CHAPTER LVII.

One of the most popular superstitions consists in the belief that

every man is endowed with definite qualities--that some men are kind,

some wicked; some wise, some foolish; some energetic, some apathetic,

etc. This is not true. We may say of a man that he is oftener kind

than wicked; oftener wise than foolish; oftener energetic than

apathetic, and vice versa. But it would not be true to say of one man

that he is always kind or wise, and of another that he is always

wicked or foolish. And yet we thus divide people. This is erroneous.

Men are like rivers--the water in all of them, and at every point, is

the same, but every one of them is now narrow, now swift, now wide,

now calm, now clear, now cold, now muddy, now warm. So it is with

men. Every man bears within him the germs of all human qualities,

sometimes manifesting one quality, sometimes another; and often does

not resemble himself at all, manifesting no change. With some people

these changes are particularly sharp. And to this class Nekhludoff

belonged. These changes in him had both physical and spiritual causes;

and one of these changes he was now undergoing.

That feeling of solemnity and joy of rejuvenation which he had

experienced after the trial and after his first meeting with Katiousha

had passed away, and, after the last meeting, fear and even disgust

toward her had taken its place. He was also conscious that his duty

was burdensome to him. He had decided not to leave her, to carry out

his intention of marrying her, if she so desired; but this was painful

and tormenting to him.

On the day following his visit to Maslenikoff he again went to the

prison to see her.

The inspector permitted him to see her; not in the office, however,

nor in the lawyer's room, but in the women's visiting-room.

Notwithstanding his kind-heartedness, the inspector was more reserved

than formerly. Evidently Nekhludoff's conversations with Maslenikoff

had resulted in instructions being given to be more careful with this

visitor.

"You may see her," he said, "only please remember what I told you as

to giving her money. And as to her transfer to the hospital, about

which His Excellency has written, there is no objection to it, and the

physician also consented. But she herself does not wish it. 'I don't

care to be chambermaid to that scurvy lot,' she said. That is the kind

of people they are, Prince," he added.

Nekhludoff made no answer and asked to be admitted to her. The

inspector sent the warden, and Nekhludoff followed him into the empty

visiting-room.

Maslova was already there, quietly and timidly emerging from behind

the grating. She approached close to Nekhludoff, and, looking past

him, quietly said:

"Forgive me, Dmitri Ivanovich; I have spoken improperly the other

day."

"It is not for me to forgive you----" Nekhludoff began.

"But you must leave me," she added, and in the fearfully squinting

eyes with which she glanced at him Nekhludoff again saw a strained and

spiteful expression.

[Illustration: EASTER SERVICES.]

"But why should I leave you?"

"So."

"Why so?"

She again looked at him with that spiteful glance, as it seemed to

him.

"Well, then, I will tell you," she said. "You leave me--I tell you

that truly. I cannot. You must drop that entirely," she said, with

quivering lips, and became silent. "That is true. I would rather hang

myself."

Nekhludoff felt that in this answer lurked a hatred for him, an

unforgiven wrong, but also something else--something good and

important. This reiteration of her refusal in a perfectly calm state

destroyed in Nekhludoff's soul all his doubts, and brought him back to

his former grave, solemn and benign state of mind.

"Katiousha, I repeat what I said," he said, with particular gravity.

"I ask you to marry me. If, however, you do not wish to, and so long

as you do not wish to, I will be wherever you will be, and follow you

wherever you may be sent."

"That is your business. I will speak no more," she said, and again her

lips quivered.

He was also silent, feeling that he had no strength to speak.

"I am now going to the country, and from there to St. Petersburg," he

said finally. "I will press your--our case, and with God's help the

sentence will be set aside."

"I don't care if they don't. I deserved it, if not for that, for

something else," she said, and he saw what great effort she had to

make to repress her tears.

"Well, have you seen Menshova?" she asked suddenly, in order to hide

her agitation. "They are innocent, are they not?"

"Yes, I think so."

"Such a wonderful little woman!" she said.

He related everything he had learned from Menshova, and asked her if

she needed anything. She said she needed nothing.

They were silent again.

"Well, and as to the hospital," she said suddenly, casting on him her

squinting glance, "if you wish me to go, I will go; and I will stop

wine drinking, too."

Nekhludoff silently looked in her eyes. They were smiling.

"That is very good," was all he could say.

"Yes, yes; she is an entirely different person," thought Nekhludoff,

for the first time experiencing, after his former doubts, the to him

entirely new feeling of confidence in the invincibility of love.

* * * * *

Returning to her ill-smelling cell, Maslova removed her coat and sat

down on her cot, her hands resting on her knees. In the cell were only

the consumptive with her babe, the old woman, Menshova, and the

watch-woman with her two children. The deacon's daughter had been

removed to the hospital; the others were washing. The old woman lay on

the cot sleeping; the children were in the corridor, the door to which

was open. The consumptive with the child in her arms and the

watch-woman, who did not cease knitting a stocking with her nimble

fingers, approached Maslova.

"Well, have you seen him?" they asked.

Maslova dangled her feet, which did not reach the floor, and made no

answer.

"What are you whimpering about?" said the watch-woman. "Above all,

keep up your spirits. Oh, Katiousha! Well?" she said, rapidly moving

her fingers.

Maslova made no answer.

"The women went washing. They say that to-day's alms were larger. Many

things have been brought, they say," said the consumptive.

"Finashka!" shouted the watch-woman. "Where are you, you little

rogue?" She drew out one of the knitting needles, stuck it into the

ball of thread and stocking, and went out into the corridor.

At this moment the inmates of the cell, with bare feet in their prison

shoes, entered, each bearing a loaf of twisted bread, some even two.

Theodosia immediately approached Maslova.

"Why, anything wrong?" she asked, lovingly, looking with her bright,

blue eyes at Maslova. "And here is something for our tea," and she

placed the leaves on the shelf.

"Well, has he changed his mind about marrying you?" asked Korableva.

"No, he has not, but I do not wish to," answered Maslova, "and I told

him so."

"What a fool!" said Korableva, in her basso voice.

"What is the good of marrying if they cannot live together?" asked

Theodosia.

"Is not your husband going with you?" answered the watch-woman.

