When he was twenty a celebrated revolutionist came to their factory to

work as a working girl, and noticing his superior qualities began giving

books and pamphlets to Kondratieff and to talk and explain his position

to him, and how to remedy it. When the possibility of freeing himself

and others from their oppressed state rose clearly in his mind, the

injustice of this state appeared more cruel and more terrible than

before, and he longed passionately not only for freedom, but also for

the punishment of those who had arranged and who kept up this cruel

injustice. Kondratieff devoted himself with passion to the acquirement

of knowledge. It was not clear to him how knowledge should bring about

the realisation of the social ideal, but he believed that the knowledge

that had shown him the injustice of the state in which he lived would

also abolish that injustice itself. Besides knowledge would, in his

opinion, raise him above others. Therefore he left off drinking and

smoking, and devoted all his leisure time to study. The revolutionist

gave him lessons, and his thirst for every kind of knowledge, and the

facility with which he took it in, surprised her. In two years he had

mastered algebra, geometry, history--which he was specially fond of--and

made acquaintance with artistic and critical, and especially socialistic

literature. The revolutionist was arrested, and Kondratieff with her,

forbidden books having been found in their possession, and they were

imprisoned and then exiled to the Vologda Government. There Kondratieff

became acquainted with Novodvoroff, and read a great deal more

revolutionary literature, remembered it all, and became still firmer

in his socialistic views. While in exile he became leader in a large

strike, which ended in the destruction of a factory and the murder of

the director. He was again arrested and condemned to Siberia.

His religious views were of the same negative nature as his views of the

existing economic conditions. Having seen the absurdity of the religion

in which he was brought up, and having gained with great effort, and

at first with fear, but later with rapture, freedom from it, he did

not tire of viciously and with venom ridiculing priests and religious

dogmas, as if wishing to revenge himself for the deception that had been

practised on him.

He was ascetic through habit, contented himself with very little, and,

like all those used to work from childhood and whose muscles have been

developed, he could work much and easily, and was quick at any manual

labour; but what he valued most was the leisure in prisons and halting

stations, which enabled him to continue his studies. He was now studying

the first volume of Karl Marks’s, and carefully hid the book in his sack

as if it were a great treasure. He behaved with reserve and indifference

to all his comrades, except Novodvoroff, to whom he was greatly

attached, and whose arguments on all subjects he accepted as

unanswerable truths.

He had an indefinite contempt for women, whom he looked upon as a

hindrance in all necessary business. But he pitied Maslova and was

gentle with her, for he considered her an example of the way the lower

are exploited by the upper classes. The same reason made him dislike

Nekhludoff, so that he talked little with him, and never pressed

Nekhludoff’s hand, but only held out his own to be pressed when greeting

him.

CHAPTER XIII.

LOVE AFFAIRS OF THE EXILES.

The stove had burned up and got warm, the tea was made and poured out

into mugs and cups, and milk was added to it; rusks, fresh rye and wheat

bread, hard-boiled eggs, butter, and calf’s head and feet were placed on

the cloth. Everybody moved towards the part of the shelf beds which took

the place of the table and sat eating and talking. Rintzeva sat on a box

pouring out the tea. The rest crowded round her, only Kryltzoff, who had

taken off his wet cloak and wrapped himself in his dry plaid and lay in

his own place talking to Nekhludoff.

After the cold and damp march and the dirt and disorder they had found

here, and after the pains they had taken to get it tidy, after having

drunk hot tea and eaten, they were all in the best and brightest of

spirits.

The fact that the tramp of feet, the screams and abuse of the criminals,

reached them through the wall, reminding them of their surroundings,

seemed only to increase the sense of coziness. As on an island in the

midst of the sea, these people felt themselves for a brief interval not

swamped by the degradation and sufferings which surrounded them; this

made their spirits rise, and excited them. They talked about everything

except their present position and that which awaited them. Then, as it

generally happens among young men, and women especially, if they are

forced to remain together, as these people were, all sorts of agreements

and disagreements and attractions, curiously blended, had sprung up

among them. Almost all of them were in love. Novodvoroff was in love

with the pretty, smiling Grabetz. This Grabetz was a young, thoughtless

girl who had gone in for a course of study, perfectly indifferent to

revolutionary questions, but succumbing to the influence of the day, she

compromised herself in some way and was exiled. The chief interest of

her life during the time of her trial in prison and in exile was her

success with men, just as it had been when she was free. Now on the way

she comforted herself with the fact that Novodvoroff had taken a fancy

to her, and she fell in love with him. Vera Doukhova, who was very prone

to fall in love herself, but did not awaken love in others, though she

was always hoping for mutual love, was sometimes drawn to Nabatoff, then

to Novodvoroff. Kryltzoff felt something like love for Mary Pavlovna. He

loved her with a man’s love, but knowing how she regarded this sort of

love, hid his feelings under the guise of friendship and gratitude

for the tenderness with which she attended to his wants. Nabatoff and

Rintzeva were attached to each other by very complicated ties. Just as

Mary Pavlovna was a perfectly chaste maiden, in the same way Rintzeva

was perfectly chaste as her own husband’s wife. When only a schoolgirl

of sixteen she fell in love with Rintzeff, a student of the Petersburg

University, and married him before he left the university, when she was

only nineteen years old. During his fourth year at the university her

husband had become involved in the students’ rows, was exiled from

Petersburg, and turned revolutionist. She left the medical courses she

was attending, followed him, and also turned revolutionist. If she had

not considered her husband the cleverest and best of men she would not

have fallen in love with him; and if she had not fallen in love would

not have married; but having fallen in love and married him whom she

thought the best and cleverest of men, she naturally looked upon life

and its aims in the way the best and cleverest of men looked at them. At

first he thought the aim of life was to learn, and she looked upon study

as the aim of life. He became a revolutionist, and so did she. She could

demonstrate very clearly that the existing state of things could not go

on, and that it was everybody’s duty to fight this state of things and

to try to bring about conditions in which the individual could develop

freely, etc. And she imagined that she really thought and felt all

this, but in reality she only regarded everything her husband thought

as absolute truth, and only sought for perfect agreement, perfect

identification of her own soul with his which alone could give her full

moral satisfaction. The parting with her husband and their child, whom

her mother had taken, was very hard to bear; but she bore it firmly and

quietly, since it was for her husband’s sake and for that cause which

she had not the slightest doubt was true, since he served it. She was

always with her husband in thoughts, and did not love and could not love

any other any more than she had done before. But Nabatoff’s devoted and

pure love touched and excited her. This moral, firm man, her husband’s

friend, tried to treat her as a sister, but something more appeared in

his behaviour to her, and this something frightened them both, and yet

gave colour to their life of hardship.

So that in all this circle only Mary Pavlovna and Kondratieff were quite

free from love affairs.

CHAPTER XIV.

CONVERSATIONS IN PRISON.

Expecting to have a private talk with Katusha, as usual, after tea,

Nekhludoff sat by the side of Kryltzoff, conversing with him. Among

other things he told him the story of Makar’s crime and about his

request to him. Kryltzoff listened attentively, gazing at Nekhludoff

with glistening eyes.

“Yes,” said Kryltzoff suddenly, “I often think that here we are going

side by side with them, and who are they? The same for whose sake we

are going, and yet we not only do not know them, but do not even wish to

know them. And they, even worse than that, they hate us and look upon us

as enemies. This is terrible.”

“There is nothing terrible about it,” broke in Novodvoroff. “The masses

always worship power only. The government is in power, and they worship

it and hate us. To-morrow we shall have the power, and they will worship

us,” he said with his grating voice. At that moment a volley of abuse

and the rattle of chains sounded from behind the wall, something was

heard thumping against it and screaming and shrieking, some one was

being beaten, and some one was calling out, “Murder! help!”

“Hear them, the beasts! What intercourse can there be between us and

such as them?” quietly remarked Novodvoroff.

“You call them beasts, and Nekhludoff was just telling me about such an

action!” irritably retorted Kryltzoff, and went on to say how Makar was

risking his life to save a fellow-villager. “That is not the action of a

beast, it is heroism.”

“Sentimentality!” Novodvoroff ejaculated ironically; “it is difficult

for us to understand the emotions of these people and the motives on

which they act. You see generosity in the act, and it may be simply

jealousy of that other criminal.”

“How is it that you never wish to see anything good in another?” Mary

Pavlovna said suddenly, flaring up.

“How can one see what does not exist!”

“How does it not exist, when a man risks dying a terrible death?”

“I think,” said Novodvoroff, “that if we mean to do our work, the first

condition is that” (here Kondratieff put down the book he was reading by

the lamplight and began to listen attentively to his master’s words) “we

should not give way to fancy, but look at things as they are. We should

do all in our power for the masses, and expect nothing in return.

The masses can only be the object of our activity, but cannot be our

fellow-workers as long as they remain in that state of inertia they are

in at present,” he went on, as if delivering a lecture. “Therefore, to

expect help from them before the process of development--that process

which we are preparing them for--has taken place is an illusion.”

“What process of development?” Kryltzoff began, flushing all over. “We

say that we are against arbitrary rule and despotism, and is this not

the most awful despotism?”

“No despotism whatever,” quietly rejoined Novodvoroff. “I am only saying

that I know the path that the people must travel, and can show them that

path.”

“But how can you be sure that the path you show is the true path?

Is this not the same kind of despotism that lay at the bottom of the

Inquisition, all persecutions, and the great revolution? They, too, knew

the one true way, by means of their science.”

“Their having erred is no proof of my going to err; besides, there is a

great difference between the ravings of idealogues and the facts based

on sound, economic science.” Novodvoroff’s voice filled the room; he

alone was speaking, all the rest were silent.

“They are always disputing,” Mary Pavlovna said, when there was a

moment’s silence.

“And you yourself, what do you think about it?” Nekhludoff asked her.

“I think Kryltzoff is right when he says we should not force our views

on the people.”

“And you, Katusha?” asked Nekhludoff with a smile, waiting anxiously for

her answer, fearing she would say something awkward.

“I think the common people are wronged,” she said, and blushed scarlet.

“I think they are dreadfully wronged.”

“That’s right, Maslova, quite right,” cried Nabatoff. “They are terribly

wronged, the people, and they must not be wronged, and therein lies the

whole of our task.”

“A curious idea of the object of revolution,” Novodvoroff remarked

crossly, and began to smoke.

“I cannot talk to him,” said Kryltzoff in a whisper, and was silent.

“And it is much better not to talk,” Nekhludoff said.

CHAPTER XV.

NOVODVOROFF.

Although Novodvoroff was highly esteemed of all the revolutionists,

though he was very learned, and considered very wise, Nekhludoff

reckoned him among those of the revolutionists who, being below the

average moral level, were very far below it. His inner life was of a

nature directly opposite to that of Simonson’s. Simonson was one of

those people (of an essentially masculine type) whose actions follow

the dictates of their reason, and are determined by it. Novodvoroff

belonged, on the contrary, to the class of people of a feminine type,

whose reason is directed partly towards the attainment of aims set by

their feelings, partly to the justification of acts suggested by their

feelings. The whole of Novodvoroff’s revolutionary activity, though

he could explain it very eloquently and very convincingly, appeared

to Nekhludoff to be founded on nothing but ambition and the desire

for supremacy. At first his capacity for assimilating the thoughts of

others, and of expressing them correctly, had given him a position of

supremacy among pupils and teachers in the gymnasium and the university,

where qualities such as his are highly prized, and he was satisfied.

When he had finished his studies and received his diploma he suddenly

altered his views, and from a modern liberal he turned into a rabid

Narodovoletz, in order (so Kryltzoff, who did not like him, said) to

gain supremacy in another sphere.

As he was devoid of those moral and aesthetic qualities which call

forth doubts and hesitation, he very soon acquired a position in the

revolutionary world which satisfied him--that of the leader of a party.

