fault, my dear sir,"
Fanirin said, smiling.
"I would gladly go to heaven, but my sins
prevent me."
"That is all right."
And both laughed unnaturally.
"Ah, Prince Nekhludoff! Pleased to see
you," said Fanirin, and bowing again to the departing merchant, he led
Nekhludoff into his business-like cabinet. "Please take a cigarette,&q=
uot;
said the lawyer, seating himself opposite Nekhludoff and suppressing a smil=
e,
called forth by the success of the preceding affair.
"Thank you. I came to inquire about Maslo=
va's
case."
"Yes, yes, immediately. My, what rogues t=
hese
moneybags are!" he said. "You have seen that fellow; he is worth
twelve millions, and is the meanest skinflint I ever met."
Nekhludoff felt an irresistible loathing toward
this ready talker who, by his tone of voice, meant to show that he and
Nekhludoff belonged to a different sphere than the other clients.
"He worried me to death. He is an awful
rogue. I wanted to ease my mind," said the lawyer, as if justifying his
not speaking about Nekhludoff's case. "And now as to your case. I have
carefully examined it, 'and could not approve the contents thereof,' as
Tourgeniff has it. That is to say, the lawyer was a wretched one, and he let
slip all the grounds of appeal."
"What have you decided to do?"
"One moment. Tell him," he turned to=
his
clerk, who had just entered, "that I will not change my terms. He can
accept them or not, as he pleases."
"He does not accept them."
"Well, then, let him go," said the
lawyer, and his benign and joyful countenance suddenly assumed a gloomy and
angry expression.
"They say that lawyers take money for
nothing," he said, again assuming a pleasant expression. "I succe=
eded
in obtaining the discharge of an insolent debtor who was incarcerated on fl=
imsy
accusations of fraud, and now they all run after me. And every such case
requires great labor. We, too, you know, leave some of our flesh in the
ink-pot, as some author said."
"Well, now, your case, or rather the case=
in
which you are interested," he continued; "was badly conducted. Th=
ere
are no good grounds for appeal, but, of course, we can make an attempt. Thi=
s is
what I have written."
He took a sheet of paper, and quickly swallowi=
ng
some uninteresting, formal words, and emphasizing others, he began to read:=
"To the Department of Cassation, etc., et=
c.,
Katherine, etc. Petition. By the decision, etc., of the etc., rendered, etc=
., a
certain Maslova was found guilty of taking the life, by poisoning, of a cer=
tain
merchant Smelkoff, and in pursuance of Chapter 1,454 of the Code, was sente=
nced
to etc., with hard labor, etc."
He stopped, evidently listening with pleasure =
to
his own composition, although from constant use he knew the forms by heart.=
"'This sentence is the result of grave
errors,' he continued with emphasis, 'and ought to be reversed for the
following reasons: First, the reading in the indictment of the description =
of
the entrails of Smelkoff was interrupted by the justiciary at the very begi=
nning.'--One."
"But the prosecutor demanded its
reading," Nekhludoff said with surprise.
"That is immaterial; the defense could ha=
ve
demanded the same thing."
"But that was entirely unnecessary."=
"No matter, it is a ground of appeal.
Further: 'Second. Maslova's attorney,' he continued to read, 'was interrupt=
ed
while addressing the jury, by the justiciary, when, desiring to depict the
character of Maslova, he touched upon the inner causes of her fall. The gro=
und
for refusing to permit him to continue his address was stated to be irrelev=
ancy
to the question at issue. But as has often been pointed out by the Senate, =
the
character and moral features generally of an accused are to be given the
greatest weight in determining the question of intent.'--Two."
"But he spoke so badly that we could not
understand him," said Nekhludoff with still greater surprise.
"He is a very foolish fellow and, of cour=
se,
could say nothing sensible," Fanirin said, laughing. "However, it=
is
a ground for appeal. 'Third. In his closing words the justiciary, contrary =
to
the positive requirements of section 1, chapter 801 of the Code of Criminal
Procedure, failed to explain to the jury of what legal elements the theory =
of
guilt consisted; nor did he tell them that if they found that Maslova gave =
the
poison to Smelkoff, but without intent to kill, they had the power to disch=
arge
her.' This is the principal point."
"We could have known that. That was our
mistake."
"And finally: 'Fourth,'" continued t=
he
lawyer. "'The answer of the jury to the question of Maslova's guilt was
made in a form which was obviously contradictory. Maslova was charged with
intentional poisoning of Smelkoff, and with robbery as a motive, while the
jury, in their answer, denied her guilt of the robbery, from which it was e=
vident
that they intended to acquit her of the intent to kill. Their failure to do=
so
was due to the incomplete charge of the justiciary. Such an answer, therefo=
re,
demanded the application of chapters 816 and 808 of the Code. That is to sa=
y,
it was the duty of the presiding justice to explain to the jury their mista=
ke
and refer the question of the guilt of the accused to them for further
deliberation.'"
"Why, then, did he not do it?"
"That is just what I would like to know
myself," said Fanirin, laughing.
"So the Senate will correct the
mistake."
"That will depend on who will be sitting
there when the case is heard."
"Well, and then we continue: 'Under these
circumstances the court erred in imposing on Maslova punishment, and the
application to her of section 3, chapter 771 of the Code was a serious
violation of the basic principles of the criminal law. Wherefore applicant
demands, etc., etc., be revised in accordance with chs. 909, 910, s. 2, 912=
and
928 of the Code, etc., etc., and referring the case back for a new trial to=
a
different part of the same court.' Well, now, everything that could be done=
was
done. But I will be frank with you; the probabilities of success are slight.
However, everything depends on who will be sitting in the Senate. If you kn=
ow
any one among them, bestir yourself."
"Yes, I know some."
"Then you must hasten, for they will soon=
be
gone on their vacation, and won't return for three months. In case of failu=
re,
the only recourse will be to petition the Czar. I shall be at your service =
also
in that contingency."
"I thank you. And now as to your
honorarium?"
"My clerk will hand you the petition and =
also
my bill."
"One more question I would like to ask yo=
u.
The prosecutor gave me a pass for the prison, but I was told there that it =
was
necessary to obtain the Governor's permission to visit the prison on other =
than
visitors' days. Is it necessary?"
"I think so. But he is away, and the
lieutenant is in his place."
"You mean Maslenikoff?"
"Yes."
"I know him," said Nekhludoff, risin=
g to
leave.
At that moment the lawyer's wife, an extremely
ugly, pug-nosed and bony woman, rushed into the room. Not only was her atti=
re
unusually original--she was fairly loaded down with plush and silk things, =
bright
yellow and green--but her oily hair was done up in curls, and she triumphan=
tly
rushed into the reception-room, accompanied by a tall, smiling man with an
earth-colored face, in a cut-away coat with silk facings and a white tie. T=
his
was an author. He knew Nekhludoff by sight.
"Anatal," she said, opening the door,
"come here. Semion Ivanovitch promised to read to us his poem, and you
must read something from Garshin."
Nekhludoff was preparing to go, but the lawyer=
's
wife whispered something to her husband and turned to him:
"I know you, Prince, and consider an
introduction unnecessary. Won't you please attend our literary breakfast? It
will be very interesting. Anatal is an excellent reader."
"You see what variety of duties I have,&q=
uot;
said Anatal, smiling and pointing at his wife, thereby expressing the
impossibility of resisting that bewitching person.
With a sad and grave face and with the greatest
politeness, Nekhludoff thanked the lawyer's wife for the invitation, pleaded
other engagements and went into the reception-room.
"What faces he makes!" the lawyer's =
wife
said of him, when he had left the room.
In the reception-room the clerk handed him the
petition, and in answer to Nekhludoff's question about the honorarium, said
that Anatal Semionovitch set his fee at a thousand rubles; that he really d=
oes
not take such cases, but does it for Nekhludoff.
"And who is to sign the petition?" a=
sked
Nekhludoff.
"The prisoner may sign it herself, and if
that be troublesome, she may empower Anatal Semionovitch."
"No, I will go to the prison and obtain h=
er
signature," said Nekhludoff, rejoicing at the opportunity of seeing
Katiousha before the appointed day.
=
At the
usual hour the jailers' whistles were heard in the corridors of the prison;
with a rattling of irons the doors of the corridors and cells opened, and t=
he
patter of bare feet and the clatter of prison shoes resounded through the
corridors; the men and women prisoners washed and dressed, and after going
through the morning inspection, proceeded to brew their tea.
During the tea-drinking animated conversations
were going on among the prisoners in the cells and corridors. Two prisoners
were to be flogged that day. One of these was a fairly intelligent young cl=
erk
who, in a fit of jealousy, had killed his mistress. He was loved by his fel=
low-prisoners
for his cheerfulness, liberality and firmness in dealing with the authoriti=
es.
He knew the laws and demanded compliance with them. Three weeks ago the war=
den
struck one of the chambermen for spilling some soup on his new uniform. The
clerk, Vasilieff, took the chamberman's part, saying that there was no law
permitting an official to beat prisoners. "I will show you the law,&qu=
ot;
said the warden, reviling Vasilieff. The latter answered in kind. The warden
was about to strike him, but Vasilieff caught hold of his hands and held hi=
m fast
for about three minutes and then pushed him out of the door. The warden
complained and the inspector ordered Vasilieff placed in solitary confineme=
nt.
These cells for solitary confinement were dark
closets iron-bolted from the outside. In these cold, damp cells, devoid of =
bed,
table or chair, the prisoners were obliged to sit or lie on the dirty floor=
. The
rats, of which there was a large number, crawled all over them, and were so
bold that they devoured the prisoner's bread and often attacked the prisone=
rs
themselves when they remained motionless. Vasilieff resisted, and with the =
aid
of two other prisoners, tore himself loose from the jailers, but they were
finally overcome and all three were thrust into cells. It was reported to t=
he
Governor that something like a mutiny occurred, and in answer came a docume=
nt ordering
that the two chief culprits, Vasilieff and the tramp Don'tremember (an
application given to some tramps and jail birds who, to conceal the identit=
y,
with characteristic ingenuity and stupidity make that answer to all questio=
ns
relating to their names), be given thirty lashes each.
The flogging was to take place in the women's
reception-room.
This was known to all the inmates of the prison
since the previous evening, and every one was talking of the coming floggin=
g.
Korableva, Miss Dandy, Theodosia and Maslova, flushed and animated, for they had already partaken of vodka which Maslova = now had in abundance, were sitting in their corner, talking of the same thing.<= o:p>
"Why, he has not misbehaved," Korabl=
eva
said of Vasilieff, biting off a piece of sugar with her strong teeth. "=
;He
only sided with a comrade. Fighting, you know, is not allowed nowadays.&quo=
t;
"They say he is a fine fellow," added
Theodosia, who was sitting on a log on which stood a tea-pot.
"If you were to tell him, Michaelovna,&qu=
ot;
the watch-woman said to Maslova, meaning Nekhludoff.
"I will. He will do anything for me,"
Maslova answered, smiling and shaking her head.
"It will be too late; they are going to f=
etch
him now," said Theodosia. "It is awful," she added, sighing.=
"I have seen once a peasant flogged in the
town hall. My father-in-law had sent me to the Mayor of the borough, and wh=
en I
came there I was surprised to see him----" The watch-woman began a lon=
g story.
Her story was interrupted by voices and steps =
on
the upper corridor.
The women became silent, listening.
"They are bringing him, the fiends,"
said Miss Dandy. "Won't he get it now! The jailers are very angry, for=
he
gave them no rest."
It became quiet in the upper corridor, and the
watch-woman finished her story, how she was frightened when she saw the pea=
sant
flogged, and how it turned her stomach. Miss Dandy told how Schezloff was f=
logged
with a lash while he never uttered a word. Theodosia then removed the pots =
and
bowls; Korableva and the watch-woman took to their sewing, while Maslova,
hugging her knees, became sad from ennui. She was about to lay down to sleep
when the matron called her into the office, where a visitor was waiting for
her.
"Don't fail to tell him about us," s=
aid
the old Menshova, while Maslova was arranging her headgear before a looking=
-glass
half void of mercury. "It was not me who set the fire, but he, the
villain, himself did it, and the laborer saw it. He would not kill a man. T=
ell
him to call Dmitry. Dmitry will explain to him everything. They locked us u=
p here
for nothing, while the villain is living with another man's wife and sits
around in dram-shops."
"That's wrong!" affirmed Korableva.<= o:p>
"I will tell him--yes, I will," answ=
ered
Maslova. "Suppose we have a drink, for courage?" she added, winki=
ng
one eye.
Korableva poured out half a cup for her. Maslo=
va
drank it and wiped her mouth. Her spirits rose, and repeating the words
"for courage," shaking her head and smiling, she followed the mat=
ron.
=
Nekhludoff
had been waiting for a long time in the vestibule.
Arriving at the prison he rang the front-door =
bell
and handed his pass to the warden on duty.
"What do you want?"
"I wish to see the prisoner Maslova."=
;
"Can't see her now; the inspector is
busy."
"In the office?" asked Nekhludoff.
"No, here in the visitors' room," the
warden answered, somewhat embarrassed, as it seemed to Nekhludoff.
"Why, are visitors admitted to-day?"=
"No--special business," he answered.=
"Where can I see him, then?"
"He will come out presently. Wait."<= o:p>
At that moment a sergeant-major in bright
crown-laced uniform, his face radiant, and his mustache impregnated with sm=
oke,
appeared from a side door.
"Why did you admit him here? What is the
office for?" he said sternly, turning to the warden.
"I was told that the inspector was
here," said Nekhludoff, surprised at the embarrassment noticeable on t=
he
officer's face.
At that moment the inner door opened and Petro=
ff,
flushed and perspiring, came out.
"He will remember it," he said, turn=
ing
to the sergeant-major.
The latter pointed with his eyes to Nekhludoff,
and Petroff became silent, frowned and walked out through the rear door.
"Who will remember? What? Why are they al=
l so
embarrassed? Why did the sergeant make that sign?" thought Nekhludoff.=
"You cannot wait here; please walk into t=
he
office," the sergeant-major turned to Nekhludoff, who was about to go =
out
when the inspector came in through the inner door, more embarrassed even th=
an his
assistants. He was sighing incessantly. Seeing Nekhludoff, he turned to the
warden:
"Fedotoff, call Maslova."
"Follow me, please," he said to
Nekhludoff. They passed up a winding stairway leading into a small room with
one window and containing a writing table and a few chairs. The inspector s=
at
down.
"Mine are disagreeable duties," he s=
aid,
turning to Nekhludoff and lighting a thick cigarette.
"You seem tired," said Nekhludoff.
"I am very tired of all this business; my
duties are very onerous. I am trying my best to alleviate the condition of =
the
prisoners and things are getting only worse. I am very anxious to get away =
from
here; the duties are very, very unpleasant."
Nekhludoff could not understand what it was th=
at
made it so unpleasant for the inspector, but to-day he noticed on the
inspector's face an expression of despondency and hopelessness which was
pitiful to behold.
"Yes, I think they are very trying,"=
he
said. "But why do you not resign?"
"I have a family and am without means.&qu=
ot;
"But if it is difficult----"
"Well, you see, I manage to improve somew=
hat
their lot after all. Another one in my place would hardly exert himself as I
do. It is no easy matter to handle two thousand people. They are also human=
and
one feels pity for them, and yet they can't be allowed to have all their own
way."
And the inspector related the case of a recent
fight among the prisoners which ended in murder.
His story was interrupted by the entrance of
Maslova, who was preceded by the warden.
Nekhludoff got sight of her when she appeared =
on
the threshold and before she saw the inspector. Her face was red, and she w=
alked
briskly behind the warden, smiling and shaking her head. Noticing the inspe=
ctor
she gazed at him with frightened face, but immediately recovered herself and
boldly and cheerfully turned to Nekhludoff.
"How do you do?" she said, drawlingl=
y,
smiling and vigorously shaking his hand, not as on the former occasion.
"Here I have brought you the petition to
sign," said Nekhludoff, somewhat surprised at the forward manner in wh=
ich
she accosted him. "The lawyer wrote it. It must be signed and sent to =
St.
Petersburg."
"Why, certainly. I will do anything,"
she said, winking one eye and smiling.
"May she sign it here?" Nekhludoff a=
sked
of the inspector.
"Come here and sit down," said the
inspector. "Here is a pen for you. Can you write?"
"I could write once," she said, smil=
ing,
and, arranging her skirt and waist-sleeve, sat down, clumsily took the pen =
into
her small, energetic hand, began to laugh and looked round at Nekhludoff.
He pointed out to her where to sign.
Diligently dipping and shaking the pen she sig=
ned
her name.
"Do you wish anything else?" she ask=
ed,
looking now at Nekhludoff, now at the inspector, and depositing the pen now=
on
the ink-stand, now on the paper.
"I wish to tell you something," said
Nekhludoff, taking the pen from her hand.
"Very well; go on," she uttered, and
suddenly, as though meditating or growing sleepy, her face became grave.
The inspector rose and walked out, leaving
Nekhludoff with her alone.
=
The
warden who brought Maslova to the office seated himself on the window-sill,
away from the table. This was a decisive moment for Nekhludoff. He had been
constantly reproaching himself for not telling her at their first meeting of
his intention to marry her, and was now determined to do so. She was sittin=
g on
one side of the table, and Nekhludoff seated himself on the other side,
opposite her. The room was well lighted, and for the first time Nekhludoff
clearly saw her face from a short distance, and noticed wrinkles around the
eyes and lips and a slight swelling under her eyes, and he pitied her even =
more
than before.
Resting his elbows on the table so that he sho=
uld
not be heard by the warden, whose face was of a Jewish type, with grayish
side-whiskers, he said:
"If this petition fails we will appeal to=
His
Majesty. Nothing will be left undone."
"If it had been done before--if I had had=
a
good lawyer"--she interrupted him. "That lawyer of mine was such a
little fool. He was only making me compliments," she said, and began to
laugh. "If they had only known that I was your acquaintance, it would =
have
been different. They think that everybody is a thief."
"How strange she is to-day," thought
Nekhludoff, and was about to tell her what he had on his mind when she again
began to speak.
"I wanted to tell you. There is an old wo=
man
here--we are even surprised--such a good little woman, but there she is--she
and her son, both in prison, and everybody knows that they are innocent. Th=
ey are
accused of setting fire, so they are in prison. She learned, you know, that=
I
am acquainted with you," said Maslova, turning her head and casting
glances at him, "and she says to me: 'Tell him,' she says, 'to call my
son; he will tell him the whole story.' Menshoff is his name. Well, will yo=
u do
it? Such a good little woman. You can see for yourself that she is not guil=
ty.
You will help them, dear, won't you?" she said, glancing at him; then =
she
lowered her eyes and smiled.
"Very well; I will do it," said
Nekhludoff, his surprise at her easy manner growing, "but I would like=
to
talk to you about my own affair. Do you remember what I told you that
time?"
"You have spoken so much. What did you say
that time?" she said, continuing to smile and turning her head now to =
one
side, now to the other.
"I said that I came to ask your
forgiveness," he said.
"Oh! Forgiveness, forgiveness! That is all
nonsense. You had better----"
"That I wish to atone for my sin,"
continued Nekhludoff, "and to atone not by words but by deed. I have
decided to marry you."
Her face suddenly showed fright. Her squinting
eyes became fixed, and they looked and did not look at him.
"What is that for?" And she frowned
maliciously.
"I feel that before God I must do it.&quo=
t;
"What God, now, are you talking about? You
are not talking to the point. God? What God? Why didn't you think of God
then?" she said, and opening her mouth, stopped short.
Nekhludoff only now smelled a strong odor of
liquor and understood the cause of her excitement.
"Be calm," he said.
"I have nothing to be calm about. You thi=
nk I
am drunk? Yes, I am drunk, but I know what I am talking about," she sa=
id
quickly, and her face became purple. "I am a convict, while you are a
lord, a prince, and needn't stay here to soil your hands. Go to your
princesses----"
"You cannot be too cruel to me; you do not
know how I feel," he said in a low voice, his whole body trembling.
"You cannot imagine how strongly I feel my guilt before you!"
"Feel my guilt," she mocked him
maliciously. "You did not feel it then, but thrust a hundred rubles in=
my
hands. 'That's your price----'"
"I know, I know, but what am I to do now?=
I
have decided not to leave you," he repeated; "and what I say I wi=
ll
do."
"And I say that you will not!" she s=
aid,
and laughed aloud.
"Katinsha!" he began.
"Leave me. I am a convict, and you are a =
prince;
and you have no business here," she shrieked, violently releasing her =
hand
from his, her wrath knowing no limit.
"You wish to save yourself through me,&qu=
ot;
she continued, hastening to pour out all that had accumulated in her soul.
"You have made me the means of your enjoyment in life, and now you wis=
h to
make me the means of saving you after death! You disgust me, as do your
eye-glasses and that fat, dirty face of yours. Go, go away!" she shrie=
ked,
energetically springing to her feet.
The warden approached them.
"Don't you make so much noise! You know
whom----"
"Please desist," said Nekhludoff.
"She must not forget herself," said =
the
warden.
"Please wait a while," said Nekhludo=
ff.
The warden returned to his seat on the
window-sill.
Maslova again seated herself, her eyes downcast
and her little hands clutching each other.
Nekhludoff stood over her, not knowing what to=
do.
"You do not believe me," he said.
"That you wish to marry me? That will nev=
er
happen. I will sooner hang myself."
"But I will serve you anyway."
"That is your business. Only I don't want
anything from you. Now, that is certain," she said. "Oh, why did I
not die then!" she added, and began to cry piteously.
Nekhludoff could not speak; her tears called f=
orth
tears in his own eyes.
She raised her eyes, looked at him, as if
surprised, and with her 'kerchief began to wipe the tears streaming down her
cheeks.
The warden again approached them and reminded =
them
that it was time to part. Maslova rose.
"You are excited now. If possible I will =
call
to-morrow. Meantime, think it over," said Nekhludoff.
She made no answer, and without looking at him
left the room, preceded by the warden.
*
"Well, girl, good times are coming,"
said Korableva to Maslova when the latter returned to the cell. "He se=
ems
to be stuck on you, so make the most of it while he is calling. He will get=
you
released. The rich can do anything."
"That's so," drawled the watch-woman.
"The poor man will think ten times before he will marry, while the rich
man can satisfy his every whim. Yes, my dear; there was a respectable man in
our village, and he----"
"Have you spoken to him of my case?"
asked the old woman.
But Maslova was silent. She lay down on her bu=
nk,
gazing with her squinting eyes into the corner, and remained in that positi=
on
till evening. Her soul was in torment. That which Nekhludoff told her opene=
d to
her that world in which she had suffered and which she had left, hating wit=
hout
understanding it. She had now lost that forgetfulness in which she had live=
d,
and to live with a clear recollection of the past was painful. In the eveni=
ng
she again bought wine, which she drank with her fellow-prisoners.
=
"So,
that is how it is!" thought Nekhludoff as he made his way out of the
prison, and he only now realized the extent of his guilt. Had he not attemp=
ted
to efface and atone for his conduct, he should never have felt all the infa=
my
of it, nor she all the wrong perpetrated against her. Only now it all came =
out in
all its horror. He now for the first time perceived how her soul had been
debased, and she finally understood it. At first Nekhludoff had played with=
his
feelings and delighted in his own contrition; now he was simply horrified. =
He
now felt that to abandon her was impossible. And yet he could not see the
result of these relations.
At the prison gate some one handed Nekhludoff a
note. He read it when on the street. The note was written in a bold hand, w=
ith
pencil, and contained the following:
&=
nbsp;
"Having learned that you are visiting the prison I thought it would be well =
to see
you. You can see me by asking the authorities for an
interview with me. I will tell you something very
important to your protege as well as to the politicals. Thank=
fully,
Vera Bogodukhovskaia"
"Bogodukhovskaia! Who is
Bogodukhovskaia?" thought Nekhludoff, entirely absorbed in the impress=
ion
of his meeting with Maslova, and failing at the first moment to recall eith=
er
the name or the handwriting. "Oh, yes!" he suddenly recalled.
"The deacon's daughter at the bear-hunt."
Vera Bogodukhovskaia was a teacher in the obsc=
ure
district of Novgorod, whither Nekhludoff, on one occasion, went bear hunting
with his friends. This teacher had asked Nekhludoff to give her some money =
to
enable her to study. He gave it to her, and the incident dropped from his
memory. And now it seemed that this lady was a political prisoner, had prob=
ably
learned his history in prison, and was now offering her services. At that t=
ime
everything was easy and simple; now everything was difficult and complex.
Nekhludoff readily and joyfully recalled that time and his acquaintance with
Bogodukhovskaia. It was on the eve of Shrovetide, in the wilds about sixty
versts from the railroad. The hunt was successful; two bears were bagged, a=
nd
they were dining before their journey home, when the woodsman, in whose hut=
they
were stopping, came to tell them that the deacon's daughter had come and wi=
shed
to see Prince Nekhludoff.
"Is she good looking?" some one aske=
d.
"Come, come!" said Nekhludoff, risin=
g,
and wondering why the deacon's daughter should want him, assumed a grave
expression and went to the woodsman's hut.
In the hut there was a girl in a felt hat and
short fur coat, sinewy, and with an ugly and unpleasant face, relieved,
however, by her pleasant eyes and raised eyebrows.
"This is the Prince, Vera Efremovna,"
said the old hostess. "I will leave you."
"What can I do for you?" asked
Nekhludoff.
"I--I--You see, you are rich and throw aw=
ay
your money on trifles, on a chase. I know," began the girl, becoming
confused, "but I wish but one thing; I wish to be useful to people, and
can do nothing because I know nothing."
"What, then, can I do for you?"
"I am a teacher, and would like to enter
college, but they don't let me. It is not exactly that they don't let me, b=
ut
we have no means. Let me have some money; when I am through with my studies=
I
shall return it to you."
Her eyes were truthful and kindly, and the
expression of resolution and timidity on her face was so touching that
Nekhludoff, as it was usual with him, suddenly mentally placed himself in h=
er
position, understood and pitied her.
"I think it is wrong for rich people to k=
ill
bears and get the peasants drunk. Why don't they make themselves useful? I =
only
need eighty rubles. Oh, if you don't wish to, it is all the same to me,&quo=
t; she
said, angrily, interpreting the grave expression on Nekhludoff's face to her
disadvantage.
"On the contrary, I am very thankful to y=
ou
for the opportunity----"
When she understood that he consented her face
turned a purple color and she became silent.
"I will fetch it immediately," said
Nekhludoff.
He went into the entrance hall where he found =
an
eavesdropping friend. Without taking notice of his comrade's jests, he took=
the
money from his hand-bag and brought it to her.
"Please don't be thanking me. It is I who
ought to be thankful to you."
It was pleasant to Nekhludoff to recall all th=
at;
it was pleasant to recall how he came near quarreling with the army officer=
who
attempted to make a bad joke of it; how another comrade sided with him, whi=
ch drew
them more closely together; how merry and successful was the hunt, and how
happy he felt that night returning to the railroad station. A long file of
sleighs moved noiselessly in pairs at a gentle trot along the narrow fir-li=
ned
path of the forests, which were covered with a heavy layer of snowflakes. S=
ome
one struck a red light in the dark, and the pleasant aroma of a good cigare=
tte
was wafted toward him. Osip, the sleigh-tender, ran from sleigh to sleigh, =
knee-deep
in snow, telling of the elks that were roaming in the deep snow, nibbling t=
he
bark of aspen trees, and of the bears emitting their warm breath through the
airholes of their wild haunts.
Nekhludoff remembered all that, and above all =
the
happy consciousness of his own health, strength and freedom from care. His
lungs, straining his tight-fitting fur coat, inhaled the frosty air; the tr=
ees,
grazed by the shaft, sent showers of white flakes into his face; his body w=
as
warm, his face ruddy; his soul was without a care or blemish, or fear or
desire. How happy he was! But now? My God! How painful and unbearable it all
was!
=
Rising
the next morning Nekhludoff recalled the events of the previous day and was
seized with fear.
But, notwithstanding this fear, he was even mo=
re
determined than before to carry out his plan already begun.
With this consciousness of the duty that lay u=
pon
him he drove to Maslenikoff for permission to visit in jail, besides Maslov=
a,
the old woman Menshova and her son, of whom Maslova had spoken to him. Besi=
des,
he also wished to see Bogodukhovskaia, who might be useful to Maslova.
Nekhludoff had known Maslenikoff since they
together served in the army. Maslenikoff was the treasurer of the regiment.=
He
was the most kind-hearted officer, and possessed executive ability. Nothing=
in society
was of any interest to him, and he was entirely absorbed in the affairs of =
the
regiment. Nekhludoff now found him an administrator in the civil government=
. He
was married to a rich and energetic woman to whom was due his change of
occupation.
She laughed at him and patted him as she would=
a
tamed animal. Nekhludoff had visited them once the previous winter, but the
couple seemed so uninteresting to him that he never called again.
Maslenikoff's face became radiant when he saw
Nekhludoff. His face was as fat and red, his dress as excellent as when he
served in the army. As an army officer he was always neat, dressed in a tig=
ht
uniform made according to the latest style; now his dress fitted his well-f=
ed
body as perfectly. He wore a uniform. Notwithstanding the difference in the=
ir
age--Maslenikoff was about forty--they familiarly "thoued" each o=
ther.
"Very glad you remembered me. Come to my
wife. I have just ten minutes to spare, and then I must to the session. My
chief, you know, is away. I am directing the affairs of the district,"=
he
said, with joy which he could not conceal.
"I came to you on business."
"What's that?" Maslenikoff said in a=
frightened
and somewhat stern voice, suddenly pricking his ears.
"There is a person in jail in whom I am v=
ery
much interested;" at the word "jail" Maslenikoff's face beca=
me
even more stern, "and I would like to have the right of interview in t=
he
office instead of the common reception room, and oftener than on the appoin=
ted
days. I was told that it depended on you."
"Of course, mon cher, I am always ready t=
o do
anything for you," Maslenikoff said, touching his knees with both hand=
s,
as if desiring to soften his own greatness. "I can do it, but you know=
I
am caliph only for an hour."
"So you can give me a pass that will enab=
le
me to see her?"
"It is a woman?"
"Yes."
"What is the charge against her?"
"Poisoning. But she was irregularly
convicted."
"Yes, there is justice for you! Ils n'en =
font
point d'autres," he said, for some reason in French. "I know that=
you
do not agree with me, but c'est mon opinion bien arretee," he added,
repeating the opinion that had been reiterated during the past year by a re=
trograde,
conservative newspaper. "I know you are a liberal."
"I don't know whether I am a liberal or
something else," smilingly said Nekhludoff, who always wondered at bei=
ng
joined to some party, or called a liberal only because he held that a man m=
ust
not be judged without being heard; that all are equal before the law; that =
it
is wrong to torture and beat people generally, especially those that are not
convicted. "I don't know whether I am a liberal or not, but I do know =
that
our present courts, bad as they are, are nevertheless better than those that
preceded them."
"And what lawyer have you retained?"=
"I have retained Fanarin."
"Ah, Fanarin!" Maslenikoff said,
frowning as he recalled how Fanarin, examining him as a witness the year
before, in the most polite manner made him the butt of ridicule.
"I would not advise you to have anything =
to
do with him. Fanarin est un homme tare."
"I have another request to make of you,&q=
uot;
Nekhludoff said, without answering him. "A long time ago I made the
acquaintance of a girl teacher, a very wretched creature. She is now in jail
and desires to see me. Can you give me a pass to her?"
Maslenikoff leaned his head to one side and be=
gan
to reflect.
"She is a political."
"Yes, I was told so."
"You know politicals can only be seen by
their relatives, but I will give you a general pass. Je sais que vous
n'abuserez pas----"
"What is the name of this your protege?
Bogodukhovskaia? Elle est jolie?"
"Hideuse."
Maslenikoff disapprovingly shook his head, wen=
t to
the table and on a sheet of paper with a printed letter-head wrote in a bold
hand: "The bearer, Prince Dmitri Ivanovich Nekhludoff, is hereby permi=
tted
to visit the prisoners, Maslova and Bogodukhovskaia, now detained in the pr=
ison,"
and signed his name to it with a broad flourish.
"You will see now what order there is in
prison. And to keep order there is very difficult, because it is overcrowde=
d,
especially by those to be transported. But I watch over them, and like the =
occupation.
You will see there are very many there, but they are content, and are faring
well. It is necessary to know how to deal with them. Some unpleasantness
occurred there a few days ago--disobedience. Another man in my place would =
have
treated it as a riot and made many people miserable, but we arranged it all
pleasantly. What is necessary is solicitude on the one hand, and prompt and
vigorous dealing on the other," he said, clenching his soft, white fist
projecting from under a white, starched cuff and adorned with a turquoise
ring--"solicitude and vigorous dealing."
"Well, I don't know about that," said
Nekhludoff. "I was there twice, and I was very much distressed by the
sight."
"You know what I will tell you? You ought=
to
get acquainted with Princess Passek," continued Maslenikoff, who had b=
ecome
talkative; "she has entirely devoted herself to this cause. Elle fait
beaucoup de bien. Thanks to her and, without false modesty, to myself, ever=
ything
has been changed, and changed so that none of the old horrors can be found
there, and they are decidedly well off there. You will see it. There is
Fanarin. I am not personally acquainted with him; besides, our roads do not
meet because of my position in society, but he is decidedly a bad man, and
allows himself to state in court such things, such things!"
"Well, thank you," said Nekhludoff,
taking the document, and took leave of his old comrade.
"Would you not like to see my wife?"=
"No, thank you; I have no time now."=
"Well, now, she will never forgive me,&qu=
ot;
said Maslenikoff, conducting his old comrade to the first landing, as he did
with people of secondary importance, among whom he reckoned Nekhludoff.
"Do come but for a moment."
But Nekhludoff was firm, and while the footman=
and
porter sprang toward him, handing him his overcoat and cane, and opening the
door, before which a policeman stood, he excused himself, pleading want of =
time.
"Well, then, Thursday, please. That is her
reception day. I will tell her!" Maslenikoff shouted from the top of t=
he
stairs.
=
From
Maslenikoff, Nekhludoff went directly to the prison and approached the fami=
liar
apartments of the inspector. The sounds of a tuneless piano again assailed =
his
ears, but this time it was not a rhapsody that was played, but a study by
Clementi, and, as before, with unusual force, precision and rapidity. The
servant with a handkerchief around one eye said that the captain was in, and
showed Nekhludoff into the small reception-room, in which was a lounge, a t=
able
and a lamp, one side of the rose-colored shade of which was scorched, stand=
ing
on a knitted woolen napkin. The inspector appeared with an expression of
sadness and torment on his face.
"Glad to see you. What can I do for
you?" he said, buttoning up the middle button of his uniform.
"I went to the vice-governor, and here is=
my
pass," said Nekhludoff, handing him the document. "I would like to
see Maslova."
"Markova?" asked the inspector, who
could not hear him on account of the music.
"Maslova."
"O, yes! O, yes!"
The inspector rose and approached the door thr=
ough
which Clementi's roulade was heard.
"Marusia; if you would only stop for a li=
ttle
while," he said in a voice which showed that this music was the cross =
of
his life; "I cannot hear anything."
The music ceased; discontented steps were hear=
d,
and some one looked through the door.
The inspector, as if relieved by the cessation=
of
the music, lit a thick cigarette of light tobacco and offered one to
Nekhludoff, which he refused.
"Can Maslova----"
"It is not convenient to see Maslova
to-day," said the inspector.
"Why?"
"It is your own fault," slightly
smiling, said the inspector. "Prince, you must not give her any money.=
If
you wish to give her money, leave it with me; I will keep it for her. You s=
ee,
you must have given her money yesterday, for she bought wine--it is hard to
eradicate that evil--and is intoxicated to-day. In fact, she became
unruly."
"Is it possible?"
"Why, I even had to employ strict measure=
s,
had her transferred to another cell. She is very tractable, but, please do =
not
give her money. That is their failing."
Nekhludoff quickly recalled the incident of
yesterday, and he was seized with fear.