"We are legally married," said Theodosia. "But why should he marry her

legally if he cannot live with her?"

"What a fool! Why, if he marries her he will make her rich!"

"He said: 'Wherever you may be, I will be with you,'" said Maslova.

"He may go if he likes; he needn't if he don't. I will not ask him. He

is now going to St. Petersburg to try to get me out. All the ministers

there are his relatives," she continued, "but I don't care for them."

"Sure enough," Korableva suddenly assented, reaching down into her

bag, and evidently thinking of something else. "What do you say--shall

we have some wine?"

"Not I," answered Maslova. "Drink yourselves."

PART SECOND.

CHAPTER I.

The Senate could hear the case in two weeks, and by that time

Nekhludoff intended to be in St. Petersburg, and, in case of an

adverse decision, to petition the Emperor, as the lawyer had advised.

In case the appeal failed, for which, his lawyer had told him, he must

be prepared, as the grounds of appeal were very weak, the party of

convicts to which Maslova belonged would be transported in May. It was

therefore necessary, in order to be prepared to follow Maslova to

Siberia, upon which Nekhludoff was firmly resolved, to go to the

villages and arrange his affairs there.

First of all, he went to the Kusminskoie estate, the nearest, largest

black-earth estate, which brought the greatest income. He had lived on

the estate in his childhood and youth, and had also twice visited it

in his manhood, once when, upon the request of his mother, he brought

a German manager with whom he went over the affairs of the estate. So

that he knew its condition and the relations the peasants sustained

toward the office, i. e., the landowner. Their relations toward the

office were such that they have always been in absolute dependence

upon it. Nekhludoff had already known it when as a student he

professed and preached the doctrines of Henry George, and in carrying

out which he had distributed his father's estate among the peasants.

True, after his military career, when he was spending twenty thousand

rubles a year, those doctrines ceased to be necessary to the life he

was leading, were forgotten, and not only did he not ask himself where

the money came from, but tried not to think of it. But the death of

his mother, the inheritance, and the necessity of taking care of his

property, i. e., his lands, again raised the question in his mind of

his relation to private ownership of land. A month before Nekhludoff

would have argued that he was powerless to change the existing order

of things; that he was not managing the estate, and living and

receiving his income far away from the estate, would feel more or less

at ease. But now he resolved that, although there was before him a

trip to Siberia and complex and difficult relations to the prison

world, for which social standing, and especially money, were

necessary, he could not, nevertheless, leave his affairs in their

former condition, but must, to his own detriment, change them. For

this purpose he had decided not to work the land himself, but, by

renting it at a low price to the peasants, to make it possible for

them to live independent of the landlord. Often, while comparing the

position of the landlord with that of the owner of serfs, Nekhludoff

found a parallel in the renting of the land to the peasants, instead

of working it by hired labor, to what the slave-owners did when they

substituted tenancy for serfdom. That did not solve the question, but

it was a step toward its solution; it was a transition from a grosser

to a less gross form of ownership of man. He also intended to act

thus.

Nekhludoff arrived at Kusminskoie about noon. In everything

simplifying his life, he did not wire from the station of his arrival,

but hired a two-horse country coach. The driver was a young fellow in

a nankeen regulation coat, belted below the waist, sitting sidewise on

the box. He was the more willing to carry on a conversation because

the broken-down, lame, emaciated, foaming shaft-horse could then walk,

which these horses always preferred.

The driver spoke about the manager of the Kusminskoie estate, not

knowing that he was carrying its master, Nekhludoff purposely

refrained from enlightening him.

"A dandy German," he said, turning half around, cracking his long whip

now over the heads, now under the horses. "There is nothing here to

compare with his fine team of three bay horses. You ought to see him

driving out with his wife! I took some guests to his house last

Christmas--he had a fine tree. You couldn't find the like of it in the

whole district! He robbed everybody, right and left. But what does he

care? He is bossing everybody. They say he bought a fine estate."

Nekhludoff thought that he was indifferent to the manner of the

German's management, and to the way he was profiting by it. But the

story of the driver with the long waist was unpleasant to him. He was

enchanted with the fine weather; the darkening clouds, sometimes

obscuring the sun; the fields over which the larks soared; the woods,

just covering up the top and bottom with green; the meadows on which

the flocks and horses browsed, and the fields on which plowmen were

already seen--but a feeling of dissatisfaction crept over him. And

when he asked himself the reason for it, he recalled the driver's

account of the German's management.

But by the time he was busying himself with the affairs of Kusminskoie

he had forgotten it.

After an examination of the books and his conversation with the clerk,

who artlessly set forth the advantages of the peasants having small

holdings and the fact that they were hemmed in by the master's land,

Nekhludoff grew only more determined to put an end to his ownership,

and give the land to the peasants. From the books and his

conversations with the clerk he learned that, as before, two-thirds of

the best arable land was cultivated by his own men, and the rest by

peasants who were paid five rubles per acre--that is to say, for five

rubles the peasant undertook to plow, harrow and sow an acre of land

three times, then mow it, bind or press it, and carry it to the barn.

In other words, he was paid five rubles for what hired, cheap labor

would cost at least ten rubles. Again, the prices paid by the peasants

to the office for necessaries were enormous. They worked for meadow,

for wood, for potatoe seed, and they were almost all in debt to the

office. Thus, the rent charged the peasants for lands beyond the

fields was four times as great as it could bring on a five per cent.

basis.

Nekhludoff knew all that before, but he was now learning it as

something new, and only wondered why he and all those who stood in a

similar position could fail to see the enormity of such relations. The

arguments of the clerk that not one-fourth of the value of the stock

could be realized on a sale, that the peasants would permit the land

to run to waste, only strengthened his determination and confirmed

him in his belief that he was doing a good deed by giving the land to

the peasants, and depriving himself of the greater part of his income.

Desiring to dispose of the land forthwith, he asked the manager to

call together the peasants of the three villages surrounded by his

lands the very next day, for the purpose of declaring to them his

intention and agreeing with them as to the price.