Having once chosen a direction, he never doubted or hesitated, and was

therefore certain that he never made a mistake. Everything seemed quite

simple, clear and certain. And the narrowness and one-sidedness of his

views did make everything seem simple and clear. One only had to be

logical, as he said. His self-assurance was so great that it either

repelled people or made them submit to him. As he carried on his work

among very young people, his boundless self-assurance led them to

believe him very profound and wise; the majority did submit to him,

and he had a great success in revolutionary circles. His activity was

directed to the preparation of a rising in which he was to usurp the

power and call together a council. A programme, composed by him, should

be proposed before the council, and he felt sure that this programme of

his solved every problem, and that it would be impossible not to carry

it out.

His comrades respected but did not love him. He did not love any one,

looked upon all men of note as upon rivals, and would have willingly

treated them as old male monkeys treat young ones if he could have done

it. He would have torn all mental power, every capacity, from other men,

so that they should not interfere with the display of his talents. He

behaved well only to those who bowed before him. Now, on the journey he

behaved well to Kondratieff, who was influenced by his propaganda; to

Vera Doukhova and pretty little Grabetz, who were both in love with him.

Although in principle he was in favour of the woman’s movement, yet in

the depth of his soul he considered all women stupid and insignificant

except those whom he was sentimentally in love with (as he was now in

love with Grabetz), and such women he considered to be exceptions, whose

merits he alone was capable of discerning.

The question of the relations of the sexes he also looked upon as

thoroughly solved by accepting free union. He had one nominal and

one real wife, from both of whom he was separated, having come to the

conclusion that there was no real love between them, and now he thought

of entering on a free union with Grabetz. He despised Nekhludoff

for “playing the fool,” as Novodvoroff termed it, with Maslova, but

especially for the freedom Nekhludoff took of considering the defects

of the existing system and the methods of correcting those defects in a

manner which was not only not exactly the same as Novodvoroff’s, but was

Nekhludoff’s own--a prince’s, that is, a fool’s manner. Nekhludoff felt

this relation of Novodvoroff’s towards him, and knew to his sorrow that

in spite of the state of good will in which he found himself on this

journey he could not help paying this man in his own coin, and could not

stifle the strong antipathy he felt for him.

CHAPTER XVI.

SIMONSON SPEAKS TO NEKHLUDOFF.

The voices of officials sounded from the next room. All the prisoners

were silent, and a sergeant, followed by two convoy soldiers, entered.

The time of the inspection had come. The sergeant counted every one, and

when Nekhludoff’s turn came he addressed him with kindly familiarity.

“You must not stay any longer, Prince, after the inspection; you must go

now.”

Nekhludoff knew what this meant, went up to the sergeant and shoved a

three-rouble note into his hand.

“Ah, well, what is one to do with you; stay a bit longer, if you like.”

The sergeant was about to go when another sergeant, followed by a

convict, a spare man with a thin beard and a bruise under his eye, came

in.

“It’s about the girl I have come,” said the convict.

“Here’s daddy come,” came the ringing accents of a child’s voice, and a

flaxen head appeared from behind Rintzeva, who, with Katusha’s and Mary

Pavlovna’s help, was making a new garment for the child out of one of

Rintzeva’s own petticoats.

“Yes, daughter, it’s me,” Bousovkin, the prisoner, said softly.

“She is quite comfortable here,” said Mary Pavlovna, looking with pity

at Bousovkin’s bruised face. “Leave her with us.”

“The ladies are making me new clothes,” said the girl, pointing to

Rintzeva’s sewing--“nice red ones,” she went on, prattling.

“Do you wish to sleep with us?” asked Rintzeva, caressing the child.

“Yes, I wish. And daddy, too.”

“No, daddy can’t. Well, leave her then,” she said, turning to the

father.

“Yes, you may leave her,” said the first sergeant, and went out with the

other.

As soon as they were out of the room Nabatoff went up to Bousovkin,

slapped him on the shoulder, and said: “I say, old fellow, is it true

that Karmanoff wishes to exchange?”

Bousovkin’s kindly, gentle face turned suddenly sad and a veil seemed to

dim his eyes.

“We have heard nothing--hardly,” he said, and with the same dimness

still over his eyes he turned to the child.

“Well, Aksutka, it seems you’re to make yourself comfortable with the

ladies,” and he hurried away.

“It’s true about the exchange, and he knows it very well,” said

Nabatoff.

“What are you going to do?”

“I shall tell the authorities in the next town. I know both prisoners by

sight,” said Nekhludoff.

All were silent, fearing a recommencement of the dispute.

Simonson, who had been lying with his arms thrown back behind his head,

and not speaking, rose, and determinately walked up to Nekhludoff,

carefully passing round those who were sitting.

“Could you listen to me now?”

“Of course,” and Nekhludoff rose and followed him.

Katusha looked up with an expression of suspense, and meeting

Nekhludoff’s eyes, she blushed and shook her head.

“What I want to speak to you about is this,” Simonson began, when they

had come out into the passage. In the passage the din of the criminal’s

voices and shouts sounded louder. Nekhludoff made a face, but Simonson

did not seem to take any notice.

“Knowing of your relations to Katerina Maslova,” he began seriously and

frankly, with his kind eyes looking straight into Nekhludoff’s face,

“I consider it my duty”--He was obliged to stop because two voices were

heard disputing and shouting, both at once, close to the door.

“I tell you, blockhead, they are not mine,” one voice shouted.

“May you choke, you devil,” snorted the other.

At this moment Mary Pavlovna came out into the passage.

“How can one talk here?” she said; “go in, Vera is alone there,” and she

went in at the second door, and entered a tiny room, evidently meant for

a solitary cell, which was now placed at the disposal of the political

women prisoners, Vera Doukhova lay covered up, head and all, on the bed.

“She has got a headache, and is asleep, so she cannot hear you, and I

will go away,” said Mary Pavlovna.

“On the contrary, stay here,” said Simonson; “I have no secrets from any

one, certainly none from you.”

“All right,” said Mary Pavlovna, and moving her whole body from side to

side, like a child, so as to get farther back on to the bed, she settled

down to listen, her beautiful hazel eyes seeming to look somewhere far

away.

“Well, then, this is my business,” Simonson repeated. “Knowing of your

relations to Katerina Maslova, I consider myself bound to explain to you

my relations to her.”

Nekhludoff could not help admiring the simplicity and truthfulness with

which Simonson spoke to him.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean that I should like to marry Katerina Maslova--”

“How strange!” said Mary Pavlovna, fixing her eyes on Simonson.

“--And so I made up my mind to ask her to be my wife,” Simonson

continued.

“What can I do? It depends on her,” said Nekhludoff.

“Yes; but she will not come to any decision without you.”

“Why?”

“Because as long as your relations with her are unsettled she cannot

make up her mind.”

“As far as I am concerned, it is finally settled. I should like to do

what I consider to be my duty and also to lighten her fate, but on no

account would I wish to put any restraint on her.”

“Yes, but she does not wish to accept your sacrifice.”

“It is no sacrifice.”

“And I know that this decision of hers is final.”

“Well, then, there is no need to speak to me,” said Nekhludoff.

“She wants you to acknowledge that you think as she does.”

“How can I acknowledge that I must not do what I consider to be my duty?

All I can say is that I am not free, but she is.”

Simonson was silent; then, after thinking a little, he said: “Very

well, then, I’ll tell her. You must not think I am in love with her,”

he continued; “I love her as a splendid, unique, human being who has

suffered much. I want nothing from her. I have only an awful longing to

help her, to lighten her posi--”

Nekhludoff was surprised to hear the trembling in Simonson’s voice.

“--To lighten her position,” Simonson continued. “If she does not wish

to accept your help, let her accept mine. If she consents, I shall ask

to be sent to the place where she will be imprisoned. Four years are

not an eternity. I would live near her, and perhaps might lighten her

fate--” and he again stopped, too agitated to continue.

“What am I to say?” said Nekhludoff. “I am very glad she has found such

a protector as you--”

“That’s what I wanted to know,” Simonson interrupted.

“I wanted to know if, loving her and wishing her happiness, you would

consider it good for her to marry me?”

“Oh, yes,” said Nekhludoff decidedly.

“It all depends on her; I only wish that this suffering soul should find

rest,” said Simonson, with such childlike tenderness as no one could

have expected from so morose-looking a man.

Simonson rose, and stretching his lips out to Nekhludoff, smiled shyly

and kissed him.

“So I shall tell her,” and he went away.

CHAPTER XVII.

“I HAVE NOTHING MORE TO SAY.”

“What do you think of that?” said Mary Pavlovna. “In love--quite in

love. Now, that’s a thing I never should have expected, that Valdemar

Simonson should be in love, and in the silliest, most boyish manner. It

is strange, and, to say the truth, it is sad,” and she sighed.

“But she? Katusha? How does she look at it, do you think?” Nekhludoff

asked.

“She?” Mary Pavlovna waited, evidently wishing to give as exact an

answer as possible. “She? Well, you see, in spite of her past she

has one of the most moral natures--and such fine feelings. She loves

you--loves you well, and is happy to be able to do you even the negative

good of not letting you get entangled with her. Marriage with you would

be a terrible fall for her, worse than all that’s past, and therefore

she will never consent to it. And yet your presence troubles her.”

“Well, what am I to do? Ought I to vanish?”

Mary Pavlovna smiled her sweet, childlike smile, and said, “Yes,

partly.”

“How is one to vanish partly?”

“I am talking nonsense. But as for her, I should like to tell you that

she probably sees the silliness of this rapturous kind of love (he has

not spoken to her), and is both flattered and afraid of it. I am not

competent to judge in such affairs, you know, still I believe that on

his part it is the most ordinary man’s feeling, though it is masked. He

says that this love arouses his energy and is Platonic, but I know that

even if it is exceptional, still at the bottom it is degrading.”

Mary Pavlovna had wandered from the subject, having started on her

favourite theme.

“Well, but what am I to do?” Nekhludoff asked.

“I think you should tell her everything; it is always best that

everything should be clear. Have a talk with her; I shall call her.

Shall I?” said Mary Pavlovna.

“If you please,” said Nekhludoff, and Mary Pavlovna went.

A strange feeling overcame Nekhludoff when he was alone in the little

room with the sleeping Vera Doukhova, listening to her soft breathing,

broken now and then by moans, and to the incessant dirt that came

through the two doors that separated him from the criminals. What

Simonson had told him freed him from the self-imposed duty, which had

seemed hard and strange to him in his weak moments, and yet now he felt

something that was not merely unpleasant but painful.

He had a feeling that this offer of Simonson’s destroyed the exceptional

character of his sacrifice, and thereby lessened its value in his own

and others’ eyes; if so good a man who was not bound to her by any kind

of tie wanted to join his fate to hers, then this sacrifice was not so

great. There may have also been an admixture of ordinary jealousy. He

had got so used to her love that he did not like to admit that she loved

another.

Then it also upset the plans he had formed of living near her while

she was doing her term. If she married Simonson his presence would be

unnecessary, and he would have to form new plans.

Before he had time to analyse his feelings the loud din of the

prisoners’ voices came in with a rush (something special was going on

among them to-day) as the door opened to let Katusha in.

She stepped briskly close up to him and said, “Mary Pavlovna has sent

me.”

“Yes, I must have a talk with you. Sit down. Valdemar Simonson has been

speaking to me.”

She sat down and folded her hands in her lap and seemed quite calm, but

hardly had Nekhludoff uttered Simonson’s name when she flushed crimson.

“What did he say?” she asked.

“He told me he wanted to marry you.”

Her face suddenly puckered up with pain, but she said nothing and only

cast down her eyes.

“He is asking for my consent or my advice. I told him that it all

depends entirely on you--that you must decide.”