"And may I see Bogodukhovskaia, the
political?" Nekhludoff asked, after some silence.
"Well, yes," said the inspector.
"What are you doing here?" he turned to a five-year-old girl who =
came
into the room, walking toward her father, her eyes riveted on Nekhludoff.
"Look out, or you will fall," he said, smiling, as the little gir=
l,
walking with her head turned toward Nekhludoff, tripped on the carpet and r=
an to
her father.
"If she may be seen, I would go now."=
;
"Oh yes; she may be seen, of course,"
said the inspector, embracing the little girl, who was still looking at
Nekhludoff. "All right----"
The inspector rose and gently turning the girl
aside, walked into the vestibule.
He had scarcely donned the overcoat handed him=
by
the girl with the bandaged eye and crossed the threshold when the distinct
sounds of Clementi's roulade broke out.
"She was at the Conservatory, but there is
disorder in that institution. But she is very gifted," said the inspec=
tor,
walking down the stairs. "She intends to appear at concerts."
The inspector and Nekhludoff neared the prison.
The wicket immediately opened at the approach of the inspector. The wardens
standing to attention followed him with their eyes. Four men with heads hal=
f shaved,
carrying large vessels, met him in the vestibule, and as they spied him slu=
nk
back. One of them, in a particularly gloomy way, knit his brow, his black e=
yes
flashing fire.
"Of course, her talent must be perfected;=
it
cannot be neglected. But in a small apartment it is hard, you know," t=
he
inspector continued the conversation without paying any attention to the
prisoners, and dragging his tired legs passed into the meeting-room, follow=
ed
by Nekhludoff.
"Whom do you wish to see?" asked the
inspector.
"Bogodukhovskaia."
"That is from the tower. You will have to
wait a little," he turned to Nekhludoff.
"Couldn't you let me see, meantime, the
prisoners Menshov--mother and son--who are charged with incendiarism?"=
"That is from cell 21. Why, yes; they may=
be
called out."
"Would you allow me to see the son in his
cell?"
"It is quieter in the meeting-room."=
"But it is interesting to see him
there."
"Interesting!"
At that moment a dashing officer, the inspecto=
r's
assistant, appeared at a side door.
"Conduct the Prince to Menshov's cell--No.
21," said the inspector to his assistant. "Then show him to the
office. And I will call--what is her name?"
"Vera Bogodukhovskaia," said Nekhlud=
off.
The inspector's assistant was a light-haired y=
oung
officer with dyed mustache, who spread around him the odor of perfume.
"Follow me, please." He turned to
Nekhludoff with a pleasant smile. "Does our institution interest
you?"
"Yes. And I am also interested in that man
who, I was told, is innocent." The assistant shrugged his shoulders.
"Yes, that may be," he said calmly,
courteously admitting the guest into the ill-smelling corridor. "But t=
hey
also lie often. Walk in, please."
The doors of the cells were open, and some
prisoners stood in the corridor. Slightly nodding to the wardens and looking
askance at the prisoners, who either pressed against the walls, entered the=
ir
cells, or, stopping at the doors, stood erect like soldiers, the assistant =
escorted
Nekhludoff through one corridor into another, on the left, which was
iron-bolted.
This corridor was darker and more ill-smelling
than the first. There was a row of cells on each side, the doors of which w=
ere
locked. There was a hole in each door--eyelet, so called--of about an inch =
in diameter.
There was no one in this corridor except an old warden with a wrinkled, sad
face.
"Where is Menshov's cell?" asked the
assistant.
"The eighth one on the left."
"Are these occupied?" asked Nekhludo=
ff.
"All but one."
=
"May
I look in?" asked Nekhludoff.
"If you please," the assistant said =
with
a pleasant smile, and began to make inquiries of the warden. Nekhludoff loo=
ked
through one of the openings. A tall young man with a small black beard, clad
only in his linen, walked rapidly up and down the floor of his cell. Hearin=
g a rustle
at the door, he looked up, frowned, and continued to walk.
Nekhludoff looked into the second opening. His=
eye
met another large, frightened eye. He hastily moved away. Looking into the
third, he saw a small-sized man sleeping curled up on a cot, his head cover=
ed
with his prison coat. In the fourth cell a broad-faced, pale-looking man sat
with lowered head, his elbows resting on his knees. Hearing steps, this man
raised his head and looked up. In his face and eyes was an expression of
hopeless anguish. He was apparently unconcerned about who it was that looked
into his cell. Whoever it might be, he evidently hoped for no good from any
one. Nekhludoff was seized with fear, and he hastened to Number 21--Menshov=
's
cell. The warden unlocked and opened the door. A young, muscular man with a
long neck, kindly, round eyes and small beard, stood beside his cot, hastil=
y donning
his prison coat and, with frightened face, looking at the two men who had
entered. Nekhludoff was particularly struck by the kindly, round eyes whose
wondering and startled look ran from him to the warden and back.
"This gentleman wishes to ask you about y=
our
case."
"Thank you."
"Yes, I was told about your case," s=
aid
Nekhludoff, going into the depth of the cell and stopping at the barred, di=
rty
window, "and would like to hear it from yourself."
Menshov also drew near the window and immediat=
ely
began to relate the particulars of his case--at first timidly, from time to
time glancing at the warden, then growing bolder and bolder. And when the
warden had left the cell to give some orders, his timidity left him entirel=
y. Judging
by his speech and manner, his was a story of a simple, honest peasant, and =
it
seemed very strange to Nekhludoff to hear it from the lips of a prisoner in=
the
garb of disgrace and in prison. While listening to him, Nekhludoff examined=
the
low cot, with its straw mattress, the window, with its thick iron bars, the
damp, plastered walls, the pitiful face and the figure of the unfortunate,
mutilated peasant in bast shoes and prison coat, and he became sad; he would
not believe that what this kind-hearted man told him was true. And it was s=
till
harder to think that this truthful story should be false, and that kindly f=
ace
should deceive him. His story, in short, was that soon after his wedding a
tapster enticed away his wife. He had recourse to the law everywhere, and t=
he
tapster was everywhere acquitted. Once he took her away by force, but she r=
an
away the following day. He went to the seducer, demanding his wife. The tap=
ster
told him that she was not there, although he saw her when coming in, and
ordered him to depart. He would not go. Then the tapster and another workman
beat him until he bled, and the following day the tapster's house took fire=
. He
and his mother were charged with incendiarism, although at the time the fire
broke out he was visiting a friend.
"And you really did not set the fire?&quo=
t;
"I never even thought of such a thing,
master. The villain must have done it himself. They say that he had just
insured his house. And he said that I and my mother came and threatened him=
. It
is true, I abused him at that time--couldn't help it--but I did not set the
fire, and was not even in the neighborhood when the fire started. He set th=
e fire
purposely on the day I was there with my mother. He did it for the insurance
money, and threw it on us."
"Is it possible?"
"As true as there is a living God, master=
. Do
help us!" He was about to bow to the ground, but Nekhludoff forcibly
prevented him. "Release me. I am suffering here innocently," he
continued. His face suddenly began to twitch; tears welled up in his eyes, =
and,
rolling up the sleeve of his coat, he began to wipe his eyes with the dirty
sleeve of his shirt.
"Have you finished?" asked the warde=
n.
"Yes. Cheer up; I will do what I can for
you," Nekhludoff said, and walked out. Menshov stood in the door, so t=
hat
when the warden closed it he pushed him in. While the warden was locking the
door, Menshov looked through the hole.
=
=
It was
dinner time when Nekhludoff retraced his steps through the wide corridor, a=
nd
the cells were open. The prisoners, in light yellow coats, short, wide trou=
sers
and prison shoes, eyed him greedily. Nekhludoff experienced strange feelings
and commiseration for the prisoners, and, for some reason, shame that he sh=
ould
so calmly view it.
In one of the corridors a man, clattering with=
his
prison shoes, ran into one of the cells, and immediately a crowd of people =
came
out, placed themselves in his way, and bowed.
"Your Excellency--I don't know what to ca=
ll
you--please order that our case be decided."
"I am not the commander. I do not know
anything."
"No matter. Tell them, the authorities, or
somebody," said an indignant voice, "to look into our case. We are
guilty of no offense, and have been in prison the second month now."
"How so? Why?" asked Nekhludoff.
"We don't know ourselves why, but we have
been here the second month."
"That is true," said the assistant
inspector. "They were taken because they had no passports, and they we=
re
to be transported to their district, but the prison had burned down there, =
and
the authorities asked us to keep them here. Those belonging to other distri=
cts
were transported, but these we keep here."
"Is that the only reason?" asked
Nekhludoff, stopping in the doorway.
The crowd, consisting of about forty men, all =
in
prison garb, surrounded Nekhludoff and the assistant. Several voices began
talking at once. The assistant stopped them.
"Let one of you speak."
A tall old man of good mien came forward. He t=
old
Nekhludoff that they were all imprisoned on the ground that they had no
passports, but that, as a matter of fact, they had passports which had expi=
red
and were not renewed for about two weeks. It happened every year, but they =
were
never even fined. And now they were imprisoned like criminals.
"We are all masons and belong to the same
association. They say that the prison has burned down, but that isn't our
fault. For God's sake, help us!"
Nekhludoff listened, but scarcely understood w=
hat
the old man was saying.
"How is that? Can it be possible that they
are kept in prison for that sole reason?" said Nekhludoff, turning to =
the
assistant.
"Yes, they ought to be sent to their home=
s,"
said the assistant.
At that moment a small-sized man, also in pris=
on
attire, pushed his way through the crowd and began to complain excitedly th=
at
they were being tortured without any cause.
"Worse than dogs----" he began.
"Tut, tut! do not talk too much, or else =
you
know----"
"Know what?" said the little man
desperately. "Are we guilty of anything?"
"Silence!" shouted the assistant, and
the little man subsided.
"What a peculiar state of things!"
Nekhludoff said to himself as he ran the gauntlet, as it were, of a hundred
eyes that followed him through the corridor.
"Is it possible that innocent people are =
held
in durance here?" Nekhludoff said, when they emerged from the corridor=
.
"What can we do? However, many of them are
lying. If you ask them, they all claim to be innocent," said the assis=
tant
inspector; "although some are there really without any cause
whatever."
"But these masons don't seem to be guilty=
of
any offense."
"That is true so far as the masons are
concerned. But those people are spoiled. Some measure of severity is necess=
ary.
They are not all as innocent as they look. Only yesterday we were obliged to
punish two of them."
"Punish, how?" asked Nekhludoff.
"By flogging. It was ordered----"
"But corporal punishment has been abolish=
ed."
"Not for those that have been deprived of
civil rights."
Nekhludoff recalled what he had seen the other=
day
while waiting in the vestibule, and understood that the punishment had then
been taking place, and with peculiar force came upon him that mingled feeli=
ng
of curiosity, sadness, doubt, and moral, almost passing over into physical,
nausea which he had felt before, but never with such force.
Without listening to the assistant or looking
around him, he hastily passed through the corridor and ascended to the offi=
ce.
The inspector was in the corridor, and, busying himself with some affair, h=
ad
forgot to send for Bogodukhovskaia. He only called it to mind when Nekhludo=
ff entered
the office.
"I will send for her immediately. Take a
seat," he said.
=
The
office consisted of two rooms. In the first room, which had two dirty windo=
ws
and the plastering on the walls peeled off, a black measuring rod, for
determining the height of prisoners, stood in one corner, while in another =
hung
a picture of Christ. A few wardens stood around in this room. In the second
room, in groups and pairs, about twenty men and women were sitting along the
walls, talking in low voices. A writing table stood near one of the windows=
.
The inspector seated himself at the writing ta=
ble
and offered Nekhludoff a chair standing near by. Nekhludoff seated himself =
and began
to examine the people in the room.
His attention was first of all attracted by a
young man with a pleasant face, wearing a short jacket, who was standing be=
fore
a man prisoner and a girl, gesticulating and talking to them in a heated ma=
nner.
Beside them sat an old man in blue eye-glasses, immovably holding the hand =
of a
woman in prison garb and listening to her. A boy in high-school uniform, wi=
th
an expression of fright on his face, stood gazing on the old man. Not far f=
rom
them, in the corner, a pair of lovers were sitting. She was a very young,
pretty, stylishly-dressed girl with short-cropped, flaxen hair and an energ=
etic
face; he was a fine-featured, handsome youth, with wavy hair, and in a pris=
on
coat. They occupied the corner, whispering to each other, apparently wrappe=
d in
their love. Nearest of all to the table was a gray-haired woman in black,
evidently the mother of a consumptive young man in a rubber jacket, who sto=
od
before her. Her eyes were fixed on him, and her tears prevented her speakin=
g,
which she several times attempted to do, but was forced to desist. The young
man held a piece of paper in his hand, and, evidently not knowing what to d=
o,
with an angry expression on his face was folding and crumpling it. Sitting
beside the weeping mother, and patting her on the shoulder, was a stout, pr=
etty
girl with red cheeks, in a gray dress and cape. Everything in this girl was=
beautiful--the
white hands, the wavy, short hair, the strong nose and lips; but the princi=
pal
charm of her face were her hazel, kindly, truthful, sheep eyes. Her beautif=
ul
eyes turned on Nekhludoff at the moment he entered, and met his. But she
immediately turned them again on her mother, and whispered to her something.
Not far from the lovers a dark man with gloomy face sat talking angrily to a
clean-shaven visitor resembling a Skopetz (a sect of castrates). At the very
door stood a young man in a rubber jacket, evidently more concerned about t=
he
impression he was making on the visitors than what he was saying. Nekhludoff
sat down beside the inspector and looked around him with intense curiosity.=
He
was amused by a short-haired boy coming near him and asking him in a shrill
voice:
"And whom are you waiting for?"
The question surprised Nekhludoff, but, seeing=
the
boy's serious, intelligent face, with bright, attentive eyes, gravely answe=
red
that he was awaiting a woman acquaintance.
"Well, is she your sister?" asked the
boy.
"No, she is not my sister," Nekhludo=
ff
answered with surprise. "And with whom are you?"
"I am with mamma. She is a political,&quo=
t;
said the boy.
"Maria Pavlovna, take away Kolia!" s=
aid
the inspector, evidently finding Nekhludoff's conversation with the boy con=
trary
to the law.
Maria Pavlovna, the same beautiful woman who h=
ad
attracted Nekhludoff's attention, rose and with heavy, long strides approac=
hed him.
"What is he asking you? Who you are?"
she asked, slightly smiling with her beautifully curved lips, and confiding=
ly
looking at him with her prominent, kindly eyes, as though expecting Nekhlud=
off
to know that her relations to everybody always have been, are and ought to =
be simple,
affable, and brotherly. "He must know everything," she said, and
smiled into the face of the boy with such a kindly, charming smile that both
the boy and Nekhludoff involuntarily also smiled.
"Yes, he asked me whom I came to see.&quo=
t;
"Maria Pavlovna, you know that it is not
permitted to speak to strangers," said the inspector.
"All right," she said, and, taking t=
he
little hand of the boy into her own white hand, she returned to the
consumptive's mother.
"Whose boy is that?" Nekhludoff asked
the inspector.
"He is the son of a political prisoner, a=
nd
was born in prison."
"Is it possible?"
"Yes, and now he is following his mother =
to
Siberia."
"And that girl?"
"I cannot answer it," said the
inspector, shrugging his shoulders. "Ah, there is Bogodukhovskaia.&quo=
t;
=
The
short-haired, lean, yellow-faced Vera Efremovna, with her large, kindly eye=
s,
entered timidly through the rear door.
"Well, I thank you for coming here,"=
she
said, pressing Nekhludoff's hand. "You remember me? Let us sit down.&q=
uot;
"I did not expect to find you here."=
"Oh, I am doing excellently--so well, ind=
eed,
that I desire nothing better," said Vera Efremovna, looking frightened=
, as
usual, with her kindly, round eyes at Nekhludoff, and turning her very thin,
sinewy neck, which projected from under the crumpled, dirty collar of her w=
aist.
Nekhludoff asked her how she came to be in pri=
son.
She related her case to him with great animation. Her discourse was
interspersed with foreign scientific terms about propaganda, disorganizatio=
n,
groups, sections and sub-sections, which, she was perfectly certain, everyb=
ody knew,
but of which Nekhludoff had never even heard.
She was evidently sure that it was both
interesting and pleasant to him to know all that she was relating. Nekhludo=
ff,
however, looked at her pitiful neck, her thin, tangled hair, and wondered w=
hy
she was telling him all that. He pitied her, but not as he pitied the peasa=
nt Menshov
with his hands and face white as potato sprouts, and innocently languishing=
in
an ill-smelling prison. He pitied her on account of the evident confusion t=
hat
reigned in her head. She seemed to consider herself a heroine, and showed o=
ff
before him. And this made her particularly pitiful. This trait Nekhludoff
noticed in other people then in the room. His arrival attracted their
attention, and he felt that they changed their demeanor because of his
presence. This trait was also present in the young man in the rubber jacket=
, in
the woman in prison clothes, and even in the actions of the two lovers. The
only people who did not possess this trait were the consumptive young man, =
the
beautiful girl with sheep eyes, and the dark-featured man who was talking to
the beardless man who resembled a Skopetz.
The affair of which Vera Efremovna wished to s=
peak
to Nekhludoff consisted of the following: A chum of hers, Shustova, who did=
not
even belong to her sub-section, was arrested because in her dwelling were f=
ound
books and papers which had been left with her for safe keeping. Vera Efremo=
vna
thought that it was partly her fault that Shustova was imprisoned, and impl=
ored
Nekhludoff, who was well connected, to do everything in his power to effect=
her
release.
Of herself, she related that, after having
graduated as midwife, she joined some party. At first everything went on
smoothly, but afterward one of the party was caught, the papers were seized,
and then all were taken in a police drag-net.
"They also took me, and now I am going to=
be
transported," she wound up her story. "But that is nothing. I feel
excellently," and she smiled piteously.
Nekhludoff asked her about the girl with the s=
heep
eyes, and Vera Efremovna told him that she was the daughter of a general, t=
hat
she had assumed the guilt of another person, and was now going to serve at =
hard
labor in Siberia.
"An altruistic, honest person," said
Vera Efremovna.
The other case of which Vera Efremovna wished =
to
speak concerned Maslova. As the history of every prisoner was known to ever=
yone
in prison, she knew Maslova's history, and advised him to procure her remov=
al
to the ward for politicals, or, at least, to the hospital, which was just n=
ow
crowded, requiring a larger staff of nurses.
Nekhludoff said that he could hardly do anythi=
ng,
but promised to make an attempt when he reached St. Petersburg.
=
Their
conversation was interrupted by the inspector, who announced that it was ti=
me
to depart. Nekhludoff rose, took leave of Vera Efremovna, and strode to the
door, where he stopped to observe what was taking place before him.
"Ladies and gentlemen, the time is up,&qu=
ot;
said the inspector as he was going out. But neither visitors nor prisoners
stirred.
The inspector's demand only called forth great=
er
animation, but no one thought of departing. Some got up and talked standing;
some continued to talk sitting; others began to cry and take leave. The you=
ng
man continued to crumple the bit of paper, and he made such a good effort to
remain calm that his face seemed to bear an angry expression. His mother,
hearing that the visit was over, fell on his shoulder and began to sob. The
girl with the sheep eyes--Nekhludoff involuntarily followed her
movements--stood before the sobbing mother, pouring words of consolation in=
to
her ear. The old man with the blue eye-glasses held his daughter by the hand
and nodded affirmatively to her words. The young lovers rose, holding each
other's hands and silently looking into each other's eyes.
"Those are the only happy people here,&qu=
ot;
said the young man in the rubber jacket who stood near Nekhludoff, pointing=
to
the young lovers.
Seeing the glances of Nekhludoff and the young
man, the lovers--the convict and the flaxen-haired girl--stretched their
clasping hands, threw back their heads, and began to dance in a circle.
"They will be married this evening in the
prison, and she will go with him to Siberia," said the young man.
"Who is he, then?"
"He is a penal convict. Although they are
making merry, it is very painful to listen," added the young man,
listening to the sobbing of
the old man with the blue eye-glasses.
"Please, please don't compel me to take
severe measures," said the inspector, several times repeating the same
thing. "Please, please," he said, weakly and irresolutely.
"Well, now, this cannot go on. Please, now come. For the last time I
repeat it," he said, in a sad voice, seating himself and rising again;
lighting and then extinguishing his cigarette.
Finally the prisoners and visitors began to
depart--the former passing through the inner, the latter through the outer,
door. First the man in the rubber coat passed out; then the consumptive and=
the
dark-featured convict; next Vera Efremovna and Maria Pavlovna, and the boy =
who
was born in the prison.
The visitors also filed out. The old man with = the blue eye-glasses started with a heavy gait, and after him came Nekhludoff.<= o:p>
"What a peculiar state of things!" s=
aid
the talkative young man to Nekhludoff on the stairs, as though continuing t=
he
interrupted conversation. "It is fortunate that the captain is a
kind-hearted man, and does not enforce the rules. But for him it would be t=
antalizing.
As it is, they talk together and relieve their feelings."
When Nekhludoff, talking to this man, who gave=
his
name as Medyntzev, reached the entrance-hall, the inspector, with weary
countenance, approached him.
"So, if you wish to see Maslova, then ple=
ase
call to-morrow," he said, evidently desiring to be pleasant.
"Very well," said Nekhludoff, and
hastened away. As on the former occasion, besides pity he was seized with a
feeling of doubt and a sort of moral nausea.
"What is all that for?" he asked
himself, but found no answer.
=
=
On the
following day Nekhludoff drove to the lawyer and told him of the Menshovs'
case, asking him to take up their defense. The lawyer listened to him
attentively, and said that if the facts were really as told to Nekhludoff, =
he
would undertake their defense without compensation. Nekhludoff also told hi=
m of
the hundred and thirty men kept in prison through some misunderstanding, and
asked him whose fault he thought it was. The lawyer was silent for a short
while, evidently desiring to give an accurate answer.
"Whose fault it is? No one's," he sa=
id
decisively. "If you ask the prosecutor, he will tell you that it is
Maslenikoff's fault, and if you ask Maslenikoff, he will tell you that it is
the prosecutor's fault. It is no one's fault."
"I will go to Maslenikoff and tell him.&q=
uot;
"That is useless," the lawyer retort=
ed,
smiling. "He is--he is not your friend or relative, is he? He is such a
blockhead, and, saving your presence, at the same time such a sly beast!&qu=
ot;
Nekhludoff recalled what Maslenikoff had said
about the lawyer, made no answer, and, taking leave, directed his steps tow=
ard
Maslenikoff's residence.
Two things Nekhludoff wanted of Maslenikoff.
First, to obtain Maslova's transfer to the hospital, and to help, if possib=
le,
the hundred and thirty unfortunates. Although it was hard for him to be dea=
ling
with this man, and especially to ask favors of him, yet it was the only way=
of
gaining his end, and he had to go through it.
As Nekhludoff approached Maslenikoff's house, =
he
saw a number of carriages, cabs and traps standing in front of it, and he
recalled that this was the reception day to which he had been invited. Whil=
e Nekhludoff
was approaching the house a carriage was standing near the curb, opposite t=
he
door, and a lackey in a cockaded silk hat and cape, was seating a lady, who,
raising the long train of her skirt, displayed the sharp joints of her toes
through the thin slippers. Among the carriages he recognized the covered la=
ndau
of the Korchagins. The gray-haired, rosy-cheeked driver deferentially raise=
d his
hat. Nekhludoff had scarcely asked the porter where Michael Ivanovich
(Maslenikoff) was, when the latter appeared on the carpeted stairway, escor=
ting
a very important guest, such as he usually escorted not to the upper landin=
g,
but to the vestibule. This very important military guest, while descending =
the
stairs, was conversing in French about a lottery for the benefit of orphan
asylums, giving his opinion that it was a good occupation for ladies.
"They enjoy themselves while they are raising money."
"Qu'elles s'amusent et que le bon Dieu les
bénisse. Ah, Nekhludoff, how do you do? You haven't shown yourself f=
or a
long time," he greeted Nekhludoff. "Allez présenter vos
devoirs à madame. The Korchagins are here, too. Toutes les jolies fe=
mmes
de la ville," he said, holding out and somewhat raising his military
shoulders for his overcoat, which was being placed on him by his own
magnificent lackey in gold-braided uniform. "Au revoir, mon cher."
Then he shook Maslenikoff's hand.
"Well, now let us go upstairs. How glad I
am," Maslenikoff began excitedly, seizing Nekhludoff by the arm, and,
notwithstanding his corpulence, nimbly leading him up the stairs. Masleniko=
ff
was in a particularly happy mood, which Nekhludoff could not help ascribing=
to the
attention shown him by the important person. Every attention shown him by an
important person put him into such an ecstasy as may be observed in a fawni=
ng
little dog when its master pats it, strokes it, and scratches under its ear=
s.
It wags its tail, shrinks, wriggles, and, straightening its ears, madly run=
s in
a circle. Maslenikoff was ready to do the same thing. He did not notice the
grave expression on Nekhludoff's face, nor hear what he was saying, but
irresistibly dragged him into the reception-room. Nekhludoff involuntarily =
followed.
"Business afterward. I will do anything y=
ou
wish," said Maslenikoff, leading him through the parlor. "Announce
Prince Nekhludoff to Her Excellency," he said on the way to a lackey. =
The
lackey, in an ambling gait, ran ahead of them. "Vous n'avez qu'à
ordonner. But you must see my wife without fail. She would not forgive my
failure to present you last time you were here."
The lackey had already announced him when they
entered, and Anna Ignatievna, the vice-governess--Mrs. General, as she call=
ed herself--sat
on a couch surrounded by ladies. As Nekhludoff approached she was already
leaning forward with a radiant smile on her face. At the other end of the
reception-room women sat around a table, while men in military uniforms and
civil attire stood over them. An incessant cackle came from that direction.=
"Enfin! Why do you estrange yourself? Hav=
e we
offended you in any way?"
With these words, presupposing an intimacy bet=
ween
her and Nekhludoff, which never existed, Anna Ignatievna greeted him.
"Are you acquainted? Madam
Beliavskaia--Michael Ivanovich Chernoff. Take a seat here."
"Missy, venez donc à notre table. =
On
vous opportera votre thé. And you," she turned to the officer w=
ho
was conversing with Missy, evidently forgetting his name, "come here,
please. Will you have some tea, Prince?"
"No, no; I will never agree with you. She
simply did not love him," said a woman's voice.
"But she loved pie."
"Eternally those stupid jests,"
laughingly interfered another lady in a high hat and dazzling with gold and
diamonds.
"C'est excellent, these waffles, and so
light! Let us have some more."
"Well, how soon are you going to leave
us?"
"Yes, this is the last day. That is why we
came here."
"Such a beautiful spring! How pleasant it=
is
in the country!"
Missy in her hat and some dark, striped dress
which clasped her waist without a wrinkle, was very pretty. She blushed when
she saw Nekhludoff.
"I thought you had left the city," s=
he
said to him.
"Almost. Business keeps me here. I come h=
ere
also for business."
"Call on mamma. She is very anxious to see
you," she said, and, feeling that she was lying, and that he understood
it, her face turned a still deeper purple.
"I shall hardly have the time," gloo=
mily
answered Nekhludoff, pretending not to see that she was blushing.
Missy frowned angrily, shrugged her shoulders,=
and
turned to an elegant officer, who took from her hands the empty teacup and =
valiantly
carried it to another table, his sword striking every object it encountered=
.
"You must also contribute toward the
asylum."
"I am not refusing, only I wish to keep my
contribution for the lottery. There I will show all my liberality."
"Don't forget, now," a plainly
dissimulating laugh was heard.
The reception day was brilliant, and Anna Igna=
tievna
was delighted.
"Mika told me that you busy yourself in t=
he
prisons. I understand it very well," she said to Nekhludoff.
"Mika"--she meant her stout husband, Maslenikoff--"may have =
his
faults, but you know that he is kind. All these unfortunate prisoners are h=
is
children. He does not look on them in any other light. Il est d'une
bonté----"
She stopped, not finding words to express
bonté of a husband, and immediately, smiling, turned to an old, wrin=
kled
woman in lilac-colored bows who had just entered.
Having talked as much and as meaninglessly as =
it
was necessary to preserve the decorum, Nekhludoff arose and went over to
Maslenikoff.
"Will you please hear me now?"
"Ah! yes. Well, what is it?"
"Come in here."
They entered a small Japanese cabinet and seat=
ed
themselves near the window.
=
"Well,
je suis à vous. Will you smoke a cigarette? But wait; we must not so=
il
the things here," and he brought an ash-holder. "Well?"
"I want two things of you."
"Is that so?"
Maslenikoff's face became gloomy and desponden=
t.
All traces of that animation of the little dog whom its master had scratched
under the ears entirely disappeared. Voices came from the reception-room. O=
ne,
a woman's voice, said: "Jamais, jamais je ne croirais;" another, a
man's voice from the other corner, was telling something, constantly repeat=
ing:
"La Comtesse Vorouzoff" and "Victor Apraksine." From th=
e third
side only a humming noise mingled with laughter was heard. Maslenikoff list=
ened
to the voices; so did Nekhludoff.
"I want to talk to you again about that
woman."
"Yes; who was innocently condemned. I kno=
w, I
know."
"I would like her to be transferred to the
hospital. I was told that it can be done."
Maslenikoff pursed up his lips and began to
meditate.
"It can hardly be done," he said. "However, I will consult about it, and will wire you to-morrow."<= o:p>
"I was told that there are many sick peop=
le
in the hospital, and they need assistants."
"Well, yes. But I will let you know, as I
said."
"Please do," said Nekhludoff.
There was a burst of general and even natural
laughter in the reception-room.
"That is caused by Victor," said
Maslenikoff, smiling. "He is remarkably witty when in high spirits.&qu=
ot;
"Another thing," said Nekhludoff.
"There are a hundred and thirty men languishing in prison for the only
reason that their passports were not renewed in time. They have been in pri=
son
now for a month."
And he related the causes that kept them there=
.
"How did you come to know it?" asked
Nekhludoff, and his face showed disquietude and displeasure.
"I was visiting a prisoner, and these peo=
ple
surrounded me and asked----"
"What prisoner were you visiting?"
"The peasant who is innocently accused, a=
nd
for whom I have obtained counsel. But that is not to the point. Is it possi=
ble
that these innocent people are kept in prison only because they failed to r=
enew
their passports?"
"That is the prosecutor's business,"
interrupted Maslenikoff, somewhat vexed. "Now, you say that trials mus=
t be
speedy and just. It is the duty of the assistant prosecutor to visit the
prisons and see that no one is innocently kept there. But these assistants =
do
nothing but play cards."
"So you can do nothing for them?"
Nekhludoff asked gloomily, recalling the words of the lawyer, that the gove=
rnor
would shift the responsibility.
"I will see to it. I will make inquiries
immediately."
"So much the worse for her. C'est un
souffre-douleur," came from the reception-room, the voice of a woman
apparently entirely indifferent to what she was saying.
"So much the better; I will take this,&qu=
ot;
from the other side was heard a man's playful voice, and the merry laughter=
of
a woman who refused him something.
"No, no, for no consideration," said=
a
woman's voice.
"Well, then, I will do everything,"
repeated Maslenikoff, extinguishing the cigarette with his white hand, on w=
hich
was a turquoise ring. "Now, let us go to the ladies."
"And yet another question," said
Nekhludoff, without going into the reception-room, and stopping at the door.
"I was told that some people in the prison were subjected to corporal
punishment. Is it true?"
Maslenikoff's face flushed.
"Ah! you have reference to that affair? N=
o,
mon cher, you must positively not be admitted there--you want to know
everything. Come, come; Annette is calling us," he said, seizing
Nekhludoff's arm with the same excitement he evinced after the attention sh=
own
him by the important person, but this time alarming, and not joyful.
Nekhludoff tore himself loose, and, without bo=
wing
or saying anything, gloomily passed through the reception-room, the parlor =
and by
the lackeys, who sprang to their feet in the ante-chamber, to the street.
"What is the matter with him? What did yo=
u do
to him?" Annette asked her husband.
"That is à la française,&qu=
ot;
said some one.
"Rather à la zoulon."
"Oh, he has always been queer."
Some one arose, some one arrived, and the chir=
ping
continued.
The following morning Nekhludoff received from
Maslenikoff a letter on heavy, glossy paper, bearing a coat-of-arms and sea=
ls,
written in a fine, firm hand, in which he said that he had written to the
prison physician asking that Maslova be transferred, and that he hoped his =
request
would be acceded to. It was signed, "Your loving senior comrade,"
followed by a remarkably skillful flourish.
"Fool!" Nekhludoff could not help
exclaiming, especially because he felt that by the word "comrade"
Maslenikoff was condescending, i. e., although he considered himself a very
important personage, he nevertheless was not too proud of his greatness, and
called himself his comrade.
=
One of
the most popular superstitions consists in the belief that every man is end=
owed
with definite qualities--that some men are kind, some wicked; some wise, so=
me
foolish; some energetic, some apathetic, etc. This is not true. We may say =
of a
man that he is oftener kind than wicked; oftener wise than foolish; oftener
energetic than apathetic, and vice versa. But it would not be true to say of
one man that he is always kind or wise, and of another that he is always wi=
cked
or foolish. And yet we thus divide people. This is erroneous. Men are like
rivers--the water in all of them, and at every point, is the same, but every
one of them is now narrow, now swift, now wide, now calm, now clear, now co=
ld,
now muddy, now warm. So it is with men. Every man bears within him the germ=
s of
all human qualities, sometimes manifesting one quality, sometimes another; =
and
often does not resemble himself at all, manifesting no change. With some pe=
ople
these changes are particularly sharp. And to this class Nekhludoff belonged.
These changes in him had both physical and spiritual causes; and one of the=
se
changes he was now undergoing.
That feeling of solemnity and joy of rejuvenat=
ion
which he had experienced after the trial and after his first meeting with
Katiousha had passed away, and, after the last meeting, fear and even disgu=
st toward
her had taken its place. He was also conscious that his duty was burdensome=
to
him. He had decided not to leave her, to carry out his intention of marrying
her, if she so desired; but this was painful and tormenting to him.
On the day following his visit to Maslenikoff =
he
again went to the prison to see her.
The inspector permitted him to see her; not in=
the
office, however, nor in the lawyer's room, but in the women's visiting-room=
. Notwithstanding
his kind-heartedness, the inspector was more reserved than formerly. Eviden=
tly
Nekhludoff's conversations with Maslenikoff had resulted in instructions be=
ing
given to be more careful with this visitor.
"You may see her," he said, "on=
ly
please remember what I told you as to giving her money. And as to her trans=
fer
to the hospital, about which His Excellency has written, there is no object=
ion
to it, and the physician also consented. But she herself does not wish it. =
'I
don't care to be chambermaid to that scurvy lot,' she said. That is the kin=
d of
people they are, Prince," he added.
Nekhludoff made no answer and asked to be admi=
tted
to her. The inspector sent the warden, and Nekhludoff followed him into the
empty visiting-room.
Maslova was already there, quietly and timidly
emerging from behind the grating. She approached close to Nekhludoff, and,
looking past him, quietly said:
"Forgive me, Dmitri Ivanovich; I have spo=
ken
improperly the other day."
"It is not for me to forgive you----"
Nekhludoff began.
"But you must leave me," she added, =
and
in the fearfully squinting eyes with which she glanced at him Nekhludoff ag=
ain
saw a strained and spiteful expression.
"But why should I leave you?"
"So."
"Why so?"
She again looked at him with that spiteful gla=
nce,
as it seemed to him.
"Well, then, I will tell you," she s=
aid.
"You leave me--I tell you that truly. I cannot. You must drop that
entirely," she said, with quivering lips, and became silent. "Tha=
t is
true. I would rather hang myself."
Nekhludoff felt that in this answer lurked a
hatred for him, an unforgiven wrong, but also something else--something good
and important. This reiteration of her refusal in a perfectly calm state de=
stroyed
in Nekhludoff's soul all his doubts, and brought him back to his former gra=
ve,
solemn and benign state of mind.
