VERA DOUKHOVA.
“So this is what it means, this,” thought Nekhludoff as he left the
prison, only now fully understanding his crime. If he had not tried to
expiate his guilt he would never have found out how great his crime was.
Nor was this all; she, too, would never have felt the whole horror of
what had been done to her. He only now saw what he had done to the soul
of this woman; only now she saw and understood what had been done to
her.
Up to this time Nekhludoff had played with a sensation of
self-admiration, had admired his own remorse; now he was simply filled
with horror. He knew he could not throw her up now, and yet he could not
imagine what would come of their relations to one another.
Just as he was going out, a jailer, with a disagreeable, insinuating
countenance, and a cross and medals on his breast, came up and handed
him a note with an air of mystery.
“Here is a note from a certain person, your honour,” he said to
Nekhludoff as he gave him the envelope.
“What person?”
“You will know when you read it. A political prisoner. I am in that
ward, so she asked me; and though it is against the rules, still
feelings of humanity--” The jailer spoke in an unnatural manner.
Nekhludoff was surprised that a jailer of the ward where political
prisoners were kept should pass notes inside the very prison walls, and
almost within sight of every one; he did not then know that this was
both a jailer and a spy. However, he took the note and read it on coming
out of the prison.
The note was written in a bold hand, and ran as follows: “Having heard
that you visit the prison, and are interested in the case of a criminal
prisoner, the desire of seeing you arose in me. Ask for a permission
to see me. I can give you a good deal of information concerning your
protegee, and also our group.--Yours gratefully, VERA DOUKHOVA.”
Vera Doukhova had been a school-teacher in an out-of-the-way village of
the Novgorod Government, where Nekhludoff and some friends of his had
once put up while bear hunting. Nekhludoff gladly and vividly recalled
those old days, and his acquaintance with Doukhova. It was just before
Lent, in an isolated spot, 40 miles from the railway. The hunt had
been successful; two bears had been killed; and the company were having
dinner before starting on their return journey, when the master of the
hut where they were putting up came in to say that the deacon’s daughter
wanted to speak to Prince Nekhludoff. “Is she pretty?” some one asked.
“None of that, please,” Nekhludoff said, and rose with a serious look
on his face. Wiping his mouth, and wondering what the deacon’s daughter
might want of him, he went into the host’s private hut.
There he found a girl with a felt hat and a warm cloak on--a sinewy,
ugly girl; only her eyes with their arched brows were beautiful.
“Here, miss, speak to him,” said the old housewife; “this is the prince
himself. I shall go out meanwhile.”
“In what way can I be of service to you?” Nekhludoff asked.
“I--I--I see you are throwing away your money on such nonsense--on
hunting,” began the girl, in great confusion. “I know--I only want one
thing--to be of use to the people, and I can do nothing because I know
nothing--” Her eyes were so truthful, so kind, and her expression of
resoluteness and yet bashfulness was so touching, that Nekhludoff, as
it often happened to him, suddenly felt as if he were in her position,
understood, and sympathised.
“What can I do, then?”
“I am a teacher, but should like to follow a course of study; and I
am not allowed to do so. That is, not that I am not allowed to; they’d
allow me to, but I have not got the means. Give them to me, and when I
have finished the course I shall repay you. I am thinking the rich kill
bears and give the peasants drink; all this is bad. Why should they not
do good? I only want 80 roubles. But if you don’t wish to, never mind,”
she added, gravely.
“On the contrary, I am very grateful to you for this opportunity. . . .
I will bring it at once,” said Nekhludoff.
He went out into the passage, and there met one of his comrades, who
had been overhearing his conversation. Paying no heed to his chaffing,
Nekhludoff got the money out of his bag and took it to her.
“Oh, please, do not thank me; it is I who should thank you,” he said.
It was pleasant to remember all this now; pleasant to remember that
he had nearly had a quarrel with an officer who tried to make an
objectionable joke of it, and how another of his comrades had taken his
part, which led to a closer friendship between them. How successful the
whole of that hunting expedition had been, and how happy he had felt
when returning to the railway station that night. The line of sledges,
the horses in tandem, glide quickly along the narrow road that lies
through the forest, now between high trees, now between low firs weighed
down by the snow, caked in heavy lumps on their branches. A red light
flashes in the dark, some one lights an aromatic cigarette. Joseph, a
bear driver, keeps running from sledge to sledge, up to his knees in
snow, and while putting things to rights he speaks about the elk which
are now going about on the deep snow and gnawing the bark off the aspen
trees, of the bears that are lying asleep in their deep hidden dens, and
his breath comes warm through the opening in the sledge cover. All this
came back to Nekhludoff’s mind; but, above all, the joyous sense of
health, strength, and freedom from care: the lungs breathing in the
frosty air so deeply that the fur cloak is drawn tightly on his chest,
the fine snow drops off the low branches on to his face, his body
is warm, his face feels fresh, and his soul is free from care,
self-reproach, fear, or desire. How beautiful it was. And now, O God!
what torment, what trouble!
Evidently Vera Doukhova was a revolutionist and imprisoned as such. He
must see her, especially as she promised to advise him how to lighten
Maslova’s lot.