“Ah, what does it all mean? Why?” she muttered, and looked in his eyes

with that peculiar squint that always strangely affected Nekhludoff.

They sat silent for a few minutes looking into each other’s eyes, and

this look told much to both of them.

“You must decide,” Nekhludoff repeated.

“What am I to decide? Everything has long been decided.”

“No; you must decide whether you will accept Mr. Simonson’s offer,” said

Nekhludoff.

“What sort of a wife can I be--I, a convict? Why should I ruin Mr.

Simonson, too?” she said, with a frown.

“Well, but if the sentence should be mitigated.”

“Oh, leave me alone. I have nothing more to say,” she said, and rose to

leave the room.

CHAPTER XVIII.

NEVEROFF’S FATE.

When, following Katusha, Nekhludoff returned to the men’s room, he found

every one there in agitation. Nabatoff, who went about all over the

place, and who got to know everybody, and noticed everything, had

just brought news which staggered them all. The news was that he had

discovered a note on a wall, written by the revolutionist Petlin, who

had been sentenced to hard labour, and who, every one thought, had long

since reached the Kara; and now it turned out that he had passed this

way quite recently, the only political prisoner among criminal convicts.

“On the 17th of August,” so ran the note, “I was sent off alone with

the criminals. Neveroff was with me, but hanged himself in the lunatic

asylum in Kasan. I am well and in good spirits and hope for the best.”

All were discussing Petlin’s position and the possible reasons of

Neveroff’s suicide. Only Kryltzoff sat silent and preoccupied, his

glistening eyes gazing fixedly in front of him.

“My husband told me that Neveroff had a vision while still in the

Petropavlovski prison,” said Rintzeva.

“Yes, he was a poet, a dreamer; this sort of people cannot stand

solitary confinement,” said Novodvoroff. “Now, I never gave my

imagination vent when in solitary confinement, but arranged my days most

systematically, and in this way always bore it very well.”

“What is there unbearable about it? Why, I used to be glad when they

locked me up,” said Nabatoff cheerfully, wishing to dispel the general

depression.

“A fellow’s afraid of everything; of being arrested himself and

entangling others, and of spoiling the whole business, and then he gets

locked up, and all responsibility is at an end, and he can rest; he can

just sit and smoke.”

“You knew him well?” asked Mary Pavlovna, glancing anxiously at the

altered, haggard expression of Kryltzoff’s face.

“Neveroff a dreamer?” Kryltzoff suddenly began, panting for breath as

if he had been shouting or singing for a long time. “Neveroff was a man

‘such as the earth bears few of,’ as our doorkeeper used to express it.

Yes, he had a nature like crystal, you could see him right through; he

could not lie, he could not dissemble; not simply thin skinned, but

with all his nerves laid bare, as if he were flayed. Yes, his was a

complicated, rich nature, not such a-- But where is the use of talking?”

he added, with a vicious frown. “Shall we first educate the people

and then change the forms of life, or first change the forms and then

struggle, using peaceful propaganda or terrorism? So we go on disputing

while _they_ kill; _they_ do not dispute--they know their business; they

don’t care whether dozens, hundreds of men perish--and what men! No;

that the best should perish is just what they want. Yes, Herzen said

that when the Decembrists were withdrawn from circulation the average

level of our society sank. I should think so, indeed. Then Herzen

himself and his fellows were withdrawn; now is the turn of the

Neveroffs.”

“They can’t all be got rid off,” said Nabatoff, in his cheerful tones.

“There will always be left enough to continue the breed. No, there

won’t, if we show any pity to _them_ there,” Nabatoff said, raising his

voice; and not letting himself be interrupted, “Give me a cigarette.”

“Oh, Anatole, it is not good for you,” said Mary Pavlovna. “Please do

not smoke.”

“Oh, leave me alone,” he said angrily, and lit a cigarette, but at once

began to cough and to retch, as if he were going to be sick. Having

cleared his throat though, he went on:

“What we have been doing is not the thing at all. Not to argue, but for

all to unite--to destroy them--that’s it.”

“But _they_ are also human beings,” said Nekhludoff.

“No, _they_ are not human, they who can do what they are

doing--No--There, now, I heard that some kind of bombs and balloons have

been invented. Well, one ought to go up in such a balloon and sprinkle

bombs down on _them_ as if _they_ were bugs, until _they_ are all

exterminated--Yes. Because--” he was going to continue, but, flushing

all over, he began coughing worse than before, and a stream of blood

rushed from his mouth.

Nabatoff ran to get ice. Mary Pavlovna brought valerian drops and

offered them to him, but he, breathing quickly and heavily, pushed her

away with his thin, white hand, and kept his eyes closed. When the ice

and cold water had eased Kryltzoff a little, and he had been put to

bed, Nekhludoff, having said good-night to everybody, went out with the

sergeant, who had been waiting for him some time.

The criminals were now quiet, and most of them were asleep. Though the

people were lying on and under the bed shelves and in the space between,

they could not all be placed inside the rooms, and some of them lay in

the passage with their sacks under their heads and covered with their

cloaks. The moans and sleepy voices came through the open doors and

sounded through the passage. Everywhere lay compact heaps of human

beings covered with prison cloaks. Only a few men who were sitting in

the bachelors’ room by the light of a candle end, which they put out

when they noticed the sergeant, were awake, and an old man who sat naked

under the lamp in the passage picking the vermin off his shirt. The

foul air in the political prisoners’ rooms seemed pure compared to the

stinking closeness here. The smoking lamp shone dimly as through a mist,

and it was difficult to breathe. Stepping along the passage, one had to

look carefully for an empty space, and having put down one foot had to

find place for the other. Three persons, who had evidently found no

room even in the passage, lay in the anteroom, close to the stinking and

leaking tub. One of these was an old idiot, whom Nekhludoff had often

seen marching with the gang; another was a boy about twelve; he lay

between the two other convicts, with his head on the leg of one of them.

When he had passed out of the gate Nekhludoff took a deep breath and

long continued to breathe in deep draughts of frosty air.

CHAPTER XIX.

WHY IS IT DONE?

It had cleared up and was starlight. Except in a few places the mud was

frozen hard when Nekhludoff returned to his inn and knocked at one of

its dark windows. The broad-shouldered labourer came barefooted to open

the door for him and let him in. Through a door on the right, leading

to the back premises, came the loud snoring of the carters, who slept

there, and the sound of many horses chewing oats came from the yard. The

front room, where a red lamp was burning in front of the icons, smelt

of wormwood and perspiration, and some one with mighty lungs was snoring

behind a partition. Nekhludoff undressed, put his leather travelling

pillow on the oilcloth sofa, spread out his rug and lay down, thinking

over all he had seen and heard that day; the boy sleeping on the liquid

that oozed from the stinking tub, with his head on the convict’s leg,

seemed more dreadful than all else.

Unexpected and important as his conversation with Simonson and Katusha

that evening had been, he did not dwell on it; his situation in relation

to that subject was so complicated and indefinite that he drove the

thought from his mind. But the picture of those unfortunate beings,

inhaling the noisome air, and lying in the liquid oozing out of the

stinking tub, especially that of the boy, with his innocent face asleep

on the leg of a criminal, came all the more vividly to his mind, and he

could not get it out of his head.

To know that somewhere far away there are men who torture other men

by inflicting all sorts of humiliations and inhuman degradation and

sufferings on them, or for three months incessantly to look on while men

were inflicting these humiliations and sufferings on other men is a very

different thing. And Nekhludoff felt it. More than once during these

three months he asked himself, “Am I mad because I see what others do

not, or are they mad that do these things that I see?”

Yet they (and there were many of them) did what seemed so astonishing

and terrible to him with such quiet assurance that what they were doing

was necessary and was important and useful work that it was hard to

believe they were mad; nor could he, conscious of the clearness of his

thoughts, believe he was mad; and all this kept him continually in a

state of perplexity.

This is how the things he saw during these three months impressed

Nekhludoff: From among the people who were free, those were chosen, by

means of trials and the administration, who were the most nervous,

the most hot tempered, the most excitable, the most gifted, and the

strongest, but the least careful and cunning. These people, not a wit

more dangerous than many of those who remained free, were first locked

in prisons, transported to Siberia, where they were provided for and

kept months and years in perfect idleness, and away from nature, their

families, and useful work--that is, away from the conditions necessary

for a natural and moral life. This firstly. Secondly, these people

were subjected to all sorts of unnecessary indignity in these different

Places--chains, shaved heads, shameful clothing--that is, they were

deprived of the chief motives that induce the weak to live good lives,

the regard for public opinion, the sense of shame and the consciousness

of human dignity. Thirdly, they were continually exposed to dangers,

such as the epidemics so frequent in places of confinement, exhaustion,

flogging, not to mention accidents, such as sunstrokes, drowning or

conflagrations, when the instinct of self-preservation makes even the

kindest, most moral men commit cruel actions, and excuse such actions

when committed by others.

Fourthly, these people were forced to associate with others who

were particularly depraved by life, and especially by these very

institutions--rakes, murderers and villains--who act on those who are

not yet corrupted by the measures inflicted on them as leaven acts on

dough.

And, fifthly, the fact that all sorts of violence, cruelty, inhumanity,

are not only tolerated, but even permitted by the government, when it

suits its purposes, was impressed on them most forcibly by the inhuman

treatment they were subjected to; by the sufferings inflicted on

children, women and old men; by floggings with rods and whips; by

rewards offered for bringing a fugitive back, dead or alive; by the

separation of husbands and wives, and the uniting them with the wives

and husbands of others for sexual intercourse; by shooting or hanging

them. To those who were deprived of their freedom, who were in want

and misery, acts of violence were evidently still more permissible.

All these institutions seemed purposely invented for the production of

depravity and vice, condensed to such a degree that no other conditions

could produce it, and for the spreading of this condensed depravity and

vice broadcast among the whole population.

“Just as if a problem had been set to find the best, the surest means

of depraving the greatest number of persons,” thought Nekhludoff, while

investigating the deeds that were being done in the prisons and halting

stations. Every year hundreds of thousands were brought to the highest

pitch of depravity, and when completely depraved they were set free to

carry the depravity they had caught in prison among the people. In

the prisons of Tamen, Ekaterinburg, Tomsk and at the halting stations

Nekhludoff saw how successfully the object society seemed to have set

itself was attained.

Ordinary, simple men with a conception of the demands of the social and

Christian Russian peasant morality lost this conception, and found a

new one, founded chiefly on the idea that any outrage or violence was

justifiable if it seemed profitable. After living in a prison those

people became conscious with the whole of their being that, judging by

what was happening to themselves, all the moral laws, the respect and

the sympathy for others which church and the moral teachers preach,

was really set aside, and that, therefore, they, too, need not keep the

laws. Nekhludoff noticed the effects of prison life on all the convicts

he knew--on Fedoroff, on Makar, and even on Taras, who, after two months

among the convicts, struck Nekhludoff by the want of morality in his

arguments. Nekhludoff found out during his journey how tramps, escaping

into the marshes, persuade a comrade to escape with them, and then kill

him and feed on his flesh. (He saw a living man who was accused of this

and acknowledged the fact.) And the most terrible part was that this was

not a solitary, but a recurring case.

Only by a special cultivation of vice, such as was perpetrated in these

establishments, could a Russian be brought to the state of this tramp,

who excelled Nietzsche’s newest teaching, and held that everything was

possible and nothing forbidden, and who spread this teaching first among

the convicts and then among the people in general.

The only explanation of all that was being done was the wish to put

a stop to crime by fear, by correction, by lawful vengeance as it was

written in the books. But in reality nothing in the least resembling any

of these results came to pass. Instead of vice being put a stop to, it

only spread further; instead of being frightened, the criminals were

encouraged (many a tramp returned to prison of his own free will).