"Katiousha, I repeat what I said," he
said, with particular gravity. "I ask you to marry me. If, however, yo=
u do
not wish to, and so long as you do not wish to, I will be wherever you will=
be,
and follow you wherever you may be sent."
"That is your business. I will speak no
more," she said, and again her lips quivered.
He was also silent, feeling that he had no
strength to speak.
"I am now going to the country, and from
there to St. Petersburg," he said finally. "I will press your--our
case, and with God's help the sentence will be set aside."
"I don't care if they don't. I deserved i=
t,
if not for that, for something else," she said, and he saw what great
effort she had to make to repress her tears.
"Well, have you seen Menshova?" she
asked suddenly, in order to hide her agitation. "They are innocent, are
they not?"
"Yes, I think so."
"Such a wonderful little woman!" she
said.
He related everything he had learned from Mens=
hova,
and asked her if she needed anything. She said she needed nothing.
They were silent again.
"Well, and as to the hospital," she =
said
suddenly, casting on him her squinting glance, "if you wish me to go, I
will go; and I will stop wine drinking, too."
Nekhludoff silently looked in her eyes. They w=
ere
smiling.
"That is very good," was all he could
say.
"Yes, yes; she is an entirely different
person," thought Nekhludoff, for the first time experiencing, after his
former doubts, the to him entirely new feeling of confidence in the
invincibility of love.
*
Returning to her ill-smelling cell, Maslova
removed her coat and sat down on her cot, her hands resting on her knees. In
the cell were only the consumptive with her babe, the old woman, Menshova, =
and
the watch-woman with her two children. The deacon's daughter had been remov=
ed
to the hospital; the others were washing. The old woman lay on the cot
sleeping; the children were in the corridor, the door to which was open. The
consumptive with the child in her arms and the watch-woman, who did not cea=
se
knitting a stocking with her nimble fingers, approached Maslova.
"Well, have you seen him?" they aske=
d.
Maslova dangled her feet, which did not reach =
the
floor, and made no answer.
"What are you whimpering about?" said
the watch-woman. "Above all, keep up your spirits. Oh, Katiousha!
Well?" she said, rapidly moving her fingers.
Maslova made no answer.
"The women went washing. They say that
to-day's alms were larger. Many things have been brought, they say," s=
aid
the consumptive.
"Finashka!" shouted the watch-woman.
"Where are you, you little rogue?" She drew out one of the knitti=
ng
needles, stuck it into the ball of thread and stocking, and went out into t=
he
corridor.
At this moment the inmates of the cell, with b=
are
feet in their prison shoes, entered, each bearing a loaf of twisted bread, =
some
even two. Theodosia immediately approached Maslova.
"Why, anything wrong?" she asked,
lovingly, looking with her bright, blue eyes at Maslova. "And here is
something for our tea," and she placed the leaves on the shelf.
"Well, has he changed his mind about marr=
ying
you?" asked Korableva.
"No, he has not, but I do not wish to,&qu=
ot;
answered Maslova, "and I told him so."
"What a fool!" said Korableva, in her
basso voice.
"What is the good of marrying if they can=
not
live together?" asked Theodosia.
"Is not your husband going with you?"
answered the watch-woman.
"We are legally married," said
Theodosia. "But why should he marry her legally if he cannot live with
her?"
"What a fool! Why, if he marries her he w=
ill
make her rich!"
"He said: 'Wherever you may be, I will be
with you,'" said Maslova.
"He may go if he likes; he needn't if he
don't. I will not ask him. He is now going to St. Petersburg to try to get =
me
out. All the ministers there are his relatives," she continued, "=
but
I don't care for them."
"Sure enough," Korableva suddenly
assented, reaching down into her bag, and evidently thinking of something e=
lse.
"What do you say--shall we have some wine?"
"Not I," answered Maslova. "Dri=
nk
yourselves."
=
The
Senate could hear the case in two weeks, and by that time Nekhludoff intend=
ed
to be in St. Petersburg, and, in case of an adverse decision, to petition t=
he
Emperor, as the lawyer had advised. In case the appeal failed, for which, h=
is
lawyer had told him, he must be prepared, as the grounds of appeal were very
weak, the party of convicts to which Maslova belonged would be transported =
in
May. It was therefore necessary, in order to be prepared to follow Maslova =
to Siberia,
upon which Nekhludoff was firmly resolved, to go to the villages and arrange
his affairs there.
First of all, he went to the Kusminskoie estat=
e,
the nearest, largest black-earth estate, which brought the greatest income.=
He
had lived on the estate in his childhood and youth, and had also twice visi=
ted
it in his manhood, once when, upon the request of his mother, he brought a
German manager with whom he went over the affairs of the estate. So that he
knew its condition and the relations the peasants sustained toward the offi=
ce,
i. e., the landowner. Their relations toward the office were such that they
have always been in absolute dependence upon it. Nekhludoff had already kno=
wn it
when as a student he professed and preached the doctrines of Henry George, =
and
in carrying out which he had distributed his father's estate among the
peasants. True, after his military career, when he was spending twenty thou=
sand
rubles a year, those doctrines ceased to be necessary to the life he was
leading, were forgotten, and not only did he not ask himself where the money
came from, but tried not to think of it. But the death of his mother, the
inheritance, and the necessity of taking care of his property, i. e., his
lands, again raised the question in his mind of his relation to private
ownership of land. A month before Nekhludoff would have argued that he was
powerless to change the existing order of things; that he was not managing =
the
estate, and living and receiving his income far away from the estate, would
feel more or less at ease. But now he resolved that, although there was bef=
ore
him a trip to Siberia and complex and difficult relations to the prison wor=
ld,
for which social standing, and especially money, were necessary, he could n=
ot,
nevertheless, leave his affairs in their former condition, but must, to his=
own
detriment, change them. For this purpose he had decided not to work the land
himself, but, by renting it at a low price to the peasants, to make it poss=
ible
for them to live independent of the landlord. Often, while comparing the po=
sition
of the landlord with that of the owner of serfs, Nekhludoff found a paralle=
l in
the renting of the land to the peasants, instead of working it by hired lab=
or,
to what the slave-owners did when they substituted tenancy for serfdom. That
did not solve the question, but it was a step toward its solution; it was a
transition from a grosser to a less gross form of ownership of man. He also
intended to act thus.
Nekhludoff arrived at Kusminskoie about noon. =
In
everything simplifying his life, he did not wire from the station of his
arrival, but hired a two-horse country coach. The driver was a young fellow=
in a
nankeen regulation coat, belted below the waist, sitting sidewise on the bo=
x.
He was the more willing to carry on a conversation because the broken-down,
lame, emaciated, foaming shaft-horse could then walk, which these horses al=
ways
preferred.
The driver spoke about the manager of the
Kusminskoie estate, not knowing that he was carrying its master, Nekhludoff
purposely refrained from enlightening him.
"A dandy German," he said, turning h=
alf
around, cracking his long whip now over the heads, now under the horses.
"There is nothing here to compare with his fine team of three bay hors=
es.
You ought to see him driving out with his wife! I took some guests to his h=
ouse
last Christmas--he had a fine tree. You couldn't find the like of it in the=
whole
district! He robbed everybody, right and left. But what does he care? He is
bossing everybody. They say he bought a fine estate."
Nekhludoff thought that he was indifferent to =
the
manner of the German's management, and to the way he was profiting by it. B=
ut
the story of the driver with the long waist was unpleasant to him. He was e=
nchanted
with the fine weather; the darkening clouds, sometimes obscuring the sun; t=
he
fields over which the larks soared; the woods, just covering up the top and
bottom with green; the meadows on which the flocks and horses browsed, and =
the
fields on which plowmen were already seen--but a feeling of dissatisfaction
crept over him. And when he asked himself the reason for it, he recalled the
driver's account of the German's management.
But by the time he was busying himself with th=
e affairs
of Kusminskoie he had forgotten it.
After an examination of the books and his
conversation with the clerk, who artlessly set forth the advantages of the
peasants having small holdings and the fact that they were hemmed in by the
master's land, Nekhludoff grew only more determined to put an end to his
ownership, and give the land to the peasants. From the books and his conver=
sations
with the clerk he learned that, as before, two-thirds of the best arable la=
nd
was cultivated by his own men, and the rest by peasants who were paid five
rubles per acre--that is to say, for five rubles the peasant undertook to p=
low,
harrow and sow an acre of land three times, then mow it, bind or press it, =
and
carry it to the barn. In other words, he was paid five rubles for what hire=
d,
cheap labor would cost at least ten rubles. Again, the prices paid by the
peasants to the office for necessaries were enormous. They worked for meado=
w, for
wood, for potatoe seed, and they were almost all in debt to the office. Thu=
s,
the rent charged the peasants for lands beyond the fields was four times as
great as it could bring on a five per cent. basis.
Nekhludoff knew all that before, but he was now
learning it as something new, and only wondered why he and all those who st=
ood
in a similar position could fail to see the enormity of such relations. The=
arguments
of the clerk that not one-fourth of the value of the stock could be realize=
d on
a sale, that the peasants would permit the land to run to waste, only
strengthened his determination and confirmed him in his belief that he was
doing a good deed by giving the land to the peasants, and depriving himself=
of
the greater part of his income. Desiring to dispose of the land forthwith, =
he
asked the manager to call together the peasants of the three villages
surrounded by his lands the very next day, for the purpose of declaring to =
them
his intention and agreeing with them as to the price.
With a joyful consciousness of his firmness, in
spite of the arguments of the manager, and his readiness to make sacrifices=
for
the peasants, Nekhludoff left the office, and, reflecting on the coming
arrangement, he strolled around the house, through the flower-garden, which=
lay
opposite the manager's house, and was neglected this year; over the lawn-te=
nnis
ground, overgrown with chicory, and through the alleys lined with lindens,
where it had been his wont to smoke his cigar, and where, three years befor=
e,
the pretty visitor, Kirimova, flirted with him. Having made an outline of a
speech, which he was to deliver to the peasants the following day, Nekhludo=
ff
went to the manager's house, and after further deliberating upon the proper
disposition of the stock, he calmly and contentedly retired to a room prepa=
red
for him in the large building.
In this clean room, the walls of which were
covered with views of Venice, and with a mirror hung between two windows, t=
here
was placed a clean spring bedstead and a small table with water and matches=
. On
a large table near the mirror lay his open traveling-bag with toilet articl=
es
and books which he brought with him; one Russian book on criminology, one in
German, and a third in English treating of the same subject. He intended to
read them in spare moments while traveling through the villages, but as he
looked on them now he felt that his mind was far from these subjects. Somet=
hing
entirely different occupied him.
In one corner of the room there stood an ancie=
nt
arm-chair with incrustations, and the sight of this chair standing in his
mother's bed-room suddenly raised in his soul an unexpected feeling. He sud=
denly
felt sorry for the house that would decay, the gardens which would be
neglected, the woods which would be cut down, and all the cattle-houses,
courts, stables, sheds, machinery, horses, cows which had been accumulated =
with
such effort, although not by him. At first it seemed to him easy to abandon=
all
that, but now he was loth to part with it, as well as the land and one-half=
of
the income which would be so useful now. And immediately serviceable argume=
nts
come to his aid, by which it appeared that it was not wise to give the land=
to
the peasants and destroy his estate.
"I have no right to own the land. And if =
I do
not own the land, I cannot keep the property intact. Besides, I will now go=
to
Siberia, and for that reason I need neither the house nor the estate,"=
whispered
one voice. "All that is true," whispered another voice, "but=
you
will not pass all your life in Siberia. If you should marry, you may have
children. And you must hand over the estate to them in the same condition in
which you found it. There are duties toward the land. It is easy to give aw=
ay
the land, to destroy everything; but it is very hard to accumulate it. Above
all, you must mark out a plan of your life, and dispose of your property
accordingly. And, then, are you acting as you do in order to satisfy
conscientious scruples, or for the praise you expect of people?"
Nekhludoff asked himself, and could not help acknowledging that the talk th=
at
it would occasion influenced his decision. And the more he thought the more
questions raised themselves, and the more perplexing they appeared. To rid =
himself
of these thoughts he lay down on the fresh-made bed, intending to go over t=
hem
again the next day with a clearer mind. But he could not fall asleep for a =
long
time. Along with the fresh air, through the open window, came the croaking =
of
frogs, interrupted by the whistling of nightingales, one of which was in a
lilac bush under the window. Listening to the nightingales and the frogs,
Nekhludoff recalled the music of the inspector's daughter; and, thinking of
that music, he recalled Maslova--how, like the croaking of a frog, her lips
trembled when she said, "You must drop that." Then the German man=
ager
descended to the frogs. He should have been held back, but not only did he =
come
down, but he was transformed into Maslova and started to taunt him: "I=
am
a convict, and you are a Prince." "No, I shall not yield,"
thought Nekhludoff, and came to. "Am I acting properly or
improperly?" he asked himself. "I don't know; I will know
to-morrow." And he began to descend to where the manager and Maslova w=
ere.
And there everything ended.
=
With a
feeling of timidity and shame Nekhludoff the following morning, walked out =
to
meet the peasants who had gathered at a small square in front of the house.=
As
he approached them the peasants removed their caps, and for a long time
Nekhludoff could not say anything. Although he was going to do something for
the peasants which they never dared even to think of, his conscience was
troubled. The peasants stood in a fine, drizzling rain, waiting to hear what
their master had to say, and Nekhludoff was so confused that he could not o=
pen
his mouth. The calm, self-confident German came to his relief. This strong,
overfed man, like Nekhludoff himself, made a striking contrast to the emaci=
ated,
wrinkled faces of the peasants, and the bare shoulder-bones sticking out fr=
om
under their caftans.
"The Prince came to befriend you--to give=
you
the land, but you are not worthy of it," said the German.
"Why not worthy, Vasily Karlych? Have we =
not
labored for you? We are much satisfied with our late mistress--may she enjoy
eternal life!--and we are grateful to the young Prince for thinking of
us," began a red-haired peasant with a gift of gab.
"We are not complaining of our masters,&q=
uot;
said a broad-faced peasant with a long beard. "Only we are too crowded
here."
"That is what I called you here for--to g=
ive
you the land, if you wish it," said Nekhludoff.
The peasants were silent, as if misunderstandi=
ng
him, or incredulous.
"In what sense do you mean to give us the
land?" asked a middle-aged peasant in a caftan.
"To rent it to you, that you might use it=
at
a low price."
"That is the loveliest thing," said =
an
old man.
"If the payment is not above our means,&q=
uot;
said another.
"Of course we will take the land."
"It is our business--we get our sustenance
from the land."
"So much the better for you. All you have=
to
do is to take the money. And what sins you will spare yourself----"
"The sin is on you," said the German.
"If you would only work and keep things in order----"
"We cannot, Vasily Karlych," said a =
lean
old man with a pointed nose. "You ask, Who let the horse feed in the
field? But who did it? Day in and day out--and every day is as long as a
year--I worked with the scythe, and as I fell asleep the horse went among t=
he
oats. And now you are fleecing me."
"You should keep order."
"It is easy for you to say keep order. Bu=
t we
have no strength," retorted a middle-aged peasant, all covered with ha=
ir.
"I told you to fence it in."
"You give us the timber," said an
unsightly little peasant. "When I cut a joist last summer, intending to
make a fence, you locked me up for three months in the castle to feed the
insects. There was a fence for you!"
"Is that true?" asked Nekhludoff of =
the
manager.
"Der erste dich im dorfe," said the
manager in German. "He was caught every year in the woods. You must le=
arn
to respect other people's property."
"Do we not respect you?" said an old
man. "We cannot help respecting you, because you have us in your hands,
and you are twisting us into rope."
"If you would only abstain from doing wrong," said the manager. "It is pretty hard to wrong you."<= o:p>
"And who battered my face last summer? Of
course, there is no use going to law with a rich man."
"You only keep within bounds of the
law."
This was evidently a wordy tourney of which the
participants hardly knew the purpose. Nekhludoff tried to get back to busin=
ess.
"Well, what do you say? Do you wish the l=
and,
and what price do you set on it?"
"It is your goods; you name the price.&qu=
ot;
Nekhludoff set the price, and though much lower
than the prevailing price, the peasants began to bargain, finding it high. =
He
expected that his offer would be accepted with pleasure, but there was no s=
ign of
satisfaction. Only when the question was raised whether the whole community
would take the land, or have individual arrangements did he know that it was
profitable for them. For there resulted fierce quarrels between those who w=
ished
to exclude the weak ones and bad payers from participating in the land, and
those whom it was sought to exclude. But the German finally arranged the pr=
ice
and time of payment, and the peasants, noisily talking, returned to the
village.
The price was about thirty per cent. lower than
the one prevailing in the district, and Nekhludoff's income was reduced to
almost one-half, but, with money realized from the sale of the timber and y=
et
to be realized from the sale of the stock, it was amply sufficient for him.=
Everything
seemed to be satisfactory, and yet Nekhludoff felt sad and lonesome, but, a=
bove
all, his conscience troubled him. He saw that although the peasants spoke w=
ords
of thanks, they were not satisfied and expected something more. The result =
was
that while he deprived himself of much, he failed to do that which the peas=
ants
expected.
On the following day, after the contract was
signed, Nekhludoff, with an unpleasant feeling of having left something und=
one,
seated himself in the "dandy" three-horse team and took leave of =
the
peasants, who were shaking their heads in doubt and dissatisfaction. Nekhlu=
doff
was dissatisfied with himself--he could not tell why, but he felt sad, and =
was
ashamed of something.
=
=
From
Kusminskoie Nekhludoff went to Panovo, the estate left him by his aunts, and
where he had first seen Katiousha. He intended to dispose of this land in t=
he
same manner as he disposed of the other, and also desired to learn all there
was known about Katiousha, and to find out if it was true that their child =
had
died.
As he sat at the window observing the familiar
scenery of the now somewhat neglected estate, he not only recalled, but felt
himself as he was fourteen years ago; fresh, pure and filled with the hope =
of endless
possibilities. But as it happens in a dream, he knew that that was gone, an=
d he
became very sad.
Before breakfast he made his way to the hut of
Matrena Kharina, Katiousha's aunt, who was selling liquor surreptitiously, =
for information
about the child, but all he could learn from her was that the child had die=
d on
the way to a Moskow asylum; in proof of which the midwife had brought a
certificate.
On his way back he entered the huts of some
peasants, and inquired about their mode of living. The same complaints of t=
he
paucity of land, hunger and degradation he heard everywhere. He saw the sam=
e pinched
faces, threadbare homespuns, bare feet and bent shoulders.
In front of a particularly dilapidated hut sto=
od a
number of women with children in their arms, and among them he noticed a le=
an, pale-faced
woman, easily holding a bloodless child in a short garment made of pieces of
stuff. This child was incessantly smiling. Nekhludoff knew that it was the
smile of suffering. He asked who that woman was.
It transpired that the woman's husband had bee=
n in
prison for the past six months--"feeding the insects"--as they te=
rmed
it, for cutting down two lindens.
Nekhludoff turned to the woman, Anisia.
"How do you fare?" he asked. "W=
hat
do you live on?"
"How do I live? I sometimes get some
food," and she began to sob.
The grave face of the child, however, spread i=
nto
a broad smile, and its thin legs began to wriggle.
Nekhludoff produced his pocketbook and gave the
woman ten rubles. He had scarcely made ten steps when he was overtaken by
another woman with a child; then an old woman, and again another woman. They
all spoke of their poverty and implored his help. Nekhludoff distributed the
sixty rubles that were in his pocketbook and returned home, i. e., to the w=
ing
inhabited by the clerk. The clerk, smiling, met Nekhludoff with the informa=
tion
that the peasants would gather in the evening, as he had ordered. Nekhludoff
thanked him and strolled about the garden, meditating on what he had seen.
"The people are dying in large numbers, and are used to it; they have
acquired modes of living natural to a people who are becoming extinct--the
death of children, exhausting toil for women, insufficiency of food for all,
especially for the aged--all comes and is received naturally. They were red=
uced
to this condition gradually, so that they cannot see the horror of it, and =
bear
it uncomplainingly. Afterward, we, too, come to consider this condition
natural; that it ought to be so."
All this was so clear to him now that he could=
not
cease wondering how it was that people could not see it; that he himself co=
uld
not see that which is so patent. It was perfectly clear that children and o=
ld people
were dying for want of milk, and they had no milk because they had not land
enough to feed the cattle and also raise bread and hay. And he devised a sc=
heme
by which he was to give the land to the people, and they were to pay an ann=
ual
rent which was to go to the community, to be used for common utilities and
taxes. This was not the single-tax, but it was the nearest approach to it u=
nder
present conditions. The important part consisted in that he renounced his r=
ight
to own land.
When he returned to the house, the clerk, with=
a
particularly happy smile on his face, offered him dinner, expressing his fe=
ar that
it might spoil.
The table was covered with a gloomy cloth, an
embroidered towel serving as a napkin, and on the table, in vieux-saxe, sto=
od a
soup-bowl with a broken handle, filled with potato soup and containing the =
same
rooster that he had seen carried into the house on his arrival. After the s=
oup
came the same rooster, fried with feathers, and cakes made of cheese-curds,
bountifully covered with butter and sugar. Although the taste of it all was
poor, Nekhludoff kept on eating, being absorbed in the thoughts which relie=
ved
him of the sadness that oppressed him on his return from the village.
After dinner Nekhludoff with difficulty seated=
the
superserviceable clerk, and in order to make sure of himself and at the same
time to confide to some one the thoughts uppermost in his mind, told him of=
his
project and asked his opinion. The clerk smiled, as though he had been thin=
king
of the same thing, and was very glad to hear it, but in reality did not
understand it, not because Nekhludoff did not express himself plainly enoug=
h,
but because, according to this project, Nekhludoff deprived himself of
advantages for the benefit of others, whereas the truth that every man stri=
ves
to obtain advantages at the expense of others, was so firmly rooted in the
clerk's mind, that he thought that he misunderstood Nekhludoff when the lat=
ter
said that the entire income of the land was to go into the community's
treasury.
"I understand. So you will draw the inter=
est
on the capital?" he said, becoming radiant.
"No, no. I transfer the land to them
entirely."
"In that case you will get no income?&quo=
t;
asked the clerk and he ceased to smile.
"I relinquish that."
The clerk sighed deeply, then began to smile
again. Now he understood. He understood that Nekhludoff's mind was not enti=
rely
sound, and he immediately tried to find a way of profiting by Nekhludoff's
project, and endeavored to so construe it that he might turn it to his own =
advantage.
When, however, he understood that there was no
such opportunity, he ceased to take interest in the projects, and continued=
to
smile only to please his master. Seeing that the clerk could not understand
him, Nekhludoff dismissed him from his presence, seated himself at the ink-=
stained
table and proceeded to commit his project to paper.
The sun was already descending behind the
unfolding lindens, and the mosquitos filled the room, stinging him. While he
was finishing his notes, Nekhludoff heard the lowing of cattle in the villa=
ge,
the creaking of the opening gates and the voices of the peasants who were c=
oming
to meet their master. Nekhludoff told the clerk not to call them before the
office, that he would go and meet them at any place in the village, and gul=
ping
down a glass of tea offered him by the clerk, he went to the village.
=
The
crowd stood talking in front of the house of the bailiff, and as Nekhludoff
approached, the conversation ceased and the peasants, like those of
Kusminskoie, removed their caps. It was a coarser crowd than the peasants of
Kusminskoie, and almost all the peasants wore bast shoes and homespun shirts
and caftans. Some of them were bare-footed and only in their shirts.
With some effort Nekhludoff began his speech by
declaring that he intended to surrender the land to them. The peasants were
silent, and there was no change in the expression of their faces.
"Because I consider," said Nekhludof=
f,
blushing, "that every man ought to have the right to use the land.&quo=
t;
"Why, certainly." "That is quite
right," voices of peasants were heard.
Nekhludoff continued, saying that the income f=
rom
the land should be distributed among all, and he therefore proposed that th=
ey
take the land and pay into the common treasury such rent as they may decide=
upon,
such money to be used for their own benefit. Exclamations of consent and
approbation continued to be heard, but the faces of the peasants became more
and more grave, and the eyes that at first were fixed on the master were
lowered, as if desiring not to shame him with the fact that his cunning was
understood by all, and that he could not fool anybody.
Nekhludoff spoke very clearly, and the peasants
were sensible folks; but he was not understood, and could not be understood=
by
them for the same reason which prevented the clerk from understanding him f=
or a
long time. They were convinced that it was natural for every man to look out
for his own interest. And as to the land owners, the experience of several
generations had taught them long ago that these were always serving their o=
wn
interests.
"Well, what rate do you intend to
assess," asked Nekhludoff.
"Why assess? We cannot do that? The land =
is
yours; it is for you to say," some in the crowd said.
"But understand that you are to use the m=
oney
for the common wants."
"We cannot do it. The community is one th=
ing,
and this is another thing."
"You must understand," said the smil=
ing
clerk, wishing to explain the offer, "that the Prince is giving you the
land for money which is to go into the community's treasury."
"We understand it very well," said a
toothless old man without raising his eyes. "Something like a bank, on=
ly
we must pay in time. We cannot do it; it is hard enough as it is. That will
ruin us entirely."
"That is to no purpose. We would rather continue as before," said several dissatisfied and even rough voices.<= o:p>
The resistance was particularly hot when
Nekhludoff mentioned that he would draw a contract which he himself and they
would have to sign.
"What is the good of a contract? We will =
keep
on working as we did before. We don't care for it. We are ignorant people.&=
quot;
"We cannot consent, because that is an
uncustomary thing. Let it be as it was before. If you would only do away wi=
th
the seed," several voices were heard.
"Doing away with the seed" meant that
under the present regime the sowing-seed was chargeable to the peasants, and
they asked that it be furnished by the master.
"So you refuse to take the land?" as=
ked
Nekhludoff, turning to a middle-aged, bare-footed peasant in tattered caftan
and with a radiant face who held his cap straight in front of him, like a
soldier hearing "Hats off!"
"Yes, sir," said this peasant.
"Then you have enough land?" asked
Nekhludoff.
"No, sir," said the ex-soldier, with
artificial cheerfulness, holding his torn cap before him, as though offerin=
g it
to anyone deserving to take it.
"Think it over at your leisure," said
the surprised Nekhludoff, again repeating his offer.
"There is nothing to think over; as we sa=
id,
so it will be," the toothless, gloomy old man said angrily.
"I will stay here all day to-morrow. If y=
ou
alter your decision, let me know."
The peasants made no answer.
On their return to the office the clerk explai=
ned
to Nekhludoff that it was not a want of good sense that prevented their
acceptance of the offer; that when gathered in assembly they always acted in
that stubborn manner.
Nekhludoff then asked him to summon for the
following day several of the most intelligent peasants to whom he would exp=
lain
his project at greater length.
Immediately after the departure of the smiling
clerk, Nekhludoff heard angry women's voices interrupted by the voice of the
clerk. He listened.
"I have no more strength. You want the cr=
oss
on my breast," said an exasperated voice.
"She only ran in," said another voic=
e.
"Give her up, I say. Why do you torture the beast, and keep the milk f=
rom
the children?"
Nekhludoff walked around the house where he saw
two disheveled women, one of whom was evidently pregnant, standing near the
staircase. On the stairs, with his hands in the pockets of his crash overco=
at,
stood the clerk. Seeing their master, the women became silent and began to =
arrange
their 'kerchiefs, which had fallen from their heads, while the clerk took h=
is
hands out of his pockets and began to smile.
The clerk explained that the peasants purposely
permitted their calves, and even cows, to roam over the master's meadows. T=
hat
two cows belonging to these women had been caught on the meadow and driven =
into
an inclosure. The clerk demanded from the women thirty copecks per cow, or =
two
days' work.
"Time and again I told them," said t=
he
smiling clerk, looking around at Nekhludoff, as if calling him to witness,
"to look out for cows when driving them to feed."
"I just went to see to the child, and they
walked away."
"Don't leave them when you undertake to l=
ook
after them."
"And who would feed my child?"
"If they had only grazed, at least, they
would have no pains in their stomachs. But they only walked in."
"All the meadows are spoiled," the c=
lerk
turned to Nekhludoff. "If they are not made to pay there will be no hay
left."
"Don't be sinning," cried the pregna=
nt
woman. "My cow was never caught."
"But now that she was caught, pay for her=
, or
work."
"Well, then, I will work. But return me t=
he
cow; don't torture her," she cried angrily. "It is bad enough as =
it
is; I get no rest, either day or night. Mother-in-law is sick; my husband is
drunk. Single-handed I have to do all the work, and I have no strength. May=
you
choke yourself!" she shouted and began to weep.
Nekhludoff asked the clerk to release the cows=
and
returned to the house, wondering why people do not see what is so plain.
=
=
Whether
it was because there were fewer peasants present, or because he was not
occupied with himself, but with the matter in hand, Nekhludoff felt no
agitation when the seven peasants chosen from the villagers responded to the
summons.
He first of all expressed his views on private
ownership of land.
"As I look upon it," he said, "=
land
ought not to be the subject of purchase and sale, for if land can be sold, =
then
those who have money will buy it all in and charge the landless what they
please for the use of it. People will then be compelled to pay for the righ=
t to
stand on the earth," he added, quoting Spencer's argument.
"There remains to put on wings and fly,&q=
uot;
said an old man with smiling eyes and gray beard.
"That's so," said a long-nosed peasa=
nt
in a deep basso.
"Yes, sir," said the ex-soldier.
"The old woman took some grass for the co=
w.
They caught her, and to jail she went," said a good-natured, lame peas=
ant.
"There is land for five miles around, but=
the
rent is higher than the land can produce," said the toothless, angry o=
ld
man.
"I am of the same opinion as you," s=
aid
Nekhludoff, "and that is the reason I want to give you the land."=
"Well, that would be a kind deed," s=
aid
a broad-shouldered old peasant with a curly, grayish beard like that of Mic=
hael
Angelo's Moses, evidently thinking that Nekhludoff intended to rent out the
land.
"That is why I came here. I do not wish to
own the land any longer, but it is necessary to consider how to dispose of
it."
"You give it to the peasants--that's
all," said the toothless, angry peasant.
For a moment Nekhludoff was confused, seeing in
these words doubt of the sincerity of his purpose. But he shook it off, and
took advantage of the remark to say what he intended.
"I would be only too glad to give it,&quo=
t;
he said, "but to whom and how shall I give it? Why should I give it to
your community rather than to the Deminsky community?" Deminsky was a
neighboring village with very little land.
They were all silent. Only the ex-soldier said,
"Yes, sir."
"And now tell me how would you distribute=
the
land?"
"How? We would give each an equal
share," said an oven-builder, rapidly raising and lowering his eyebrow=
s.
"How else? Of course divide it equally,&q=
uot;
said a good-natured, lame peasant, whose feet, instead of socks, were wound=
in
a white strip of linen.
This decision was acquiesced in by all as being
satisfactory.
"But how?" asked Nekhludoff, "a=
re
the domestics also to receive equal shares?"
"No, sir," said the ex-soldier, assu=
ming
a cheerful mood. But the sober-minded tall peasant disagreed with him.
"If it is to be divided, everybody is to =
get
an equal share," after considering awhile, he said in a deep basso.
"That is impossible," said Nekhludof=
f,
who was already prepared with his objection. "If everyone was to get an
equal share, then those who do not themselves work would sell their shares =
to
the rich. Thus the land would again get into the hands of the rich. Again, =
the
people that worked their own shares would multiply, and the landlords would=
again
get the landless into their power."
"Yes, sir," the ex-soldier hastily
assented.
"The selling of land should be prohibited;
only those that cultivate it themselves should be allowed to own it," =
said
the oven-builder, angrily interrupting the soldier.
To this Nekhludoff answered that it would be
difficult to determine whether one cultivated the land for himself or for
others.
Then the sober-minded old man suggested that t=
he
land should be given to them as an association, and that only those that to=
ok
part in cultivating it should get their share.
Nekhludoff was ready with arguments against th=
is
communistic scheme, and he retorted that in such case it would be necessary
that all should have plows, that each should have the same number of horses=
, and
that none should lag behind, or that everything should belong to society, f=
or
which the consent of every one was necessary.
"Our people will never agree," said =
the
angry old man.
"There will be incessant fighting among
them," said the white-bearded peasant with the shining eyes. "The
women will scratch each other's eyes out."
"The next important question is," sa=
id
Nekhludoff, "how to divide the land according to quality. You cannot g=
ive
black soil to some and clay and sand to others."
"Let each have a part of both," said=
the
oven-builder.
To this Nekhludoff answered that it was not a
question of dividing the land in one community, but of the division of land
generally among all the communities. If the land is to be given gratis to t=
he
peasants, then why should some get good land, and others poor land? There w=
ould
be a rush for the good land.
"Yes, sir," said the ex-soldier.
The others were silent.
"You see, it is not as simple as it appea=
rs
at first sight," said Nekhludoff. "We are not the only ones, there
are other people thinking of the same thing. And now, there is an American,
named George, who devised the following scheme, and I agree with him."=
"What is that to you? You are the master;=
you
distribute the land, and there is an end to it," said the angry peasan=
t.
This interruption somewhat confused Nekhludoff,
but he was glad to see that others were also dissatisfied with this
interruption.
"Hold on, Uncle Semen; let him finish,&qu=
ot;
said the old man in an impressive basso.
This encouraged Nekhludoff, and he proceeded to
explain the single-tax theory of Henry George.
"The land belongs to no one--it belongs to
the Creator."
"That's so!"
"Yes, sir."
"The land belongs to all in common. Every=
one
has an equal right to it. But there is good land, and there is poor land. A=
nd
the question is, how to divide the land equally. The answer to this is, that
those who own the better land should pay to those who own the poorer the va=
lue
of the better land. But as it is difficult to determine how much anyone sho=
uld
pay, and to whom, and as society needs money for common utilities, let every
land owner pay to society the full value of his land--less, if it is poorer;
more, if it is better. And those who do not wish to own land will have their
taxes paid by the land owners."
"That's correct," said the oven-buil=
der.
"Let the owner of the better land pay more."
"What a head that Jhorga had on him!"
said the portly old peasant with the curls.
"If only the payments were reasonable,&qu=
ot;
said the tall peasant, evidently understanding what it was leading to.
"The payments should be such that it woul=
d be
neither too cheap nor too dear. If too dear, it would be unprofitable; if t=
oo
cheap, people would begin to deal in land. This is the arrangement I would =
like
you to make."
Voices of approval showed that the peasants
understood him perfectly.
"What a head!" repeated the
broad-shouldered peasant with the curls, meaning "Jhorga."
"And what if I should choose to take
land?" said the clerk, smiling.
"If there is an unoccupied section, take =
and
cultivate it," said Nekhludoff.
"What do you want land for? You are not
hungering without land," said the old man with the smiling eyes.
Here the conference ended.
Nekhludoff repeated his offer, telling the peasants to consult the wish of the community, before giving their answer.<= o:p>
The peasants said that they would do so, took
leave of Nekhludoff and departed in a state of excitement. For a long time
their loud voices were heard, and finally died away about midnight.
*
The peasants did not work the following day, b=
ut
discussed their master's proposition. The community was divided into two
factions. One declared the proposition profitable and safe; the other saw in
the proposition a plot which it feared the more because it could not unders=
tand
it. On the third day, however, the proposition was accepted, the fears of t=
he
peasants having been allayed by an old woman who explained the master's act=
ion
by the suggestion that he began to think of saving his soul. This explanati=
on
was confirmed by the large amount of money Nekhludoff had distributed while=
he
remained in Panov. These money gifts were called forth by the fact that her=
e, for
the first time, he learned to what poverty the peasants had been reduced and
though he knew that it was unwise, he could not help distributing such mone=
y as
he had, which was considerable.
As soon as it became known that the master was
distributing money, large crowds of people from the entire surrounding coun=
try
came to him asking to be helped. He had no means of determining the respect=
ive needs
of the individuals, and yet he could not help giving these evidently poor
people money. Again, to distribute money indiscriminately was absurd. His o=
nly
way out of the difficulty was to depart, which he hastened to do.