With a joyful consciousness of his firmness, in spite of the arguments

of the manager, and his readiness to make sacrifices for the peasants,

Nekhludoff left the office, and, reflecting on the coming arrangement,

he strolled around the house, through the flower-garden, which lay

opposite the manager's house, and was neglected this year; over the

lawn-tennis ground, overgrown with chicory, and through the alleys

lined with lindens, where it had been his wont to smoke his cigar, and

where, three years before, the pretty visitor, Kirimova, flirted with

him. Having made an outline of a speech, which he was to deliver to

the peasants the following day, Nekhludoff went to the manager's

house, and after further deliberating upon the proper disposition of

the stock, he calmly and contentedly retired to a room prepared for

him in the large building.

In this clean room, the walls of which were covered with views of

Venice, and with a mirror hung between two windows, there was placed a

clean spring bedstead and a small table with water and matches. On a

large table near the mirror lay his open traveling-bag with toilet

articles and books which he brought with him; one Russian book on

criminology, one in German, and a third in English treating of the

same subject. He intended to read them in spare moments while

traveling through the villages, but as he looked on them now he felt

that his mind was far from these subjects. Something entirely

different occupied him.

In one corner of the room there stood an ancient arm-chair with

incrustations, and the sight of this chair standing in his mother's

bed-room suddenly raised in his soul an unexpected feeling. He

suddenly felt sorry for the house that would decay, the gardens which

would be neglected, the woods which would be cut down, and all the

cattle-houses, courts, stables, sheds, machinery, horses, cows which

had been accumulated with such effort, although not by him. At first

it seemed to him easy to abandon all that, but now he was loth to part

with it, as well as the land and one-half of the income which would be

so useful now. And immediately serviceable arguments come to his aid,

by which it appeared that it was not wise to give the land to the

peasants and destroy his estate.

"I have no right to own the land. And if I do not own the land, I

cannot keep the property intact. Besides, I will now go to Siberia,

and for that reason I need neither the house nor the estate,"

whispered one voice. "All that is true," whispered another voice, "but

you will not pass all your life in Siberia. If you should marry, you

may have children. And you must hand over the estate to them in the

same condition in which you found it. There are duties toward the

land. It is easy to give away the land, to destroy everything; but it

is very hard to accumulate it. Above all, you must mark out a plan of

your life, and dispose of your property accordingly. And, then, are

you acting as you do in order to satisfy conscientious scruples, or

for the praise you expect of people?" Nekhludoff asked himself, and

could not help acknowledging that the talk that it would occasion

influenced his decision. And the more he thought the more questions

raised themselves, and the more perplexing they appeared. To rid

himself of these thoughts he lay down on the fresh-made bed, intending

to go over them again the next day with a clearer mind. But he could

not fall asleep for a long time. Along with the fresh air, through the

open window, came the croaking of frogs, interrupted by the whistling

of nightingales, one of which was in a lilac bush under the window.

Listening to the nightingales and the frogs, Nekhludoff recalled the

music of the inspector's daughter; and, thinking of that music, he

recalled Maslova--how, like the croaking of a frog, her lips trembled

when she said, "You must drop that." Then the German manager descended

to the frogs. He should have been held back, but not only did he come

down, but he was transformed into Maslova and started to taunt him: "I

am a convict, and you are a Prince." "No, I shall not yield," thought

Nekhludoff, and came to. "Am I acting properly or improperly?" he

asked himself. "I don't know; I will know to-morrow." And he began to

descend to where the manager and Maslova were. And there everything

ended.

CHAPTER II.

With a feeling of timidity and shame Nekhludoff the following morning,

walked out to meet the peasants who had gathered at a small square in

front of the house. As he approached them the peasants removed their

caps, and for a long time Nekhludoff could not say anything. Although

he was going to do something for the peasants which they never dared

even to think of, his conscience was troubled. The peasants stood in a

fine, drizzling rain, waiting to hear what their master had to say,

and Nekhludoff was so confused that he could not open his mouth. The

calm, self-confident German came to his relief. This strong, overfed

man, like Nekhludoff himself, made a striking contrast to the

emaciated, wrinkled faces of the peasants, and the bare shoulder-bones

sticking out from under their caftans.

"The Prince came to befriend you--to give you the land, but you are

not worthy of it," said the German.

"Why not worthy, Vasily Karlych? Have we not labored for you? We are

much satisfied with our late mistress--may she enjoy eternal

life!--and we are grateful to the young Prince for thinking of us,"

began a red-haired peasant with a gift of gab.

"We are not complaining of our masters," said a broad-faced peasant

with a long beard. "Only we are too crowded here."

"That is what I called you here for--to give you the land, if you wish

it," said Nekhludoff.

The peasants were silent, as if misunderstanding him, or incredulous.

"In what sense do you mean to give us the land?" asked a middle-aged

peasant in a caftan.

"To rent it to you, that you might use it at a low price."

"That is the loveliest thing," said an old man.

"If the payment is not above our means," said another.

"Of course we will take the land."

"It is our business--we get our sustenance from the land."

"So much the better for you. All you have to do is to take the money.

And what sins you will spare yourself----"

"The sin is on you," said the German. "If you would only work and keep

things in order----"

"We cannot, Vasily Karlych," said a lean old man with a pointed nose.

"You ask, Who let the horse feed in the field? But who did it? Day in

and day out--and every day is as long as a year--I worked with the

scythe, and as I fell asleep the horse went among the oats. And now

you are fleecing me."

"You should keep order."

"It is easy for you to say keep order. But we have no strength,"

retorted a middle-aged peasant, all covered with hair.

"I told you to fence it in."

"You give us the timber," said an unsightly little peasant. "When I

cut a joist last summer, intending to make a fence, you locked me up

for three months in the castle to feed the insects. There was a fence

for you!"

"Is that true?" asked Nekhludoff of the manager.

"Der erste dich im dorfe," said the manager in German. "He was caught

every year in the woods. You must learn to respect other people's

property."

"Do we not respect you?" said an old man. "We cannot help respecting

you, because you have us in your hands, and you are twisting us into

rope."

"If you would only abstain from doing wrong," said the manager. "It is

pretty hard to wrong you."

"And who battered my face last summer? Of course, there is no use

going to law with a rich man."

"You only keep within bounds of the law."

This was evidently a wordy tourney of which the participants hardly

knew the purpose. Nekhludoff tried to get back to business.

"Well, what do you say? Do you wish the land, and what price do you

set on it?"

"It is your goods; you name the price."