Instead of being corrected, every kind of vice was systematically

instilled, while the desire for vengeance did not weaken by the measures

of the government, but was bred in the people who had none of it.

“Then why is it done?” Nekhludoff asked himself, but could find no

answer. And what seemed most surprising was that all this was not being

done accidentally, not by mistake, not once, but that it had continued

for centuries, with this difference only, that at first the people’s

nostrils used to be torn and their ears cut off; then they were branded,

and now they were manacled and transported by steam instead of on the

old carts. The arguments brought forward by those in government service,

who said that the things which aroused his indignation were simply due

to the imperfect arrangements of the places of confinement, and that

they could all be put to rights if prisons of a modern type were built,

did not satisfy Nekhludoff, because he knew that what revolted him was

not the consequence of a better or worse arrangement of the prisons.

He had read of model prisons with electric bells, of executions by

electricity, recommended by Tard; but this refined kind of violence

revolted him even more.

But what revolted Nekhludoff most was that there were men in the law

courts and in the ministry who received large salaries, taken from the

people, for referring to books written by men like themselves and with

like motives, and sorting actions that violated laws made by themselves

according to different statutes; and, in obedience to these statutes,

sending those guilty of such actions to places where they were

completely at the mercy of cruel, hardened inspectors, jailers, convoy

soldiers, where millions of them perished body and soul.

Now that he had a closer knowledge of prisons, Nekhludoff found out

that all those vices which developed among the prisoners--drunkenness,

gambling, cruelty, and all these terrible crimes, even cannibalism--were

not casual, or due to degeneration or to the existence of monstrosities

of the criminal type, as science, going hand in hand with the

government, explained it, but an unavoidable consequence of the

incomprehensible delusion that men may punish one another. Nekhludoff

saw that cannibalism did not commence in the marshes, but in the

ministry. He saw that his brother-in-law, for example, and, in fact, all

the lawyers and officials, from the usher to the minister, do not care

in the least for justice or the good of the people about whom they

spoke, but only for the roubles they were paid for doing the things that

were the source whence all this degradation and suffering flowed. This

was quite evident.

“Can it be, then, that all this is done simply through misapprehension?

Could it not be managed that all these officials should have their

salaries secured to them, and a premium paid them, besides, so that

they should leave off, doing all that they were doing now?” Nekhludoff

thought, and in spite of the fleas, that seemed to spring up round him

like water from a fountain whenever he moved, he fell fast asleep.

CHAPTER XX.

THE JOURNEY RESUMED.

The carters had left the inn long before Nekhludoff awoke. The landlady

had had her tea, and came in wiping her fat, perspiring neck with

her handkerchief, and said that a soldier had brought a note from

the halting station. The note was from Mary Pavlovna. She wrote that

Kryltzoff’s attack was more serious than they had imagined. “We wished

him to be left behind and to remain with him, but this has not been

allowed, so that we shall take him on; but we fear the worst. Please

arrange so that if he should be left in the next town, one of us might

remain with him. If in order to get the permission to stay I should be

obliged to get married to him, I am of course ready to do so.”

Nekhludoff sent the young labourer to the post station to order horses

and began packing up hurriedly. Before he had drunk his second tumbler

of tea the three-horsed postcart drove up to the porch with ringing

bells, the wheels rattling on the frozen mud as on stones. Nekhludoff

paid the fat-necked landlady, hurried out and got into the cart,

and gave orders to the driver to go on as fast as possible, so as to

overtake the gang. Just past the gates of the commune pasture ground

they did overtake the carts, loaded with sacks and the sick prisoners,

as they rattled over the frozen mud, that was just beginning to be

rolled smooth by the wheels (the officer was not there, he had gone in

advance). The soldiers, who had evidently been drinking, followed by the

side of the road, chatting merrily. There were a great many carts. In

each of the first carts sat six invalid criminal convicts, close packed.

On each of the last two were three political prisoners. Novodvoroff,

Grabetz and Kondratieff sat on one, Rintzeva, Nabatoff and the woman to

whom Mary Pavlovna had given up her own place on the other, and on one

of the carts lay Kryltzoff on a heap of hay, with a pillow under his

head, and Mary Pavlovna sat by him on the edge of the cart. Nekhludoff

ordered his driver to stop, got out and went up to Kryltzoff. One of

the tipsy soldiers waved his hand towards Nekhludoff, but he paid no

attention and started walking by Kryltzoff’s side, holding on to the

side of the cart with his hand. Dressed in a sheepskin coat, with a fur

cap on his head and his mouth bound up with a handkerchief, he seemed

paler and thinner than ever. His beautiful eyes looked very large and

brilliant. Shaken from side to side by the jottings of the cart, he lay

with his eyes fixed on Nekhludoff; but when asked about his health, he

only closed his eyes and angrily shook his head. All his energy seemed

to be needed in order to bear the jolting of the cart. Mary Pavlovna was

on the other side. She exchanged a significant glance with Nekhludoff,

which expressed all her anxiety about Kryltzoff’s state, and then began

to talk at once in a cheerful manner.

“It seems the officer is ashamed of himself,” she shouted, so as to be

heard above the rattle of the wheels. “Bousovkin’s manacles have

been removed, and he is carrying his little girl himself. Katusha and

Simonson are with him, and Vera, too. She has taken my place.”

Kryltzoff said something that could not be heard because of the noise,

and frowning in the effort to repress his cough shook his head. Then

Nekhludoff stooped towards him, so as to hear, and Kryltzoff, freeing

his mouth of the handkerchief, whispered:

“Much better now. Only not to catch cold.”

Nekhludoff nodded in acquiescence, and again exchanged a glance with

Mary Pavlovna.

“How about the problem of the three bodies?” whispered Kryltzoff,

smiling with great difficulty. “The solution is difficult.”

Nekhludoff did not understand, but Mary Pavlovna explained that he meant

the well-known mathematical problem which defined the position of the

sun, moon and earth, which Kryltzoff compared to the relations between

Nekhludoff, Katusha and Simonson. Kryltzoff nodded, to show that Mary

Pavlovna had explained his joke correctly.

“The decision does not lie with me,” Nekhludoff said.

“Did you get my note? Will you do it?” Mary Pavlovna asked.

“Certainly,” answered Nekhludoff; and noticing a look of displeasure on

Kryltzoff’s face, he returned to his conveyance, and holding with both

hands to the sides of the cart, got in, which jolted with him over the

ruts of the rough road. He passed the gang, which, with its grey cloaks

and sheepskin coats, chains and manacles, stretched over three-quarters

of a mile of the road. On the opposite side of the road Nekhludoff

noticed Katusha’s blue shawl, Vera Doukhova’s black coat, and Simonson’s

crochet cap, white worsted stockings, with bands, like those of sandals,

tied round him. Simonson was walking with the woman and carrying on a

heated discussion.

When they saw Nekhludoff they bowed to him, and Simonson raised his hat

in a solemn manner. Nekhludoff, having nothing to say, did not stop, and

was soon ahead of the carts. Having got again on to a smoother part of

the road, they drove still more quickly, but they had continually to

turn aside to let pass long rows of carts that were moving along the

road in both directions.

The road, which was cut up by deep ruts, lay through a thick pine

forest, mingled with birch trees and larches, bright with yellow leaves

they had not yet shed. By the time Nekhludoff had passed about half the

gang he reached the end of the forest. Fields now lay stretched along

both sides of the road, and the crosses and cupolas of a monastery

appeared in the distance. The clouds had dispersed, and it had cleared

up completely; the leaves, the frozen puddles and the gilt crosses and

cupolas of the monastery glittered brightly in the sun that had risen

above the forest. A little to the right mountains began to gleam white

in the blue-grey distance, and the trap entered a large village.

The village street was full of people, both Russians and other

nationalities, wearing peculiar caps and cloaks. Tipsy men and women

crowded and chattered round booths, traktirs, public houses and carts.

The vicinity of a town was noticeable. Giving a pull and a lash of the

whip to the horse on his right, the driver sat down sideways on the

right edge of the seat, so that the reins hung over that side, and with

evident desire of showing off, he drove quickly down to the river, which

had to be crossed by a ferry. The raft was coming towards them, and

had reached the middle of the river. About twenty carts were waiting to

cross. Nekhludoff had not long to wait. The raft, which had been pulled

far up the stream, quickly approached the landing, carried by the swift

waters. The tall, silent, broad-shouldered, muscular ferryman, dressed

in sheepskins, threw the ropes and moored the raft with practised hand,

landed the carts that were on it, and put those that were waiting on

the bank on board. The whole raft was filled with vehicles and horses

shuffling at the sight of the water. The broad, swift river splashed

against the sides of the ferryboats, tightening their moorings.

When the raft was full, and Nekhludoff’s cart, with the horses taken out

of it, stood closely surrounded by other carts on the side of the raft,

the ferryman barred the entrance, and, paying no heed to the prayers of

those who had not found room in the raft, unfastened the ropes and set

off.

All was quiet on the raft; one could hear nothing but the tramp of the

ferryman’s boots and the horses changing from foot to foot.

CHAPTER XXI.

“JUST A WORTHLESS TRAMP.”

Nekhludoff stood on the edge of the raft looking at the broad river. Two

pictures kept rising up in his mind. One, that of Kryltzoff, unprepared

for death and dying, made a heavy, sorrowful impression on him. The

other, that of Katusha, full of energy, having gained the love of such a

man as Simonson, and found a true and solid path towards righteousness,

should have been pleasant, yet it also created a heavy impression on

Nekhludoff’s mind, and he could not conquer this impression.

The vibrating sounds of a big brass bell reached them from the town.

Nekhludoff’s driver, who stood by his side, and the other men on the

raft raised their caps and crossed themselves, all except a short,

dishevelled old man, who stood close to the railway and whom Nekhludoff

had not noticed before. He did not cross himself, but raised his head

and looked at Nekhludoff. This old man wore a patched coat, cloth

trousers and worn and patched shoes. He had a small wallet on his back,

and a high fur cap with the fur much rubbed on his head.

“Why don’t you pray, old chap?” asked Nekhludoff’s driver as he replaced

and straightened his cap. “Are you unbaptized?”

“Who’s one to pray to?” asked the old man quickly, in a determinately

aggressive tone.

“To whom? To God, of course,” said the driver sarcastically.

“And you just show me where he is, that god.” There was something so

serious and firm in the expression of the old man, that the driver felt

that he had to do with a strong-minded man, and was a bit abashed. And

trying not to show this, not to be silenced, and not to be put to shame

before the crowd that was observing them, he answered quickly.

“Where? In heaven, of course.”

“And have you been up there?”

“Whether I’ve been or not, every one knows that you must pray to God.”

“No one has ever seen God at any time. The only begotten Son who is in

the bosom of the Father he hath declared him,” said the old man in the

same rapid manner, and with a severe frown on his brow.

“It’s clear you are not a Christian, but a hole worshipper. You pray

to a hole,” said the driver, shoving the handle of his whip into his

girdle, pulling straight the harness on one of the horses.

Some one laughed.

“What is your faith, Dad?” asked a middle-aged man, who stood by his

cart on the same side of the raft.

“I have no kind of faith, because I believe no one--no one but myself,”

said the old man as quickly and decidedly as before.

“How can you believe yourself?” Nekhludoff asked, entering into a

conversation with him. “You might make a mistake.”

“Never in your life,” the old man said decidedly, with a toss of his

head.

“Then why are there different faiths?” Nekhludoff asked.

“It’s just because men believe others and do not believe themselves that

there are different faiths. I also believed others, and lost myself as

in a swamp,--lost myself so that I had no hope of finding my way out.

Old believers and new believers and Judaisers and Khlysty and Popovitzy,

and Bespopovitzy and Avstriaks and Molokans and Skoptzy--every faith

praises itself only, and so they all creep about like blind puppies.