On the third day of his visit to Panov,
Nekhludoff, while looking over the things in the house, in one of the drawe=
rs
of his aunt's chiffonnier, found a picture representing a group of Sophia
Ivanovna, Catherine Ivanovna, himself, as student, and Katiousha--neat, fre=
sh, beautiful
and full of life. Of all the things in the house Nekhludoff removed this
picture and the letters. The rest he sold to the miller for a tenth part of=
its
value.
Recalling now the feeling of pity over the los=
s of
his property which he had experienced in Kusminskoie, Nekhludoff wondered h=
ow
he could have done so. Now he experienced the gladness of release and the f=
eeling
of novelty akin to that experienced by an explorer who discovers new lands.=
=
It was
evening when Nekhludoff arrived in the city, and as he drove through the
gas-lit streets to his house, it looked to him like a new city. The odor of
camphor still hung in the air through all the rooms, and Agrippina, Petrovna
and Kornei seemed tired out and dissatisfied, and even quarreled about the
packing of the things, the use of which seemed to consist chiefly in being =
hung
out, dried and packed away again. His room was not occupied, but was not
arranged for his coming, and the trunks blocked all the passages, so that h=
is
coming interfered with those affairs which, by some strange inertia, were
taking place in this house. This evident foolishness, to which he had once =
been
a party, seemed so unpleasant to Nekhludoff, after the impressions he had
gained of the want in the villages, that he decided to move to a hotel the =
very
next day, leaving the packing to Agrippina until the arrival of his sister.=
He left the house in the morning, hired two mo=
dest
and not over-clean furnished rooms near the prison, and went to his lawyer.=
After the storms and rains came those cold,
piercing winds that usually occur in the fall. Protected only by a light
overcoat, Nekhludoff was chilled to the bone. He walked quickly in order to
warm himself.
The village scenes came to his mind--the women,
children and old men, whose poverty and exhaustion he had noticed as if for=
the
first time, especially that oldish child which twisted its little calfless =
legs--and
he involuntarily compared them with the city folks. Passing by the butcher,
fish and clothing shops, he was struck, as if it was the first time he look=
ed
upon them--by the physical evidences of the well-being of such a large numb=
er
of clean, well-fed shopkeepers which was not to be seen anywhere in the
villages. Equally well fed were the drivers in quilted coats and buttons on
their backs, porters, servant girls, etc. In all these people he now
involuntarily saw those same village folks whom privation had driven to the
city. Some of them were able to take advantage of the conditions in the city
and became happy proprietors themselves; others were reduced to even greater
straits and became even more wretched. Such wretchedness Nekhludoff saw in =
a number
of shoemakers that he saw working near the window of a basement; in the lea=
n,
pale, disheveled washerwomen ironing with bare hands before open windows fr=
om
which soap-laden steam poured out; in two painters, aproned and bare-footed,
who were covered with paint from temple to heel. In their sunburnt, sinewy,
weak hands, bared above the elbows, they carried a bucket of paint and
incessantly cursed each other. Their faces were wearied and angry. The same=
expression
of weariness and anger he saw in the dusty faces of the truck drivers; on t=
he
swollen and tattered men, women and children who stood begging on the street
corners. Similar faces were seen in the windows of the tea-houses which
Nekhludoff passed. Around the dirty tables, loaded with bottles and tea
services, perspiring men with red, stupefied faces sat shouting and singing,
and white-aproned servants flitted to and fro.
"Why have they all gathered here?"
thought Nekhludoff, involuntarily inhaling, together with the dust, the odo=
r of
rancid oil spread by the fresh paint.
On one of the streets he suddenly heard his na=
me
called above the rattling of the trucks. It was Shenbok, with curled and
stiffened mustache and radiant face. Nekhludoff had lost sight of him long =
ago,
but heard that on leaving his regiment and joining the cavalry, notwithstan=
ding
his debts he managed to hold his own in rich society.
"I am glad I met you. There is not a soul=
in
the city. How old you have grown, my boy! I only recognized you by your wal=
k.
Well, shall we have dinner together? Where can we get a good meal here?&quo=
t;
"I hardly think I will have the time,&quo=
t;
answered Nekhludoff, who wished to get rid of his friend without offending =
him.
"What brings you here?" he asked.
"Business, my boy. Guardianship affairs. =
I am
a guardian, you know. I have charge of Samanoff's business--the rich Samano=
ff,
you know. He is a spendthrift, and there are fifty-four thousand acres of
land!" he said with particular pride, as if he had himself made all th=
ese
acres. "The affairs were fearfully neglected. The land was rented to t=
he peasants,
who did not pay anything and were eighty thousand rubles in arrears. In one
year I changed everything, and realized seventy per cent. more for the esta=
te.
Eh?" he asked, with pride.
Nekhludoff recalled a rumor that for the very
reason that Shenbok squandered his own wealth and was inextricably in debt,=
he
was appointed guardian over a rich old spendthrift, and was now evidently o=
btaining
an income from the guardianship.
Nekhludoff refused to take dinner with Shenbok=
, or
accompany him to the horse races, to which the latter invited him, and afte=
r an
exchange of commonplaces the two parted.
"Is it possible that I was like him?"
thought Nekhludoff. "Not exactly, but I sought to be like him, and tho=
ught
that I would thus pass my life."
*
The lawyer received him immediately on his
arrival, although it was not his turn. The lawyer expressed himself strongl=
y on
the detention of the Menshovs, declaring that there was not a particle of
evidence against them on record.
"If the case is tried here, and not in the
district, I will stake anything on their discharge. And the petition in beh=
alf
of Theodosia Brinkova is ready. You had better take it with you to St.
Petersburg and present it there. Otherwise there will begin an inquiry which
will have no end. Try to reach some people who have influence with the comm=
ission
on petitions. Well, that's all, isn't it?"
"No. Here they write me----"
"You seem to be the funnel into which all=
the
prison complaints are poured. I fear you will not hold them all."
"But this case is simply shocking," =
said
Nekhludoff, and related the substance of it.
"What is it that surprises you?"
"Everything. I can understand the orderly=
who
acted under orders, but the assistant prosecutor who drew the indictment is=
an
educated man----"
"That is the mistake. We are used to think
that the prosecuting officers--the court officers generally--are a kind of =
new,
liberal men. And so they were at one time, but not now. The only thing that=
concerns
these officers is to draw their salaries on the 20th of every month. Their
principles begin and end with their desire to get more. They will arrest, t=
ry
and convict anybody----. I am always telling these court officers that I ne=
ver
look upon them without gratitude," continued the lawyer, "because=
it
is due to their kindness that I, you and all of us are not in jail. To depr=
ive
any one of us of all civil rights and send him to Siberia is the easiest th=
ing
imaginable."
"But if everything depends on the pleasur=
e of
the prosecutor, who can enforce the law or not, then what is the use of the
courts?"
The lawyer laughed merrily.
"That is the question you are raising. We=
ll,
my dear sir, that is philosophy. However, we can discuss that. Come to my h=
ouse
next Saturday. You will find there scholars, litterateurs, artists. We will=
have
a talk on social questions," said the lawyer, pronouncing the words
"social questions" with ironical pathos. "Are you acquainted=
with
my wife? Call on Saturday."
"I will try," answered Nekhludoff,
feeling that he was saying an untruth; that if there was anything he would =
try
hard to do it was not to be present at the lawyer's amid the scholars,
litterateurs and artists.
The laughter with which the lawyer met
Nekhludoff's remark concerning the uselessness of courts if the prosecutors=
can
do what they please, and the intonation with which he pronounced the words
"philosophy" and "social questions," showed how utterly
unlike himself were the lawyer and the people of his circle, both in charac=
ter
and in views of life.
=
It was
late and the distance to the prison was long, so Nekhludoff hired a trap. On
one of the streets the driver, who was a middle-aged man with an intelligent
and good-natured face, turned to Nekhludoff and pointed to an immense build=
ing
going up.
"What a huge building there is going
up!" he said with pride, as if he had a part in the building of it.
It was really a huge structure, built in a
complex, unusual style. A scaffolding of heavy pine logs surrounded the
structure, which was fenced in by deal boards. It was as busy a scene as an=
ant
hill.
Nekhludoff wondered that these people, while t=
heir
wives were killing themselves with work at home, and their children starvin=
g,
should think it necessary to build that foolish and unnecessary house for s=
ome
foolish and unnecessary man.
"Yes, a foolish building," he spoke =
his
thought aloud.
"How foolish?" retorted the offended
driver. "Thanks to them, the people get work. It is not foolish."=
"But the work is unnecessary."
"It must be necessary if they are building
it," said the driver. "It gives the people food."
Nekhludoff became silent, the more so because =
it
was too noisy to be heard. When they had reached the macadamized road near =
the
prison the driver again turned to Nekhludoff.
"And what a lot of people are coming to t=
he
city--awful," he said, turning around on the box and pointing to a par=
ty
of laborers with saws, axes, coats and sacks thrown over their shoulders, a=
nd
coming from the opposite direction.
"More than in former years?" asked
Nekhludoff.
"No comparison. The masters are kicking t=
hem
about like shavings. The market places are glutted with them."
"What is the reason?"
"They have multiplied. They have no homes=
."
"And what if they have multiplied! Why do
they not remain in the villages?"
"There is nothing to do there. There is no
land."
Nekhludoff experienced that which happens with=
a
sore place--it is struck oftener than any other part of the body. But it on=
ly
seems so because it is more noticeable.
"Can it be possible that it is everywhere=
the
same?" he thought, and asked the driver how much land there was in his
village; how much he himself owned, and why he lived in the city.
"There is but an acre to every person. We=
are
renting three acres. There is my father and brother. Another brother is in =
the
army. They are managing it. But there is really nothing to manage, and my
brother intended to go to Moskow."
"Is there no land for rent?"
=
"Where
could one get land nowadays? The masters' children have squandered theirs. =
The
merchants have it all in their hands. One cannot rent it from them; they
cultivate it themselves. Our lands are held by a Frenchman who bought them =
of
the former landlord. He won't rent any of it, and that is all."
"What Frenchman?"
"Dufar, the Frenchman--you may have heard=
. He
is making wigs for the actors. He is now our master, and does what he pleas=
es
with us. He is a good man himself, but his wife is Russian--and what a cur!=
She
is robbing the people--simply awful! But here is the prison. Shall I drive =
up
to the front? I think they don't admit through the front."
=
With a
faint heart and with horror at the thought that he might find Maslova in an
inebriate condition and persistently antagonistic, and at the mystery which=
she
was to him, Nekhludoff rang the bell and inquired of the inspector about
Maslova. She was in the hospital.
A young physician, impregnated with carbolic a=
cid,
came out into the corridor and sternly asked Nekhludoff what he wanted. The
physician indulged the prisoners' shortcomings and often relaxed the rules =
in their
favor, for which he often ran afoul of the prison officials and even the he=
ad
physician. Fearing that Nekhludoff might ask something not permitted by the
rules, and, moreover, desiring to show that he made no exceptions in favor =
of
anybody, he feigned anger.
"There are no women here; this is the
children's ward," he said.
"I know it, but there is a nurse here who=
had
been transferred from the prison."
"Yes, there are two. What do you wish,
then?"
"I am closely related to one of them,
Maslova," said Nekhludoff, "and would like to see her. I am going=
to
St. Petersburg to enter an appeal in her case. I would like to hand her thi=
s;
it is only a photograph," and he produced an envelope from his pocket.=
"Yes, you may do that," said the
softened physician, and turning to an old nurse in a white apron, told her =
to
call Maslova. "Won't you take a seat, or come into the
reception-room?"
"Thank you," said Nekhludoff, and ta=
king
advantage of the favorable change in the physician's demeanor, asked him wh=
at
they thought of Maslova in the hospital.
"Her work is fair, considering the condit=
ions
amid which she had lived," answered the physician. "But there she
comes."
The old nurse appeared at one of the doors, and
behind her came Maslova. She wore a white apron over a striped skirt; a whi=
te
cap on her head hid her hair. Seeing Nekhludoff she flushed, stopped waveri=
ngly,
then frowned, and with downcast eyes approached him with quick step. Coming
near him she stood for a moment without offering her hand, then she did off=
er
her hand and became even more flushed. Nekhludoff had not seen her since the
conversation in which she excused herself for her impetuosity, and he expec=
ted
to find her in a similar mood. But she was entirely different to-day; there=
was
something new in the expression of her face; something timid and reserved, =
and,
as it seemed to him, malevolent toward him. He repeated the words he had sa=
id
to the physician and handed her the envelope with the photograph which he h=
ad
brought from Panov.
"It is an old picture which I came across=
in
Panov. It may please you to have it. Take it."
Raising her black eyebrows she looked at him w=
ith
her squinting eyes, as though asking, "What is that for?" Then she
silently took the envelope and tucked it under her apron.
"I saw your aunt there," said
Nekhludoff.
"Did you?" she said, with indifferen=
ce.
"How do you fare here?" asked
Nekhludoff.
"Fairly well," she said.
"It is not very hard?"
"Not very. I am not used to it yet."=
"I am very glad. At any rate, it is better
than there."
"Than where?" she said, and her face
became purple.
"There, in the prison," Nekhludoff
hastened to say.
"Why better?" she asked.
"I think the people here are better. There
are no such people here as there."
"There are many good people there."<= o:p>
"I did what I could for the Menshovs and =
hope
they will be freed," said Nekhludoff.
"May God grant it. Such a wonderful little
woman," she said, repeating her description of the old woman, and slig=
htly
smiled.
"I am going to-day to St. Petersburg. Your
case will be heard soon, and, I hope, will be reversed."
"It is all the same now, whether they rev=
erse
it or not," she said.
"Why now?"
"So," she answered, and stealthily
glanced at him inquiringly.
Nekhludoff understood this answer and this gla=
nce
as a desire on her part to know if he were still holding to his decision, or
had changed it since her refusal.
"I don't know why it is all the same to
you," he said, "but to me it really is all the same whether you a=
re
acquitted or not. In either case, I am ready to do what I said," he sa=
id,
with determination.
She raised her head, and her black, squinting =
eyes
fixed themselves on his face and past it, and her whole face became radiant
with joy. But her words were in an entirely different strain.
"Oh, you needn't talk that way," she
said.
"I say it that you may know."
"Everything has been already said, and th=
ere
is no use talking any more," she said, with difficulty repressing a sm=
ile.
There was some noise in the ward. A child was
heard crying.
"I think I am called," she said, loo=
king
around with anxiety.
"Well, then, good-by," he said.
She pretended not to see his extended hand, tu=
rned
round, and endeavoring to hide her elation, she walked away with quick step=
.
"What is taking place in her? What is she
thinking? What are her feelings? Is she putting me to a test, or is she rea=
lly
unable to forgive me? Can she not say what she thinks and feels, or simply =
will
not? Is she pacified or angered?" Nekhludoff asked himself, but could =
give
no answer. One thing he knew, however, and that was that she had changed; t=
hat
a spiritual transformation was taking place in her, and this transformation
united him not only to her, but to Him in whose name it was taking place. A=
nd
this union caused him joyful agitation.
Returning to the ward where eight children lay=
in
their beds, Maslova began to remake one of the beds, by order of the Sister,
and, leaning over too far with the sheet, slipped and nearly fell. The
convalescing boy, wound in bandages to his neck, began to laugh. Maslova co=
uld restrain
herself no longer, and seating herself on the bedstead she burst into loud
laughter, infecting several children, who also began to laugh. The Sister
angrily shouted:
"What are you roaring about? Think you th=
is
is like the place you came from? Go fetch the rations."
Maslova stopped laughing, and taking a dish we=
nt
on her errand, but exchanging looks with the bandaged boy, who giggled agai=
n.
Several times during the day, when Maslova
remained alone, she drew out a corner of the picture and looked at it with
admiration, but in the evening, when she and another nurse retired for the
night, she removed the picture from the envelope and immovably looked with =
admiration
at the faces; her own, his and the aunt's, their dresses, the stairs of the
balcony, the bushes in the background, her eyes feasting especially on hers=
elf,
her young, beautiful face with the hair hanging over her forehead. She was =
so
absorbed that she failed to notice that the other nurse had entered.
"What is that? Did he give it you?"
asked the stout, good-natured nurse, leaning over the photograph.
"Is it possible that that is you?"
"Who else?" Maslova said, smiling and
looking into her companion's face.
"And who is that? He himself? And that is=
his
mother?"
"His aunt. Couldn't you recognize me?&quo=
t;
asked Maslova.
"Why, no. I could never recognize you. The
face is entirely different. That must have been taken about ten years
ago."
"Not years, but a lifetime," said
Maslova, and suddenly her face became sullen and a wrinkle formed between h=
er
eyebrows.
"Yours was an easy life, wasn't it?"=
"Yes, easy," Maslova repeated, closi=
ng
her eyes and shaking her head. "Worse than penal servitude."
"Why so?"
"Because. From eight in the evening to fo=
ur
in the morning--every day the same."
"Then why don't they get out?"
"They like to, but cannot. But what is the
use of talking!" cried Maslova, and she sprang to her feet, threw the
photograph into the drawer of the table, and suppressing her angry tears, r=
an
into the corridor, slamming the door. Looking on the photograph she imagine=
d herself
as she had been at the time the photograph was made, and dreamed how happy =
she
had been and might still be with him. The words of her companion reminded h=
er
what she was now--reminded her of all the horror of that life which she then
felt but confusedly, and would not allow herself to admit. Only now she viv=
idly
recalled all those terrible nights, particularly one Shrovetide night. She
recalled how she, in a low-cut, wine-bespattered, red silk dress, with a red
bow in her dishevelled hair, weak, jaded and tipsy, after dancing attendanc=
e upon
the guest, had seated herself, at two in the morning, near the thin, bony,
pimpled girl-pianist and complained of her hard life. The girl said that her
life was also disagreeable to her, and that she wished to change her
occupation. Afterward their friend Clara joined them, and all three suddenly
decided to change their life. They were about to leave the place when the
drunken guests became noisy, the fiddler struck up a lively song of the fir=
st
figure of a Russian quadrille, the pianist began to thump in unison, a litt=
le
drunken man in a white necktie and dress coat caught her up. Another man, s=
tout
and bearded, and also in a dress coat, seized Clara, and for a long time th=
ey
whirled, danced, shouted and drank. Thus a year passed, a second and a thir=
d.
How could she help changing! And the cause of it all was he. And suddenly h=
er
former wrath against him rose in her; and she felt like chiding and reprovi=
ng
him. She was sorry that she had missed the opportunity of telling him again
that she knew him, and would not yield to him; that she would not allow him=
to
take advantage of her spiritually as he had done corporeally; that she would
not allow him to make her the subject of his magnanimity. And in order to d=
eaden
the painful feeling of pity for herself and the useless reprobation of him,=
she
yearned for wine. And she would have broken her word and drunk some wine had
she been in the prison. But here wine could only be obtained from the assis=
tant
surgeon, and she was afraid of him, because he pursued her with his attenti=
ons,
and all relations with men were disgusting to her. For some time she sat on=
a
bench in the corridor, and returning to her closet, without heeding her com=
panion's
questions, she wept for a long time over her ruined life.
=
Nekhludoff
had four cases in hand: Maslova's appeal, the petition of Theodosia Birukov=
a,
the case of Shustova's release, by request of Vera Bogodukhovskaia, and the
obtaining of permission for a mother to visit her son kept in a fortress, a=
lso
by Bogodukhovskaia's request.
Since his visit to Maslenikoff, especially sin=
ce
his trip to the country, Nekhludoff felt an aversion for that sphere in whi=
ch
he had been living heretofore, and in which the sufferings borne by million=
s of
people in order to secure the comforts and pleasures of a few, were so
carefully concealed that the people of that sphere did not and could not see
these sufferings, and consequently the cruelty and criminality of their own
lives.
Nekhludoff could no longer keep up relations w=
ith
these people without reproving himself. And yet the habits of his past life,
the ties of friendship and kinship, and especially his one great aim of hel=
ping
Maslova and the other unfortunates, drew him into that sphere against his w=
ill;
and he was compelled to ask the aid and services of people whom he had not =
only
ceased to respect but who called forth his indignation and contempt.
Arriving at St. Petersburg, and stopping at his
aunt's, the wife of an ex-Minister of State, he found himself in the very h=
eart
of the aristocratic circle. It was unpleasant to him, but he could do no di=
fferent.
Not to stop at his aunt's was to offend her. Besides, through her connectio=
ns
she could be of great service to him in those affairs for the sake of which=
he
came to St. Petersburg.
"What wonders I hear about you!" said
Countess Catherine Ivanovna Charskaia, while Nekhludoff was drinking the co=
ffee
brought him immediately after his arrival. "Vous posez pour un Howard.=
You
are helping the convicts; making the rounds of the prisons; reforming them.=
"
"You are mistaken; I never had such
intentions."
"Why, that is not bad. Only, I understand,
there is some love affair--come, tell me."
Nekhludoff related the story of Maslova, exact=
ly
as it happened.
"Yes, yes, I remember. Poor Hellen told m=
e at
the time you lived at the old maids' house that, I believe, they wished you=
to
marry their ward." Countess Catherine Ivanovna always hated Nekhludoff=
's
aunts on his father's side. "So, that is she? Elle est encore jolie?&q=
uot;
Aunt Catherine Ivanovna was a sixty-year-old, =
healthy,
jolly, energetic, talkative woman. She was tall, very stout, with a black, =
downy
mustache on her upper lip. Nekhludoff loved her, and since childhood had be=
en
accustomed to get infected with her energy and cheerfulness.
"No, ma tante, all that belongs to the pa=
st.
I only wish to help her, because she is innocent, and it is my fault that s=
he
was condemned, her whole wrecked life is upon my conscience. I feel it to b=
e my
duty to do for her what I can."
"But how is it? I was told that you wish =
to
marry her."
"I do wish it, it is true; but she
doesn't."
Catherine Ivanovna raised her eyebrows and
silently looked at Nekhludoff in surprise. Suddenly her face changed and
assumed a pleased expression.
"Well, she is wiser than you are. Ah! wha=
t a
fool you are! And you would marry her?"
"Certainly."
"After what she has been?"
"The more so--is it not all my fault?&quo=
t;
"Well, you are simply a crank," said=
the
aunt, suppressing a smile. "You are an awful crank, but I love you for=
the
very reason that you are such an awful crank," she repeated, the word
evidently well describing, according to her view, the mental and moral
condition of her nephew. "And how opportune. You know, Aline has organ=
ized
a wonderful asylum for Magdalens. I visited it once. How disgusting they ar=
e! I
afterward washed myself from head to foot. But Aline is corps et ame in this
affair. So we will send her, your Magdalen, to her. If any one will reform =
her,
it is Aline."
"But she was sentenced to penal servitude=
. I
came here for the express purpose of obtaining a reversal of her sentence. =
That
is my first business to you."
"Is that so? Where is the case now?"=
"In the Senate."
"In the Senate? Why, my dear cousin Levou=
shka
is in the Senate. However, he is in the Heraldry Department. Let me see. No=
, of
the real ones I do not know any. Heaven knows what a mixture they are: eith=
er Germans,
such as Ge, Fe, De--tout l'alphabet--or all sorts of Ivanvas, Semenovs,
Nikitins, or Ivaneukos, Semeneukos, Nikitenkas pour varier. Des gens de l'a=
utre
monde. However, I will tell my husband. He knows all sorts of people. I will
tell him. You explain it to him, for he never understands me. No matter wha=
t I
may say, he always says that he cannot understand me. C'est un parti pris.
Everybody understands, only he does not understand."
At that moment a servant in knee-breeches ente=
red
with a letter on a silver tray.
"Ah, that is from Aline. Now you will hav=
e an
opportunity to hear Kisiweather."
"Who is that Kisiweather?"
"Kisiweather? Come around to-day and you =
will
find out who he is. He speaks so that the most hardened criminals fall on t=
heir
knees and weep, and repent."
Countess Catherine Ivanovna, however strange it
might be, and how so little it agreed with her character, was a follower of
that teaching which held that essence of Christianity consisted in a belief=
in redemption.
She visited the meetings where sermons were delivered on this teaching then=
in
vogue, and invited the adherents to her own house. Although this teaching
rejected all rites, images and even the sacraments, the Princess had images
hanging in all her rooms, even over her bedstead, and she complied with all=
the
ritual requirements of the church, seeing nothing contradictory in that.
"Your Magdalen ought to hear him; she wou=
ld
become converted," said the Countess. "Don't fail to come to-nigh=
t.
You will hear him then. He is a remarkable man."
"It is not interesting to me, ma tante.&q=
uot;
"I tell you it is interesting. You must c=
ome
to-night. Now, what else do you want me to do? Videz votre sac."
"There is the man in the fortress."<= o:p>
"In the fortress? Well, I can give you a =
note
to Baron Kriegmuth. C'est un très-brave homme. But you know him
yourself. He was your father's comrade. Il donne dans le spiritisme. But th=
at
is nothing. He is a kind man. What do you want there?"
"It is necessary to obtain permission for=
a
mother to visit her son who is incarcerated there. But I was told that
Cherviansky and not Kriegmuth is the person to be applied to."
"I do not like Cherviansky, but he is
Mariette's husband. I will ask her; she will do it for me. Elle est tr&egra=
ve;s
gentille."
"There is another woman I wish you would
speak to her about. She has been in prison for several months, and no one k=
nows
for what."
"Oh, no; she herself surely knows for wha=
t.
They know very well. And it serves them right, those short-haired ones.&quo=
t;
"I do not know whether it serves them rig=
ht
or not. But they are suffering. You are a Christian, and believe in the Gos=
pel,
and yet are so pitiless."
"That has nothing to do with it. The Gosp=
el
is one thing; what I dislike is another thing. It would be worse if I prete=
nded
to like the Nihilists, especially the female Nihilists, when as a matter of
fact I hate them."
"Why do you hate them?"
"Why do they meddle in other people's aff=
airs?
It is not a woman's business."
"But you have nothing against Mariette
occupying herself with business," said Nekhludoff.
"Mariette? Mariette is Mariette, but who =
is
she? A conceited ignoramus who wants to teach everybody."
"They do not wish to teach; they only wis=
h to
help the people."
"We know without them who should and who
should not be helped."
"But the people are impoverished. I have =
just
been in the country. Is it proper that peasants should overwork themselves
without getting enough to eat, while we are living in such wasteful
luxury?"
"What do you wish me to do? You would lik=
e to
see me work and not eat anything?"
"No, I do not wish you not to eat,"
smiling involuntarily, answered Nekhludoff. "I only wish that we should
all work, and all have enough to eat."
The aunt again raised her eyebrows and gazed at
him with curiosity.
"Mon cher, vous finirez mal," she sa=
id.
At that moment a tall, broad-shouldered general
entered the room. It was Countess Charskaia's husband, a retired Minister o=
f State.
"Ah, Dmitri, how do you do?" he said,
putting out his clean-shaven cheek. "When did you get here?"
He silently kissed his wife on the forehead.
"Non, il est impayable." Countess
Catherine Ivanovna turned to her husband. "He wants me to do washing on
the river and feast on potatoes. He is an awful fool, but, nevertheless, do=
for
him what he asks. An awful crank," she corrected herself. "By the
way, they say that Kamenskaia is in a desperate condition; her life is
despaired of," she turned to her husband. "You ought to visit
her."
"Yes, it is awful," said the husband=
.
"Go, now, and have a talk together; I must
write some letters."
Nekhludoff had just reached the room next to t=
he
reception-room when she shouted after him:
"Shall I write then to Mariette?"
"If you please, ma tante."
"I will learn that which you want to say
about the short-haired en blanc, and she will have her husband attend to it.
Don't think that I am angry. They are hateful, your protegees, but--je ne l=
eur
veux pas de mal. But God forgive them. Now, go, and don't forget to come in=
the
evening; you will hear Kisiweather. We will also pray. And if you do not
resist, ca vous fera beaucoup de bien. I know that Hellen and all of you are
very backward in that respect. Now, au revoir."
=
The
man in whose power it was to lighten the condition of the prisoners in St.
Petersburg had earned a great number of medals, which, except for a white c=
ross
in his button-hole, he did not wear, however. The old general was of the Ge=
rman
barons, and, as it was said of him, had become childish. He had served in t=
he
Caucasus, where he had received this cross; then in Poland and in some other
place, and now he held the office which gave him good quarters, maintenance=
and
honor. He always strictly carried out the orders of his superiors, and cons=
idered
their execution of great importance and significance, so much so that while
everything in the world could be changed, these orders, according to him, w=
ere
above the possibility of any alteration.
As Nekhludoff was approaching the old general's
house the tower clock struck two. The general was at the time sitting with a
young artist in the darkened reception-room, at a table, the top of which w=
as
of inlaid work, both of them turning a saucer on a sheet of paper. Holding =
each
others fingers over the saucer, placed face downward, they pulled in differ=
ent
directions over the paper on which were printed all the letters of the
alphabet. The saucer was answering the general's question. How would souls
recognize each other after death?
At the moment one of the servants entered with
Nekhludoff's card, the soul of Jeanne D'Arc was speaking through the saucer.
The soul had already said, "They will recognize each other," which
was duly entered on a sheet of paper. When the servant entered, the saucer,
stopping first on the letter p, then on the letter o, reached the letter s =
and began
to jerk one way and another. That was because, as the general thought, the =
next
letter was to be l, that is to say, Jeanne D'Arc, according to his idea,
intended to say that souls would recognize each other only after they had b=
een
purged of everything mundane, or something to that effect, and that therefo=
re
the next letter ought to be l (_posl, i. e._, after); the artist, on the ot=
her
hand, thought that the next letter would be v; that the soul intended to say
that souls would recognize each other by the light--_posv_ (_ietu_) that wo=
uld
issue from the ethereal body of the souls. The general, gloomily knitting h=
is
brow, gazed fixedly on the hands, and imagining that the saucer moved itsel=
f,
pulled it toward the letter l. The young, anaemic artist, with his oily hair
brushed behind his ears, looked into the dark corner of the room, with his
blue, dull eyes, and nervously twitching his lips, pulled toward the letter=
v.
The general frowned at the interruption, and, after a moment's silence, took
the card, put on his pince-nez and, groaning from pain in his loins, rose to
his full height, rubbing his benumbed fingers.
"Show him into the cabinet."
"Permit me, Your Excellency, to finish it
myself," said the artist, rising. "I feel a presence."
"Very well; finish it," said the gen=
eral
with austerity, and went, with firm, long strides, into the cabinet.
"Glad to see you," said the general =
in a
rough voice to Nekhludoff, pointing to an arm-chair near the desk. "How
long have you been in St. Petersburg?"
Nekhludoff said that he had but lately arrived=
.
"Is your mother, the Princess, well?"=
;
"My mother is dead."
"Beg pardon; I was very sorry. My son tol=
d me
that he had met you."
The general's son was making the same career as
his father, and was very proud of the business with which he was entrusted.=
"Why, I served with your father. We were
friends, comrades. Are you in service?"
"No, I am not."
The general disapprovingly shook his head.
"I have a request to make of you,
general," said Nekhludoff.
"Very glad. What can I do for you?"<= o:p>
"If my request be out of season, please
forgive me. But I must state it."
"What is it?"
"There is a man, Gurkevitch, kept in pris=
on
under your jurisdiction. His mother asks to be permitted to visit him, or, =
at
least to send him books."
The general expressed neither satisfaction nor dissatisfaction at Nekhludoff's request, but, inclining his head to one sid= e, seemed to reflect. As a matter of fact he was not reflecting; Nekhludoff's = question did not even interest him, knowing very well that his answer would be as the law requires. He was simply resting mentally without thinking of anything.<= o:p>
"That is not in my discretion, you
know," he said, having rested awhile. "There is a law relating to
visits, and whatever that law permits, that is permitted. And as to books,
there is a library, and they are given such books as are allowed."
"Yes, but he wants scientific books; he
wishes to study."
"Don't believe that." The general
paused. "It is not for study that they want them, but so, it is simply
unrest."
"But their time must be occupied
somehow?"
"They are always complaining," retor=
ted
the general. "We know them."
He spoke of them in general as of some peculiar
race of people.
"They have such conveniences here as is
seldom seen in a prison," he continued.
And as though justifying himself, he began to
recount all the conveniences enjoyed by the prisoners in a manner to make o=
ne
believe that the chief aim of the institution consisted in making it a plea=
sant
place of abode.
"Formerly, it is true, the regulations we=
re
very harsh, but now their condition is excellent. They get three dishes, on=
e of
which is always of meat--chopped meat or cutlet. Sundays they get a fourth =
dish--dessert.
May God grant that every Russian could feed so well."
The general, like all old men, evidently having
committed to memory the oft-repeated words, proceeded to prove how exacting=
and
ungrateful the prisoners were by repeating what he had told many times befo=
re.
"They are furnished books on spiritual
topics, also old journals. We have a library of suitable books, but they se=
ldom
read them. At first they appear to be interested, and then it is found that=
the
pages of all the new books are barely half cut, and of the old ones there i=
s no
evidence of any thumb-marks at all. We even tried," with a remote semb=
lance
of a smile the general continued, "to put a piece of paper between the
pages, and it remained untouched. Writing, too, is allowed. A slate is given
them, also a slate-pencil, so that they may write for diversion. They can w=
ipe
it out and write again. And yet they don't write. No, they become quiet very
soon. At first they are uneasy, but afterward they even grow stout and beco=
me
very quiet."
Nekhludoff listened to the hoarse, feeble voic=
e;
looked on that fleshless body, those faded eyes under the gray eyebrows, th=
ose sunken,
shaved cheeks, supported by a military collar, that white cross, and unders=
tood
that to argue and explain to him the meaning of those words were futile. Bu=
t,
making another effort, he asked him about the prisoner, Shustova, whose
release, he had received information, had been ordered, through the efforts=
of
Mariette.
"Shustova? Shustova--I don't remember them
all by name. There are so many of them," he said, evidently reproving =
them
for being so numerous. He rang the bell and called for the secretary.
While a servant was going after the secretary =
he
admonished Nekhludoff to go into service, saying that the country was in ne=
ed
of honest, noble men.
"I am old, and yet I am serving to the ex=
tent
of my ability."
The secretary came and reported that there wer=
e no
papers received relating to Shustova, who was still in prison.
"As soon as we receive an order we release
them the very same day. We do not keep them; we do not particularly value t=
heir
presence," said the general, again with a waggish smile, which had the
effect only of making his face wry.
"Good-by, my dear," he continued.
"Don't be offended for advising you, for I do so only because I love y=
ou.
Have nothing to do with the prisoners. You will never find innocent people
among them. They are the most immoral set. We know them," he said, in a
tone of voice which did not permit the possibility of doubt. "You had
better take an office. The Emperor and the country need honest people. What=
if
I and such as you refused to serve? Who would be left? We are complaining of
conditions, but refuse to aid the government."
Nekhludoff sighed deeply, made a low bow, pres=
sed
the bony hand condescendingly extended, and departed.
The general disapprovingly shook his head, and,
rubbing his loins, went to the reception-room, where the artist awaited him
with the answer of Jeanne D'Arc. The general put on his pince-nez and read:=
"They
will recognize each other by the light issuing from the ethereal bodies.&qu=
ot;
"Ah!" said the general, approvingly,
closing his eyes. "But how will one recognize another when all have the
same light?" he asked, and again crossing his fingers with those of the
artist, seated himself at the table.
*
Nekhludoff's driver drove up to the gate.
"It is very dull here, sir," he said,
turning to Nekhludoff. "It was very tiresome, and I was about to drive
away."
"Yes, tiresome," assented Nekhludoff
with a deep sigh, resting his eyes on the clouds and the Neva, dotted with
variegated boats and steamers.
=
With a
note from Prince Ivan Michaelovitch, Nekhludoff went to Senator Wolf--un ho=
mme
très comme il faut, as the Prince had described him.