Nekhludoff set the price, and though much lower than the prevailing

price, the peasants began to bargain, finding it high. He expected

that his offer would be accepted with pleasure, but there was no sign

of satisfaction. Only when the question was raised whether the whole

community would take the land, or have individual arrangements did he

know that it was profitable for them. For there resulted fierce

quarrels between those who wished to exclude the weak ones and bad

payers from participating in the land, and those whom it was sought to

exclude. But the German finally arranged the price and time of

payment, and the peasants, noisily talking, returned to the village.

The price was about thirty per cent. lower than the one prevailing in

the district, and Nekhludoff's income was reduced to almost one-half,

but, with money realized from the sale of the timber and yet to be

realized from the sale of the stock, it was amply sufficient for him.

Everything seemed to be satisfactory, and yet Nekhludoff felt sad and

lonesome, but, above all, his conscience troubled him. He saw that

although the peasants spoke words of thanks, they were not satisfied

and expected something more. The result was that while he deprived

himself of much, he failed to do that which the peasants expected.

On the following day, after the contract was signed, Nekhludoff, with

an unpleasant feeling of having left something undone, seated himself

in the "dandy" three-horse team and took leave of the peasants, who

were shaking their heads in doubt and dissatisfaction. Nekhludoff was

dissatisfied with himself--he could not tell why, but he felt sad, and

was ashamed of something.

CHAPTER III.

From Kusminskoie Nekhludoff went to Panovo, the estate left him by his

aunts, and where he had first seen Katiousha. He intended to dispose

of this land in the same manner as he disposed of the other, and also

desired to learn all there was known about Katiousha, and to find out

if it was true that their child had died.

As he sat at the window observing the familiar scenery of the now

somewhat neglected estate, he not only recalled, but felt himself as

he was fourteen years ago; fresh, pure and filled with the hope of

endless possibilities. But as it happens in a dream, he knew that that

was gone, and he became very sad.

Before breakfast he made his way to the hut of Matrena Kharina,

Katiousha's aunt, who was selling liquor surreptitiously, for

information about the child, but all he could learn from her was that

the child had died on the way to a Moskow asylum; in proof of which

the midwife had brought a certificate.

On his way back he entered the huts of some peasants, and inquired

about their mode of living. The same complaints of the paucity of

land, hunger and degradation he heard everywhere. He saw the same

pinched faces, threadbare homespuns, bare feet and bent shoulders.

In front of a particularly dilapidated hut stood a number of women

with children in their arms, and among them he noticed a lean,

pale-faced woman, easily holding a bloodless child in a short garment

made of pieces of stuff. This child was incessantly smiling.

Nekhludoff knew that it was the smile of suffering. He asked who that

woman was.

It transpired that the woman's husband had been in prison for the past

six months--"feeding the insects"--as they termed it, for cutting down

two lindens.

Nekhludoff turned to the woman, Anisia.

"How do you fare?" he asked. "What do you live on?"

"How do I live? I sometimes get some food," and she began to sob.

The grave face of the child, however, spread into a broad smile, and

its thin legs began to wriggle.

Nekhludoff produced his pocketbook and gave the woman ten rubles. He

had scarcely made ten steps when he was overtaken by another woman

with a child; then an old woman, and again another woman. They all

spoke of their poverty and implored his help. Nekhludoff distributed

the sixty rubles that were in his pocketbook and returned home, i. e.,

to the wing inhabited by the clerk. The clerk, smiling, met Nekhludoff

with the information that the peasants would gather in the evening,

as he had ordered. Nekhludoff thanked him and strolled about the

garden, meditating on what he had seen. "The people are dying in large

numbers, and are used to it; they have acquired modes of living

natural to a people who are becoming extinct--the death of children,

exhausting toil for women, insufficiency of food for all, especially

for the aged--all comes and is received naturally. They were reduced

to this condition gradually, so that they cannot see the horror of it,

and bear it uncomplainingly. Afterward, we, too, come to consider this

condition natural; that it ought to be so."

All this was so clear to him now that he could not cease wondering how

it was that people could not see it; that he himself could not see

that which is so patent. It was perfectly clear that children and old

people were dying for want of milk, and they had no milk because they

had not land enough to feed the cattle and also raise bread and hay.

And he devised a scheme by which he was to give the land to the

people, and they were to pay an annual rent which was to go to the

community, to be used for common utilities and taxes. This was not the

single-tax, but it was the nearest approach to it under present

conditions. The important part consisted in that he renounced his

right to own land.

When he returned to the house, the clerk, with a particularly happy

smile on his face, offered him dinner, expressing his fear that it

might spoil.

The table was covered with a gloomy cloth, an embroidered towel

serving as a napkin, and on the table, in vieux-saxe, stood a

soup-bowl with a broken handle, filled with potato soup and containing

the same rooster that he had seen carried into the house on his

arrival. After the soup came the same rooster, fried with feathers,

and cakes made of cheese-curds, bountifully covered with butter and

sugar. Although the taste of it all was poor, Nekhludoff kept on

eating, being absorbed in the thoughts which relieved him of the

sadness that oppressed him on his return from the village.

After dinner Nekhludoff with difficulty seated the superserviceable

clerk, and in order to make sure of himself and at the same time to

confide to some one the thoughts uppermost in his mind, told him of

his project and asked his opinion. The clerk smiled, as though he had

been thinking of the same thing, and was very glad to hear it, but in

reality did not understand it, not because Nekhludoff did not express

himself plainly enough, but because, according to this project,

Nekhludoff deprived himself of advantages for the benefit of others,

whereas the truth that every man strives to obtain advantages at the

expense of others, was so firmly rooted in the clerk's mind, that he

thought that he misunderstood Nekhludoff when the latter said that the

entire income of the land was to go into the community's treasury.

"I understand. So you will draw the interest on the capital?" he said,

becoming radiant.

"No, no. I transfer the land to them entirely."

"In that case you will get no income?" asked the clerk and he ceased

to smile.

"I relinquish that."

The clerk sighed deeply, then began to smile again. Now he understood.

He understood that Nekhludoff's mind was not entirely sound, and he

immediately tried to find a way of profiting by Nekhludoff's project,

and endeavored to so construe it that he might turn it to his own

advantage.