There are many faiths, but the spirit is one--in me and in you and in

him. So that if every one believes himself all will be united. Every one

be himself, and all will be as one.”

The old man spoke loudly and often looked round, evidently wishing that

as many as possible should hear him.

“And have you long held this faith?”

“I? A long time. This is the twenty-third year that they persecute me.”

“Persecute you? How?”

“As they persecuted Christ, so they persecute me. They seize me, and

take me before the courts and before the priests, the Scribes and the

Pharisees. Once they put me into a madhouse; but they can do nothing

because I am free. They say, ‘What is your name?’ thinking I shall name

myself. But I do not give myself a name. I have given up everything:

I have no name, no place, no country, nor anything. I am just myself.

‘What is your name?’ ‘Man.’ ‘How old are you?’ I say, ‘I do not count my

years and cannot count them, because I always was, I always shall be.’

‘Who are your parents?’ ‘I have no parents except God and Mother Earth.

God is my father.’ ‘And the Tsar? Do you recognise the Tsar?’ they say.

I say, ‘Why not? He is his own Tsar, and I am my own Tsar.’ ‘Where’s the

good of talking to him,’ they say, and I say, ‘I do not ask you to talk

to me.’ And so they begin tormenting me.”

“And where are you going now?” asked Nekhludoff.

“Where God will lead me. I work when I can find work, and when I can’t

I beg.” The old man noticed that the raft was approaching the bank and

stopped, looking round at the bystanders with a look of triumph.

Nekhludoff got out his purse and offered some money to the old man, but

he refused, saying:

“I do not accept this sort of thing--bread I do accept.”

“Well, then, excuse me.”

“There is nothing to excuse, you have not offended me. And it is not

possible to offend me.” And the old man put the wallet he had taken

off again on his back. Meanwhile, the post-cart had been landed and the

horses harnessed.

“I wonder you should care to talk to him, sir,” said the driver, when

Nekhludoff, having tipped the bowing ferryman, got into the cart again.

“He is just a worthless tramp.”

CHAPTER XXII.

NEKHLUDOFF SEES THE GENERAL.

When they got to the top of the hill bank the driver turned to

Nekhludoff.

“Which hotel am I to drive to?”

“Which is the best?”

“Nothing could be better than the Siberian, but Dukeoff’s is also good.”

“Drive to whichever you like.”

The driver again seated himself sideways and drove faster. The town

was like all such towns. The same kind of houses with attic windows

and green roofs, the same kind of cathedral, the same kind of shops and

stores in the principal street, and even the same kind of policemen.

Only the houses were almost all of them wooden, and the streets were not

paved. In one of the chief streets the driver stopped at the door of an

hotel, but there was no room to be had, so he drove to another. And here

Nekhludoff, after two months, found himself once again in surroundings

such as he had been accustomed to as far as comfort and cleanliness

went. Though the room he was shown to was simple enough, yet Nekhludoff

felt greatly relieved to be there after two months of post-carts,

country inns and halting stations. His first business was to clean

himself of the lice which he had never been able to get thoroughly rid

of after visiting a halting station. When he had unpacked he went to the

Russian bath, after which he made himself fit to be seen in a town,

put on a starched shirt, trousers that had got rather creased along the

seams, a frock-coat and an overcoat, and drove to the Governor of the

district. The hotel-keeper called an isvostchik, whose well-fed Kirghiz

horse and vibrating trap soon brought Nekhludoff to the large porch of

a big building, in front of which stood sentinels and a policeman. The

house had a garden in front, and at the back, among the naked branches

of aspen and birch trees, there grew thick and dark green pines and

firs. The General was not well, and did not receive; but Nekhludoff

asked the footman to hand in his card all the same, and the footman came

back with a favourable reply.

“You are asked to come in.”

The hall, the footman, the orderly, the staircase, the dancing-room,

with its well-polished floor, were very much the same as in Petersburg,

only more imposing and rather dirtier. Nekhludoff was shown into the

cabinet.

The General, a bloated, potato-nosed man, with a sanguine disposition,

large bumps on his forehead, bald head, and puffs under his eyes, sat

wrapped in a Tartar silk dressing-gown smoking a cigarette and sipping

his tea out of a tumbler in a silver holder.

“How do you do, sir? Excuse my dressing-gown; it is better so than if I

had not received you at all,” he said, pulling up his dressing-gown over

his fat neck with its deep folds at the nape. “I am not quite well, and

do not go out. What has brought you to our remote region?”

“I am accompanying a gang of prisoners, among whom there is a person

closely connected with me, said Nekhludoff, and now I have come to

see your Excellency partly in behalf of this person, and partly about

another business.” The General took a whiff and a sip of tea, put

his cigarette into a malachite ashpan, with his narrow eyes fixed on

Nekhludoff, listening seriously. He only interrupted him once to offer

him a cigarette.

The General belonged to the learned type of military men who believed

that liberal and humane views can be reconciled with their profession.

But being by nature a kind and intelligent man, he soon felt the

impossibility of such a reconciliation; so as not to feel the inner

discord in which he was living, he gave himself up more and more to the

habit of drinking, which is so widely spread among military men, and

was now suffering from what doctors term alcoholism. He was imbued

with alcohol, and if he drank any kind of liquor it made him tipsy. Yet

strong drink was an absolute necessity to him, he could not live without

it, so he was quite drunk every evening; but had grown so used to this

state that he did not reel nor talk any special nonsense. And if he

did talk nonsense, it was accepted as words of wisdom because of the

important and high position which he occupied. Only in the morning, just

at the time Nekhludoff came to see him, he was like a reasonable being,

could understand what was said to him, and fulfil more or less aptly a

proverb he was fond of repeating: “He’s tipsy, but he’s wise, so he’s

pleasant in two ways.”

The higher authorities knew he was a drunkard, but he was more educated

than the rest, though his education had stopped at the spot where

drunkenness had got hold of him. He was bold, adroit, of imposing

appearance, and showed tact even when tipsy; therefore, he was

appointed, and was allowed to retain so public and responsible an

office.

Nekhludoff told him that the person he was interested in was a woman,

that she was sentenced, though innocent, and that a petition had been

sent to the Emperor in her behalf.

“Yes, well?” said the General.

“I was promised in Petersburg that the news concerning her fate should

be sent to me not later than this month and to this place-”

The General stretched his hand with its stumpy fingers towards the

table, and rang a bell, still looking at Nekhludoff and puffing at his

cigarette.

“So I would like to ask you that this woman should be allowed to remain

here until the answer to her petition comes.”

The footman, an orderly in uniform, came in.

“Ask if Anna Vasilievna is up,” said the General to the orderly, “and

bring some more tea.” Then, turning to Nekhludoff, “Yes, and what else?”

“My other request concerns a political prisoner who is with the same

gang.”

“Dear me,” said the General, with a significant shake of the head.

“He is seriously ill--dying, and he will probably be left here in the

hospital, so one of the women prisoners would like to stay behind with

him.”

“She is no relation of his?”

“No, but she is willing to marry him if that will enable her to remain

with him.”

The General looked fixedly with twinkling eyes at his interlocutor, and,

evidently with a wish to discomfit him, listened, smoking in silence.

When Nekhludoff had finished, the General took a book off the table,

and, wetting his finger, quickly turned over the pages and found the

statute relating to marriage.

“What is she sentenced to?” he asked, looking up from the book.

“She? To hard labour.”

“Well, then, the position of one sentenced to that cannot be bettered by

marriage.”

“Yes, but--”

“Excuse me. Even if a free man should marry her, she would have to

serve her term. The question in such cases is, whose is the heavier

punishment, hers or his?”

“They are both sentenced to hard labour.”

“Very well; so they are quits,” said the General, with a laugh. “She’s

got what he has, only as he is sick he may be left behind, and of course

what can be done to lighten his fate shall be done. But as for her, even

if she did marry him, she could not remain behind.”

“The Generaless is having her coffee,” the footman announced.

The General nodded and continued:

“However, I shall think about it. What are their names? Put them down

here.”

Nekhludoff wrote down the names.

Nekhludoff’s request to be allowed to see the dying man the General

answered by saying, “Neither can I do that. Of course I do not suspect

you, but you take an interest in him and in the others, and you have

money, and here with us anything can be done with money. I have been

told to put down bribery. But how can I put down bribery when everybody

takes bribes? And the lower their rank the more ready they are to be

bribed. How can one find it out across more than three thousand miles?

There any official is a little Tsar, just as I am here,” and he laughed.

“You have in all likelihood been to see the political prisoners; you

gave money and got permission to see them,” he said, with a smile. “Is

it not so?”

“Yes, it is.”

“I quite understand that you had to do it. You pity a political prisoner

and wish to see him. And the inspector or the convoy soldier accepts,

because he has a salary of twice twenty copecks and a family, and he

can’t help accepting it. In his place and yours I should have acted

in the same way as you and he did. But in my position I do not permit

myself to swerve an inch from the letter of the law, just because I am

a man, and might be influenced by pity. But I am a member of the

executive, and I have been placed in a position of trust on certain

conditions, and these conditions I must carry out. Well, so this

business is finished. And now let us hear what is going on in the

metropolis.” And the General began questioning with the evident desire

to hear the news and to show how very human he was.

CHAPTER XXIII.

THE SENTENCE COMMUTED.

“By-the-way, where are you staying?” asked the General as he was taking

leave of Nekhludoff. “At Duke’s? Well, it’s horrid enough there. Come

and dine with us at five o’clock. You speak English?”

“Yes, I do.”

“That’s good. You see, an English traveller has just arrived here. He

is studying the question of transportation and examining the prisons of

Siberia. Well, he is dining with us to-night, and you come and meet him.

We dine at five, and my wife expects punctuality. Then I shall also

give you an answer what to do about that woman, and perhaps it may be

possible to leave some one behind with the sick prisoner.”

Having made his bow to the General, Nekhludoff drove to the post-office,

feeling himself in an extremely animated and energetic frame of mind.

The post-office was a low-vaulted room. Several officials sat behind

a counter serving the people, of whom there was quite a crowd. One

official sat with his head bent to one side and kept stamping the

envelopes, which he slipped dexterously under the stamp. Nekhludoff had

not long to wait. As soon as he had given his name, everything that had

come for him by post was at once handed to him. There was a good deal:

letters, and money, and books, and the last number of Fatherland Notes.

Nekhludoff took all these things to a wooden bench, on which a soldier

with a book in his hand sat waiting for something, took the seat by

his side, and began sorting the letters. Among them was one registered

letter in a fine envelope, with a distinctly stamped bright red seal. He

broke the seal, and seeing a letter from Selenin and some official paper

inside the envelope, he felt the blood rush to his face, and his heart

stood still. It was the answer to Katusha’s petition. What would that

answer be? Nekhludoff glanced hurriedly through the letter, written

in an illegibly small, hard, and cramped hand, and breathed a sigh of

relief. The answer was a favourable one.

“Dear friend,” wrote Selenin, “our last talk has made a profound

impression on me. You were right concerning Maslova. I looked carefully

through the case, and see that shocking injustice has been done her. It

could be remedied only by the Committee of Petitions before which you

laid it. I managed to assist at the examination of the case, and I

enclose herewith the copy of the mitigation of the sentence. Your aunt,

the Countess Katerina Ivanovna, gave me the address which I am sending

this to. The original document has been sent to the place where she was

imprisoned before her trial, and will from there he probably sent

at once to the principal Government office in Siberia. I hasten to

communicate this glad news to you and warmly press your hand.

“Yours,

“SELENIN.”