Wolf had just breakfasted and, as usual, was
smoking a cigar, to aid his digestion, when Nekhludoff arrived. Vladimir
Vasilievitch Wolf was really un homme très comme il faut, and this
quality he placed above all else; from the height of it he looked upon all
other people, and could not help valuing this quality, because, thanks to i=
t,
he had gained a brilliant career--the same career he strove for; that is to=
say,
through marriage he obtained a fortune, which brought him a yearly income of
eighteen thousand rubles, and by his own efforts he obtained a senatorship.=
He
considered himself not only un homme très comme il faut, but a man of
chivalric honesty. By honesty he understood the refusal to take bribes from
private people. But to do everything in his power to obtain all sorts of
traveling expenses, rents and disbursements he did not consider dishonest. =
Nor
did he consider it dishonest to rob his wife and sister-in-law of their for=
tunes.
On the contrary, he considered that a wise arrangement of his family affair=
s.
The home circle of Vladimir Vasilievitch consi=
sted
of his characterless wife, her sister, whose fortune he managed to get into=
his
own hands by selling her property and depositing the money in his own name,=
and
his gentle, scared, homely daughter, who was leading a solitary, hard life,=
and
whose only diversion consisted in visiting the religious meetings at Aline's
and Countess Catherine Ivanovna's.
The son of Vladimir Vasilievitch, a good-natur=
ed,
bearded boy of fifteen, who at that age had already commenced to drink and =
lead
a depraved life which lasted till he was twenty years old, was driven from =
the
house for the reason that he did not pass examinations in any school, and
keeping bad company, and, running into debt, he had compromised his father.=
The
father paid once for his son two hundred and thirty rubles, and paid six
hundred rubles a second time, but declared that that was the last time, and=
if
the son did not reform he would drive him from the house and have nothing t=
o do
with him. Not only did the son not reform, but contracted another debt of a
thousand rubles, and told his father that he did not care if he was driven =
from
the house, since life at home was torture to him. Then Vladimir Vasilievitch
told his son that he could go where he pleased; that he was no longer his s=
on.
Since then no one in the house dared to speak of his son to him. And Vladim=
ir
Vasilievitch was quite certain that he had arranged his family affairs in t=
he
best possible manner.
Wolf, with a flattering and somewhat derisive
smile--it was an involuntary expression of his consciousness of his comme il
faut superiority--halted in his exercise long enough to greet Nekhludoff and
read the note.
"Please take a seat, but you must excuse =
me.
If you have no objection I will walk," he said, putting his hands in t=
he
pockets of his jacket, and treading lightly up and down the diagonal of the
large cabinet, furnished in an austere style. "Very glad to make your =
acquaintance,
and, of course, to please the Count Ivan Michaelovitch," emitting the
fragrant, blue smoke, and carefully removing the cigar from his mouth so as=
not
to lose the ashes.
"I would like to ask you to hasten the
hearing of the appeal, because if the prisoner is to go to Siberia, it woul=
d be
desirable that she go as soon as possible," said Nekhludoff.
"Yes, yes, with the first steamer from
Nijhni; I know," said Wolf, with his condescending smile, who always k=
new
everything in advance, whatever the subject mentioned to him. "What is=
the
name of the prisoner?"
"Maslova."
Wolf walked to the table and looked into the
papers.
"That's right--Maslova. Very well; I will=
ask
my associates. We will hear the case Wednesday."
"May I wire my lawyer?"
"So you have a lawyer? What for? But if y=
ou
wish it, all right."
"The grounds of appeal may be
insufficient," said Nekhludoff, "but I think it may be seen from =
the
case that the sentence was the result of a misunderstanding."
"Yes, yes; that may be so, but the Senate
cannot enter into the merits of the case," said Vladimir Vasilievitch,
sternly, glancing at the ashes of his cigar. "The Senate only looks af=
ter
the proper interpretation and application of the law."
"This, I think, is an exceptional case.&q=
uot;
"I know; I know. All cases are exceptiona= l. We will do what the law requires. That is all." The ashes were still intact, but had already cracked and were in danger of collapse. "And do you often visit St. Petersburg?" asked Wolf, holding the cigar so that= the ashes would not fall. The ashes were unstable, however, and Wolf carefully carried them to the ash-holder, into which they were finally precipitated.<= o:p>
"What an awful catastrophe Kamensky met
with," said Wolf. "A fine young man, and an only son. Especially =
the
condition of the mother"--he went on repeating almost word for word the
story of a duel of which all St. Petersburg was talking at the time. After a
few more words about Countess Catherine Ivanovna and her passion for the ne=
w religious
tendency which Vladimir Vasilievitch neither praised nor condemned, but whi=
ch,
for un homme très comme il faut, was evidently superfluous, he rang =
the
bell.
Nekhludoff bowed himself out.
"If it is convenient for you, come to
dinner," said Wolf, extending his hand, "say on Wednesday. I will
then give you a definite answer."
It was already late, and Nekhludoff drove home,
that is, to his aunt's.
=
Maslova's
case was to be heard the following day, and Nekhludoff went to the Senate. =
He
met Fanirin at the entrance to the magnificent Senate building, where sever=
al
carriages were already waiting. Walking up the grand, solemn staircase to t=
he
second floor, the lawyer, who was familiar with all the passages, turned in=
to a
room to the left, on the door of which was carved the year of the instituti=
on
of the Code. The lawyer removed his overcoat, remaining in his dress-coat a=
nd
black tie on a white bosom, and with cheerful self-confidence walked into t=
he
next room. There were about fifteen spectators present, among whom were a y=
oung
woman in a pince-nez, and a gray-haired lady. A gray-haired old man of
patriarchal mien, wearing a box-coat and gray trousers, and attended by two
men, attracted particular attention. He crossed the room and entered a ward=
robe.
An usher, a handsome man with red cheeks and i=
n a
pompous uniform, approached Fanirin with a piece of paper in his hand and a=
sked
him in what case he appeared. Being told that in Maslova's case, the usher =
made
a note of something and went away. At that time the door of the wardrobe op=
ened
and the patriarchal looking old man came forth, no longer in the coat, but =
in a
brilliant uniform which made him resemble a bird. His uniform evidently
embarrassed the old man, and he walked into the room opposite the entrance =
with
quicker than his ordinary step.
Fanirin pointed him out to Nekhludoff as
Bé, "a most honorable gentleman." The spectators, including
Fanirin, went into the next room and seated themselves behind the grating on
benches reserved for spectators. Only the St. Petersburg lawyer took a seat
behind a desk on the other side of the grating.
The session room of the Senate was smaller than
the room of the Circuit Court, was furnished in simpler style, only the tab=
le
behind which the Senators sat was of crimson plush instead of green cloth, =
bordered
with gold lace.
There were four Senators. The President, Nikit=
in,
with a closely shaved, narrow face and steel-gray eyes; Wolf, with thin lips
and small white hands, with which he was turning over the papers before him;
then Skovorodnikoff, stout, massive and pock-marked, and a very learned jur=
ist,
and finally, Bé, the same partriarchal old man, who was the last to
arrive. Immediately behind the Senators came the Chief Secretary and Associ=
ate
Attorney General. He was a young man of medium height, shaved, lean, with a
very dark face and black, sad eyes. Nekhludoff recognized him, notwithstand=
ing
his strange uniform and the fact that he had not seen him for about six yea=
rs,
as one of his best friends during his student life.
"Is the associate's name Selenin?" he
asked the lawyer.
"Yes, why?"
"I know him very well; he is an excellent
man----"
"And a good associate of the Attorney
General--very sensible. It would have been well to see him," said Fani=
rin.
"At all events, he will follow the dictat=
es
of his conscience," said Nekhludoff, remembering his close relations w=
ith
and friendship for Selenin, and the latter's charming qualities of purity,
honesty and good breeding, in the best sense of the word.
The first case before the Senate was an appeal
from the decision of the Circuit Court of Appeals affirming a judgment in f=
avor
of the publisher of a newspaper in a libel suit brought against him.
Nekhludoff listened and tried to understand the
arguments in the case, but as in the Circuit Court, the chief difficulty in=
understanding
what was going on was found in the fact that the discussion centered not on
what appeared naturally to be the main point, but on side issues.
The libel consisted in an article accusing the
president of a stock company of swindling. It seemed, then, that the main p=
oint
to consider was, whether or not the president was guilty of swindling the s=
tockholders,
and what was to be done to stop his swindling. But this was never mentioned.
The questions discussed were: Had the publisher the legal right to print the
article of its reporter? What crime has he committed by printing it--defama=
tion
or libel? And does defamation include libel, or libel defamation? And a num=
ber
of other things unintelligible to ordinary people, including various laws a=
nd decisions
of some "General Department."
The only thing Nekhludoff did understand was t=
hat,
though Wolf had sternly suggested but yesterday that the Senate could not
consider the substance of a case, in the case at bar he argued with evident=
partiality
in favor of reversing the judgment, and that Selenin, in spite of his
characteristic reserve, argued in favor of affirming the judgment with
unexpected fervor. The cause of Selenin's ardor lay in the fact that he knew
the president of the stock company to be dishonest in money affairs, while =
he
accidentally learned that Wolf, almost on the eve of the hearing of the cas=
e,
had attended a sumptuous dinner at the president's house. And now, when Wol=
f,
though with great caution, showed undoubted partiality, Selenin became exci=
ted
and expressed his opinion with more nervousness than an ordinary case would
justify. Wolf was evidently offended by the speech; he twitched nervously,
changed color, made silent gestures of wonder, and with an haughty air of b=
eing
offended he departed with the other Senators into the deliberation-room.
"What case are you interested in?" t=
he
usher again asked Fanirin, as soon as the Senators had left the room.
"I have already told you that I am here in
behalf of Maslova."
"That is so. The case will be heard to-da=
y.
But----"
"What is that?" asked the lawyer.
"You see, the case was to be argued witho=
ut
counsel, so that the Senators would hardly consider it in open session. But=
--I
will announce----" and he made a note on the piece of paper.
The Senators really intended, after announcing
their decision in the libel case, to consider the other cases, including
Maslova's, while drinking their tea and smoking cigarettes in the
consultation-room.
=
=
As
soon as the Senators seated themselves at the table in the consultation-roo=
m,
Wolf began to set forth in an animated manner the grounds upon which he tho=
ught
the case ought to be reversed.
The President, always an ill-natured man, was =
in a
particularly bad humor to-day. While listening to the case during the sessi=
on
he formed his opinion, and sat, absorbed in his thoughts, without listening=
to Wolf.
These thoughts consisted in a recollection of what note he had made the oth=
er
day in his memoirs anent the appointment of Velianoff to an important post
which he desired for himself. The President, Nikitin, quite sincerely thoug=
ht
that the officials with whom his duties brought him in contact were worthy =
of a
place in history. Having written an article the other day in which some of
these officials were vehemently denounced for interfering with his plan to =
save
Russia from ruin, as he put it, but in reality for interfering with his get=
ting
a larger salary than he was now getting, he was now thinking that posterity
would give an entirely new interpretation to that incident.
"Why, certainly," he said to Wolf, w=
ho
was addressing him, although he did not hear what Wolf said.
Bé listened to Wolf with a sad face,
drawing garlands on a piece of paper which lay before him. Bé was a
liberal of the deepest dye. He scarcely held to the traditions of the sixti=
es,
and if he ever deviated from strict impartiality, it was invariably in favo=
r of
liberality. Thus, in this case, besides the consideration that the complain=
ing
president of the stock company was an unclean man, Bé was in favor of
affirming the judgment, also because this charge of libel against a journal=
ist
was a restriction on the freedom of the press. When Wolf had finished his
argument, Bé, leaving the garland unfinished, in a sad--it was sad f=
or
him to be obliged to prove such truisms--soft, pleasant voice, convincingly
proved in a few simple words that the charge had no foundation, and, again
drooping his hoary head, continued to complete the garland.
Skovorodnikoff, who was sitting opposite Wolf,
continually gathering with his thick fingers his beard and mustache into his
mouth, as soon as Bé was through with his argument, stopped chewing =
his
beard, and, in a loud, rasping voice, said that although the president of t=
he stock
company was a villain, he should favor a reversal if there were legal groun=
ds
to sustain it, but as there were none, he joined in the opinion of Ivan
Semenovitch (Bé), and he invariably rejoiced at this shot aimed at W=
olf.
The President supported Skovorodnikoff's opinion, and the judgment was
confirmed.
Wolf was dissatisfied, especially because by t=
his
judgment he seemed to stand convicted of arguing in bad faith; but, feignin=
g indifference,
he opened his papers in the next case, Maslova's, and began to peruse it
attentively. The other Senators in the meantime called for tea, and began a
talk about Kamensky's duel and his death, which was then the subject of
conversation throughout the city.
The usher entered and announced the desire of =
the
lawyer and Nekhludoff to be present at the hearing of the case.
"This case here," said Wolf, "i=
s a
whole romantic story," and he related what he knew of Nekhludoff's
relations to Maslova.
After talking awhile of the story, smoking cig=
arettes
and finishing their tea, the Senators returned to the session-room, announc=
ed
their decision in the preceding case, and began to consider Maslova's case.=
Wolf very circumstantially set forth Maslova's
appeal from the sentence, and again not without partiality, but with the
evident desire to reverse the judgment.
"Have you anything to add?" the
President asked Fanirin.
Fanirin rose, and, projecting his broad, starc=
hed
front, with remarkable precision of expression began to discuss the errors =
of
the court below in the application of the law on the six points raised, and
permitted himself, though briefly, to touch upon the merits of the case and=
the
crying injustice of the decision. By the tone of his short but strong speec=
h,
he seemed to excuse himself, to insist that the honorable Senators with the=
ir
power of penetration and judicial wisdom saw and understood better than he,=
but
that he was speaking only because his duties demanded it. After Fanirin's
speech there seemed to be no doubt left that the Senate had to reverse the =
judgment.
When he was through, Fanirin smiled triumphantly. Looking at his lawyer and
seeing that smile, Nekhludoff was convinced that the case was won. But as he
looked at the Senators Nekhludoff saw that Fanirin alone was smiling and
triumphant. The Senators and Associate Attorney General were neither smiling
nor triumphant, but wore the air of people suffering from ennui and saying:
"Oh, we know these cases! You are wasting your time." They were a=
ll
evidently relieved only when the lawyer had finished, and they were no long=
er
unnecessarily detained. After the speech the President turned to Selenin, w=
ho plainly,
briefly and accurately expressed himself against a reversal. Then the Senat=
ors
arose and went to consult.
The Senators were divided. Wolf favored a
reversal. Bé, who thoroughly understood the case, warmly argued also=
in
favor of a reversal, and in glowing terms pictured the court scene and the
misunderstanding of the jury. Nikitin, who, as usual, stood for severity and
for strict formality, was against it. The whole case, then, depended on Sko=
vorodnikoff's
vote. And his vote was thrown against a reversal, principally for the reason
that Nekhludoff's determination to marry the girl on moral grounds was
extremely repugnant to him.
Skovorodnikoff was a materialist, a Darwinist,=
and
considered every manifestation of abstract morality, or, worse still, piety,
not only as contemptible and absurd but as an affront to his person. All th=
is bustle
about a fallen girl, and the presence there in the Senate of her famous cou=
nsel
and Nekhludoff himself, was to him simply disgusting. And, stuffing his mou=
th
with his beard, and making grimaces, he in a very natural manner pretended =
to
know nothing of the entire affair, except that the grounds of appeal were
insufficient, and therefore agreed with the President to affirm the judgmen=
t.
The appeal was denied.
=
"It
is awful!" said Nekhludoff to the lawyer, as they entered the waiting-=
room.
"In the plainest possible case they cavil at idle forms. It is
awful!"
"The case was spoiled at the trial,"
said Fanirin.
"Selenin, too, was against reversal. It is
awful, awful!" Nekhludoff continued to repeat. "What is to be done
now?"
"We will petition the Emperor. Head it
yourself while you are here. I will prepare the petition."
At that moment Wolf in his uniform and stars h=
ung
on his breast entered the waiting-room and approached Nekhludoff.
"I am sorry, my dear Prince, but the grou=
nds
were insufficient," he said, shrugging his narrow shoulders; and, clos=
ing
his eyes, he proceeded on his way.
After Wolf came Selenin, who had learned from =
the
Senators that Nekhludoff, his former friend, was present.
"I did not expect to meet you here,"=
he
said, approaching Nekhludoff and smiling with his lips, while his eyes rema=
ined
sad.
"And I did not know that you were the
Attorney General."
"Associate," Selenin corrected him.
"But what brought you to the Senate?"
"I came here hoping to find justice, and =
to
save an innocent woman."
"What woman?"
"The case that has just been decided.&quo=
t;
"Oh, the Maslova case!" said Selenin.
"An entirely groundless appeal."
"The question is not of the appeal, but of
the woman, who is innocent and undergoing punishment."
Selenin sighed.
"Quite possible, but----"
"It is not merely possible, but
certain."
"How do you know?"
"I know because I was on the jury. I know
wherein we made the mistake."
Selenin became thoughtful.
"It should have been declared on the
trial," he said.
"I did so."
"It should have been made part of the rec=
ord.
If that had appeared in the appeal----"
Selenin, who was always busy, and did not ming=
le
in society, had evidently not heard of Nekhludoff's romance. Nekhludoff,
however, decided not to speak to him of his relations to Maslova.
"But it is evident even now that the verd=
ict
was preposterous," he said.
"The Senate has no right to say so. If the Senate attempted to interfere with the verdicts of the courts upon its own = view of the justness of the verdicts themselves, there would be greater risks of= justice being miscarried than established," he said, recalling the preceding c= ase. "Besides, the verdicts of juries would lose their significance."<= o:p>
"I only know one thing, and that is that =
the
woman is entirely innocent, and the last hope of saving her from an undeser=
ved punishment
is gone. The highest judicial institution has affirmed what was absolutely
unjust."
"It has not affirmed because it has not a=
nd
could not consider the merits of the case," said Selenin, blinking his
eyes. "You have probably stopped at your aunts," he added, eviden=
tly
wishing to change the subject of conversation. "I learned yesterday th=
at
you were in St. Petersburg. Countess Catherine Ivanovna had invited me and =
you
to be present at the meeting of the English preacher," said Selenin,
smiling only with his lips.
"Yes, I was present, but left with
disgust," Nekhludoff said angrily, vexed at Selenin's leading away from
the conversation.
"Why should you be disgusted? At all even=
ts
it is a manifestation of religious feeling, although one-sided and
sectarian," said Selenin.
"It is such strange nonsense," said
Nekhludoff.
"Well, no. The only strange thing here is
that we know so little of the teachings of our church that we receive an
exposition of its fundamental dogmas as a new revelation," said Seleni=
n,
as though hastening to tell his former friends his new views.
Nekhludoff gazed at Selenin with wonder. Selen=
in
did not lower his eyes, in which there was an expression not only of sadnes=
s,
but of ill-will.
"But we will discuss it later," said
Selenin. "I am coming," he turned to the usher who approached him
deferentially. "We must meet again," he added, sighing; "but=
you
can never be found. You will always find me at home at seven. I live on
Nadeghinskaia," and he mentioned the number. "It is a long time s=
ince
we met," he added, again smiling with his lips.
"I will come if I have the time," sa=
id
Nekhludoff, feeling that the man whom he had once loved was made strange and
incomprehensible to him, if not hostile, by this short conversation.
*
As student Nekhludoff knew Selenin as a dutiful
son, a true friend, and, for his years, an educated, worldly man, with great
tact, always elegant and handsome, and uncommonly truthful and honest witha=
l.
He studied diligently, without any difficulty and without the slightest ost=
entation,
receiving gold medals for his compositions.
He had made it the aim of his young life, not
merely by word, but in reality, to serve others, and thought he saw his cha=
nce
of doing so in government service. Systematically looking over the various
activities to which he might devote his energies, he decided that he could =
be most
useful in the legislative department, and entered it. But notwithstanding h=
is
most accurate and conscientious attention to his duties, he found nothing in
them to satisfy his desire to be useful. His discontent, due to the pettine=
ss
and vanity of his immediate superiors, grew until an opportunity offered to
enter the Senate. He was better off in the Senate, but the same feeling of
dissatisfaction pursued him. He constantly felt that things were not what he
expected them to be, and what they should be. During his service in the Sen=
ate,
his relations obtained for him the post of gentleman of the Emperor's bed-c=
hamber,
and he was obliged to drive around in gorgeous uniform to thank various peo=
ple.
In this post he felt even more than before out of place. At the same time, =
on
the one hand, he could not refuse the appointment, because he would not
disappoint those who thought they were pleasing him by it, and, on the other
hand, the appointment flattered his vanity. It pleased him to see himself i=
n a
looking-glass in a gold embroidered uniform, and to receive the tokens of
respect shown him by some people on his appointment.
The same thing happened with respect to his
marriage. A brilliant match was arranged for him, as it is regarded from the
world's standpoint. And he married principally because to refuse would have=
been
to offend and cause pain to the bride and those who had arranged the match.
Hence the marriage to a young, pretty, distinguished girl flattered his van=
ity
and gave him pleasure. But the marriage soon turned out to be "not the
thing, you know," more so even than Court service. After her first chi=
ld,
his wife did not wish to have any more, and plunged into luxurious social l=
ife,
in which he was obliged to participate nolens volens. Although this poisoned
the life of her husband, and brought her only exertion and fatigue, she nev=
ertheless
diligently pursued it. All his efforts to change her mode of life could not
alter her confidence, supported by all her relatives and acquaintances, tha=
t it
was quite proper.
The child, a girl with long, golden curls, was=
an
entire stranger to her father, mainly because she was brought up not in acc=
ord
with his desires. The result was the customary misunderstanding between the=
husband
and wife, and even in a want of desire to understand each other, and a quie=
t,
silent struggle, hidden from strangers and tempered by propriety, which made
Selenin's life at home very burdensome. So that his family life turned out =
to
be "not the thing, you know," in still greater degree than his
service or the Court appointment.
These were the reasons why his eyes were always
sad. And this was why, seeing Nekhludoff, whom he had known before all these
lies had fastened themselves upon him, he thought of himself as he had been=
then,
and more than ever felt the discord between his character and his surroundi=
ngs,
and he became painfully sad. The same feeling came over Nekhludoff, after t=
he
first impression of joy at meeting an old friend.
That was why, having promised that they would =
meet
each other, neither sought that meeting, nor had they seen each other on th=
is
visit of Nekhludoff to St. Petersburg.
=
On
leaving the Senate, Nekhludoff and his lawyer walked along the sidewalk.
Fanirin told his driver to follow him, and he began to relate to Nekhludoff=
how
the mistress of so-and-so had made millions on 'Change, how so-and-so had s=
old,
and another had bought, his wife. He also related some stories of swindling=
and
all sorts of crimes committed by well-known people who were not occupying c=
ells
in prison, but presidents' chairs in various institutions. These stories, o=
f which
he seemed to possess an inexhaustible source, afforded the lawyer great
pleasure, as showing most conclusively that the means employed by him as a
lawyer to make money were perfectly innocent in comparison with those used =
by
the more noted public men of St. Petersburg. And the lawyer was greatly
surprised when Nekhludoff, in the middle of one of these stories, hailed a
trap, took leave and drove home. Nekhludoff was very sad. He was sad because
the Senate's judgment continued the unreasonable suffering of the innocent
Maslova, and also because it made it more difficult for him to carry out hi=
s unalterable
intention of joining his fate to hers. His sadness increased as the lawyer
related with so much pleasure the frightful stories of the prevailing
wickedness. Besides, the unkind, cold, repelling gaze of the once charming,
open-hearted and noble Selenin constantly recurred to his mind. Nekhludoff,
after the impressions of his stay in St. Petersburg, was almost in despair =
of
ever reaching any results. All the plans he had laid out in Moskow seemed to
him like those youthful dreams which usually end in disappointment. However=
, he
considered it his duty, while in St. Petersburg, to exhaust his resources in
endeavoring to fulfill his mission.
Soon after he reached his room, a servant call=
ed
him upstairs for tea. Mariette, in a multi-colored dress, was sitting beside
the Countess, sipping tea. On Nekhludoff's entering the room, Mariette had =
just
dropped some funny, indecent joke. Nekhludoff noticed it by the character of
their laughter. The good-natured, mustached Countess Catherine Ivanovna was
shaking in all her stout body with laughter, while Mariette, with a
particularly mischievous expression, and her energetic and cheerful face
somewhat bent to one side, was silently looking at her companion.
"You will be the death of me," said =
the
Countess, in a fit of coughing.
No sooner had Nekhludoff seated himself than
Mariette, noticing the serious and slightly displeased expression on his fa=
ce,
immediately changed not only her expression, but her frame of mind. This was
with the intention she had in mind since she first saw him--to get him to l=
ike
her. She suddenly became grave, dissatisfied with her life, seeking somethi=
ng,
striving after something. She not merely feigned, but actually induced in
herself a state of mind similar to that in which Nekhludoff was, although s=
he
would not be able to say what it consisted of. In a sympathetic conversation
about the injustice of the strong, the poverty of the people, the awful
condition of the prisoners, she succeeded in rousing in him the least expec=
ted
feeling of physical attraction, and under the din of conversation their eye=
s plainly
queried, "Can you love me?" and they answered, "Yes, I
can."
On leaving, she told him that she was always r=
eady
to be of service to him, and asked him to visit her at the theatre the next
day, if only for a minute, saying that she wished to have a talk with him o=
n a matter
of importance.
"When will I see you again?" she add=
ed,
sighing, and carefully putting the gloves on her ring-bedecked hand. "=
Tell
me that you will come."
Nekhludoff promised to come.
For a long time that night Nekhludoff could not
fall asleep. When he recalled Maslova, the decision of the Senate, and his
determination to follow her; when he recalled his relinquishment of his rig=
ht
to the land, there suddenly appeared before him, as if in answer to these q=
uestions,
the face of Mariette; her sigh and glance when she said, "When will I =
see
you again?" and her smile--all so distinct that she seemed to stand be=
fore
him, and he smiled himself. "Would it be proper for me to follow her to
Siberia? And would it be proper to deprive myself of my property?" he
asked himself.
And the answers to these questions on that bri=
ght St.
Petersburg night were indefinite. His mind was all in confusion. He called
forth his former trend of thought, but those thoughts had lost their former=
power
of conviction.
"And what if all my ideas are due to an
over-wrought imagination, and I should be unable to live up to them? If I
should repent of what I have done?" he asked himself, and, being unabl=
e to
find answers to these questions, he was stricken with such sadness and desp=
air
as he had rarely experienced before, and he fell into that deep slumber whi=
ch
had been habitual with him after heavy losses at cards.
=
=
Nekhludoff's
first feeling on rising the following morning was that he had committed
something abominable the preceding evening.
He began to recall what had happened. There was
nothing abominable; he had done nothing wrong. He had only thought that all=
his
present intentions--that of marrying Katiousha, giving the land to the peas=
ants--artificial,
unnatural, and that he must continued to live as he had lived before.
He could recall no wrong act, but he remembered
what was worse than a wrong act--there were the bad thoughts in which all b=
ad
acts have their origin. Bad acts may not be repeated; one may repent of the=
m, while
bad thoughts give birth to bad acts.
A bad act only smooths the way to other bad ac=
ts,
while bad thoughts irresistibly lead toward them.
Recalling his thoughts of the day before,
Nekhludoff wondered how he could have believed them. How so novel and diffi=
cult
might be that which he intended to do, he knew that it was the only life
possible to him now, and that, however easy it might be for him to return to
his old mode of life, he knew that that was death, not life. This temptatio=
n of
the day before was similar to that of a man who, after a night's sound slee=
p,
feels like taking his ease on the soft mattress for a while, although he kn=
ows
that it is time to be up and away on an important affair.
*
Nekhludoff would have left the same evening but
for his promise to Mariette to visit her at the theatre. Though he knew tha=
t it
was wrong to do it, he went there, contrary to the dictates of his own cons=
cience,
considering himself bound to keep his word. Besides his wish to see Mariette
again, he also wished, as he thought, to measure himself against that world
lately so near, but now so strange to him.
"Could I withstand these temptations?&quo=
t;
he thought, but not with entire sincerity. "I will try it for the last
time."
Attired in a dress-coat, he arrived in the the=
atre
where the eternal "Dame aux Camelias" was being played. A French
actress was showing in a novel way how consumptive women die.
Nekhludoff was shown to the box occupied by
Mariette. In the corridor a liveried servant bowed and opened the door for =
him.
All the spectators in the circle of boxes--sit=
ting
and standing, gray-haired, bald and pomaded heads--were intently following =
the movements
of a slim actress making wry faces and in an unnatural voice reading a
monologue. Some one hissed when the door was opened, and two streams of cold
and warm air were wafted on Nekhludoff's face.
In the box he found Mariette and a strange lady
with a red mantle over her shoulders and high head-dress, and two men--a
general, Mariette's husband, a handsome, tall man with a high, artificial,
military breast, and a flaxen haired, bald-headed man with shaved chin and =
solemn
side-whiskers. Mariette, graceful, slim, elegant, decolette, with her stron=
g,
muscular shoulders sloping down from the neck, at the jointure of which was=
a
darkening little mole, immediately turned around, and, pointing with her fa=
n to
a chair behind her, greeted him with a welcome, grateful, and, as it seemed=
to
Nekhludoff, significant smile. Her husband calmly, as was his wont, looked =
at
Nekhludoff and bowed his head. In the glance which he exchanged with his wi=
fe,
as in everything else, he looked the master, the owner, of a beautiful woma=
n.
There was a thunder of applause when the monol=
ogue
ended. Mariette rose, and, holding in one hand her rustling silk skirt, wal=
ked
to the rear of the box and introduced Nekhludoff to her husband. The genera=
l incessantly
smiled with his eyes, said he was glad, and remained calm and mute.
"I had to leave to-day, but I promised
you," said Nekhludoff, turning to Mariette.
"If you don't wish to see me, you will se= e a remarkable actress," Mariette said, answering the meaning of his words. "Wasn't she great in the last scene?" she turned to her husband.<= o:p>
The general bowed his head.
"That does not affect me," said
Nekhludoff. "I have seen so much real misfortune to-day that----"=
"Sit down and tell us what you have
seen."
The husband listened, and ironically smiled wi=
th
his eyes.
"I went to see that woman who has been
released. She is entirely broken down."
"That is the woman of whom I have spoken =
to
you," Mariette said to her husband.
"Yes; I was very glad that she could be
released," he calmly said, nodding his head and smiling ironically, as=
it
seemed to Nekhludoff, under his mustache. "I will go to the
smoking-room."
Nekhludoff waited, expecting that Mariette wou=
ld
tell him that something which she said she had to tell him, but instead she
only jested and talked of the performance, which, she thought, ought to aff=
ect
him particularly.
Nekhludoff understood that the only purpose for
which she had brought him to the theatre was to display her evening toilet =
with
her shoulders and mole, and he was both pleased and disgusted. Now he saw w=
hat
was under the veil of the charm that at first attracted him. Looking on
Mariette, he admired her, but he knew that she was a prevaricator who was
living with her career-making husband; that what she had said the other day=
was
untrue, and that she only wished--and neither knew why--to make him love he=
r.
And, as has been said, he was both pleased and disgusted. Several times he
attempted to leave, took his hat but still remained. But finally, when the
general, his thick mustache reeking with tobacco, returned to the box and
glanced at Nekhludoff patronizingly disdainful, as if he did not recognize =
him,
Nekhludoff walked out before the door closed behind the general, and, findi=
ng
his overcoat, left the theatre.
On his way home he suddenly noticed before him=
a
tall, well-built, loudly-dressed woman. Every passer-by turned to look at h=
er. Nekhludoff
walked quicker than the woman, and also involuntarily looked her in the fac=
e.
Her face, probably rouged, was pretty; her eyes flashed at him, and she smi=
led.
Nekhludoff involuntarily thought of Mariette, for he experienced the same
feeling of attraction and disgust which took hold of him in the theatre.
Passing her hastily, Nekhludoff turned the corner of the street, and, to the
surprise of the policeman, began to walk up and down the water-front.
"That one in the theatre also smiled that=
way
when I entered," he thought, "and the smile of the former conveyed
the same meaning as that of the latter. The only difference between them is
that this one speaks openly and plainly, while the other pretends to be
exercising higher and refined feelings. But in reality they are alike. This=
one
is at least truthful, while the other is lying." Nekhludoff recalled h=
is
relations with the wife of the district commander, and a flood of shameful
recollections came upon him. "There is a disgusting bestiality in
man," he thought; "but when it is in a primitive state, one looks
down upon and despises it, whether he is carried away with or withstands it.
But when this same bestiality hides itself under a so-called aesthetic, poe=
tic
cover, and demands to be worshiped, then, deifying the beast, one gives him=
self
up to it, without distinguishing between the good and the bad. Then it is
horrible."
As there was no soothing, rest-giving darkness
that night, but instead there was a hazy, cheerless, unnatural light, so ev=
en
was there no rest-giving darkness--ignorance--for Nekhludoff's soul. Everyt=
hing
was clear. It was plain that all that is considered important and useful is
really insignificant and wicked, and that all that splendor and luxury were
hiding old crimes, familiar to every one, and not only stalking unpunished,=
but
triumphing and adorned with all the allurements man is capable of conceivin=
g.
Nekhludoff wished to forget it, not to see it,=
but
he could no longer help seeing it. Although he did not see the source of the
light which revealed these things to him, as he did not see the source of t=
he light
which spread over St. Petersburg, and though this light seemed to him hazy,
cheerless and unnatural, he could not help seeing that which the light reve=
aled
to him, and he felt at the same time both joy and alarm.
=
Immediately
upon his arrival in Moskow, Nekhludoff made his way to the prison hospital,
intending to make known to Maslova the Senate's decision and to tell her to
prepare for the journey to Siberia.
Of the petition which he brought for Maslova's
signature, he had little hope. And, strange to say, he no longer wished to
succeed. He had accustomed himself to the thought of going to Siberia, and
living among the exiles and convicts, and it was difficult for him to imagi=
ne how
he should order his life and that of Maslova if she were freed.
The door-keeper at the hospital, recognizing
Nekhludoff, immediately informed him that Maslova was no longer there.
"Where is she, then?"
"Why, again in the prison."
"Why was she transferred?" asked
Nekhludoff.
"Your Excellency knows their kind," =
said
the door-keeper, with a contemptuous smile. "She was making love to the
assistant, so the chief physician sent her back."
Nekhludoff did not suspect that Maslova and he=
r spiritual
condition were so close to him. This news stunned him. The feeling he exper=
ienced
was akin to that which people experience when hearing suddenly of some great
misfortune. He was deeply grieved. The first feeling he experienced was tha=
t of
shame. His joyful portraying of her spiritual awakening now seemed to him
ridiculous. Her reluctance to accept his sacrifice, the reproaches and the
tears, were the mere cunning, he thought, of a dissolute woman who wished to
make the most use of him. It seemed to him now that at his last visit he had
seen in her the symptoms of incorrigibility which were now evident. All thi=
s flashed
through his mind at the time he instinctively donned his hat and left the
hospital.
"But what's to be done now?" he asked
himself. "Am I bound to her? Am I not released now by this, her act?&q=
uot;
But no sooner did he form the question than he
understood that in considering himself released and leaving her to her fate=
he
would be punishing not her, which he desired, but himself, and he was terri=
fied.
"No! That will not alter my decision--it =
will
only strengthen it. Let her do whatever her soul prompts her to do; if she
would make love to the assistant, let her do so. It is her business. It is =
my
business to do what my conscience demands," he said to himself. "=
And
my conscience demands that I sacrifice my liberty in expiation of my sin, a=
nd
my decision to marry her, although but fictitiously, and follow her wherever
she may be sent, remains unaltered," he said to himself, with spiteful
obstinacy, and, leaving the hospital, he made his way with resolute step to=
the
prison gate.
Coming to the gate, he asked the officer on du=
ty
to tell the inspector that he wished to see Maslova. The officer knew
Nekhludoff, and told him an important piece of prison news. The captain had=
resigned,
and another man, who was very strict, had taken his place.
The inspector, who was in the prison at the ti=
me,
soon made his appearance. He was tall, bony, very slow in his movements, and
gloomy.