When, however, he understood that there was no such opportunity, he

ceased to take interest in the projects, and continued to smile only

to please his master. Seeing that the clerk could not understand him,

Nekhludoff dismissed him from his presence, seated himself at the

ink-stained table and proceeded to commit his project to paper.

The sun was already descending behind the unfolding lindens, and the

mosquitos filled the room, stinging him. While he was finishing his

notes, Nekhludoff heard the lowing of cattle in the village, the

creaking of the opening gates and the voices of the peasants who were

coming to meet their master. Nekhludoff told the clerk not to call

them before the office, that he would go and meet them at any place in

the village, and gulping down a glass of tea offered him by the clerk,

he went to the village.

CHAPTER IV.

The crowd stood talking in front of the house of the bailiff, and as

Nekhludoff approached, the conversation ceased and the peasants, like

those of Kusminskoie, removed their caps. It was a coarser crowd than

the peasants of Kusminskoie, and almost all the peasants wore bast

shoes and homespun shirts and caftans. Some of them were bare-footed

and only in their shirts.

With some effort Nekhludoff began his speech by declaring that he

intended to surrender the land to them. The peasants were silent, and

there was no change in the expression of their faces.

"Because I consider," said Nekhludoff, blushing, "that every man ought

to have the right to use the land."

"Why, certainly." "That is quite right," voices of peasants were

heard.

Nekhludoff continued, saying that the income from the land should be

distributed among all, and he therefore proposed that they take the

land and pay into the common treasury such rent as they may decide

upon, such money to be used for their own benefit. Exclamations of

consent and approbation continued to be heard, but the faces of the

peasants became more and more grave, and the eyes that at first were

fixed on the master were lowered, as if desiring not to shame him with

the fact that his cunning was understood by all, and that he could not

fool anybody.

Nekhludoff spoke very clearly, and the peasants were sensible folks;

but he was not understood, and could not be understood by them for the

same reason which prevented the clerk from understanding him for a

long time. They were convinced that it was natural for every man to

look out for his own interest. And as to the land owners, the

experience of several generations had taught them long ago that these

were always serving their own interests.

"Well, what rate do you intend to assess," asked Nekhludoff.

"Why assess? We cannot do that? The land is yours; it is for you to

say," some in the crowd said.

"But understand that you are to use the money for the common wants."

"We cannot do it. The community is one thing, and this is another

thing."

"You must understand," said the smiling clerk, wishing to explain the

offer, "that the Prince is giving you the land for money which is to

go into the community's treasury."

"We understand it very well," said a toothless old man without raising

his eyes. "Something like a bank, only we must pay in time. We cannot

do it; it is hard enough as it is. That will ruin us entirely."

"That is to no purpose. We would rather continue as before," said

several dissatisfied and even rough voices.

The resistance was particularly hot when Nekhludoff mentioned that he

would draw a contract which he himself and they would have to sign.

"What is the good of a contract? We will keep on working as we did

before. We don't care for it. We are ignorant people."

"We cannot consent, because that is an uncustomary thing. Let it be as

it was before. If you would only do away with the seed," several

voices were heard.

"Doing away with the seed" meant that under the present regime the

sowing-seed was chargeable to the peasants, and they asked that it be

furnished by the master.

"So you refuse to take the land?" asked Nekhludoff, turning to a

middle-aged, bare-footed peasant in tattered caftan and with a radiant

face who held his cap straight in front of him, like a soldier hearing

"Hats off!"

"Yes, sir," said this peasant.

"Then you have enough land?" asked Nekhludoff.

"No, sir," said the ex-soldier, with artificial cheerfulness, holding

his torn cap before him, as though offering it to anyone deserving to

take it.

"Think it over at your leisure," said the surprised Nekhludoff, again

repeating his offer.

"There is nothing to think over; as we said, so it will be," the

toothless, gloomy old man said angrily.

"I will stay here all day to-morrow. If you alter your decision, let

me know."

The peasants made no answer.

On their return to the office the clerk explained to Nekhludoff that

it was not a want of good sense that prevented their acceptance of the

offer; that when gathered in assembly they always acted in that

stubborn manner.

Nekhludoff then asked him to summon for the following day several of

the most intelligent peasants to whom he would explain his project at

greater length.

Immediately after the departure of the smiling clerk, Nekhludoff heard

angry women's voices interrupted by the voice of the clerk. He

listened.

"I have no more strength. You want the cross on my breast," said an

exasperated voice.

"She only ran in," said another voice. "Give her up, I say. Why do you

torture the beast, and keep the milk from the children?"

Nekhludoff walked around the house where he saw two disheveled women,

one of whom was evidently pregnant, standing near the staircase. On

the stairs, with his hands in the pockets of his crash overcoat, stood

the clerk. Seeing their master, the women became silent and began to

arrange their 'kerchiefs, which had fallen from their heads, while the

clerk took his hands out of his pockets and began to smile.

The clerk explained that the peasants purposely permitted their

calves, and even cows, to roam over the master's meadows. That two

cows belonging to these women had been caught on the meadow and driven

into an inclosure. The clerk demanded from the women thirty copecks

per cow, or two days' work.

"Time and again I told them," said the smiling clerk, looking around

at Nekhludoff, as if calling him to witness, "to look out for cows

when driving them to feed."

"I just went to see to the child, and they walked away."

"Don't leave them when you undertake to look after them."

"And who would feed my child?"

"If they had only grazed, at least, they would have no pains in their

stomachs. But they only walked in."

"All the meadows are spoiled," the clerk turned to Nekhludoff. "If

they are not made to pay there will be no hay left."

"Don't be sinning," cried the pregnant woman. "My cow was never

caught."

"But now that she was caught, pay for her, or work."

"Well, then, I will work. But return me the cow; don't torture her,"

she cried angrily. "It is bad enough as it is; I get no rest, either

day or night. Mother-in-law is sick; my husband is drunk.

Single-handed I have to do all the work, and I have no strength. May

you choke yourself!" she shouted and began to weep.

Nekhludoff asked the clerk to release the cows and returned to the

house, wondering why people do not see what is so plain.

CHAPTER V.