The document ran thus: “His Majesty’s office for the reception

of petitions, addressed to his Imperial name”--here followed the

date----“by order of the chief of his Majesty’s office for the reception

of petitions addressed to his Imperial name. The meschanka Katerina

Maslova is hereby informed that his Imperial Majesty, with reference to

her most loyal petition, condescending to her request, deigns to order

that her sentence to hard labour should be commuted to one of exile to

the less distant districts of Siberia.”

This was joyful and important news; all that Nekhludoff could have hoped

for Katusha, and for himself also, had happened. It was true that the

new position she was in brought new complications with it. While she was

a convict, marriage with her could only be fictitious, and would have

had no meaning except that he would have been in a position to alleviate

her condition. And now there was nothing to prevent their living

together, and Nekhludoff had not prepared himself for that. And,

besides, what of her relations to Simonson? What was the meaning of her

words yesterday? If she consented to a union with Simonson, would it

be well? He could not unravel all these questions, and gave up thinking

about it. “It will all clear itself up later on,” he thought; “I must

not think about it now, but convey the glad news to her as soon as

possible, and set her free.” He thought that the copy of the document he

had received would suffice, so when he left the post-office he told the

isvostchik to drive him to the prison.

Though he had received no order from the governor to visit the prison

that morning, he knew by experience that it was easy to get from the

subordinates what the higher officials would not grant, so now he meant

to try and get into the prison to bring Katusha the joyful news, and

perhaps to get her set free, and at the same time to inquire about

Kryltzoff’s state of health, and tell him and Mary Pavlovna what the

general had said. The prison inspector was a tall, imposing-looking man,

with moustaches and whiskers that twisted towards the corners of his

mouth. He received Nekhludoff very gravely, and told him plainly that

he could not grant an outsider the permission to interview the prisoners

without a special order from his chief. To Nekhludoff’s remark that he

had been allowed to visit the prisoners even in the cities he answered:

“That may be so, but I do not allow it,” and his tone implied, “You

city gentlemen may think to surprise and perplex us, but we in Eastern

Siberia also know what the law is, and may even teach it you.” The copy

of a document straight from the Emperor’s own office did not have any

effect on the prison inspector either. He decidedly refused to let

Nekhludoff come inside the prison walls. He only smiled contemptuously

at Nekhludoff’s naive conclusion, that the copy he had received would

suffice to set Maslova free, and declared that a direct order from his

own superiors would be needed before any one could be set at liberty.

The only things he agreed to do were to communicate to Maslova that a

mitigation had arrived for her, and to promise that he would not detain

her an hour after the order from his chief to liberate her would arrive.

He would also give no news of Kryltzoff, saying he could not even tell

if there was such a prisoner; and so Nekhludoff, having accomplished

next to nothing, got into his trap and drove back to his hotel.

The strictness of the inspector was chiefly due to the fact that an

epidemic of typhus had broken out in the prison, owing to twice the

number of persons that it was intended for being crowded in it. The

isvostchik who drove Nekhludoff said, “Quite a lot of people are dying

in the prison every day, some kind of disease having sprung up among

them, so that as many as twenty were buried in one day.”

CHAPTER XXIV.

THE GENERAL’S HOUSEHOLD.

In spite of his ineffectual attempt at the prison, Nekhludoff, still

in the same vigorous, energetic frame of mind, went to the Governor’s

office to see if the original of the document had arrived for Maslova.

It had not arrived, so Nekhludoff went back to the hotel and wrote

without delay to Selenin and the advocate about it. When he had

finished writing he looked at his watch and saw it was time to go to the

General’s dinner party.

On the way he again began wondering how Katusha would receive the news

of the mitigation of her sentence. Where she would be settled? How he

should live with her? What about Simonson? What would his relations to

her be? He remembered the change that had taken place in her, and

this reminded him of her past. “I must forget it for the present,” he

thought, and again hastened to drive her out of his mind. “When the time

comes I shall see,” he said to himself, and began to think of what he

ought to say to the General.

The dinner at the General’s, with the luxury habitual to the lives

of the wealthy and those of high rank, to which Nekhludoff had been

accustomed, was extremely enjoyable after he had been so long deprived

not only of luxury but even of the most ordinary comforts. The mistress

of the house was a Petersburg grande dame of the old school, a maid of

honour at the court of Nicholas I., who spoke French quite naturally and

Russian very unnaturally. She held herself very erect and, moving her

hands, she kept her elbows close to her waist. She was quietly and,

somewhat sadly considerate for her husband, and extremely kind to

all her visitors, though with a tinge of difference in her behaviour

according to their position. She received Nekhludoff as if he were one

of them, and her fine, almost imperceptible flattery made him once again

aware of his virtues and gave him a feeling of satisfaction. She made

him feel that she knew of that honest though rather singular step of his

which had brought him to Siberia, and held him to be an exceptional man.

This refined flattery and the elegance and luxury of the General’s house

had the effect of making Nekhludoff succumb to the enjoyment of the

handsome surroundings, the delicate dishes and the ease and pleasure

of intercourse with educated people of his own class, so that the

surroundings in the midst of which he had lived for the last months

seemed a dream from which he had awakened to reality. Besides those

of the household, the General’s daughter and her husband and an

aide-de-camp, there were an Englishman, a merchant interested in gold

mines, and the governor of a distant Siberian town. All these people

seemed pleasant to Nekhludoff. The Englishman, a healthy man with a

rosy complexion, who spoke very bad French, but whose command of his own

language was very good and oratorically impressive, who had seen a great

deal, was very interesting to listen to when he spoke about America,

India, Japan and Siberia.

The young merchant interested in the gold mines, the son of a peasant,

whose evening dress was made in London, who had diamond studs to his

shirt, possessed a fine library, contributed freely to philanthropic

work, and held liberal European views, seemed pleasant to Nekhludoff

as a sample of a quite new and good type of civilised European culture,

grafted on a healthy, uncultivated peasant stem.

The governor of the distant Siberian town was that same man who had been

so much talked about in Petersburg at the time Nekhludoff was there. He

was plump, with thin, curly hair, soft blue eyes, carefully-tended white

hands, with rings on the fingers, a pleasant smile, and very big in the

lower part of his body. The master of the house valued this governor

because of all the officials he was the only one who would not be

bribed. The mistress of the house, who was very fond of music and a

very good pianist herself, valued him because he was a good musician and

played duets with her.

Nekhludoff was in such good humour that even this man was not unpleasant

to him, in spite of what he knew of his vices. The bright, energetic

aide-de-camp, with his bluey grey chin, who was continually offering his

services, pleased Nekhludoff by his good nature. But it was the charming

young couple, the General’s daughter and her husband, who pleased

Nekhludoff best. The daughter was a plain-looking, simple-minded young

woman, wholly absorbed in her two children. Her husband, whom she had

fallen in love with and married after a long struggle with her parents,

was a Liberal, who had taken honours at the Moscow University, a modest

and intellectual young man in Government service, who made up statistics

and studied chiefly the foreign tribes, which he liked and tried to save

from dying out.

All of them were not only kind and attentive to Nekhludoff, but

evidently pleased to see him, as a new and interesting acquaintance. The

General, who came in to dinner in uniform and with a white cross round

his neck, greeted Nekhludoff as a friend, and asked the visitors to

the side table to take a glass of vodka and something to whet their

appetites. The General asked Nekhludoff what he had been doing since

he left that morning, and Nekhludoff told him he had been to the

post-office and received the news of the mitigation of that person’s

sentence that he had spoken of in the morning, and again asked for a

permission to visit the prison.

The General, apparently displeased that business should be mentioned at

dinner, frowned and said nothing.

“Have a glass of vodka,” he said, addressing the Englishman, who had

just come up to the table. The Englishman drank a glass, and said he had

been to see the cathedral and the factory, but would like to visit the

great transportation prison.

“Oh, that will just fit in,” said the General to Nekhludoff. “You will

be able to go together. Give them a pass,” he added, turning to his

aide-de-camp.

“When would you like to go?” Nekhludoff asked.

“I prefer visiting the prisons in the evening,” the Englishman answered.

“All are indoors and there is no preparation; you find them all as they

are.”

“Ah, he would like to see it in all its glory! Let him do so. I have

written about it and no attention has been paid to it. Let him find out

from foreign publications,” the General said, and went up to the dinner

table, where the mistress of the house was showing the visitors their

places. Nekhludoff sat between his hostess and the Englishman. In front

of him sat the General’s daughter and the ex-director of the Government

department in Petersburg. The conversation at dinner was carried on by

fits and starts, now it was India that the Englishman talked about, now

the Tonkin expedition that the General strongly disapproved of, now the

universal bribery and corruption in Siberia. All these topics did not

interest Nekhludoff much.

But after dinner, over their coffee, Nekhludoff and the Englishman began

a very interesting conversation about Gladstone, and Nekhludoff thought

he had said many clever things which were noticed by his interlocutor.

And Nekhludoff felt it more and more pleasant to be sipping his coffee

seated in an easy-chair among amiable, well-bred people. And when at

the Englishman’s request the hostess went up to the piano with the

ex-director of the Government department, and they began to play in

well-practised style Beethoven’s fifth symphony, Nekhludoff fell into

a mental state of perfect self-satisfaction to which he had long been

a stranger, as though he had only just found out what a good fellow he

was.

The grand piano was a splendid instrument, the symphony was well

performed. At least, so it seemed to Nekhludoff, who knew and liked that

symphony. Listening to the beautiful andante, he felt a tickling in his

nose, he was so touched by his many virtues.

Nekhludoff thanked his hostess for the enjoyment that he had been

deprived of for so long, and was about to say goodbye and go when the

daughter of the house came up to him with a determined look and said,

with a blush, “You asked about my children. Would you like to see them?”

“She thinks that everybody wants to see her children,” said her mother,

smiling at her daughter’s winning tactlessness. “The Prince is not at

all interested.”

“On the contrary, I am very much interested,” said Nekhludoff, touched

by this overflowing, happy mother-love. “Please let me see them.”

“She’s taking the Prince to see her babies,” the General shouted,

laughing from the card-table, where he sat with his son-in-law, the mine

owner and the aide-de-camp. “Go, go, pay your tribute.”

The young woman, visibly excited by the thought that judgment was about

to be passed on her children, went quickly towards the inner apartments,

followed by Nekhludoff. In the third, a lofty room, papered with white

and lit up by a shaded lamp, stood two small cots, and a nurse with a

white cape on her shoulders sat between the cots. She had a kindly, true

Siberian face, with its high cheek-bones.

The nurse rose and bowed. The mother stooped over the first cot, in

which a two-year-old little girl lay peacefully sleeping with her little

mouth open and her long, curly hair tumbled over the pillow.

“This is Katie,” said the mother, straightening the white and blue

crochet coverlet, from under which a little white foot pushed itself

languidly out.

“Is she not pretty? She’s only two years old, you know.”

“Lovely.”

“And this is Vasiuk, as ‘grandpapa’ calls him. Quite a different type. A

Siberian, is he not?”

“A splendid boy,” said Nekhludoff, as he looked at the little fatty

lying asleep on his stomach.

“Yes,” said the mother, with a smile full of meaning.

Nekhludoff recalled to his mind chains, shaved heads, fighting

debauchery, the dying Kryltzoff, Katusha and the whole of her past, and

he began to feel envious and to wish for what he saw here, which now

seemed to him pure and refined happiness.

After having repeatedly expressed his admiration of the children,

thereby at least partially satisfying their mother, who eagerly drank

in this praise, he followed her back to the drawing-room, where the

Englishman was waiting for him to go and visit the prison, as they had

arranged. Having taken leave of their hosts, the old and the young ones,

the Englishman and Nekhludoff went out into the porch of the General’s

house.

The weather had changed. It was snowing, and the snow fell densely in

large flakes, and already covered the road, the roof and the trees in

the garden, the steps of the porch, the roof of the trap and the back of

the horse.