"Visitors are allowed only on certain
days," he said, without looking at Nekhludoff.
"But I have a petition here which she must
sign."
"You may give it to me."
"I must see the prisoner myself. I was al=
ways
permitted to see her before."
"That was before," said the inspecto=
r,
glancing at Nekhludoff.
"I have a pass from the Governor,"
Nekhludoff insisted, producing his pocket-book.
"Let me see it," said the inspector,
without looking in Nekhludoff's eyes, and taking the document with his skin=
ny,
long, white hand, on the index finger of which there was a gold ring, he sl=
owly
read it. "Walk into the office, please," he said.
On this occasion there was no one in the offic=
e.
The inspector seated himself at the table, looking through the papers that =
lay
on it, evidently intending to stay through the meeting. When Nekhludoff ask=
ed him
if Bogodukhovskaia could be seen, he answered: "Visiting the political=
s is
not allowed," and again buried his head in the papers.
When Maslova entered the room, the inspector
raised his eyes, and, without looking either at Maslova or Nekhludoff, said:
"You may go ahead," and continued to busy himself with his papers=
.
Maslova was again dressed in a white skirt, wa=
ist
and 'kerchief. Coming near Nekhludoff and seeing his cold, angry face, her =
own
turned a purple color, and, with downcast eyes, she began to pick a corner =
of her
waist. Her confusion Nekhludoff considered as confirmation of the hospital
porter's words.
So abhorent was she to him now that he _could =
not_
extend his hand to her, as he desired.
"I bring you bad news," he said in an
even voice, without looking at her. "The Senate affirmed the
verdict."
"I knew it would be so," she said in=
a
strange voice, as if choking.
If it had happened before, Nekhludoff would ha=
ve
asked her why she knew it; now he only looked at her. Her eyes were filled =
with
tears, but this not only did not soften him, but made him even more inflame=
d against
her.
The inspector rose and began to walk up and do=
wn
the room.
Notwithstanding the abhorence Nekhludoff felt =
for Maslova,
he thought it proper to express his regret at the Senate's action.
"Do not despair," he said. "This
petition may be more successful, and I hope that----"
"Oh, it is not that," she said, look=
ing
at him with the tearful and squinting eyes.
"What, then?"
"You have been in the hospital, and they =
must
have told you there about me."
"What of it? That is your business,"
frowning, Nekhludoff said with indifference. The cruel feeling of offended
pride rose in him with greater force at her mention of the hospital. "=
I, a
man of the world, whom any girl of the upper class would be only too happy =
to
marry, offered to become the husband of that woman, and she could not wait,=
but
made love to the assistant surgeon," he thought, looking at her with
hatred.
"Sign this petition," he said, and,
taking from his pocket a large envelope, placed it on the table. She wiped =
her
tears with a corner of her 'kerchief, seated herself at the table, and asked
him where to sign.
He showed her where, and she, seating herself,
smoothed with her left hand the sleeve of the right. He stood over her,
silently looking at her back bent over the table, and now and then shaking =
from
the sobs she tried to suppress, and his soul was convulsed by a struggle be=
tween
good and evil, between offended pride and pity for her sufferings. The feel=
ing
of pity conquered.
Whether it was the feeling of pity that first
asserted itself, or the recollection of his own deeds of the same character=
for
which he reproached her, he scarcely knew, but suddenly he felt himself gui=
lty and
pitied her.
Having signed the petition and wiped her soiled
fingers on her skirt, she rose and glanced at him.
"Whatever the result, and no matter what
happens, I shall keep my word," said Nekhludoff.
The thought that he was forgiving her strength=
ened
in him the feeling of pity and tenderness for her, and he wished to console
her.
"I will do what I said. I will be with you
wherever you may be."
"That's no use," she hastened to say,
and her face became radiant.
"Make note of what you need for the
road."
"Nothing particular, I think. Thank
you."
The inspector approached them, and Nekhludoff,
without waiting to be told that the time was up, took leave of her,
experiencing a new feeling of quiet happiness, calmness and love for all
mankind. It was the consciousness that no act of Maslova could alter his lo=
ve
for her that raised his spirit and made him feel happy. Let her make love t=
o the
assistant--that was her business. He loved her not for himself, but for her=
and
for God.
*
The love-making for which Maslova was expelled
from the hospital, and to which Nekhludoff gave credence, consisted only in
that, when Maslova, coming to the drug department for some pectoral herbs, =
prescribed
by her superior, she found there an assistant, named Ustinoff. This Ustinoff
had been pursuing her with his attentions for a long time, and as he tried =
to
embrace her she pushed him away with such force that he struck the shelving,
and two bottles came crashing to the floor.
The chief physician was passing at the time, a=
nd,
hearing the sound of the breaking glass, and seeing Maslova running out, all
flushed, he angrily shouted to her:
"Well, girl, if you begin to flirt here, I
will send you back. What is the matter?" he turned to the assistant,
sternly looking over his spectacles.
The assistant, smiling, began to apologize. The
doctor, without hearing him to the last, raised his head so that he began to
look through the glasses, and walked into the ward. On the same day he asked
the inspector to send a more sedate nurse in place of Maslova. Maslova's
expulsion from the hospital on the ground of flirting was particularly pain=
ful
to her by reason of the fact that, after her meeting with Nekhludoff, all
association with men, which had _been_ so repugnant to her, became even more
disgusting.
The fact that, judging her by her past and pre=
sent
condition, everybody, including the pimpled assistant, thought that they had
the right to insult her, and were surprised when she refused their attentio=
ns,
was very painful to her and called forth her tears and pity for herself. No=
w,
coming out to see Nekhludoff, she wished to explain the injustice of the ch=
arge
which he had probably heard. But as she attempted to do so, she felt that he
would not believe her; that her explanation would only tend to corroborate =
the
suspicion, and her tears welled up in her throat, and she became silent.
Maslova was still thinking, and continued to
assure herself that, as she had told him on his second visit, she had not
forgiven him; that she hated him, but, in reality, she had long since begun=
to
love him again, and loved him so that she involuntarily carried out his wis=
hes.
She ceased to drink and smoke, she gave up flirting, and willingly went as
servant to the hospital. All this she did because she knew he wished it. Her
repeated refusal to accept his sacrifice was partly due to the fact that she
wished to repeat those proud words which she had once told him, and mainly
because she knew that their marriage would make him unhappy. She was firmly
resolved not to accept his sacrifice, and yet it was painful for her to thi=
nk
that he despised her; that he thought her to be the same as she had been, a=
nd
did not see the change she was undergoing. The fact that he was at that mom=
ent
thinking that she did something wrong in the hospital pained her more than =
the
news that she was finally sentenced to hard labor.
=
Maslova
might be sent away with the first party of exiles; hence Nekhludoff was
preparing for departure. But he had so many things to attend to that he felt
that he could never get through with them, no matter how much time there mi=
ght
be left for preparations. It was different in former times. Then it was
necessary to devise something to do, and the interest in all his affairs
centered in Dmitri Ivanovich Nekhludoff. But though all interest in life
centered in Dmitri Ivanovich, he always suffered from ennui. Now, however, =
all
his affairs related to people other than Dmitri Ivanovich, and were all int=
eresting
and attractive, as well as inexhaustible.
Besides, formerly the occupation with the affa=
irs
of Dmitri Ivanovich always caused vexation and irritation; while these affa=
irs
of others for the most part put him in a happy mood.
Nekhludoff's affairs were now divided into thr=
ee
parts. He himself, in his habitual pedantism, thus divided them, and accord=
ing
placed them in three different portfolios.
The first was that of Maslova. This consisted =
in
efforts to obtain a successful result in the pending petition, and preparat=
ions
for departure to Siberia.
The second part related to the settlement of h=
is
estates. The Panov land was granted to the peasants on condition of their
paying a rent to be used for common necessities. But, in order to complete =
that
arrangement, it was necessary to sign an agreement and also make his will. =
The
arrangement made for the Kusminskoie estate was to remain in force, only th=
ere
remained to be determined what part of the rent he was to appropriate to hi=
mself,
and what was to be left for the benefit of the peasants. Without knowing wh=
at
his necessary disbursements would be on his trip to Siberia, he could not m=
ake
up his mind to deprive himself of his income, although he reduced it by
one-half.
The third part related to aid to prisoners, who
were now applying to him more and more frequently.
At first, when written to for aid, he proceeded
immediately to intercede for the applicants, endeavoring to relieve their
condition, but in the end their number became so great that he found it imp=
ossible
to help every one, and was involuntarily brought to a fourth matter, which =
had
of late occupied him more than either of the others.
His fourth concern consisted in solving the
question, Why, how and whence came that remarkable institution called the
Criminal Court, to which was due the existence of that prison, with the inm=
ates
of which he had become somewhat familiar, and all those places of confineme=
nt, beginning
with the fortress dedicated to two saints, Peter and Paul, and ending with =
the
island of Saghalin, where hundreds and thousands of victims of that wonderf=
ul
criminal law were languishing?
From personal contact with prisoners, and from
information received from the lawyer, the prison chaplain, the inspector, a=
nd
from the prison register, Nekhludoff came to the conclusion that the prison=
ers,
so-called criminals, could be divided into five classes. The first class
consisted of people entirely innocent, victims of judicial mistakes, such as
that would-be incendiary, Menshov, or Maslova, and others. There were
comparatively few people of this class, according to the observations of the
chaplain--about seven per cent.--but their condition attracted particular
attention. The second class consisted of people convicted for offenses
committed under exceptional circumstances, such as anger, jealousy,
drunkenness, etc.--offenses which, under similar circumstances, would almost
invariably have been committed by all those who judged and punished them. T=
his
class made up, according to Nekhludoff's observations, more than one-half of
all the prisoners. To the third class belonged those who committed, accordi=
ng
to their own ideas, the most indifferent or even good acts, but which were
considered criminal by people--entire strangers to them--who were making the
laws. To this class belonged all those who carried on a secret trade in win=
e,
or were bringing in contraband goods, or were picking herbs, or gathering w=
ood,
in private or government forests. To this class also belonged the predatory=
mountaineers.
The fourth class consisted of people who,
according to Nekhludoff, were reckoned among the criminals only because they
were morally above the average level of society. Among these the percentage=
of
those who resisted interference with their affairs, or were sentenced for r=
esisting
the authorities, was very large.
The fifth class, finally, was composed of peop=
le
who were more sinned against by society than they sinned themselves. These =
were
the helpless people, blunted by constant oppression and temptation, like th=
at
boy with the mats, and hundreds of others whom Nekhludoff saw both in and o=
ut
of prison, and the conditions of those whose lives systematically drove the=
m to
the necessity of committing those acts which are called crimes. To these pe=
ople
belonged, according to Nekhludoff's observations, many thieves and murderer=
s,
with some of whom Nekhludoff had come in contact. Among these Nekhludoff fo=
und,
on close acquaintance, those spoiled and depraved people whom the new school
calls the criminal type, and the existence of which in society is given as =
the
reason for the necessity of criminal law and punishment. These so-called
depraved types, deviating from the normal, were, according to Nekhludoff, n=
one
other than those very people who have sinned less against society than soci=
ety
has sinned against them, and against whom society has sinned, not directly,=
but
through their ancestors.
Nekhludoff's attention was attracted by a habi=
tual
thief, Okhotin, who came under this head. He was the son of a fallen woman;=
had
grown up in lodging-houses, and till the age of thirty had never met a mora=
l man.
In childhood he had fallen in with a gang of thieves, but he possessed a
humorous vein which attracted people to him. While asking Nekhludoff for ai=
d he
jested at himself, the judges, the prison and all the laws, not only crimin=
al,
but even divine. There was also a fine-looking man, Fedorff, who, in company
with a gang of which he was the leader, had killed and robbed an old offici=
al.
This one was a peasant whose father's house had been illegally taken from h=
im,
and who, while in the army, suffered for falling in love with an officer's =
mistress.
He was attractive and passionate. His sole desire in life was to enjoy hims=
elf,
and he had never met any people who, out of any consideration, tempered the=
ir
passions, nor had he ever heard that there was any other aim in life than
personal enjoyment. It was plain to Nekhludoff that these two were richly
endowed by nature, and were only neglected and mutilated as plants are
sometimes neglected and mutilated. He also came across a vagabond, and a wo=
man,
whose stupidity and apparent cruelty were repulsive, but he failed to find =
in
them that criminal type spoken of by the Italian school. He only saw in the=
m people
who were disagreeable to him personally, like some he had met in dress-coat=
s,
uniforms, and laces.
Thus the investigation of the question: Why are
people of such great variety of character confined in prisons, while others=
, no
different than those, enjoy freedom and even judge those people? was the fo=
urth
concern of Nekhludoff.
At first he hoped to find an answer to this
question in books, and bought every book bearing on the subject. He bought =
the
works of Lombroso, Garofalo, Ferri, Mandsley and Tard, and read them carefu=
lly.
But the more he read them, the greater was his disappointment. The same thi=
ng
happened with him that happens with people who appeal to science with direc=
t,
simple, vital questions, and not with a view of playing the part of an expo=
under,
writer or teacher in it. Science solved a thousand and one various abstruse,
complicated questions bearing on criminal law, but failed to give an answer=
to
the question he had formed. His question was very simple: Why and by what r=
ight
do some people confine, torture, exile, flog and kill other people no diffe=
rent
than they are themselves? And in answer they argued the questions: Whether =
or
not man is a free agent? Can a criminal be distinguished by the measurement=
s of
his cranium? To what extent is crime due to heredity? What is morality? Wha=
t is
insanity? What is degeneracy? What is temperament? How does climate, food,
ignorance, emulation, hypnotism, passion affect crime? What is society? What
are its duties? etc., etc.
These arguments reminded Nekhludoff of an answ=
er
he had once received from a schoolboy. He asked the boy whether he had lear=
ned
the declension of nouns. "Yes," answered the boy. "Well, then
decline 'Paw.'" "What paw? A dog's paw?" the boy answered, w=
ith
a sly expression on his face. Similar answers in the form of questions Nekh=
ludoff
found in scientific books to his one basic question.
He found there many wise, learned and interest=
ing
things, but there was no answer to his principal question: By what right do
some people punish others? Not only was there no answer, but all reasoning
tended to explain and justify punishment, the necessity of which was consid=
ered
an axiom. Nekhludoff read much, but only by fits and starts, and the want o=
f an
answer he ascribed to such superficial reading. He, therefore, refused to
believe in the justice of the answer which constantly occurred to him.
=
=
The
deportation of the party of convicts to which Maslova belonged was set for =
the
fifth of July, and Nekhludoff was prepared to follow her on that day. The d=
ay
before his departure his sister, with her husband, arrived in town to see h=
im.
Nekhludoff's sister, Natalie Ivanovna Ragojhin=
sky,
was ten years his senior. He had grown up partly under her influence. She l=
oved
him when he was a boy, and before her marriage they treated each other as e=
quals;
she was twenty-five and he was fifteen. She had been in love then with his
deceased friend, Nikolenka Irtenieff. They both loved Nikolenka, and loved =
in
him and in themselves the good that was in them, and which unifies all peop=
le.
Since that time they had both became corrupted=
--he
by the bad life he was leading; she by her marriage to a man whom she loved
sensually, but who not only did not love all that which she and Dimitri at =
one time
considered most holy and precious, but did not even understand it, and all
those aspirations to moral perfection and to serving others, to which she h=
ad
once devoted herself, he ascribed to selfishness and a desire to show off
before people.
Ragojhinsky was a man without reputation or
fortune, but a clever fortune hunter, who, by skillful manoeuvering between
liberalism and conservatism, availing himself of that dominating tendency w=
hich
promised bitter results in life, but principally by something peculiar which
attracted women to him, he succeeded in making a relatively brilliant judic=
ial
career. He was already past his youth when he met Nekhludoff abroad, made
Natalie, who was also not very young, to fall in love with him, and married=
her
almost against the wish of her mother, who said that it would be a
mésalliance. Nekhludoff, although he concealed it from himself and
struggled against the feeling, hated his brother-in-law. He disliked his vu=
lgar
feelings, his self-confident narrowness of mind, but, principally, because =
of
his sister, who should so passionately, egotistically and sensually love su=
ch a
poor nature, and to please whom she should stifle all her noble sentiments.=
It
was always painful to Nekhludoff to think of Natalie as the wife of that ha=
iry,
self-confident man, with shining bald head. He could not even suppress his
aversion to his children. And whenever he heard that she was about to becom=
e a
mother, he experienced a feeling of compassion for her being again infected
with something bad by the man who was so unlike all of them.
The Ragojhinskys arrived without their childre=
n,
and engaged the best suite in the best hotel. Natalie Ivanovna immediately =
went
to the old home of her mother, and learning there that her brother had move=
d to
furnished rooms, she went to his new home. The dirty servant, meeting her in
the dark, ill-smelling corridor, which was lit up by a lamp during the day,
announced that the Prince was away.
Desiring to leave a note, Natalie Ivanovna was
shown into his apartments. She closely examined the two small rooms. She
noticed in every corner the familiar cleanliness and order, and she was str=
uck
by the modesty of the appointments. On the writing table she saw a familiar
paper-press, with the bronze figure of a dog, neatly arranged portfolios,
papers, volumes of the Criminal Code and an English book of Henry George, a=
nd a
French one by Tard, between the leaves of which was an ivory paper knife.
She left a note asking him to call on her the =
same
evening, and, shaking her head in wonder at what she had seen, returned to =
her hotel.
There were two questions relating to her broth=
er
that interested Natalie Ivanovna--his marriage to Katiousha, of which she h=
ad
heard in her city, where it was a matter of common gossip, and the distribu=
tion
by him of his land to the peasants, upon which some people looked as someth=
ing
political and dangerous. From one point of view, she rather liked the idea =
of
his marrying Katiousha. She admired his resolution, seeing in it herself and
him as they had been before her marriage. At the same time, she was
horror-stricken at the thought that her brother was to marry such an awful
woman. The latter feeling was the stronger, and she decided to dissuade him
from marrying her, although she knew how hard that would be.
The other affair, that of his parting with his
land, she did not take so close to heart, but her husband was indignant at =
such
folly, and demanded that she influence her brother to abandon the attempt. =
Ignatius
Nikiforovitch said that it was the height of inconsistency, foolhardiness a=
nd
pride; that such an act could only be explained, if at all, by a desire to =
be
odd, to have something to brag about, and to make people talk about one's s=
elf.
"What sense is there in giving the land to
the peasants and making them pay rent to themselves?" he said. "If
his mind was set on doing it, he could sell them the land through the bank.
There would be some sense in that. Taking all in all, his act is very
eccentric," said Ignatius Nikiforovitch, already considering the neces=
sity
of a guardianship, and he demanded that his wife should seriously speak to =
her
brother of this, his strange intention.
=
In the
evening Nekhludoff went to his sister. Ignatius Nikiforovitch was resting in
another room, and Natalie Ivanovna alone met him. She wore a tight-fitting
black silk dress, with a knot of red ribbon, and her hair was done up accor=
ding
to the latest fashion. She was evidently making herself look young for her
husband. Seeing her brother, she quickly rose from the divan, and, rustling
with her silk skirt, she went out to meet him. They kissed and, smiling, lo=
oked
at each other. There was an exchange of those mysterious, significant glanc=
es
in which everything was truth; then followed an exchange of words in which =
that
truth was lacking. They had not met since the death of their mother.
"You have grown stout and young," he
said.
Her lips contracted with pleasure.
"And you have grown thin."
"Well, how is Ignatius Nikiforovitch?&quo=
t;
asked Nekhludoff.
"He is resting. He has not slept all
night."
A great deal should have been said here, but t=
heir
words said nothing, and their glances said that that which interested them =
most
was left unsaid.
"I have been at your lodging."
"Yes, I know it. I have moved from the ho=
use.
I am so lonely and weary. I do not need any of those things, so you take
them--the furniture--everything."
"Yes, Agrippina Petrovna told me. I have =
been
there. I thank you very much. But----"
At that moment the servant brought in a silver=
tea
service. Natalie Ivanovna busied herself with making the tea. Nekhludoff was
silent.
"Well, Dimitri, I know everything,"
Natalie said, resolutely, glancing at him.
"I am very glad that you know."
"Do you think it possible to reform her a=
fter
such a life?"
He was sitting erect on a small chair, attenti=
vely
listening to her, prepared to answer satisfactorily her every question. He =
was
still in that frame of mind which, after his last meeting with Maslova, fil=
led his
soul with tranquil happiness and love for all mankind.
"It is not her that I intend to reform, b=
ut
myself," he answered.
Natalie Ivanovna sighed.
"There are other means besides
marriage."
"And I think that that is the best. Besid=
es,
that will bring me into that world in which I can be useful."
"I do not think," said Natalie Ivano=
vna,
"that you could be happy."
"It is not a question of my happiness.&qu=
ot;
"Of course; but if she possesses a heart,=
she
cannot be happy--she cannot even desire it."
"She does not."
"I understand, but life--demands something
different."
"Life only demands that we do what is
right," said Nekhludoff, looking at her face, still beautiful, although
covered with fine wrinkles around the eyes and mouth.
"Poor dear! How she has changed!"
thought Nekhludoff, recalling Natalie as she had been before her marriage, =
and
a tender feeling, woven of countless recollections of their childhood, rose=
in
his breast toward her.
At that moment Ignatius Nikiforovitch, as usual
holding his head high and projecting his broad chest, entered the room, with
shining eye-glasses, bald head and black beard.
"How do you do? How do you do?" he
greeted Nekhludoff, unnaturally accentuating his words.
They pressed each other's hand, and Ignatius
Nikiforovitch lowered himself into an arm-chair.
"Am I disturbing you?"
"No, I do not conceal anything I say or do
from anybody."
As soon as Nekhludoff saw that face, those hai=
ry
hands and heard that patronizing tone, his gentle disposition immediately
disappeared.
"Yes, we have been speaking about his int=
ention,"
said Natalie Ivanovna. "Shall I pour out some tea for you?" she
added, taking the tea-pot.
"Yes, if you please. What intention do you
refer to?"
"My intention of going to Siberia with th=
at
party of convicts, among whom there is a woman I have wronged," said
Nekhludoff.
"I heard that you intended more than
that."
"Yes, and marry her, if she only desires
it."
"I see! And may I ask you to explain your
motives, if it is not unpleasant to you? I do not understand them."
"My motives are that that woman--that the
first step on her downward career----" Nekhludoff became angry because=
he
could not find the proper expression. "My motives are that I am guilty,
while she is punished."
"If she is punished, then she is also,
probably, guilty."
"She is perfectly innocent."
And, with unnecessary agitation, Nekhludoff
related the whole case.
"Yes, that was an omission by the presidi=
ng
justice. But in such cases there is the Senate."
"The Senate sustained the verdict."<= o:p>
"Ah, then there were no grounds of appeal=
,"
said Ignatius Nikiforovitch, evidently sharing the well-known opinion that
truth is the product of court proceedings. "The Senate cannot go into =
the merits
of a case. But if there is really a judicial error, a petition should be ma=
de
to the Emperor."
"That was done, but there is no chance of
success. Inquiries will be made at the Ministry, which will refer them to t=
he
Senate, and the Senate will repeat its decision, and, as usual, the innocent
will be punished."
"In the first place, the Ministry will not
refer to the Senate," and Ignatius Nikiforovitch smiled condescendingl=
y,
"but will call for all the documents in the case, and, if it finds an
error, will so decide. In the second place, an innocent person is never, or=
, at
least, very seldom punished. Only the guilty is punished."
"And I am convinced that the contrary is
true," said Nekhludoff, with an unkind feeling toward his brother-in-l=
aw.
"I am convinced that the majority of the people convicted by courts are
innocent."
"How so?"
"They are innocent in the ordinary sense =
of
the word, as that woman was innocent of poisoning; as that peasant is innoc=
ent
of the murder which he has not committed; as that mother and son are innoce=
nt
of the arson which was committed by the owner himself, and for which they c=
ame
near being convicted."
"Of course, there always have been and al=
ways
will be judicial errors. Human institutions cannot be perfect."
"And, then, a large part of the innocent,
because they have been brought up amid certain conditions, do not consider =
the
acts committed by them criminal."
"Pardon me; that is unfair. Every thief k=
nows
that stealing is wrong; that theft is immoral," Ignatius Nikiforovitch
said, with the calm, self-confident, and, at the same time, somewhat
contemptuous, smile which particularly provoked Nekhludoff.
"No, he does not know. He is told not to
steal, but he sees and knows that the employers steal his labor, keep back =
his
pay, and that the officials are constantly robbing him."
"That is anarchism," Ignatius calmly=
defined
the meaning of his brother-in-law's words.
"I do not know what it is, but I am speak=
ing
of facts," Nekhludoff continued. "He knows that the officials are
robbing him. He knows that we, the landlords, own the land which ought to be
common property, and when he gathers some twigs for his oven we send him to
jail and try to convince him that he is a thief."
"I do not understand, and if I do, I cann=
ot
agree with you. The land cannot be nobody's property. If you divide it,&quo=
t;
Ignatius Nikiforovitch began, being fully convinced that Nekhludoff was a
socialist, and that the theory of socialism demands that all the land shoul=
d be
divided equally; that such division is foolish, and that he can easily refu=
te it.
"If you should divide the land to-day, giving each inhabitant an equal
share, to-morrow it will again find its way into the hands of the more
industrious and able among them----"
"Nobody even thinks of dividing the land =
into
equal shares. There ought to be no property in land, and it ought not to be=
the
subject of purchase and sale or renting."
"The right of property is a natural right.
Without property right there would be no interest in cultivating the land.
Destroy property right and we will return to the condition of the savage,&q=
uot;
authoritatively said Ignatius Nikiforovitch.
"On the contrary, only then will land not=
lie
idle, as it is now."
"But, Dimitri Ivanovich, it is perfect
madness! Is it possible in our time to destroy property in land? I know it =
is
your old hobby. But permit me to tell you plainly----" Ignatius
Nikiforovitch turned pale and his voice trembled. The question was evidentl=
y of
particular concern to him. "I would advise you to consider that questi=
on
well before attempting its practical solution."
"You are speaking of my personal affairs?=
"
"Yes. I assume that we are all placed in a
certain position, and must assume the duties that result from that position,
must support those conditions of existence into which we were born, which we
have inherited from our forefathers, and which we must hand over to our pos=
terity."
"I consider it my duty----"
"Excuse me," continued Ignatius Nikiforovitch, who would not be interrupted. "I am not speaking of mys= elf and my children. The fortune of my children is secure, and I earn enough to live in easy circumstances, and, therefore, my protest against your, permit= me to say, ill-considered actions is not based on personal interest, but on pr= inciple. And I would advise you to give it a little more thought, to read----"<= o:p>
"You had better let me decide my own affa=
irs.
I think I know what to read and what not to read," said Nekhludoff,
turning pale, and, feeling that he could not control himself, became silent=
and
began to drink his tea.
=
"Well,
how are the children?" Nekhludoff asked his sister, having calmed down=
.
Thus the unpleasant conversation was changed.
Natalie became calm and talked about her children. She would not speak,
however, about those things which only her brother understood in the presen=
ce
of her husband, and in order to continue the conversation she began to talk=
of
the latest news, the killing of Kanesky in the duel.
Ignatius Nikiforovitch expressed his disapprov=
al
of the condition of things which excluded the killing in a duel from the
category of crimes.
His remark called forth Nekhludoff's reply, an=
d a
hot discussion followed on the same subject, neither expressing fully his
opinion, and in the end they were again at loggerheads.
Ignatius Nikiforovitch felt that Nekhludoff condemned him, hating all his activity, and he wished to prove the injustic= e of his reasoning. Nekhludoff, on the other hand, to say nothing of the vexation caused him by his brother-in-law's interference in his affairs (in the dept= h of his soul he felt that his brother-in-law, his sister and their children, as heirs, had the right to do so), was indignant at the calm and confident man= ner of that narrow-minded man who continued to consider legal and just that whi= ch to Nekhludoff was undoubtedly foolish. This self-confidence irritated him.<= o:p>
"What should the court do?" asked
Nekhludoff.
"Sentence one of the duelists, as it woul=
d a
common murderer, to hard labor."
Nekhludoff's hands again turned cold, and he
continued with warmth:
"Well, what would be then?"
"Justice would be done."
"As if the aim of courts was to do
justice!" said Nekhludoff.
"What else?"
"Their aim is to support class interests.
Courts, according to my idea, are only instruments for the perpetuation of
conditions profitable to our class."
"That is an entirely new view," said=
Ignatius
Nikiforovitch, smiling calmly. "Usually somewhat different aims are
ascribed to courts."
"In theory, but not in practice, as I have
learned. The only aim of the courts is to preserve the existing state of
things, and for this reason they persecute and kill all those who are above=
the
common level and who wish to raise it as well as those who are below it.&qu=
ot;
"I cannot agree with the view that crimin=
als
are executed because they are above the level of the average. For the most =
part
they are the excrescence of society, just as perverted, though in a differe=
nt manner,
as are those criminal types whom you consider below the level of the
average."
"And I know people who are far above their
judges."
But Ignatius Nikiforovitch, not accustomed to
being interrupted when speaking, did not listen to Nekhludoff, which was
particularly irritating to the latter, and continued to talk while Nekhludo=
ff
was talking.
"I cannot agree with you that the aim of
courts is to support the existing order of things. The courts have their ai=
ms:
either the correction----"
"Prisons are great places for
correction," Nekhludoff put in.
"Or the removal," persistently conti=
nued
Ignatius Nikiforovitch, "of those depraved and savage people who threa=
ten
the existence of society."
"That is just where the trouble is. Courts
can do neither the one nor the other. Society has no means of doing it.&quo=
t;
"How is that? I don't understand----"
asked Ignatius Nikiforovitch, with a forced smile.
"I mean to say that there are only two
sensible modes of punishment--those that have been used in olden times:
corporal punishment and capital punishment. But with the advance of civiliz=
ation
they have gone out of existence."
"That is both new and surprising to hear =
from
you."
"Yes, there is sense in inflicting pain o=
n a
man that he might not repeat that for which the pain was inflicted; and it =
is
perfectly sensible to cut the head off a harmful and dangerous member of so=
ciety.
But what sense is there in imprisoning a man, who is depraved by idleness a=
nd bad
example, and keeping him in secure and compulsory idleness in the society of
the most depraved people? Or to transport him, for some reason, at an expen=
se
to the government of five hundred roubles, from the District of Tula to the
District of Irkutsk, or from Kursk----"
"But people seem to fear these journeys at
government expense. And were it not for these journeys, we would not be sit=
ting
here as we are sitting now."
"Prisons cannot secure our safety, because
people are not imprisoned for life, but are released. On the contrary, these
institutions are the greatest breeders of vice and corruption--_i. e._, they
increase the danger."
"You mean to say that the penitentiary sy=
stem
ought to be perfected?"
"It cannot be perfected. Perfected prisons
would cost more than is spent on popular education and would be a new burde=
n on
the populace."
"But the deficiencies of the penitentiary
system do not invalidate the judicial system," Ignatius Nikiforovitch
again continued, without listening to his brother-in-law.
"These deficiencies cannot be
corrected," said Nekhludoff, raising his voice.
"What then? Would you kill? Or, as a cert=
ain
statesman suggested, pluck out their eyes?" said Ignatius Nikiforovitc=
h,
smiling triumphantly.
"Yes; that would be cruel, but expedient.
What we are doing now is both cruel and inexpedient."
"And I am taking part in it," said
Ignatius Nikiforovitch, paling.
"That is your business. But I do not
understand it."
"I think there are many things you do not understand," said Ignatius Nikiforovitch, with a quiver in his voice.<= o:p>
"I saw a public prosecutor in court trying
his utmost to convict an unfortunate boy, who could only arouse compassion =
in
any unperverted man----"
"If I thought so, I should give up my
position," said Ignatius Nikiforovitch, rising.
Nekhludoff noticed a peculiar glitter under his
brother-in-law's eye-glasses. "Can it be tears?" thought Nekhludo=
ff.
They really were tears. Ignatius Nikiforovitch was offended. Going toward t=
he
window, he drew a handkerchief from his pocket, coughed, and began to wipe =
his eye-glasses,
and, removing them, he also wiped his eyes. Returning to the couch, Ignatius
Nikiforovitch lit a cigar and spoke no more. Nekhludoff was pained and asha=
med
at the grief that he had caused his brother-in-law and sister, especially a=
s he
was leaving the next day and would not see them again. In great agitation he
took leave of them and departed.
"It is quite possible that what I said was
true. At any rate, he did not refute me. But it was wrong to speak that way.
Little have I changed if I could insult him and grieve poor Natalie," =
he
thought.
=
The
party of convicts, which included Maslova, was to leave on the three o'clock
train, and in order to see them coming out of the prison and follow them to=
the
railroad station Nekhludoff decided to get to the prison before twelve.
While packing his clothes and papers, Nekhludo=
ff
came across his diary and began to read the entry he had made before leaving
for St. Petersburg. "Katiusha does not desire my sacrifice, but is wil=
ling
to sacrifice herself," it ran. "She has conquered, and I have
conquered. I am rejoicing at that inner change which she seems to me to be =
undergoing.
I fear to believe it, but it appears to me that she is awakening."
Immediately after this was the following entry: "I have lived through a
very painful and very joyous experience. I was told that she had misbehaved=
in
the hospital. It was very painful to hear it. Did not think it would so aff=
ect
me. Have spoken to her with contempt and hatred, but suddenly remembered how
often I myself have been guilty--am even now, although only in thought, of =
that
for which I hated her, and suddenly I was seized with disgust for myself an=
d pity
for her, and I became very joyful. If we would only see in time the beam in=
our
own eye, how much kinder we would be." Then he made the following entry
for the day: "Have seen Katiusha, and, because of my self-content, was
unkind and angry, and departed with a feeling of oppression. But what can I=
do?
A new life begins to-morrow. Farewell to the old life! My mind is filled wi=
th
numberless impressions, but I cannot yet reduce them to order."
On awakening the following morning, Nekhludoff=
's
first feeling was one of sorrow for the unpleasant incident with his
brother-in-law.
"I must go to see them," he thought,
"and smooth it over."
But, looking at the clock, he saw that there w=
as
no time left, and that he must hasten to the prison to see the departure of=
the
convicts. Hastily packing up his things and sending them to the depot, Nekh=
ludoff
hired a trap and drove to the prison.
*
The hot July days had set in. The stones of the
street, the houses, and the tins of the roofs, failing to cool off during t=
he
suffocating night, exhaled their warmth into the hot, still air. There was =
no breeze,
and such as rose every now and then was laden with dust and the stench of o=
il
paint. The few people that were on the streets sought shelter in the shade =
of
the houses. Only sun-burnt street-pavers in bast shoes were sitting in the
middle of the street, setting boulders into the hot sand; gloomy policemen =
in
unstarched blouses and carrying revolvers attached to yellow cords, were la=
zily
shuffling about, and tram-cars with drawn blinds on the sides exposed to the
sun, and drawn by white-hooded horses, were running up and down the street.=
When Nekhludoff arrived at the prison, the for=
mal
delivery and acceptance of the departing convicts, which began at four in t=
he morning,
were still going on. The party consisted of six hundred and twenty-three men
and sixty-four women; all had to be counted, the weak and sick had to be
separated, and they were to be delivered to the convoy. The new inspector, =
two
assistants, a physician, his assistant, the officer of the convoy and a cle=
rk
were sitting in the shade around a table with papers and documents, calling=
and
examining each convict and making entries in their books.
One-half of the table was already exposed to t=
he
sun. It was getting warm and close from want of air, and from the breathing=
of
the convicts standing near by.
"Will there ever be an end?" said a
tall, stout, red-faced captain of the convoy, incessantly smoking a cigaret=
te
and blowing the smoke through the moustache which covered his mouth. "=
I am
exhausted. Where have you taken so many? How many more are there?"
The clerk consulted the books.
"Twenty-four men and the women."
"Why are you standing there? Come
forward!" shouted the captain to the crowding convicts.
The convicts had already been standing three h=
ours
in a broiling sun, waiting their turn.