Whether it was because there were fewer peasants present, or because

he was not occupied with himself, but with the matter in hand,

Nekhludoff felt no agitation when the seven peasants chosen from the

villagers responded to the summons.

He first of all expressed his views on private ownership of land.

"As I look upon it," he said, "land ought not to be the subject of

purchase and sale, for if land can be sold, then those who have money

will buy it all in and charge the landless what they please for the

use of it. People will then be compelled to pay for the right to stand

on the earth," he added, quoting Spencer's argument.

"There remains to put on wings and fly," said an old man with smiling

eyes and gray beard.

"That's so," said a long-nosed peasant in a deep basso.

"Yes, sir," said the ex-soldier.

"The old woman took some grass for the cow. They caught her, and to

jail she went," said a good-natured, lame peasant.

"There is land for five miles around, but the rent is higher than the

land can produce," said the toothless, angry old man.

"I am of the same opinion as you," said Nekhludoff, "and that is the

reason I want to give you the land."

"Well, that would be a kind deed," said a broad-shouldered old peasant

with a curly, grayish beard like that of Michael Angelo's Moses,

evidently thinking that Nekhludoff intended to rent out the land.

"That is why I came here. I do not wish to own the land any longer,

but it is necessary to consider how to dispose of it."

"You give it to the peasants--that's all," said the toothless, angry

peasant.

For a moment Nekhludoff was confused, seeing in these words doubt of

the sincerity of his purpose. But he shook it off, and took advantage

of the remark to say what he intended.

"I would be only too glad to give it," he said, "but to whom and how

shall I give it? Why should I give it to your community rather than to

the Deminsky community?" Deminsky was a neighboring village with very

little land.

They were all silent. Only the ex-soldier said, "Yes, sir."

"And now tell me how would you distribute the land?"

"How? We would give each an equal share," said an oven-builder,

rapidly raising and lowering his eyebrows.

"How else? Of course divide it equally," said a good-natured, lame

peasant, whose feet, instead of socks, were wound in a white strip of

linen.

This decision was acquiesced in by all as being satisfactory.

"But how?" asked Nekhludoff, "are the domestics also to receive equal

shares?"

"No, sir," said the ex-soldier, assuming a cheerful mood. But the

sober-minded tall peasant disagreed with him.

"If it is to be divided, everybody is to get an equal share," after

considering awhile, he said in a deep basso.

"That is impossible," said Nekhludoff, who was already prepared with

his objection. "If everyone was to get an equal share, then those who

do not themselves work would sell their shares to the rich. Thus the

land would again get into the hands of the rich. Again, the people

that worked their own shares would multiply, and the landlords would

again get the landless into their power."

"Yes, sir," the ex-soldier hastily assented.

"The selling of land should be prohibited; only those that cultivate

it themselves should be allowed to own it," said the oven-builder,

angrily interrupting the soldier.

To this Nekhludoff answered that it would be difficult to determine

whether one cultivated the land for himself or for others.

Then the sober-minded old man suggested that the land should be given

to them as an association, and that only those that took part in

cultivating it should get their share.

Nekhludoff was ready with arguments against this communistic scheme,

and he retorted that in such case it would be necessary that all

should have plows, that each should have the same number of horses,

and that none should lag behind, or that everything should belong to

society, for which the consent of every one was necessary.

"Our people will never agree," said the angry old man.

"There will be incessant fighting among them," said the white-bearded

peasant with the shining eyes. "The women will scratch each other's

eyes out."

"The next important question is," said Nekhludoff, "how to divide the

land according to quality. You cannot give black soil to some and clay

and sand to others."

"Let each have a part of both," said the oven-builder.

To this Nekhludoff answered that it was not a question of dividing the

land in one community, but of the division of land generally among all

the communities. If the land is to be given gratis to the peasants,

then why should some get good land, and others poor land? There would

be a rush for the good land.

"Yes, sir," said the ex-soldier.

The others were silent.

"You see, it is not as simple as it appears at first sight," said

Nekhludoff. "We are not the only ones, there are other people thinking

of the same thing. And now, there is an American, named George, who

devised the following scheme, and I agree with him."

"What is that to you? You are the master; you distribute the land,

and there is an end to it," said the angry peasant.

This interruption somewhat confused Nekhludoff, but he was glad to see

that others were also dissatisfied with this interruption.

"Hold on, Uncle Semen; let him finish," said the old man in an

impressive basso.

This encouraged Nekhludoff, and he proceeded to explain the single-tax

theory of Henry George.

"The land belongs to no one--it belongs to the Creator."

"That's so!"

"Yes, sir."

"The land belongs to all in common. Every one has an equal right to

it. But there is good land, and there is poor land. And the question

is, how to divide the land equally. The answer to this is, that those

who own the better land should pay to those who own the poorer the

value of the better land. But as it is difficult to determine how much

anyone should pay, and to whom, and as society needs money for common

utilities, let every land owner pay to society the full value of his

land--less, if it is poorer; more, if it is better. And those who do

not wish to own land will have their taxes paid by the land owners."

"That's correct," said the oven-builder. "Let the owner of the better

land pay more."

"What a head that Jhorga had on him!" said the portly old peasant with

the curls.

"If only the payments were reasonable," said the tall peasant,

evidently understanding what it was leading to.

"The payments should be such that it would be neither too cheap nor

too dear. If too dear, it would be unprofitable; if too cheap, people

would begin to deal in land. This is the arrangement I would like you

to make."

Voices of approval showed that the peasants understood him perfectly.

"What a head!" repeated the broad-shouldered peasant with the curls,

meaning "Jhorga."

"And what if I should choose to take land?" said the clerk, smiling.

"If there is an unoccupied section, take and cultivate it," said

Nekhludoff.

"What do you want land for? You are not hungering without land," said

the old man with the smiling eyes.

Here the conference ended.

Nekhludoff repeated his offer, telling the peasants to consult the

wish of the community, before giving their answer.

The peasants said that they would do so, took leave of Nekhludoff and

departed in a state of excitement. For a long time their loud voices

were heard, and finally died away about midnight.