The Englishman had a trap of his own, and Nekhludoff, having told the

coachman to drive to the prison, called his isvostchik and got in with

the heavy sense of having to fulfil an unpleasant duty, and followed

the Englishman over the soft snow, through which the wheels turned with

difficulty.

CHAPTER XXV.

MASLOVA’S DECISION.

The dismal prison house, with its sentinel and lamp burning under the

gateway, produced an even more dismal impression, with its long row of

lighted windows, than it had done in the morning, in spite of the white

covering that now lay over everything--the porch, the roof and the

walls.

The imposing inspector came up to the gate and read the pass that had

been given to Nekhludoff and the Englishman by the light of the lamp,

shrugged his fine shoulders in surprise, but, in obedience to the order,

asked the visitors to follow him in. He led them through the courtyard

and then in at a door to the right and up a staircase into the office.

He offered them a seat and asked what he could do for them, and when

he heard that Nekhludoff would like to see Maslova at once, he sent a

jailer to fetch her. Then he prepared himself to answer the questions

which the Englishman began to put to him, Nekhludoff acting as

interpreter.

“How many persons is the prison built to hold?” the Englishman asked.

“How many are confined in it? How many men? How many women? Children?

How many sentenced to the mines? How many exiles? How many sick

persons?”

Nekhludoff translated the Englishman’s and the inspector’s words without

paying any attention to their meaning, and felt an awkwardness he had

not in the least expected at the thought of the impending interview.

When, in the midst of a sentence he was translating for the Englishman,

he heard the sound of approaching footsteps, and the office door opened,

and, as had happened many times before, a jailer came in, followed by

Katusha, and he saw her with a kerchief tied round her head, and in a

prison jacket a heavy sensation came over him. “I wish to live, I want

a family, children, I want a human life.” These thoughts flashed through

his mind as she entered the room with rapid steps and blinking her eyes.

He rose and made a few steps to meet her, and her face appeared hard

and unpleasant to him. It was again as it had been at the time when

she reproached him. She flushed and turned pale, her fingers nervously

twisting a corner of her jacket. She looked up at him, then cast down

her eyes.

“You know that a mitigation has come?”

“Yes, the jailer told me.”

“So that as soon as the original document arrives you may come away and

settle where you like. We shall consider--”

She interrupted him hurriedly. “What have I to consider? Where Valdemar

Simonson goes, there I shall follow.” In spite of the excitement she

was in she raised her eyes to Nekhludoff’s and pronounced these words

quickly and distinctly, as if she had prepared what she had to say.

“Indeed!”

“Well, Dmitri Ivanovitch, you see he wishes me to live with him--” and

she stopped, quite frightened, and corrected herself. “He wishes me to

be near him. What more can I desire? I must look upon it as happiness.

What else is there for me--”

“One of two things,” thought he. “Either she loves Simonson and does not

in the least require the sacrifice I imagined I was bringing her, or she

still loves me and refuses me for my own sake, and is burning her ships

by uniting her fate with Simonson.” And Nekhludoff felt ashamed and knew

that he was blushing.

“And you yourself, do you love him?” he asked.

“Loving or not loving, what does it matter? I have given up all that.

And then Valdemar Simonson is quite an exceptional man.”

“Yes, of course,” Nekhludoff began. “He is a splendid man, and I

think--”

But she again interrupted him, as if afraid that he might say too much

or that she should not say all. “No, Dmitri Ivanovitch, you must forgive

me if I am not doing what you wish,” and she looked at him with those

unfathomable, squinting eyes of hers. “Yes, it evidently must be so. You

must live, too.”

She said just what he had been telling himself a few moments before, but

he no longer thought so now and felt very differently. He was not only

ashamed, but felt sorry to lose all he was losing with her. “I did not

expect this,” he said.

“Why should you live here and suffer? You have suffered enough.”

“I have not suffered. It was good for me, and I should like to go on

serving you if I could.”

“We do not want anything,” she said, and looked at him.

“You have done so much for me as it is. If it had not been for you--”

She wished to say more, but her voice trembled.

“You certainly have no reason to thank me,” Nekhludoff said.

“Where is the use of our reckoning? God will make up our accounts,” she

said, and her black eyes began to glisten with the tears that filled

them.

“What a good woman you are,” he said.

“I good?” she said through her tears, and a pathetic smile lit up her

face.

“Are you ready?” the Englishman asked.

“Directly,” replied Nekhludoff and asked her about Kryltzoff.

She got over her emotion and quietly told him all she knew. Kryltzoff

was very weak and had been sent into the infirmary. Mary Pavlovna was

very anxious, and had asked to be allowed to go to the infirmary as a

nurse, but could not get the permission.

“Am I to go?” she asked, noticing that the Englishman was waiting.

“I will not say good-bye; I shall see you again,” said Nekhludoff,

holding out his hand.

“Forgive me,” she said so low that he could hardly hear her. Their eyes

met, and Nekhludoff knew by the strange look of her squinting eyes and

the pathetic smile with which she said not “Good-bye” but “Forgive

me,” that of the two reasons that might have led to her resolution,

the second was the real one. She loved him, and thought that by uniting

herself to him she would be spoiling his life. By going with Simonson

she thought she would be setting Nekhludoff free, and felt glad that she

had done what she meant to do, and yet she suffered at parting from him.

She pressed his hand, turned quickly and left the room.

Nekhludoff was ready to go, but saw that the Englishman was noting

something down, and did not disturb him, but sat down on a wooden seat

by the wall, and suddenly a feeling of terrible weariness came over him.

It was not a sleepless night that had tired him, not the journey, not

the excitement, but he felt terribly tired of living. He leaned against

the back of the bench, shut his eyes and in a moment fell into a deep,

heavy sleep.

“Well, would you like to look round the cells now?” the inspector asked.

Nekhludoff looked up and was surprised to find himself where he was. The

Englishman had finished his notes and expressed a wish to see the cells.

Nekhludoff, tired and indifferent, followed him.

CHAPTER XXVI.

THE ENGLISH VISITOR.

When they had passed the anteroom and the sickening, stinking corridor,

the Englishman and Nekhludoff, accompanied by the inspector, entered the

first cell, where those sentenced to hard labour were confined. The beds

took up the middle of the cell and the prisoners were all in bed. There

were about 70 of them. When the visitors entered all the prisoners

jumped up and stood beside the beds, excepting two, a young man who was

in a state of high fever, and an old man who did nothing but groan.

The Englishman asked if the young man had long been ill. The inspector

said that he was taken ill in the morning, but that the old man had long

been suffering with pains in the stomach, but could not be removed, as

the infirmary had been overfilled for a long time. The Englishman shook

his head disapprovingly, said he would like to say a few words to these

people, asking Nekhludoff to interpret. It turned out that besides

studying the places of exile and the prisons of Siberia, the Englishman

had another object in view, that of preaching salvation through faith

and by the redemption.

“Tell them,” he said, “that Christ died for them. If they believe in

this they shall be saved.” While he spoke, all the prisoners stood

silent with their arms at their sides. “This book, tell them,” he

continued, “says all about it. Can any of them read?”

There were more than 20 who could.

The Englishman took several bound Testaments out of a hang-bag, and many

strong hands with their hard, black nails stretched out from beneath the

coarse shirt-sleeves towards him. He gave away two Testaments in this

cell.

The same thing happened in the second cell. There was the same foul air,

the same icon hanging between the windows, the same tub to the left of

the door, and they were all lying side by side close to one another, and

jumped up in the same manner and stood stretched full length with their

arms by their sides, all but three, two of whom sat up and one remained

lying, and did not even look at the newcomers; these three were also

ill. The Englishman made the same speech and again gave away two books.

In the third room four were ill. When the Englishman asked why the sick

were not put all together into one cell, the inspector said that they

did not wish it themselves, that their diseases were not infectious, and

that the medical assistant watched them and attended to them.

“He has not set foot here for a fortnight,” muttered a voice.

The inspector did not say anything and led the way to the next cell.

Again the door was unlocked, and all got up and stood silent. Again the

Englishman gave away Testaments. It was the same in the fifth and sixth

cells, in those to the right and those to the left.

From those sentenced to hard labour they went on to the exiles.

From the exiles to those evicted by the Commune and those who followed

of their own free will.

Everywhere men, cold, hungry, idle, infected, degraded, imprisoned, were

shown off like wild beasts.

The Englishman, having given away the appointed number of Testaments,

stopped giving any more, and made no speeches. The oppressing sight, and

especially the stifling atmosphere, quelled even his energy, and he went

from cell to cell, saying nothing but “All right” to the inspector’s

remarks about what prisoners there were in each cell.

Nekhludoff followed as in a dream, unable either to refuse to go on or

to go away, and with the same feelings of weariness and hopelessness.

CHAPTER XXVII.

KRYLTZOFF AT REST.

In one of the exiles’ cells Nekhludoff, to his surprise, recognised the

strange old man he had seen crossing the ferry that morning. This old

man was sitting on the floor by the beds, barefooted, with only a dirty

cinder-coloured shirt on, torn on one shoulder, and similar trousers.

He looked severely and enquiringly at the newcomers. His emaciated body,

visible through the holes of his shirt, looked miserably weak, but in

his face was even more concentrated seriousness and animation than when

Nekhludoff saw him crossing the ferry. As in all the other cells, so

here also the prisoners jumped up and stood erect when the official

entered, but the old man remained sitting. His eyes glittered and his

brows frowned with wrath.

“Get up,” the inspector called out to him.

The old man did not rise and only smiled contemptuously.

“Thy servants are standing before thee. I am not thy servant. Thou

bearest the seal--” The old man pointed to the inspector’s forehead.

“Wha-a-t?” said the inspector threateningly, and made a step towards

him.

“I know this man,” Nekhludoff hastened to say; “what is he imprisoned

for?”

“The police have sent him here because he has no passport. We ask them

not to send such, but they will do it,” said the inspector, casting an

angry side look at the old man.

“And so it seems thou, too, art one of Antichrist’s army?” the old man

said to Nekhludoff.

“No, I am a visitor,” said Nekhludoff.

“What, hast thou come to see how Antichrist tortures men? There, look,

he has locked them up in a cage, a whole army of them. Men should eat

bread in the sweat of their brow. And he has locked them up with no work

to do, and feeds them like swine, so that they should turn into beasts.”

“What is he saying?” asked the Englishman.

Nekhludoff told him the old man was blaming the inspector for keeping

men imprisoned.

“Ask him how he thinks one should treat those who do not keep to the

laws,” said the Englishman.

Nekhludoff translated the question. The old man laughed in a strange

manner, showing his teeth.

“The laws?” he repeated with contempt. “He first robbed everybody, took

all the earth, all the rights away from men, killed all those who were

against him, and then wrote laws, forbidding robbery and murder. He

should have written these laws before.”

Nekhludoff translated. The Englishman smiled. “Well, anyhow, ask him how

one should treat thieves and murderers at present?”

Nekhludoff again translated his question.

“Tell him he should take the seal of Antichrist off himself,” the

old man said, frowning severely; “then there will be no thieves and

murderers. Tell him so.”

“He is crazy,” said the Englishman, when Nekhludoff had translated the

old man’s words, and, shrugging his shoulders, he left the cell.

“Do thy business and leave them alone. Every one for himself. God knows

whom to execute, whom to forgive, and we do not know,” said the old man.

“Every man be his own chief, then the chiefs will not be wanted. Go,

go!” he added, angrily frowning and looking with glittering eyes at

Nekhludoff, who lingered in the cell. “Hast thou not looked on long

enough how the servants of Antichrist feed lice on men? Go, go!”

When Nekhludoff went out he saw the Englishman standing by the open door

of an empty cell with the inspector, asking what the cell was for. The

inspector explained that it was the mortuary.

“Oh,” said the Englishman when Nekhludoff had translated, and expressed

the wish to go in.