All this was taking place in the court-yard of=
the
prison, while without the prison stood the usual armed soldier, about two d=
ozen
trucks for the baggage, and the infirm convicts, and on the corner a crowd =
of
relatives and friends of the convicts, waiting for a chance to see the exil=
es
as they emerged from the prison, and, if possible, to have a last few words
with them, or deliver some things they had brought for them. Nekhludoff joi=
ned
this crowd.
He stood there about an hour. At the end of the
hour, from behind the gates came the clatter of chains, the tramping of fee=
t,
voices of command, coughing and the low conversation of a large crowd. This=
lasted
about five minutes, during which time prison officers flitted in and out
through the wicket. Finally there was heard a sharp command.
The gates were noisily flung open, the clatter=
of
the chains became more distinct, and a detachment of guardsmen in white blo=
uses
and shouldering guns marched forth and arranged themselves, evidently as a =
customary
manoeuvre, in a large semi-circle before the gates. Again a command was hea=
rd,
and the hard-labor convicts, in pairs, began to pour out. With pancake-shap=
ed
caps on their shaved heads, and sacks on their shoulders, they dragged their
fettered legs, holding up the sacks with one hand and waving the other. Fir=
st
came the men convicts, all in gray trousers and long coats with diamond ace=
s on
their backs. All of them--young, old, slim, stout, pale, and red-faced, dar=
k-haired,
moustached, bearded and beardless, Russians, Tartars, Jews--came, clanging
their chains and briskly waving their hands as though going on a long journ=
ey;
but after making about ten steps they stopped and humbly arranged themselve=
s in
rows of four. Immediately behind these came another contingent, also with
shaved heads and similarly dressed, without leg-fetters, but handcuffed to =
each
other. These were exiles. They walked as briskly as the others, stopped, an=
d formed
in rows of four. Then came the women in the same order, in gray coats and
'kerchiefs, those sentenced to hard labor coming first; then the exiles, and
finally those voluntarily following their husbands, in their native costume=
s.
Some of the women carried infants under the skirts of their coats.
Children--boys and girls--followed them on foo=
t,
hanging on to the skirts of their mothers. The men stood silently, coughing=
now
and then, or exchanging remarks, while the women carried on incessant conve=
rsation.
Nekhludoff thought that he saw Maslova as she was coming out, but she was s=
oon
lost in the large crowd, and he only saw a lot of gray creatures almost
deprived of all womanly features, with their children and sacks, grouping
themselves behind the men.
Although the convicts had been counted within =
the
walls of the prison, the guard began to count them over again. This counting
took a long time, because the convicts, moving from one place to another,
confused the count of the officers. The officers cursed and pushed the humb=
ly but
angrily compliant convicts and counted them again. When the counting was
finally over, the officer of the guard gave some command, and suddenly all
became confusion in the crowd. Infirm men, women and children hastened to t=
he
trucks, on which they first placed their sacks, then climbed in themselves,=
the
infants crying in their mothers' arms, the children quarreling about the
places, the men looking gloomy and despondent.
Some of the convicts, removing their caps,
approached the officer and made some request. As Nekhludoff afterward learn=
ed,
they were asking to be taken on the wagons. The guard officer, without look=
ing
at the applicants, silently inhaled the smoke of his cigarette, then sudden=
ly swung
his short hand at one of the convicts that approached him, who dodged and
sprang back.
"I will elevate you to the nobility with a
rope! You can walk!" shouted the officer.
Only a tall, staggering old man in irons was
permitted to ride on a wagon. The old man removed his cap, and making the s=
ign
of the cross, dragged himself to the wagon; but his fettered legs prevented=
his
climbing up until an old woman, sitting on the wagon, took his hand and hel=
ped
him in.
When all the wagons were loaded with sacks and
those that were permitted to ride, the guard officer uncovered his bald hea=
d,
wiped with a handkerchief his pate, forehead and red, stout neck, made the =
sign
of the cross, and gave command to proceed.
There was a clatter of weapons; the convicts,
removing their caps, began to make the sign of the cross, some with their l=
eft
hands; the escorting crowd shouted something, the convicts shouted in answe=
r; a
great wailing arose among the women, and the party, surrounded by soldiers =
in
white blouses moved forward, raising a cloud of dust with their fettered fe=
et.
They marched in the order in which they formed at the prison gates, in rows=
of
four, preceded by a detachment of soldiers. The rear was brought up by the
wagons loaded with the sacks and the infirm. On top of one of the wagons, a=
bove
all the others, sat a woman, wrapped up in her coat and sobbing incessantly=
.
=
When
Nekhludoff reached the railroad station the prisoners were already seated in
the cars, behind grated windows. There were a few people on the platform, c=
ome
to see their departing relatives, but they were not allowed to come near the
cars. The guards were greatly troubled this day. On the way from the prison=
to
the station five men had died from sunstroke. Three of them had been taken =
to
the nearest police station from the street, while two were stricken at the =
railroad
station.[F] They were troubled not because five men had died while under th=
eir
guard. That did not bother them; but they were chiefly concerned with doing=
all
that the law required them to do under the circumstances--to make proper
transfer of the dead, their papers and belongings, and to exclude them from=
the
list of those that were to be transferred to Nijhni, which was very
troublesome, especially on such a warm day.
This it was that occupied the convoy, and this=
was
the reason why Nekhludoff and others were not permitted to approach the cars
while the formalities were unfinished. However, upon bribing one of the ser=
geants,
Nekhludoff was permitted to come near the cars, the sergeant asking him to =
do
his errand so that the captain would not see him. There were eighteen cars,=
and
all, except the one reserved for the authorities, were literally packed with
prisoners. Passing by the windows, Nekhludoff listened to the sounds within.
Everywhere he heard the rattling of chains, bustle, and the hum of
conversation, interspersed with stupid profanity; but nowhere did he hear, =
as
he expected, any reference to the dead comrades. Their conversation related
more to sacks, drinking-water, and the choice of seats. Looking into the wi=
ndow
of one of the cars, Nekhludoff saw some guardsmen removing the handcuffs fr=
om
the wrists of the prisoners. The prisoners stretched out their hands, while=
one
of the guards with a key opened the locks of the handcuffs, which were
collected by another. When Nekhludoff reached the second car occupied by the
women he heard a woman's moan, "Oh, heavens! Oh, heavens!"
Nekhludoff passed by and approached one of the
windows of the third car, pointed out to him by one of the guards. Overheat=
ed
air, impregnated with a thick odor of perspiration, assailed his nostrils, =
and
shrill women's voices were distinctly heard. All the benches were occupied =
by
flushed, perspiring women in waists and coats, loudly conversing. His appro=
ach
attracted their attention. Those sitting nearest to the grated window became
silent. Maslova, in a waist and without headgear, was sitting near the oppo=
site
window. The smiling Theodosia, who was sitting near Maslova, seeing Nekhlud=
off,
pushed her with her elbow and pointed to Nekhludoff. Maslova hurriedly rose=
, threw
a 'kerchief over her black hair, and, with an animated, red, perspiring and
smiling face, came near the window and placed her hands on the grating.
"But how warm it is!" she said, smil=
ing
joyously.
"Did you get the things?"
"I did, thank you."
"Do you need anything?" asked Nekhludoff, feeling the heat issuing from the window as from a steam bath.<= o:p>
"I do not need anything. Thank you."=
"If we could only get some water," s=
aid
Theodosia.
"Yes, some water," repeated Maslova.=
"I will ask one of the guards," said
Nekhludoff. "We will not meet now until we reach Nijhni."
"Why, are you going there?" she said=
, as
if she did not know it, but joyously glancing at Nekhludoff.
"I am going on the next train."
Maslova was silent for a few moments; then sig=
hed
deeply.
"Is it true, master, that twelve people h=
ave
died from the heat?" said a churlish old woman in a hoarse voice.
It was Korableva.
"I don't know that twelve have died. I ha=
ve
seen two," said Nekhludoff.
"They say twelve. They ought to be punish=
ed
for it, the devils!"
"How is it with the women?" asked
Nekhludoff.
"Women are stronger," said another
prisoner, smiling. "Only there is one who has taken it into her head to
give birth to a child. Listen to her wailing," she said, pointing to t=
he
adjacent car, from which the moaning proceeded.
"You asked if anything was needed," = said Maslova, endeavoring to restrain a happy smile. "Could not that woman = be taken off the train? She suffers so. Won't you tell the authorities?"<= o:p>
"Yes, I will."
"Another thing--could you not get her to =
see
her husband, Tarass?" she added, pointing to the smiling Theodosia.
"He is going with you, isn't he?"
At this point the voice of a sergeant was heard
reminding Nekhludoff that talking with the prisoners was prohibited. It was=
not
the sergeant who passed Nekhludoff.
Nekhludoff walked off to find the captain,
intending to see him about the sick woman and Tarass, but for a long time c=
ould
not find him, the guards being too busy to answer his inquiries. Some were
leading away one of the convicts; others were hurrying away to buy their pr=
ovisions;
still others were attending a lady who was traveling with the captain of the
convoy.
Nekhludoff found the captain after the second
bell. The captain, wiping his thick moustache with his short hand and raisi=
ng
his shoulders, was reprimanding one of the sergeants.
"What is it you want?" he asked
Nekhludoff.
"There is a woman giving birth to a child=
, so
I thought it would be well----"
"Well, let her. When the child is born we
will see to it," said the captain, passing to his car.
The conductor came with a whistle in his hand.=
The
third bell sounded, and a loud wailing rose among the female prisoners and
their friends and relatives on the platform. Nekhludoff was standing beside=
Tarass,
and watched the cars passing before him, with the grated windows and the sh=
aved
heads seen through them. As the one in which Maslova was passed, he saw her
standing with others at the window, looking at him and smiling piteously.
FOOTNOTES:
[Footnote F: Early in the eighties five prison=
ers
died from sunstroke while being transferred from the Boutyr prison to the
Nijhni railroad station.--L. T.]
=
The
passenger train which was to carry away Nekhludoff was to start in two hour=
s.
Nekhludoff at first thought of utilizing these two hours in visiting his
sister, but after the impressions of the morning he felt so excited and
exhausted that he seated himself on a sofa in the saloon for first-class
passengers. But he unexpectedly felt so drowsy that he turned on his side,
placed his palm under his cheek, and immediately fell asleep.
He was awakened by a servant in dress-coat hol=
ding
a napkin in his hand.
"Mister, mister, are you not Prince
Nekhludoff? A lady is looking for you."
Nekhludoff quickly raised himself, rubbing his
eyes, and the incidents of the morning passed before his mind's eye--the
procession of the convicts, the men who had died from the heat, the grated
windows of the cars, and the women huddled behind them, one of whom was
laboring in child-birth without aid, and another piteously smiling to him f=
rom behind
the iron grating. But in reality he saw a table covered with bottles, vases,
chandeliers, and fruit stands; nimble servants bustling around the table, a=
nd
in the depth of the saloon, before the lunch-counter, loaded with viands and
fruits, the backs of passengers leisurely eating their luncheon.
While Nekhludoff was raising himself and shaki=
ng
off the slumber, he noticed that everybody in the saloon was curiously watc=
hing
the entrance. He turned his eyes in the same direction, and saw a processio=
n of
people who bore an arm-chair in which was seated a lady, her head covered w=
ith
tulle. The first bearer was a lackey who seemed familiar to Nekhludoff. The=
one
behind was also a familiar porter, with white crown lace around his cap. Be=
hind
the arm-chair came an elegantly dressed maid-servant with curly hair, carry=
ing
a round leather box and a sunshade. Further behind came the short-necked Pr=
ince
Korchagin, his shoulders thrown back; then Missy, Misha, their cousin, and a
diplomat Osten, unfamiliar to Nekhludoff, with his long neck and prominent
Adam's apple and an ever cheerful appearance. He walked impressively, but
evidently jestingly talking to the smiling Missy. Behind them came the doct=
or,
angrily smoking a cigarette.
The Korchagins were moving from their estate to
the Prince's sister, whose estate was situated on the Nijhni road.
The procession passed into the ladies' room. T=
he
old Prince, however, seating himself at the table, immediately called over a
waiter and began to order something. Missy with Osten also stopped in the d=
ining-room,
and were about to sit down when they saw an acquaintance in the doorway and
went to meet her. It was Natalia Ivanovna. She was escorted by Agrippina
Petrovna, and as she entered the dining-room she looked around. At almost t=
he
same moment she noticed Missy and her brother. She first approached Missy, =
only
nodding her head to Nekhludoff. But after kissing Missy she immediately tur=
ned
to him.
"At last I have found you," she said=
.
After greeting his sister, Nekhludoff entered =
into
conversation with Missy, who told him that their house had burned down,
necessitating their removal to her aunt's. Osten began to relate a droll
anecdote anent the fire. Nekhludoff, without listening to Osten, turned to =
his sister:
"How glad I am that you came!"
In the course of their conversation he told her
how sorry he felt for having fallen out with her husband; that he had inten=
ded
to return and confess that he was at fault, but that he knew not how her
husband would take it.
"I spoke improperly to him, and it tortur=
ed
me," he said.
"I knew it. I was sure you didn't intend
it," said his sister. "Don't you know----"
The tears welled up in her eyes, and she touch=
ed
her brother's hand. It was spoken tenderly; he understood her, and was
affected. The meaning of her words was that, besides her love for her husba=
nd,
her love for her brother was dear and important to her, and that any disagr=
eement
with him caused her suffering.
"Thank you, thank you. Oh, what I have se=
en
to-day!" he said, suddenly recalling the two dead convicts. "Two
convicts have been killed."
"How killed?"
"So, simply killed. They have been brought
here in this heat, and two of them died from sunstroke."
"Impossible! How? To-day? Just now?"=
"Yes, just now. I have seen their
corpses."
"Why were they killed? Who killed them?&q=
uot;
asked Natalia Ivanovna.
"Those who forcibly brought them here,&qu=
ot;
said Nekhludoff excitedly, feeling that she took the same view of this as h=
er
husband.
"Oh, my God!" said Agrippina Petrovn=
a,
coming nearer to them.
"Yes, we have no conception of the life t=
hese
unfortunates are leading, and it is necessary to know it," Nekhludoff
added, looking at the old Prince, who, sitting at the table with a napkin
tucked under his chin and a large glass before him, at that moment glanced =
at Nekhludoff.
"Nekhludoff," he shouted. "Won't
you take sauce to cool off? It is excellent stuff."
Nekhludoff refused and turned away.
"But what will you do?" continued
Natalia Ivanovna.
"I will do what I can. I do not know what,
but I feel that I must do something. And I will do what I can."
"Yes, yes, I understand that. And what ab=
out
him?" she said, smiling and nodding in the direction of Korchagin.
"Is it really all over?"
"Yes, it is and I think without regret on
either side."
"I am very sorry. I like her. But I suppo=
se
it must be so. But why should you bind yourself? Why are you following
her?"
"Because it is proper that I should,"
Nekhludoff said dryly, as though desiring to change the subject.
But he immediately felt ashamed of his coldnes=
s to
his sister. "Why should I not tell her what I think?" he thought;
"and let Agrippina Petrovna also know it," he said to himself,
looking at the old servant.
The presence of Agrippina Petrovna only encour=
aged
him to repeat his decision to his sister.
"You are speaking of my intention to marry
Katiusha. You see, I have decided to do it, but she firmly and decidedly
refused me," he said, and his voice trembled, as it always did when he
spoke of it. "She does not desire my sacrifice, and in her position she
sacrifices very much, and I could not accept her sacrifice, even if it were
only momentary. That is why I am following her, and I will be near her, and=
will
endeavor to relieve her condition as far as I am able."
Natalia Ivanovna was silent. Agrippina Petrovna
looked inquiringly at Natalia Ivanovna, shaking her head. At that moment the
procession started again from the ladies' room. The same handsome Phillip a=
nd
the porter were bearing the Princess. She stopped the bearers, beckoned Nek=
hludoff
to her side, and in a piteously languid manner extended her white,
ring-bedecked hand, with horror anticipating the hard pressure of his.
"_Epouvantable!_" she said of the he=
at.
"It is unbearable. _Ce climat me tue._" And having said a few wor=
ds
of the horrors of the Russian climate, and invited Nekhludoff to visit them,
she gave a sign to the bearers. "Don't fail to come, now," she ad=
ded,
turning her long face to Nekhludoff.
Nekhludoff went out on the platform. The
procession turned to the right, toward the first-class coaches. Nekhludoff,
with a porter who carried his baggage, and Tarass, with his bags, turned to=
the
left.
"That is my comrade," Nekhludoff sai=
d to
his sister, pointing to Tarass, whose story he had told her before.
"What, are you taking the third class?&qu=
ot;
asked Natalia Ivanovna, when Nekhludoff stopped before a third-class car and
the porter, with Tarass, entered it.
"Yes, I will have it more convenient then.
Tarass is with me. Another thing," he added. "I have not yet given
the Kusminskoie land to the peasants. So that, in case of my death, your
children will inherit it."
"Dmitri, don't talk that way," said
Natalia Ivanovna.
"And if I do give it away, then all I hav=
e to
tell you is that the remainder will be theirs, for I shall hardly marry. An=
d if
I do, there will be no children--so that----"
"Dmitri, please stop it," said Natal= ia Ivanovna; but Nekhludoff saw that she was glad to hear what he was saying.<= o:p>
The time for parting had come. The conductors =
were
closing the doors, inviting the passengers to take seats, others to leave t=
he
cars.
Nekhludoff entered the heated and ill-smelling=
car
and immediately appeared on its platform. Natalia Ivanovna was standing
opposite, and evidently wished to say something, but could not find words. =
She
could not say "_ecrivez_," because they had long been ridiculing =
the customary
phrase of parting friends. The conversation about financial affairs and the
inheritance at once destroyed the tender relations they had resumed. They n=
ow
felt themselves estranged from each other. So that Natalia Ivanovna was glad
when the train began to move and she could say, with a smile: "Well,
Dmitri, good-by!" As soon as the train left she began to think how to =
tell
her husband of her conversation with her brother, and her face became grave=
and
worried.
And though Nekhludoff entertained the best
sentiments toward his sister, and he concealed nothing from her, he now felt
estranged from her, and was glad to be rid of her. He felt that the Natasha=
of
old was no more; that there was only a slave of an unpleasant, dark, hairy =
man
with whom he had nothing in common. He plainly saw this, because her face b=
ecame
illumined with peculiar animation only when he spoke of that which interest=
ed
her husband--of the distribution of the land among the peasants, and of the
inheritance. This made him sad.
=
The
heat in the large car of the third class, due to its exposure to the scorch=
ing
sun rays and the large crowd within, was so suffocating that Nekhludoff
remained on the platform. But there was no relief even there, and he drew in
long breaths when the train rolled out beyond the houses and the movement of
the train created a draught. "Yes, killed," he repeated to himsel=
f.
And to his imagination appeared with unusual vividness the beautiful face of
the second dead convict, with a smile on his lips, the forbidding expressio=
n of
his forehead, and the small, strong ear under the shaved, bluish scalp.
"And the worst part of it is that he was killed, and no one knows who
killed him. Yet he was killed. He was forwarded, like the others, at the or=
der
of Maslenikoff. Maslenikoff probably signed the usual order with his foolish
flourish, on a printed letter-head, and, of course, does not consider himse=
lf
guilty. The prison physician, who inspected the convicts, has still less re=
ason
for considering himself guilty. He carefully fulfilled his duties, separated
the weak ones, and could not possibly foresee either the terrible heat, or =
that
they would be taken away so late and in such a crowd. The inspector? But the
inspector only carried out the order that on such a day so many men and wom=
en prisoners
should be sent away. No more guilty was the officer of the convoy, whose du=
ty
consisted in receiving so many people at such a place and delivering them at
another place. He led the party in the usual way, according to instructions,
and could not possibly foresee that such strong men, like the two whom
Nekhludoff had seen, would succumb and die. No one was guilty, and yet the =
men
were killed by these very people who were innocent of their death.
"All this happened," thought Nekhlud=
off,
"because all those people--the governor, inspector and the other
officers--saw before them, not human beings and their duties toward them, b=
ut
the service and its requirements. Therein lies the difficulty."
In his meditation Nekhludoff did not notice how
the weather had changed. The sun had hidden behind a low strip of cloud, and
from the southern sky a light-gray mass, from which a slanting rain was alr=
eady
pouring in the distance over the fields and forests, was coming on. Now and
then a flash of lightning rent the clouds, and the rattle of the train ming=
led
with the rattle of thunder. The clouds came nearer and nearer, the slanting
drops of rain, driven by the wind, pattered on the platform of the car and
stained Nekhludoff's overcoat. He moved to the other side, and drawing in t=
he
fresh, humid air and the odor of the wheat coming from the parched ground, =
he
looked on the passing gardens, forests; the rye fields just turning yellow,=
the
emerald streaks of oats, and the furrows of the dark-green, flowering potat=
o. Everything
looked as if covered with varnish: the green and yellow colors became brigh=
ter;
the black became blacker.
"More, more," said Nekhludoff, rejoi=
cing
at the reviving fields and gardens under the abundant rain.
The heavy rain did not last long. The clouds
partly dissipated, and the last fine shower fell straight on the wet ground.
The sun came forth again, the earth brightened, and a low but brilliant vio=
let tinged
rainbow, broken at one end, appeared in the eastern horizon.
"What was I thinking of?" Nekhludoff
asked himself, when all these changes of nature came to an end and the train
descended into a vale. "Yes, I was thinking that all those people--the
inspector, the guard and all those servants, for the most part gentle, kind
people--have become wicked."
He recalled the indifference of Maslenikoff wh=
en
he told the latter of what was going on in the prison, of the severity of t=
he
inspector, the cruelty of the sergeant who refused the use of the wagons to=
the
weak convicts and paid no attention to the suffering of the woman in child-=
birth.
All those people were evidently proof against the feeling of sympathy, &quo=
t;as
is this paved ground against rain," he thought, looking at the incline
paved with multi-colored stone, from which the water streamed off. "Ma=
y be
it is necessary to lay the stones on the incline, but it is sad to see the =
soil
deprived of vegetation when it could be made to grow grain, grass, shrubs a=
nd
trees like those seen on those heights. It is the same with people,"
thought Nekhludoff. "The whole trouble lies in that people think that
there are conditions excluding the necessity of love in their intercourse w=
ith
man, but such conditions do not exist. Things may be treated without love; =
one may
chop wood, make bricks, forge iron without love, but one can no more deal w=
ith
people without love than one can handle bees without care. The nature of be=
es
is such that if you handle them carelessly you will harm them as well as
yourself. It is the same with people. And it cannot be different, because
mutual love is the basic law of human life. True, man cannot compel himself=
to
love, as he can compel himself to work, but it does not follow from this th=
at
in his dealings with men he can leave love out of consideration, especially=
if
he wants something from them. If you feel no love for people, then keep away
from them," Nekhludoff said to himself. "Occupy yourself with thi=
ngs,
yourself--anything; only keep away from people. As it is harmful to eat exc=
ept
when one is hungry, so is it harmful to have intercourse with people when o=
ne
does not love them. If one permits himself to deal with people without havi=
ng
any love for them, as I did yesterday with my brother-in-law, there is no l=
imit
to the cruelty and brutality one is liable to display toward others, as I h=
ave
seen to-day, and there is no limit to one's own suffering, as I have learned
from all the experiences of my own life. Yes, yes, that is so," thought
Nekhludoff, experiencing the double pleasure of a cool breeze after the
intolerable heat, and the consciousness of having reached the highest degre=
e of
lucidity in the question which had so long occupied him.
=
The
party of convicts to which Maslova belonged had gone about thirty-five hund=
red
miles. It was not until Perm was reached that Nekhludoff succeeded in obtai=
ning
Maslova's transfer to the contingent of politicals, as he was advised to do=
by
Bogodukhovskaia, who was among them.
The journey to Perm was very burdensome to
Maslova, both physically and morally--physically because of the crowded con=
dition
of their quarters, the uncleanliness and disgusting insects, which gave her=
no rest;
morally because of the equally loathsome men who, though they changed at ev=
ery
stopping place, were like the insects, always insolent, intrusive and gave =
her
little rest. The cynicism prevailing among the convicts and their overseers=
was
such that every woman, especially the young women, had to be on the alert.
Maslova was particularly subject to these attacks because of her attractive
looks and her well-known past. This condition of constant dread and struggl=
e was
very burdensome to her. The firm repulse with which she met the impertinent
advances of the men was taken by them as an insult and exasperated them. Her
condition in this respect was somewhat relieved by the presence of Theodosia
and Tarass, who, learning that his wife was subjected to these insults, had
himself included among the prisoners, and riding as such from Nijhni, was a=
ble
to protect her to some extent.
Maslova's transfer to the division of the poli=
ticals
bettered her situation in every respect. Besides the improvement in the
quarters, food and treatment, her condition was also made easier by the fac=
t that
the persecution of the men ceased and she was no longer reminded of her pas=
t,
which she was so anxious to forget now. The principal advantage of the
transfer, however, lay in the acquaintance she made of some people who exer=
ted
a decisive influence over her.
At stopping places she was permitted to mingle
with the politicals, but, being a strong woman, she was compelled to walk w=
ith
the other prisoners. She thus walked from Tomsk. There were two politicals =
who traveled
on foot with her--Maria Pablovna Stchetinina, the same pretty girl with the
sheepish eyes who had attracted Nekhludoff's attention when visiting
Bogodukhovskaia, and one Simonson, banished to Yakoutsk--that same shaggy m=
an
with deep-set eyes whom Nekhludoff had noticed on the same occasion. Maria
Pablovna walked, because she yielded her place on the wagon to a pregnant
woman; Simonson, because he would not profit by class advantages. These thr=
ee
started on foot with the other convicts in the early morning, the politicals
following them later in wagons. It was at the last stopping place, near a l=
arge
city, where the party was handed over to another convoy officer.
It was a chill September morning. Snow and rain
fell alternately between cold blasts of wind. All the prisoners--400 men an=
d 50
women--were already in the court-yard, some crowding around the chief offic=
er
of the convoy, who was paying out money to the overseers for the day's rati=
ons;
others were buying food of the hucksters who had been admitted into the
court-yard. There were a din of prisoners' voices counting money and the sh=
rill
conversation of the hucksters.
Katiousha and Maria Pablovna, both in boots and
short fur coats and girdled with 'kerchiefs, came into the court-yard from =
the
house and walked toward the hucksters, who were sitting under the northern =
wall
and calling out their wares--fresh meat-pies, fish, boiled shred paste,
buckwheat mush, meat, eggs, milk; one woman even offered roasted pig.
Simonson, in rubber jacket and similar galoshe=
s,
bound with whip-cord over woolen socks (he was a vegetarian and did not use=
the
skin of animals), was also awaiting the departure of the party. He stood ne=
ar the
entrance of the house, writing down in a note-book a thought that occurred =
to
him. "If," he wrote, "a bacterium were to observe and analyze
the nail of a man, it would declare him an inorganic being. Similarly, from=
an
observation of the earth's surface, we declare it to be inorganic. That is
wrong."
Having bought eggs, buns, fish and fresh wheat
bread, Maslova packed them away in a bag while Maria Pablovna settled for t=
he
food, when among the prisoners there arose a commotion. Every one became
silent, and the prisoners began to form into ranks. An officer came forth a=
nd gave
final orders.
Everything proceeded as usual--the prisoners w=
ere
counted over, the chains were examined and men were handcuffed in pairs.
=
After
six years of luxurious and pampered life in the city and two months in pris=
on
among the politicals, her present life, notwithstanding the hard conditions,
seemed to Katiousha very satisfactory. The journeys of fifteen or twenty mi=
les
on foot between stopping places, the food and day's rest after two days' tr=
amp,
strengthened her physically, while her association with her new comrades op=
ened
up to her new phases of life of which she had formerly no conception.
She was charmed with all her new comrades. But
above all, with Maria Pablovna--nay, she even came to love her with a
respectful and exulting love. She was struck by the fact that a beautiful g=
irl
of a rich and noble family, and speaking three languages, should conduct he=
rself
like a common workingwoman, distribute everything sent her by her rich brot=
her,
dress herself not only simply, but poorly, and pay no attention to her
appearance. This entire absence of coquetry surprised and completely captiv=
ated
Maslova. She saw that Maria Pablovna knew, and that it even pleased her to
know, that she was pretty, but that so far from rejoicing at the impression=
she
was making on the men, she only feared it, and rather looked at love with d=
isgust
and dread. If her male comrades, who knew her, felt any attraction toward h=
er
they never showed it. But strangers often attempted familiarities with her,=
and
in such cases her great physical strength stood her in good stead.
"Once," she laughingly related, "I was approached by a stran=
ger
on the street, whom I could not get rid of. I then gave him such a shaking =
up
that he ran away in fright."
She also said that from childhood she had felt=
an
aversion for the life of the gentry, but loved the common folks, and was of=
ten
chidden for staying in the servants' quarters, the kitchen and the stable, =
instead
of the parlor.
"But among the cooks and drivers I was al=
ways
cheerful, while our ladies and gentlemen used to worry me. Afterward, when I
began to understand, I saw that we were leading a wicked life. I had no mot=
her,
and I did not like my father. At nineteen I left the house with a girl frie=
nd
and went to work in a factory," she said.
From the factory she went to the country, then
returned to the city, where she was arrested and sentenced to hard labor. M=
aria
Pablovna never related it herself, but Katiousha learned from others that s=
he was
sentenced to hard labor because she assumed the guilt of another.
Since Katiousha came to know her she saw that
Maria Pablovna, everywhere and under all circumstances, never thought of
herself, but was always occupied in helping some one else. One of her prese=
nt comrades,
jesting, said of her that she had given herself up to the sport of charity.=
And
that was true. Like a sportsman looking for game, her entire activity consi=
sted
in finding occasion for serving others. And this sport became a habit with =
her,
her life's aim. And she did it so naturally that all those that knew her ce=
ased
to appreciate it, and demanded it as by right.
When Maslova entered their ranks, Maria Pablov=
na
felt a disgust and loathing for her. Katiousha noticed it. But she also not=
iced
afterward that Maria Pablovna, making some effort, became particularly kind=
and
gentle toward her. The kindness and gentleness of such an uncommon person so
affected Maslova that she gave herself up to her with her whole soul,
unconsciously acquired her glance and involuntarily imitated her in everyth=
ing.
They were also drawn together by that disgust
which both felt toward physical love. The one hated it, because she had exp=
erienced
all the horror of it; the other, because not having experienced it, she loo=
ked upon
it as something strange and at the same time disgusting and offensive to hu=
man
dignity.
=
The
influence exerted by Maria Pablovna over Katiousha was due to the fact that
Katiousha loved Maria Pablovna. There was another influence--that of Simons=
on,
and that was due to the fact that Simonson loved Katiousha.
Simonson decided everything by the light of his
reason, and having once decided upon a thing, he never swerved. While yet a
student he made up his mind that the wealth of his father, who was an offic=
er
of the Commissary Department, was dishonestly accumulated. He then declared=
to
him that his wealth ought to be returned to the people. And when he was
reprimanded he left the house and refused to avail himself of his father's
means. Having come to the conclusion that all evil can be traced to the
people's ignorance, he joined the Democrats, on leaving the university, and
obtaining the position of village teacher, he boldly preached before his pu=
pils
and the peasants that which he considered to be just, and denounced that wh=
ich
he considered unjust and false.
He was arrested and prosecuted.
During the trial he decided that the court had=
no
right to judge him, and said so. The judges disagreeing with him and procee=
ding
with the trial, he concluded not to answer their questions and remained sil=
ent.
He was sentenced to exile in the Government of Archangel. There he formulat=
ed a
religious creed defining all his actions. According to this religious teach=
ing
nothing in the world is dead, there is life in everything; all those things
which we consider dead, inorganic, are but parts of a huge organic body whi=
ch
we cannot embrace, and that, as a part of a huge organism, man's aim should=
be
to conserve the life of that organism and the lives of all its parts. He
therefore considered it a crime to destroy life; was against war, execution=
s,
the killing in any manner not only of human beings, but of animals. He also=
had
his theory of marriage, according to which the breeding of people was man's
lower function, his higher function consisting in conserving life already
existing. He found confirmation of this idea in the existence of phagocites=
in
the blood. Bachelors, according to him, were the same phagocites whose func=
tion
was to help the weak, sickly parts of the organism. And true to his
convictions, he had been performing this function since he became convinced=
of
the truth of the theory, although as a youth he had led a different life. He
called himself, as well as Maria Pablovna, a phagocite of the world.
His love for Katiousha did not violate this
theory, since it was purely platonic. He assumed that such love not only did
not prevent his phagocite activity, but aided it.
And it was this man who, falling in love with
Katiousha, had a decisive influence over her. With the instincts of a woman,
Maslova soon discovered it, and the consciousness that she could arouse the=
feeling
of love in such a remarkable man raised her in her own estimation. Nekhludo=
ff
offered to marry her out of magnanimity, and the obligation for the past, b=
ut
Simonson loved her as she was now, and loved her simply because he loved he=
r.
She felt, besides, that he considered her an unusual woman, distinguished f=
rom
all other women, and possessing high moral qualities. She did not know exac=
tly
what those qualities were, but, at all events, not to deceive him, she ende=
avored
with all her power to call forth her best qualities and, necessarily, be as=
good
as she could be.
=
Nekhludoff
managed to see Maslova only twice between Nijhni and Perm--once in Nijhni w=
hile
the prisoners were being placed on a net-covered lighter, and again in the
office of the Perm prison. On both occasions he found her secretive and unk=
ind.
When he asked her about her prison conditions, or whether she wanted anythi=
ng,
she became confused and answered evasively and, as it seemed to him, with t=
hat
hostile feeling of reproach which she had manifested before. And this gloomy
temper, due only to the persecutions to which she was being subjected by the
men, tormented him.
But at their very first meeting in Tomsk she
became again as she was before her departure. She no longer frowned or beca=
me
confused when she saw him, but, on the contrary, met him cheerfully and sim=
ply,
thanking him for what he had done for her, especially for bringing her in
contact with her present company.
After two months of journey from prison to pri=
son,
this change also manifested itself in her appearance. She became thin,
sun-burnt and apparently older; wrinkles appeared on her temples and around=
her
mouth; she no longer curled her hair on her forehead, but wore a 'kerchief =
on
her head, and neither in her dress, coiffure, nor in her conduct were there=
any
signs of her former coquetry. And this change called forth in Nekhludoff a
particularly joyous feeling. The feeling he now experienced toward her was
unlike any he had experienced before. It had nothing in common with his fir=
st
poetic impulse, nor with that sentimental love which he felt afterward, nor
even with that consciousness of a duty performed, coupled with self-admirat=
ion,
which impelled him, after the trial, to resolve on marrying her. It was tha=
t same
simple feeling of pity and contrition which he experienced at their first
meeting in the prison and afterward, with greater force, when he conquered =
his
disgust and forgave her conduct with the physician's assistant in the hospi=
tal
(the injustice he had done her had subsequently become plain). It was the s=
ame
feeling with the difference that, while it was temporary then, now it was
permanent.
During this period, because of Maslova's trans=
fer
to the politicals, Nekhludoff became acquainted with many political prisone=
rs.
On closer acquaintance he was convinced that they were not all villains, as
many people imagined them to be, nor all heroes, as some of them considered=
the
members of their party, but that they were ordinary people, among whom, as =
in
other parties, some were good, some bad, the others indifferent.
He became particularly attached to a consumpti=
ve
young man who was on his way to a life term at hard labor. The story of the
young man was a very short one. His father, a rich Southern landlord, died
while he was a child. He was the only son, and was brought up by his mother=
. He
was the best scholar in the university, making his specialty mathematics. He
was offered a chair in the university and a course abroad. But he hesitated.
There was a girl of whom he became enamored, so he contemplated marriage and
political activity. He wished everything, but resolved on nothing. At that =
time
his college chums asked him for money for a common cause. He knew what that
common cause was, and at the time took no interest in it whatever, but from=
a feeling
of fellowship and egoism gave the money, that it might not be thought that =
he
was afraid. Those who took the money were arrested; a note was found from w=
hich
it was learned that the money had been given by Kryltzoff. He was arrested,
taken to the police station, then to the prison.