* * * * *

The peasants did not work the following day, but discussed their

master's proposition. The community was divided into two factions. One

declared the proposition profitable and safe; the other saw in the

proposition a plot which it feared the more because it could not

understand it. On the third day, however, the proposition was

accepted, the fears of the peasants having been allayed by an old

woman who explained the master's action by the suggestion that he

began to think of saving his soul. This explanation was confirmed by

the large amount of money Nekhludoff had distributed while he remained

in Panov. These money gifts were called forth by the fact that here,

for the first time, he learned to what poverty the peasants had been

reduced and though he knew that it was unwise, he could not help

distributing such money as he had, which was considerable.

As soon as it became known that the master was distributing money,

large crowds of people from the entire surrounding country came to him

asking to be helped. He had no means of determining the respective

needs of the individuals, and yet he could not help giving these

evidently poor people money. Again, to distribute money

indiscriminately was absurd. His only way out of the difficulty was to

depart, which he hastened to do.

On the third day of his visit to Panov, Nekhludoff, while looking over

the things in the house, in one of the drawers of his aunt's

chiffonnier, found a picture representing a group of Sophia Ivanovna,

Catherine Ivanovna, himself, as student, and Katiousha--neat, fresh,

beautiful and full of life. Of all the things in the house Nekhludoff

removed this picture and the letters. The rest he sold to the miller

for a tenth part of its value.

Recalling now the feeling of pity over the loss of his property which

he had experienced in Kusminskoie, Nekhludoff wondered how he could

have done so. Now he experienced the gladness of release and the

feeling of novelty akin to that experienced by an explorer who

discovers new lands.

CHAPTER VI.

It was evening when Nekhludoff arrived in the city, and as he drove

through the gas-lit streets to his house, it looked to him like a new

city. The odor of camphor still hung in the air through all the rooms,

and Agrippina, Petrovna and Kornei seemed tired out and dissatisfied,

and even quarreled about the packing of the things, the use of which

seemed to consist chiefly in being hung out, dried and packed away

again. His room was not occupied, but was not arranged for his coming,

and the trunks blocked all the passages, so that his coming interfered

with those affairs which, by some strange inertia, were taking place

in this house. This evident foolishness, to which he had once been a

party, seemed so unpleasant to Nekhludoff, after the impressions he

had gained of the want in the villages, that he decided to move to a

hotel the very next day, leaving the packing to Agrippina until the

arrival of his sister.

He left the house in the morning, hired two modest and not over-clean

furnished rooms near the prison, and went to his lawyer.

After the storms and rains came those cold, piercing winds that

usually occur in the fall. Protected only by a light overcoat,

Nekhludoff was chilled to the bone. He walked quickly in order to warm

himself.

The village scenes came to his mind--the women, children and old men,

whose poverty and exhaustion he had noticed as if for the first time,

especially that oldish child which twisted its little calfless

legs--and he involuntarily compared them with the city folks. Passing

by the butcher, fish and clothing shops, he was struck, as if it was

the first time he looked upon them--by the physical evidences of the

well-being of such a large number of clean, well-fed shopkeepers which

was not to be seen anywhere in the villages. Equally well fed were the

drivers in quilted coats and buttons on their backs, porters, servant

girls, etc. In all these people he now involuntarily saw those same

village folks whom privation had driven to the city. Some of them were

able to take advantage of the conditions in the city and became happy

proprietors themselves; others were reduced to even greater straits

and became even more wretched. Such wretchedness Nekhludoff saw in a

number of shoemakers that he saw working near the window of a

basement; in the lean, pale, disheveled washerwomen ironing with bare

hands before open windows from which soap-laden steam poured out; in

two painters, aproned and bare-footed, who were covered with paint

from temple to heel. In their sunburnt, sinewy, weak hands, bared

above the elbows, they carried a bucket of paint and incessantly

cursed each other. Their faces were wearied and angry. The same

expression of weariness and anger he saw in the dusty faces of the

truck drivers; on the swollen and tattered men, women and children who

stood begging on the street corners. Similar faces were seen in the

windows of the tea-houses which Nekhludoff passed. Around the dirty

tables, loaded with bottles and tea services, perspiring men with red,

stupefied faces sat shouting and singing, and white-aproned servants

flitted to and fro.

"Why have they all gathered here?" thought Nekhludoff, involuntarily

inhaling, together with the dust, the odor of rancid oil spread by the

fresh paint.

On one of the streets he suddenly heard his name called above the

rattling of the trucks. It was Shenbok, with curled and stiffened

mustache and radiant face. Nekhludoff had lost sight of him long ago,

but heard that on leaving his regiment and joining the cavalry,

notwithstanding his debts he managed to hold his own in rich society.

"I am glad I met you. There is not a soul in the city. How old you

have grown, my boy! I only recognized you by your walk. Well, shall

we have dinner together? Where can we get a good meal here?"

"I hardly think I will have the time," answered Nekhludoff, who wished

to get rid of his friend without offending him. "What brings you

here?" he asked.

"Business, my boy. Guardianship affairs. I am a guardian, you know. I

have charge of Samanoff's business--the rich Samanoff, you know. He is

a spendthrift, and there are fifty-four thousand acres of land!" he

said with particular pride, as if he had himself made all these acres.

"The affairs were fearfully neglected. The land was rented to the

peasants, who did not pay anything and were eighty thousand rubles in

arrears. In one year I changed everything, and realized seventy per

cent. more for the estate. Eh?" he asked, with pride.

Nekhludoff recalled a rumor that for the very reason that Shenbok

squandered his own wealth and was inextricably in debt, he was

appointed guardian over a rich old spendthrift, and was now evidently

obtaining an income from the guardianship.

Nekhludoff refused to take dinner with Shenbok, or accompany him to

the horse races, to which the latter invited him, and after an

exchange of commonplaces the two parted.

"Is it possible that I was like him?" thought Nekhludoff. "Not

exactly, but I sought to be like him, and thought that I would thus

pass my life."

* * * * *

The lawyer received him immediately on his arrival, although it was

not his turn. The lawyer expressed himself strongly on the detention

of the Menshovs, declaring that there was not a particle of evidence

against them on record.

"If the case is tried here, and not in the district, I will stake

anything on their discharge. And the petition in behalf of Theodosia

Brinkova is ready. You had better take it with you to St. Petersburg

and present it there. Otherwise there will begin an inquiry which will

have no end. Try to reach some people who have influence with the

commission on petitions. Well, that's all, isn't it?"