The mortuary was an ordinary cell, not very large. A small lamp hung on

the wall and dimly lit up sacks and logs of wood that were piled up in

one corner, and four dead bodies lay on the bedshelves to the right. The

first body had a coarse linen shirt and trousers on; it was that of a

tall man with a small beard and half his head shaved. The body was quite

rigid; the bluish hands, that had evidently been folded on the breast,

had separated; the legs were also apart and the bare feet were sticking

out. Next to him lay a bare-footed old woman in a white petticoat, her

head, with its thin plait of hair, uncovered, with a little, pinched

yellow face and a sharp nose. Beyond her was another man with something

lilac on. This colour reminded Nekhludoff of something. He came nearer

and looked at the body. The small, pointed beard sticking upwards, the

firm, well-shaped nose, the high, white forehead, the thin, curly hair;

he recognised the familiar features and could hardly believe his eyes.

Yesterday he had seen this face, angry, excited, and full of suffering;

now it was quiet, motionless, and terribly beautiful. Yes, it was

Kryltzoff, or at any rate the trace that his material existence had left

behind. “Why had he suffered? Why had he lived? Does he now understand?”

Nekhludoff thought, and there seemed to be no answer, seemed to be

nothing but death, and he felt faint. Without taking leave of the

Englishman, Nekhludoff asked the inspector to lead him out into the

yard, and feeling the absolute necessity of being alone to think over

all that had happened that evening, he drove back to his hotel.

CHAPTER XXVIII.

A NEW LIFE DAWNS FOR NEKHLUDOFF.

Nekhludoff did not go to bed, but went up and down his room for a long

time. His business with Katusha was at an end. He was not wanted,

and this made him sad and ashamed. His other business was not only

unfinished, but troubled him more than ever and demanded his activity.

All this horrible evil that he had seen and learned to know lately, and

especially to-day in that awful prison, this evil, which had killed

that dear Kryltzoff, ruled and was triumphant, and he could foreseen

possibility of conquering or even knowing how to conquer it. Those

hundreds and thousands of degraded human beings locked up in the noisome

prisons by indifferent generals, procureurs, inspectors, rose up in

his imagination; he remembered the strange, free old man accusing the

officials, and therefore considered mad, and among the corpses the

beautiful, waxen face of Kryltzoff, who had died in anger. And again the

question as to whether he was mad or those who considered they were in

their right minds while they committed all these deeds stood before him

with renewed force and demanded an answer.

Tired of pacing up and down, tired of thinking, he sat down on the sofa

near the lamp and mechanically opened the Testament which the Englishman

had given him as a remembrance, and which he had thrown on the table

when he emptied his pockets on coming in.

“It is said one can find an answer to everything here,” he thought, and

opened the Testament at random and began reading Matt. xviii. 1-4: “In

that hour came the disciples unto Jesus, saying, Who then is greatest in

the Kingdom of Heaven? And He called to Him a little child, and set him

in the midst of them, and said, Verily I say unto you, Except ye turn

and become as little children, ye shall in nowise enter into the Kingdom

of Heaven. Whosoever therefore shall humble himself as this little child

the same is the greatest in the Kingdom of Heaven.”

“Yes, yes, that is true,” he said, remembering that he had known the

peace and joy of life only when he had humbled himself.

“And whosoever shall receive one such little child in My name receiveth

Me, but whoso shall cause one of these little ones to stumble, it is

more profitable for him that a great millstone should be hanged about

his neck and that he should be sunk in the depths of the sea.” (Matt.

xviii. 5, 6.)

“What is this for, ‘Whosoever shall receive?’ Receive where? And what

does ‘in my name’ mean?” he asked, feeling that these words did not tell

him anything. “And why ‘the millstone round his neck and the depths of

the sea?’ No, that is not it: it is not clear,” and he remembered how

more than once in his life he had taken to reading the Gospels, and how

want of clearness in these passages had repulsed him. He went on to

read the seventh, eighth, ninth, and tenth verses about the occasions of

stumbling, and that they must come, and about punishment by casting men

into hell fire, and some kind of angels who see the face of the Father

in Heaven. “What a pity that this is so incoherent,” he thought, “yet

one feels that there is something good in it.”

“For the Son of Man came to save that which was lost,” he continued to

read.

“How think ye? If any man have a hundred sheep and one of them go

astray, doth he not leave the ninety and nine and go into the mountains

and seek that which goeth astray? And if so be that he find it, verily

I say unto you, he rejoiceth over it more than over the ninety and nine

which have not gone astray.

“Even so it is not the will of your Father which is in Heaven that one

of these little ones should perish.”

“Yes, it is not the will of the Father that they should perish, and

here they are perishing by hundreds and thousands. And there is no

possibility of saving them,” he thought.

“Then came Peter and said to him, How oft shall my brother offend me and

I forgive him? Until seven times? Jesus saith unto him, I say not unto

thee until seven times, but until seventy times seven.

“Therefore is the Kingdom of Heaven likened unto a certain king which

made a reckoning with his servants. And when he had begun to reckon, one

was brought unto him which owed him ten thousand talents. But forasmuch

as he had not wherewith to pay, his lord commanded him to be sold, and

his wife and children, and all that he had, and payment to be made.

The servant therefore fell down and worshipped him, saying, Lord, have

patience with me; I will pay thee all. And the lord of that servant,

being moved with compassion, released him and forgave him the debt. But

that servant went out, and found one of his fellow-servants which owed

him a hundred pence; and he laid hold on him and took him by the

throat, saying, Pay what thou owest. So his fellow-servant fell down and

besought him, saying, Have patience with me and I will pay thee. And

he would not, but went and cast him into prison till he should pay that

which was due. So when his fellow-servants saw what was done, they were

exceeding sorry, and came and told unto their lord all that was done.

Then his lord called him unto him and saith to him, Thou wicked servant,

I forgave thee all that debt because thou besought me; shouldst not thou

also have mercy on thy fellow-servant as I had mercy on thee?”

“And is this all?” Nekhludoff suddenly exclaimed aloud, and the inner

voice of the whole of his being said, “Yes, it is all.” And it happened

to Nekhludoff, as it often happens to men who are living a spiritual

life. The thought that seemed strange at first and paradoxical or

even to be only a joke, being confirmed more and more often by life’s

experience, suddenly appeared as the simplest, truest certainty. In this

way the idea that the only certain means of salvation from the

terrible evil from which men were suffering was that they should always

acknowledge themselves to be sinning against God, and therefore unable

to punish or correct others, because they were dear to Him. It became

clear to him that all the dreadful evil he had been witnessing in

prisons and jails and the quiet self-satisfaction of the perpetrators of

this evil were the consequences of men trying to do what was impossible;

trying to correct evil while being evil themselves; vicious men were

trying to correct other vicious men, and thought they could do it by

using mechanical means, and the only consequence of all this was that

the needs and the cupidity of some men induced them to take up this

so-called punishment and correction as a profession, and have themselves

become utterly corrupt, and go on unceasingly depraving those whom they

torment. Now he saw clearly what all the terrors he had seen came from,

and what ought to be done to put a stop to them. The answer he could

not find was the same that Christ gave to Peter. It was that we should

forgive always an infinite number of times because there are no men who

have not sinned themselves, and therefore none can punish or correct

others.

“But surely it cannot be so simple,” thought Nekhludoff, and yet he saw

with certainty, strange as it had seemed at first, that it was not only

a theoretical but also a practical solution of the question. The usual

objection, “What is one to do with the evil doers? Surely not let them

go unpunished?” no longer confused him. This objection might have a

meaning if it were proved that punishment lessened crime, or improved

the criminal, but when the contrary was proved, and it was evident that

it was not in people’s power to correct each other, the only reasonable

thing to do is to leave off doing the things which are not only useless,

but harmful, immoral and cruel.

For many centuries people who were considered criminals have been

tortured. Well, and have they ceased to exist? No; their numbers have

been increased not alone by the criminals corrupted by punishment but

also by those lawful criminals, the judges, procureurs, magistrates

and jailers, who judge and punish men. Nekhludoff now understood

that society and order in general exists not because of these lawful

criminals who judge and punish others, but because in spite of men being

thus depraved, they still pity and love one another.

In hopes of finding a confirmation of this thought in the Gospel,

Nekhludoff began reading it from the beginning. When he had read the

Sermon on the Mount, which had always touched him, he saw in it for the

first time to-day not beautiful abstract thoughts, setting forth for

the most part exaggerated and impossible demands, but simple, clear,

practical laws. If these laws were carried out in practice (and this

was quite possible) they would establish perfectly new and surprising

conditions of social life, in which the violence that filled Nekhludoff

with such indignation would cease of itself. Not only this, but the

greatest blessing that is obtainable to men, the Kingdom of Heaven on

Earth would be established. There were five of these laws.

The first (Matt. v. 21-26), that man should not only do no murder,

but not even be angry with his brother, should not consider any one

worthless: “Raca,” and if he has quarrelled with any one he should make

it up with him before bringing his gift to God--i.e., before praying.

The second (Matt. v. 27-32), that man should not only not commit

adultery but should not even seek for enjoyment in a woman’s beauty, and

if he has once come together with a woman he should never be faithless

to her.

The third (Matt. 33-37), that man should never bind himself by oath.

The fourth (Matt. 38-42), that man should not only not demand an eye for

an eye, but when struck on one cheek should hold out the other, should

forgive an offence and bear it humbly, and never refuse the service

others demand of him.

The fifth (Matt. 43-48), that man should not only not hate his enemy and

not fight him, but love him, help him, serve him.

Nekhludoff sat staring at the lamp and his heart stood still. Recalling

the monstrous confusion of the life we lead, he distinctly saw what that

life could be if men were brought up to obey these rules, and rapture

such as he had long not felt filled his soul, just as if after long days

of weariness and suffering he had suddenly found ease and freedom.

He did not sleep all night, and as it happens to many and many a man who

reads the Gospels he understood for the first time the full meaning of

the words read so often before but passed by unnoticed. He imbibed all

these necessary, important and joyful revelations as a sponge imbibes

water. And all he read seemed so familiar and seemed to confirm, to form

into a conception, what he had known long ago, but had never realised

and never quite believed. Now he realised and believed it, and not

only realised and believed that if men would obey these laws they would

obtain the highest blessing they can attain to, he also realised and

believed that the only duty of every man is to fulfil these laws; that

in this lies the only reasonable meaning of life, that every stepping

aside from these laws is a mistake which is immediately followed by

retribution. This flowed from the whole of the teaching, and was most

strongly and clearly illustrated in the parable of the vineyard.

The husbandman imagined that the vineyard in which they were sent to

work for their master was their own, that all that was in was made

for them, and that their business was to enjoy life in this vineyard,

forgetting the Master and killing all those who reminded them of his

existence. “Are we not doing the same,” Nekhludoff thought, “when we

imagine ourselves to be masters of our lives, and that life is given us

for enjoyment? This evidently is an incongruity. We were sent here by

some one’s will and for some reason. And we have concluded that we live

only for our own joy, and of course we feel unhappy as labourers do when

not fulfilling their Master’s orders. The Master’s will is expressed in

these commandments. If men will only fulfil these laws, the Kingdom of

Heaven will be established on earth, and men will receive the greatest

good that they can attain to.

“‘Seek ye first the Kingdom and His righteousness, and all these things

shall be added unto you.’

“And so here it is, the business of my life. Scarcely have I finished

one and another has commenced.” And a perfectly new life dawned that

night for Nekhludoff, not because he had entered into new conditions of

life, but because everything he did after that night had a new and quite

different significance than before. How this new period of his life will

end time alone will prove.

[Transcriber’s Note: Corrected “Are we do not doing the same,” to “Are

we not doing the same,” in third last paragraph.]