After his discharge he traveled now South, now=
to
St. Petersburg, then abroad, and again to Kieff and to Odessa. He was denou=
nced
by a man in whom he placed great faith. He was arrested, tried, kept in pri=
son
two years and finally death sentence was imposed on him, but was afterward =
commuted
to hard labor for life.
He was stricken with consumption while in pris=
on,
and under the present circumstances had but a few months to live, and he kn=
ew
it.
=
At
last Nekhludoff succeeded in obtaining permission to visit Maslova in her c=
ell
among the politicals.
While passing the dimly-lighted court-yard from
the officers' headquarters to "No. 5," escorted by a messenger, he
heard a stir and buzzing of voices coming from the one-story dwelling occup=
ied
by the prisoners. And when he came nearer and the door was opened, the buzz=
ing
increased and turned into a Babel of shouting, cursing and laughing. A ratt=
ling
of chains was heard, and a familiar noisome air was wafted from the doorway.
The din of voices with the rattle of chains, and the dreadful odor always
produced in Nekhludoff the tormenting feeling of some moral nausea, turning
into physical nausea. These two impressions, mingling, strengthened each ot=
her.
The apartment occupied by the political prison=
ers
consisted of two small cells, the doors of which opened into the corridor,
partitioned off from the rest. As Nekhludoff got beyond the partition he
noticed Simonson feeding a billet of pine wood into the oven.
Spying Nekhludoff he looked up without rising =
and
extended his hand.
"I am glad you came; I want to see you!&q=
uot;
he said, with a significant glance, looking Nekhludoff straight in the eyes=
.
"What is it?" asked Nekhludoff.
"I will tell you later; I am busy now.&qu=
ot;
And Simonson again occupied himself with making
the fire, which he did according to his special theory of the greatest
conservation of heat energy.
Nekhludoff was about to enter the first door w=
hen
Maslova, broom in hand, and sweeping a heap of dirt and dust toward the ove=
n,
emerged from the second door. She wore a white waist and white stockings an=
d her
skirt was tucked up under the waist. A white 'kerchief covered her head to =
her
very eyebrows. Seeing Nekhludoff, she unbent herself and, all red and anima=
ted,
put aside the broom, and wiping her hands on her skirt, she stood still.
"You are putting things in order?" a=
sked
Nekhludoff, extending his hand.
"Yes, my old occupation," she answer=
ed
and smiled. "There is such dirt here; there is no end to our cleaning.=
"
"Well, is the plaid dry?" she turned=
to
Simonson.
"Almost," said Simonson, glancing at=
her
in a manner which struck Nekhludoff as very peculiar.
"Then I will fetch the furs to dry. All o=
ur
people are there," she said to Nekhludoff, going to the further room a=
nd
pointing to the nearest door.
Nekhludoff opened the door and walked into a s=
mall
cell, dimly lighted by a little metallic lamp standing on a low bunk. The c=
ell
was cold and there was an odor of dust, dampness and tobacco. The tin lamp =
threw
a bright light on those around it, but the bunks were in the shade and
vacillating shadows moved along the walls. In the small room were all the
prisoners, except two men who had gone for boiling water and provisions. Th=
ere
was an old acquaintance of Nekhludoff, the yellow-faced and thin Vera
Efremovna, with her large, frightened eyes and a big vein on her forehead. =
She
was sitting nervously rolling cigarettes from a heap of tobacco lying on a
newspaper in front of her.
In the far corner there was also Maria Pablovn=
a.
"How opportune your coming! How you seen
Katia?" she asked Nekhludoff.
There was also Anatolie Kryltzoff. Pale and
wasted, his legs crossed under him, bending forward and shivering, he sat in
the far corner, his hands hidden in the sleeves of his fur jacket, and with
feverish eyes looked at Nekhludoff. Nekhludoff was about to approach him, b=
ut to
the right of the entrance, sorting something in a bag and talking to the pr=
etty
and smiling Grabetz, sat a man with curly red hair, in a rubber jacket and =
with
spectacles. His name was Novodvoroff, and Nekhludoff hastened to greet him.=
Of
all political prisoners, Nekhludoff liked him best. Novodvoroff glanced over
his spectacles at Nekhludoff and, frowning, he extended his thin hand.
"Well, are you enjoying your journey?&quo=
t;
he said, evidently in irony.
"Yes, there are many interesting
things," answered Nekhludoff, pretending not to see the irony, and
treating it as a civility. Then he went over to Kryltzoff. In appearance
Nekhludoff seemed to be indifferent, but in reality he was far from being s=
o to
Novodvoroff. These words of Novodvoroff, and his evident desire to say
something unpleasant, jarred upon his kindly sentiments, and he became gloo=
my and
despondent.
"Well, how is your health?" he said,
pressing Kryltzoff's cold and trembling hand.
"Pretty fair, only I cannot get warm; I am
all wet," said Kryltzoff, hastily hiding his hand in the sleeve of his
coat. "Those windows are broken." He pointed to the windows behind
the iron gratings. "Why did you not come before?"
Expecting to have a private conversation with
Katiousha, Nekhludoff sat conversing with Kryltzoff. Kryltzoff listened
attentively, fixedly gazing at Nekhludoff.
"Yes," he said, suddenly, "I ha=
ve
often thought that we were going into exile with those very people on accou=
nt
of whom we were banished. And yet we not only do not know them, but do not =
wish
to know them. And, worse of all, they hate us and consider us their enemies.
This is dreadful."
"There is nothing dreadful about it,"
said Novodvoroff, overhearing the conversation. "The masses are always
churlish and ignorant."
At that moment there was an outburst of curses
behind the partition wall, followed by a jostling and banging against walls=
, a
clatter of chains, screaming and shouting. Some one was being beaten; some =
one shouted
"Help!"
"See those beasts! What have they in comm=
on
with us?" calmly asked Novodvoroff.
"You call them beasts, but you should have
heard Nekhludoff telling of the conduct of one of them," Kryltzoff sai=
d excitedly.
"You are sentimental!" Novodvoroff s=
aid,
ironically. "It is hard for us to understand the emotions of these peo=
ple
and the motives of their acts. Where you see magnanimity, there may only be
envy."
"Why is it you do not wish to see good in
others?" said Maria Pablovna, suddenly becoming excited.
"I cannot see that which does not
exist."
"How can you say it does not exist when a=
man
risks a terrible death?"
"I think," said Novodvoroff, "t=
hat
if we wish to serve our cause effectively it is necessary that we stop drea=
ming
and look at things as they are. We must do everything for the masses, and
expect nothing from them. The masses are the object of our activity, but th=
ey
cannot be our collaborators while they are as inert as they are now. And it=
is,
therefore, perfectly illusive to expect aid from them before they have gone
through the process of development--that process of development for which we
are preparing them."
"What process of development?" said
Kryltzoff, becoming red in the face. "We say that we are against the u=
se
of force, but is this not force in its worst form?"
"There is no force here," calmly said
Novodvoroff. "I only said that I know the path the people must follow,=
and
can point it out."
"But how do you know that yours is the ri=
ght
path? Is it not the same despotism which gave rise to the Inquisition and t=
he
executions of the Great Revolution? They, too, knew the only scientific
path."
"The fact that people erred does not prove
that I am erring. Besides, there is a great difference between the ravings =
of
ideologists and the data of positive economic science."
Novodvoroff's voice filled the entire cell. He
alone was speaking; all the others were silent.
"Those eternal discussions!" said Ma=
ria
Pablovna at a momentary lull.
"And what do you think of it?"
Nekhludoff asked Maria Pablovna.
"I think that Anatolie is right--that we =
have
no right to force our ideas on the people."
"That is a strange conception of our
ideas," said Novodvoroff, and he began to smoke angrily.
"I cannot talk to them," Kryltzoff s=
aid
in a whisper, and became silent.
"And it is much better not to talk,"
said Nekhludoff.
=
An
officer entered the cell and announced that the time for departing had arri=
ved.
He counted every prisoner, pointing at every one with his finger. When he
reached Nekhludoff he said, familiarly:
"It is too late to remain now, Prince; it=
is
time to go."
Nekhludoff, knowing what that meant, approached
him and thrust three rubles into his hand.
"Nothing can be done with you--stay here a
while longer."
Simonson, who was all the while silently sitti=
ng
on his bunk, his hands clasped behind his head, firmly arose, and carefully
making his way through those sitting around the bunk, went over to Nekhludo=
ff.
"Can you hear me now?" asked Simonso=
n.
"Certainly," said Nekhludoff, also
rising to follow him.
Maslova saw Nekhludoff rising, and their eyes
meeting, she turned red in the face and doubtfully, as it seemed, shook her
head.
"My business with you is the following,&q=
uot;
began Simonson, when they reached the corridor. "Knowing your relations
toward Catherine Michaelovna," and he looked straight into Nekhludoff's
face, "I consider it my duty----" But at the very door two voices
were shouting at the same time.
"I tell you, heathen, they are not
mine," shouted one voice.
"Choke yourself, you devil!" the oth=
er
said, hoarsely.
At that moment Maria Pablovna entered the
corridor.
"You cannot talk here," she said.
"Walk in here; only Verotchka is there." And she opened the door =
of a
tiny cell, evidently intended for solitary confinement, and now at the disp=
osal
of the political prisoners. On one of the bunks lay Vera Efremovna, with her
head covered.
"She is ill and asleep; she cannot hear y=
ou,
and I will go," said Maria Pablovna.
"On the contrary, stay here," said
Simonson. "I keep nothing secret, especially from you."
"Very well," said Maria Pablovna, and
childishly moving her whole body from side to side, and thus getting into a
snug corner of the bunks, she prepared to listen, at the same time looking
somewhere in the distance with her beautiful, sheepish eyes.
"Well, then, knowing your relations toward
Catherine Michaelovna, I consider it my duty to let you know my relations to
her."
"Well, go on," said Nekhludoff,
involuntarily admiring Simonson's simplicity and straightforwardness.
"I wished to tell you that I would like to
marry Catherine Michaelovna----"
"Remarkable!" exclaimed Maria Pablov=
na,
fixing her gaze on Simonson.
"And I have decided to ask her to be my
wife," continued Simonson.
"What, then, can I do? It depends on
her," said Nekhludoff.
"Yes; but she would not decide the matter
without you."
"Why?"
"Because, while the question of your
relations remains undecided, she cannot choose."
"On my part the question is definitely
decided. I only wished to do that which I considered it my duty to do, and =
also
to relieve her condition, but in no case did I intend to influence her
choice."
"Yes; but she does not wish your
sacrifice."
"There is no sacrifice."
"And I also know that her decision is
irrevocable."
"Why, then, talk to me?" said
Nekhludoff.
"It is necessary for her that you should =
also
approve of it."
"I can only say that I am not free, but s=
he
is free to do what she wishes."
Simonson began to ponder.
"Very well, I will tell her so. Do not th=
ink
that I am in love with her," he continued. "I admire her as a goo=
d,
rare person who has suffered much. I wish nothing from her, but I would very
much like to help her, to relieve her----"
Simonson's trembling voice surprised Nekhludof=
f.
"To relieve her condition," continued
Simonson. "If she does not wish to accept your help, let her accept mi=
ne.
If she consented, I would ask permission to join her in prison. Four years =
is
not an eternity. I would live near her, and perhaps lighten her fate----&qu=
ot;
His emotion again compelled him to stop.
"What can I say?" said Nekhludoff.
"I am glad that she has found such a protector."
"That is just what I wanted to know,"
continued Simonson. "I wished to know whether you, loving her and seek=
ing
her good, could approve of her marrying me?"
"Oh, yes," Nekhludoff answered,
decisively.
"It is all for her; all I wish is that th=
at
woman, who had suffered so much, should have some rest," said Simonson,
with a childlike gentleness that no one would expect from a man of such glo=
omy
aspect.
Simonson rose, took Nekhludoff's hand, smiled
bashfully and embraced him.
"Well, I will so tell her," he said,=
and
left the room.
=
"What
do you think of him?" said Maria Pablovna. "In love, and earnestl=
y in
love! I never thought that Vladimir Simonson could fall in love in such a v=
ery
stupid, childish fashion. It is remarkable, and to tell the truth, sad,&quo=
t;
she concluded, sighing.
"But Katia? How do you think she will take
it?" asked Nekhludoff.
"She?" Maria Pablovna stopped, evide=
ntly
desiring to give a precise answer. "She? You see, notwithstanding her
past, she is naturally of a most moral character. And her feelings are so
refined. She loves you--very much so--and is happy to be able to do you the
negative good of not binding you to herself. Marriage with you would be a
dreadful fall to her, worse than all her past. For this reason she would ne=
ver consent
to it. At the same time, your presence perplexes her."
"Ought I then to disappear?" asked
Nekhludoff.
Maria Pablovna smiled in her pleasant, childish
way.
"Yes, partly."
"How can I partly disappear?"
"I take it back. But I will tell you that=
she
probably sees the absurdity of that exalted love of his (he has not spoken =
to
her about it), is flattered by it, and fears it. You know that I am not com=
petent
in these matters, but I think that his love is that of the ordinary man,
although it is masked. He says that it rouses his energy and that it is a
platonic love; but it has nothing but nastiness for its basis."
"But what am I to do?" asked Nekhlud=
off.
"I think it is best that you have a talk =
with
her. It is always better to make everything clear. Shall I call her?" =
said
Maria Pablovna.
"If you please," answered Nekhludoff,
and Maria Pablovna went out.
Nekhludoff was seized with a strange feeling w=
hen,
alone in the small cell, he listened to the quiet breathing of Vera Efremov=
na, interrupted
by an occasional moan, and the constant din coming from the cells of the
convicts.
That which Simonson had told him freed him from
his self-imposed obligation, which, in a moment of weakness, seemed to him
burdensome and dreadful; and yet it was not only unpleasant, but painful. T=
he offer
of Simonson destroyed the exclusiveness of his act, minimized in his own and
other people's eyes the value of the sacrifice he was making. If such a good
man as Simonson, who was under no obligation to her, wished to join his fat=
e to
hers, then his own sacrifice was no longer so important. Maybe there was al=
so
the ordinary feeling of jealousy; he was so used to her love that he could =
not
think that she was capable of loving any one else. Besides, his plans were =
now shattered,
especially the plan of living near her while she served her sentence. If she
married Simonson, his presence was no longer necessary, and that required a
rearrangement of his projects. He could scarcely collect his thoughts, when
Katiousha entered the cell.
With quick step she approached him.
"Maria Pablovna sent me," she said,
stopping near him.
"Yes, I would like to talk with you. Take=
a
seat. Vladimir Ivanovitch spoke to me."
She seated herself, crossed her hands on her
knees, and seemed calm. But as soon as Nekhludoff pronounced Simonson's nam=
e,
her face turned a purple color.
"What did he tell you?" she asked.
"He told me that he wishes to marry
you."
Her face suddenly became wrinkled, evidencing
suffering, but she remained silent, only looking at the floor.
"He asked my consent or advice. I told him
that it all rests with you; that you must decide."
"Oh, what is it all for?" she said, =
and
looked at Nekhludoff with that squinting glance that always peculiarly affe=
cted
him. For a few seconds they looked silently at each other. That glance was =
significant
to both.
"You must decide," repeated Nekhludo=
ff.
"Decide what?" she said. "It has
all been decided long ago. It is you who must decide whether you will accept
the offer of Vladimir Ivanovitch," she continued, frowning.
"But if a pardon should come?" said
Nekhludoff.
"Oh, leave me alone. It is useless to talk
any more," she answered, and, rising, left the cell.
Gaining the street, Nekhludoff stopped, and,
expanding his chest, drew in the frosty air.
The following morning a soldier brought him a =
note
from Maria Pablovna, in which she said that Kryltzoff's condition was worse
than they thought it to be.
"At one time we intended to remain here w=
ith
him, but they would not allow it. So we are taking him with us, but we fear=
the
worst. Try to so arrange in town that if he is left behind some one of us s=
hall
remain with him. If it is necessary for that purpose that I should marry hi=
m,
then, of course, I am ready to do it."
Nekhludoff obtained horses and hastened to cat=
ch
up with the party of prisoners. He stopped his team near the wagon carrying
Kryltzoff on a bed of hay and pillows. Beside Kryltzoff sat Maria Pablovna.=
Kryltzoff,
in a fur coat and lambskin cap, seemed thinner and more pale than before. H=
is
beautiful eyes seemed particularly larger and sparkling. Weakly rolling fro=
m side
to side from the jostling of the wagon, he steadily looked at Nekhludoff, a=
nd
in answer to questions about his health, he only closed his eyes and angrily
shook his head. It required all his energy to withstand the jostling of the
wagon. Maria Pablovna exchanged glances with Nekhludoff, expressing apprehe=
nsion
concerning Kryltzoff's condition.
"The officer seems to have some shame in
him," she shouted, so as to be heard above the rattling of the wheels.
"He removed the handcuffs from Bouzovkin, who is now carrying his chil=
d.
With him are Katia, Simonson and, in my place, Verotchka."
Kryltzoff, pointing at Maria Pablovna, said
something which could not, however, be heard. Nekhludoff leaned over him in
order to hear him. Then Kryltzoff removed the handkerchief, which was tied
around his mouth, and whispered:
"Now I am better. If I could only keep fr=
om
catching cold."
Nekhludoff nodded affirmatively and glanced at
Maria Pablovna.
"Have you received my note, and will you =
do
it?" asked Maria Pablovna.
"Without fail," said Nekhludoff, and
seeing the dissatisfied face of Kryltzoff, went over to his own team, climb=
ed
into the wagon, and holding fast to the sides of it, drove along the line of
gray-coated and fettered prisoners which stretched for almost a mile.
Nekhludoff crossed the river to a town, and his
driver took him to a hotel, where, notwithstanding the poor appointments, he
found a measure of comfort entirely wanting in the inns of his stopping pla=
ces.
He took a bath, dressed himself in city clothes and drove to the governor of
the district. He alighted at a large, handsome building, in front of which
stood a sentry and a policeman.
The general was ill, and did not receive.
Nekhludoff, nevertheless, asked the porter to take his card to the general,=
and
the porter returned with a favorable answer:
"You are asked to step in."
The vestibule, the porter, the messenger, the
shining floor of the hall--everything reminded him of St. Petersburg, only =
it
was somewhat dirtier and more majestic. Nekhludoff was admitted to the cabi=
net.
The general, bloated, with a potato nose and
prominent bumps on his forehead, hairless pate and bags under his eyes, a m=
an
of sanguine temperament, was reclining in a silk morning gown, and with a c=
igarette
in his hand, was drinking tea from a silver saucer.
"How do you do, sir? Excuse my receiving =
you
in a morning gown; it is better than not receiving at all," he said,
covering his stout, wrinkled neck with the collar of his gown. "I am n=
ot
quite well, and do not go out. What brought you into these wilds?"
"I was following a party of convicts, amo=
ng
whom is a person near to me," said Nekhludoff. "And now I come to=
see
Your Excellency about that person, and also another affair."
The general inhaled the smoke of his cigarette=
, took
a sip of tea, placed his cigarette in a malachite ash-holder, and steadily
gazing with his watery, shining eyes at Nekhludoff, listened gravely. He on=
ly interrupted
Nekhludoff to ask him if he wished to smoke.
Nekhludoff told the general that the person in
whom he was interested was a woman, that she was unjustly convicted, and th=
at
His Majesty's clemency had been appealed to.
"Yes. Well?" said the general.
"I was promised in St. Petersburg that the
news of this woman's fate would be sent to this place not later than this
month."
Looking steadily at Nekhludoff, the general as=
ked:
"Anything else?"
"My second request would be concerning the
political prisoner who is going to Siberia with this detachment."
"Is that so?" said the general.
"He is very sick--he is a dying man. And =
he
will probably be left here in the hospital; for this reason one of the fema=
le
prisoners would like to remain with him."
"Is she a relative of his?"
"No. But she wishes to marry him, if it w=
ill
allow her to stay with him."
The general looked sharply at Nekhludoff from =
his
shining eyes, and, smoking continually, he kept silence, as if wishing to
confound his companion.
When Nekhludoff had finished he took a book fr=
om
the table, and frequently wetting the fingers with which he turned the leav=
es,
he lighted on the chapter treating of marriage and perused it.
"What's her sentence?" he asked, lif=
ting
his eyes from the book.
"Hers? Hard labor."
"If this is the case, the sentence cannot=
be
changed by marriage."
"But----"
"I beg your pardon! If a free man would m=
arry
her she would have to serve her sentence all the same. Whose sentence is
harder, his or hers?"
"Both are sentenced to hard labor."<= o:p>
"So they are quits," the general sai=
d,
laughing. "An equal share for both of them. He may be left here on acc=
ount
of his sickness," he continued, "and, of course, everything will =
be
done to ameliorate his condition, but she, even if she should marry him, ca=
nnot
remain here. Anyhow, I will think it over. What are their names? Write them
down here."
Nekhludoff did as he was asked.
"And this I cannot do either," said =
the
general, concerning his request to see the patient. "Of course I don't
suspect you, but you are interested in them and in others. You have money, =
and
the people here are corrupt. How, then, is it possible for me to watch a pe=
rson
who is five thousand miles distant from me? There he is king, as I am here,=
"
and he began to laugh. "You have surely seen the political prisoners. =
You
have surely given them money," he added, smiling. "Isn't it so?&q=
uot;
"Yes, it is true."
"I understand that you must act in this w=
ay.
You want to see the political prisoner, and you all sorrow for him, and the
soldier on guard will surely take money, because he has a family, and his
salary amounts to something less than nothing; he cannot afford to refuse. =
I would
do the same were I in yours or his place. But, being situated as I am now, I
cannot permit myself to disobey one iota of the law, for the very reason th=
at
I, too, am no more than a man, and am liable to yield to pity. They confide=
in
me under certain conditions, and I, by my actions, must prove that I am
trustworthy. So this question is settled. Well, now tell me what is going o=
n at
the metropolis?"
Then the general put various questions, as if =
he
would like to learn some news.
"Well, tell me now whom you are stopping with--at Duke's? It is unpleasant there. Come to us to dinner," he sai= d, finally, dismissing Nekhludoff, "at five. Do you speak English?"<= o:p>
"Yes, sir."
"Well, that is good. You see, there is an
English traveler here. He is studying the exile system, and the prisons in
Siberia. So he will dine with us, and you come, too. We dine at five, and m=
adam
wants us to be punctual. I will let you know what will be done with that wo=
man,
and also with the patient. Maybe it will be possible to leave somebody with
him."
Having taken leave of the general, Nekhludoff
drove to the postoffice. Receiving his mail, he walked up to a wooden bench=
, on
which a soldier was sitting, probably waiting for something; he sat down be=
side
him, and started to look through the letters. Among them he found a registe=
red
letter in a beautiful, large envelope, with a large seal of red wax on it. =
He
tore open the envelope, and, seeing a letter from Selenin with some official
document, he felt the blood mounting to his cheeks, and his heart grow weak.
This document was the decision concerning Katiousha's trial. What was it? W=
as
it possible that it contained a refusal? Nekhludoff hastily ran over the
letter, written in small, hardly legible, broken handwriting, and breathed =
freely.
The decision was a favorable one.
"Dear friend," wrote Selenin, "=
our
last conversation made a strong impression upon me. You were right concerni=
ng
Maslova. I have looked through the accusation. This could be corrected only
through the Commission for Petitions, to which you sent your petition. They=
let
me have a copy of the pardon, and here I send it to you, to the address whi=
ch
the Countess Catherine Ivanovna gave me. I press your hand in friendship.&q=
uot;
The news was pleasant and important. All that
Nekhludoff could wish for Katiousha and himself was realized. True, those
changes in his life changed his relations to her. But now, he thought, all =
that
was most important was to see her as quick as possible and bring her the go=
od
news of her freedom. He thought that the copy he had in his hand was suffic=
ient
for that. So he bade the cabman drive at once to the prison.
The superintendent of the prison told him that=
he
could not admit him without a permit from the general. The copy of the peti=
tion
from their majesty's bureau also did not prevail with the superintendent. H=
e positively
refused admittance. He also refused to admit him to see Kryltzoff.
=
After
the disappointment at the prison, Nekhludoff drove down to the Governor's
Bureau to find out whether they had received there any news concerning the
pardon of Maslova. There was no news there, so he drove back to his hotel, =
and
wrote at once to the lawyer and to Selenin concerning it. Having finished t=
he
letters, he glanced at his watch; it was already time to go to the general.=
On the way he thought again of how he might ha=
nd
over the pardon to Katiousha; of the place she would be sent to, and how he
would live with her.
At dinner in the general's house all were not =
only
very friendly to Nekhludoff, but, as it seemed, very favorably inclined to =
him,
as he was a new, interesting personality. The general, who came in to dinne=
r with
a white cross on his breast, greeted Nekhludoff like an old friend. On the
general's inquiry as to what he had done since he saw him in the morning,
Nekhludoff answered that he had been at the postoffice, that he had found o=
ut
the facts concerning the pardoning of the person they were talking of in the
morning, and he asked permission to visit her.
The general seemed displeased, began to frown =
and
said nothing.
"Will you have some whisky?" he said=
in
French to the Englishman who had walked up to him. The Englishman took some,
and related that he had been to see the cathedral of the city, and the fact=
ory,
and expressed the desire to see the great jail in which criminals were conf=
ined
on their way to Siberia.
"This idea is excellent!" exclaimed =
the
general, turning to Nekhludoff. "You may go together. Give them a
pass!" he added, turning to his lieutenant.
"What time do you wish to go?"
Nekhludoff asked the Englishman.
"I prefer to visit prisons in the
evening," the Englishman replied. "All are then at home, and there
are no preparations."
After dinner, Nekhludoff followed her into the
ante-chamber, where the Englishman was already waiting for him to visit the
prison, as they had agreed. Having taken leave of the whole family, he walk=
ed out,
followed by the Englishman.
The sombre looking prison, the soldier on guar=
d,
the lantern behind the gate, notwithstanding the pure white layer of snow w=
hich
had covered everything--the sidewalk, the roof and the walls--made a gloomy
impression. The proud looking superintendent, walking out to the gate and
glancing at Nekhludoff's pass in the light of the lantern, shrugged his bro=
ad
shoulders, but obeyed the order and invited the visitors to follow him. He
first led them to the yard, and then to a door on the right hand and up the
stairs leading to the office. Offering them seats, he asked them in what wa=
y he
could serve them, and learning from Nekhludoff that he wished to see Maslov=
a,
he sent the jailer for her and prepared himself to answer the questions whi=
ch
the Englishman wished to ask him, before going to the cell.
Nekhludoff translated the Englishman's questio=
ns.
While they were conversing they heard approaching footsteps, the door opened
and the jailer entered, followed by Katiousha in her prison garb, with a sc=
arf tied
around her head.
Nekhludoff rose and made a few steps toward he=
r.
She said nothing, but her excited expression surprised him. Her face was li=
t up
with a wonderful decision. He had never seen her look like that. Now the bl=
ood
rushed to her face, and now she turned pale; now her fingers twisted convul=
sively
the edges of her jacket, now she looked at him, and now she dropped her eye=
s.
"You know what I called you for?" as=
ked
Nekhludoff.
"Yes, he told me. But now I am decided. I
will ask permission to go with Vladimir Ivanovitch." She said this
quickly, as if she had made up her mind before what to say.
"How with Vladimir Ivanovitch?" asked
Nekhludoff. But she interrupted him.
"But if he wants me to live with him?&quo=
t;
Here she stopped in fear, and added, "I mean to stay with him. I could
expect nothing better, and perhaps I may be useful to him and others. What
difference does it make to me?"
One of the two things had happened--either she=
had
fallen in love with Simonson and did not wish his sacrifice, which weighed =
so
heavily on him, or she was still in love with Nekhludoff and renounced him =
for his
own good, burning all bridges behind her, and throwing her fortunes in the =
same
scale with those of Simonson. Nekhludoff understood it, and felt ashamed.
"If you are in love with him," he sa=
id.
"I never knew such people, you know. It is
impossible not to love them. And Vladimir is entirely unlike any person I h=
ave
ever known."
"Yes, certainly," said Nekhludoff.
"He is an excellent man, and I think----"
Here she interrupted him, as if she were afraid
that he would speak too much, or she would not say everything.
"You will forgive me for doing that which=
you
did not wish. You, too, must love."
She said the very thing that he had just said =
to
himself.
But now he was no longer thinking so, but felt
altogether different. He felt not only shame, but pity.
"Is it possible that all is at an end bet=
ween
us?" he said.
"Yes, it looks like it," she answere=
d,
with a strange smile.
"But nevertheless I would like to be usef=
ul
to you."
"To us," she said, glancing at Nekhl=
udoff.
"We don't need anything. I am very much obliged to you. If it were not=
for
you"--she wished to say something, but her voice began to tremble.
"I don't know which of us is under greater
obligation to the other. God will settle our accounts," said Nekhludof=
f.
"Yes, God will settle them," she
whispered.
"Are you ready?" asked the Englishma=
n.
"Directly," answered Nekhludoff, and
then he inquired of her what she knew of Kryltzoff.
She quieted down and calmly told him:
"Kryltzoff became very weak on the road a=
nd
was taken to the hospital. Maria Pablovna wanted to become a nurse, but the=
re
is no answer yet."
"Well, may I go?" she asked, noticing
the Englishman who was waiting for him.
"I am not yet taking leave of you," =
said
Nekhludoff, holding out his hand to her.
"Pardon me," she said in a low tone.=
Their eyes met, and in that strange, stern loo=
k,
and in that pitiful smile, with which she said not "good-by," but
"pardon me," Nekhludoff understood, that of the two suppositions
concerning her decision the latter was the right one. She still loved him a=
nd
thought she would mar his life by a union with him, and would free him by
living with Simonson.
She pressed his hand, turned quickly, and left=
the
room.
=
Passing
through the hall and the ill-smelling corridors, the superintendent passed =
into
the first building of the prison in which those condemned to hard labor were
confined. Entering the first room in that building they found the prisoners
stretched on their berths, which occupied the middle of the room. Hearing t=
he
visitors enter they all jumped down, and, clinking their chains, placed
themselves beside their berths, while their half-shaven heads were distinct=
ly
set off against the gloom of the prison. Only two of the prisoners remained=
at their
places. One of them was a young man whose face was evidently heated with fe=
ver;
the other was an old man, who never left off groaning.
The Englishman asked whether the young man had
been sick for a long time. The superintendent replied that he had been taken
sick that very same morning, that the old man had had convulsions for a long
time, and that they kept him in prison because there was no place for him i=
n the
hospital.
The Englishman shook his head discontentedly, =
said
that he would like to say a few words to the prisoners, and asked Nekhludof=
f to
translate his remarks. It turned out that, besides the aim of his journey,
which was the description of the exile system--he had another one--the prea=
ching
of the gospel, of salvation through faith.
"Tell them that Christ pitied and loved
them," he said to Nekhludoff, "and that He died for them. He who =
will
believe in Him will be saved."
While he was saying this, all the prisoners we=
re
standing erect with their hands by their sides.
"Tell them," continued the Englishma=
n,
"that all I said will be found in this book. Are there any among them =
who
can read?" It turned out that there were more than twenty who could.
The Englishman took out a few leather-bound Bi=
bles
from his traveling bag, and soon a number of muscular hands, terminating in
long black nails, were stretched out toward him, pushing each other aside i=
n order
to reach the Testaments. He left two Testaments in this room, and went to t=
he
next one.
There the same thing occurred. There prevailed=
the
same dampness and ill-smells. But in this room, between the windows, an ima=
ge
of the Virgin, before which a small lamp burned dimly, was hung up. To the =
left
side of the door stood the large vat. Here the prisoners were stretched out=
on
their berths, and in the same way they rose and placed themselves in a row.
Three of them remained in their places. Two of these three lifted themselves
and sat up, but the third one remained stretched out, and did not even look=
at
the visitors. These latter ones were sick. The Englishman addressed them in=
the
same manner, and left two Testaments.
From the cells in which those condemned to hard
labor were imprisoned, they passed over to the cells of the exiles, and fin=
ally
those in which the relatives who escorted the prisoners to Siberia were awa=
iting
the day appointed to start hence.
Everywhere the same cold, hungry, idling, sick=
ly,
degraded, brutalized human beings could be seen.
The Englishman distributed his Bibles, and, be=
ing
tired out, he walked through the rooms saying "All right" to what=
ever
the superintendent told him concerning the prisons.
They went out into the corridor.
The Englishman, pointing to an open door, asked
what that room was for.
"This is the prison morgue."
"Oh!" exclaimed the Englishman, and =
he
expressed a desire to enter. This room was an ordinary room. A small lamp,
fastened to the wall, lit up the four bodies which were stretched on berths,
with their heads toward the wall and the feet protruding toward the door. T=
he first
body, in a plain shirt, was that of a tall young man, with a small, pointed
beard and half-shaven head. The corpse was already chilled, and its blue ha=
nds
were folded over the breast. Beside him, in a white dress and jacket, lay a
bare-footed old woman, with thin hair and wrinkled, yellowish face. Beside =
this
old woman lay a corpse, attired in blue.
This color recalled something in Nekhludoff's
memory.
"And who is this third one?" he aske=
d,
mistrusting his own eyesight.
"This one is a gentleman who was sent hit=
her
from the hospital," replied the superintendent.
Nekhludoff walked up to the body and touched t=
he
icy cold feet of Kryltzoff.
=
Nekhludoff,
after parting with the Englishman, went straight to his hotel, and walked a=
bout
his room for a long time. The affair with Katiousha was at an end. There was
something ugly in the very memory of it. But it was not that which grieved =
him.
Some other affair of his was yet unsettled--an affair which tortured him and
required his attention. In his imagination rose the gloomy scenes of the
hundreds and thousands of human beings pent up in the pestiferous air. The =
laughter
of the prisoners resounded in his ears. He saw again among the dead bodies =
the
beautiful, angry, waxen face of the dead Kryltzoff; and the question whethe=
r he
was mad, or all those who commit those evils and think themselves wise were
mad, bore in upon his mind with renewed power, and he found no answer to it.
The principal difficulty consisted in finding an answer to the principal qu=
estion,
which was: What should be done with those who became brutalized in the stru=
ggle
for life?
When he became tired walking about the room he=
sat
down on the lounge, close by the lamp, and mechanically opened the Bible wh=
ich
the Englishman had presented him, and which he had thrown on the table while
emptying his pockets. They say, he thought, that this Bible contains the
solution to all questions. So, opening it, he began to read at the place at
which it opened itself--Matt. x., 8. After a while he inclined close to the
lamp and became like one petrified. An exultation, the like of which he had=
not
experienced for a long time, took possession of his soul, as though, after =
long
suffering and weariness, he found at last liberty and rest. He did not sleep
the whole night. As is the case with many who read the Bible for the first =
time,
he now, on reading it again, grasped the full meaning of words which he had
known long ago, but which he had not understood before. Like a sponge that
absorbs everything, so he absorbed everything that was important, necessary=
and
joyful.
"That is the principal thing," thoug=
ht
Nekhludoff. "We all live in the silly belief that we ourselves are the
lords of our world, that this world has been given us for our enjoyment. But
this is evidently untrue. Somebody must have sent us here for some reason. =
And
for this reason it is plain that we will suffer like those laborers suffer =
who do
not fulfill the wishes of their Master. The will of the Lord is expressed in
the teachings of Christ. Let man obey Him, and the Kingdom of the Lord will
come on earth, and man will derive the greatest possible good.
"_Seek the truth and the Kingdom of God, =
and
the rest will come of itself._ We seek that which is to come, and do not fi=
nd
it, and not only do we not build the Kingdom of God, but we destroy it.
"So this will henceforth be the task of my
life!"
And indeed, from that night a new life began f=
or
Nekhludoff; not so much because he had risen into a new stage of existence,=
but
because all that had happened to him till then assumed for him an altogethe=
r new
meaning.
=
THE
END.