"No. Here they write me----"

"You seem to be the funnel into which all the prison complaints are

poured. I fear you will not hold them all."

"But this case is simply shocking," said Nekhludoff, and related the

substance of it.

"What is it that surprises you?"

"Everything. I can understand the orderly who acted under orders, but

the assistant prosecutor who drew the indictment is an educated man----"

"That is the mistake. We are used to think that the prosecuting

officers--the court officers generally--are a kind of new, liberal

men. And so they were at one time, but not now. The only thing that

concerns these officers is to draw their salaries on the 20th of every

month. Their principles begin and end with their desire to get more.

They will arrest, try and convict anybody----. I am always telling these

court officers that I never look upon them without gratitude,"

continued the lawyer, "because it is due to their kindness that I, you

and all of us are not in jail. To deprive any one of us of all civil

rights and send him to Siberia is the easiest thing imaginable."

"But if everything depends on the pleasure of the prosecutor, who can

enforce the law or not, then what is the use of the courts?"

The lawyer laughed merrily.

"That is the question you are raising. Well, my dear sir, that is

philosophy. However, we can discuss that. Come to my house next

Saturday. You will find there scholars, litterateurs, artists. We will

have a talk on social questions," said the lawyer, pronouncing the

words "social questions" with ironical pathos. "Are you acquainted

with my wife? Call on Saturday."

"I will try," answered Nekhludoff, feeling that he was saying an

untruth; that if there was anything he would try hard to do it was not

to be present at the lawyer's amid the scholars, litterateurs and

artists.

The laughter with which the lawyer met Nekhludoff's remark concerning

the uselessness of courts if the prosecutors can do what they please,

and the intonation with which he pronounced the words "philosophy" and

"social questions," showed how utterly unlike himself were the lawyer

and the people of his circle, both in character and in views of life.

CHAPTER VII.

It was late and the distance to the prison was long, so Nekhludoff

hired a trap. On one of the streets the driver, who was a middle-aged

man with an intelligent and good-natured face, turned to Nekhludoff

and pointed to an immense building going up.

"What a huge building there is going up!" he said with pride, as if he

had a part in the building of it.

It was really a huge structure, built in a complex, unusual style. A

scaffolding of heavy pine logs surrounded the structure, which was

fenced in by deal boards. It was as busy a scene as an ant hill.

Nekhludoff wondered that these people, while their wives were killing

themselves with work at home, and their children starving, should

think it necessary to build that foolish and unnecessary house for

some foolish and unnecessary man.

"Yes, a foolish building," he spoke his thought aloud.

"How foolish?" retorted the offended driver. "Thanks to them, the

people get work. It is not foolish."

"But the work is unnecessary."

"It must be necessary if they are building it," said the driver. "It

gives the people food."

Nekhludoff became silent, the more so because it was too noisy to be

heard. When they had reached the macadamized road near the prison the

driver again turned to Nekhludoff.

"And what a lot of people are coming to the city--awful," he said,

turning around on the box and pointing to a party of laborers with

saws, axes, coats and sacks thrown over their shoulders, and coming

from the opposite direction.

"More than in former years?" asked Nekhludoff.

"No comparison. The masters are kicking them about like shavings. The

market places are glutted with them."

"What is the reason?"

"They have multiplied. They have no homes."

"And what if they have multiplied! Why do they not remain in the

villages?"

"There is nothing to do there. There is no land."

Nekhludoff experienced that which happens with a sore place--it is

struck oftener than any other part of the body. But it only seems so

because it is more noticeable.

"Can it be possible that it is everywhere the same?" he thought, and

asked the driver how much land there was in his village; how much he

himself owned, and why he lived in the city.

"There is but an acre to every person. We are renting three acres.

There is my father and brother. Another brother is in the army. They

are managing it. But there is really nothing to manage, and my brother

intended to go to Moskow."

"Is there no land for rent?"

"Where could one get land nowadays? The masters' children have

squandered theirs. The merchants have it all in their hands. One

cannot rent it from them; they cultivate it themselves. Our lands are

held by a Frenchman who bought them of the former landlord. He won't

rent any of it, and that is all."

"What Frenchman?"

"Dufar, the Frenchman--you may have heard. He is making wigs for the

actors. He is now our master, and does what he pleases with us. He is

a good man himself, but his wife is Russian--and what a cur! She is

robbing the people--simply awful! But here is the prison. Shall I

drive up to the front? I think they don't admit through the front."

CHAPTER VIII.

With a faint heart and with horror at the thought that he might find

Maslova in an inebriate condition and persistently antagonistic, and

at the mystery which she was to him, Nekhludoff rang the bell and

inquired of the inspector about Maslova. She was in the hospital.

A young physician, impregnated with carbolic acid, came out into the

corridor and sternly asked Nekhludoff what he wanted. The physician

indulged the prisoners' shortcomings and often relaxed the rules in

their favor, for which he often ran afoul of the prison officials and

even the head physician. Fearing that Nekhludoff might ask something

not permitted by the rules, and, moreover, desiring to show that he

made no exceptions in favor of anybody, he feigned anger.

"There are no women here; this is the children's ward," he said.

"I know it, but there is a nurse here who had been transferred from

the prison."

"Yes, there are two. What do you wish, then?"

"I am closely related to one of them, Maslova," said Nekhludoff, "and

would like to see her. I am going to St. Petersburg to enter an appeal

in her case. I would like to hand her this; it is only a photograph,"

and he produced an envelope from his pocket.

"Yes, you may do that," said the softened physician, and turning to an

old nurse in a white apron, told her to call Maslova. "Won't you take

a seat, or come into the reception-room?"

"Thank you," said Nekhludoff, and taking advantage of the favorable

change in the physician's demeanor, asked him what they thought of

Maslova in the hospital.

"Her work is fair, considering the conditions amid which she had

lived," answered the physician. "But there she comes."

The old nurse appeared at one of the doors, and behind her came

Maslova. She wore a white apron over a striped skirt; a white cap on

her head hid her hair. Seeing Nekhludoff she flushed, stopped

waveringly, then frowned, and with downcast eyes approached him with

quick step. Coming near him she stood for a moment without offering

her hand, then she did offer her hand and became even more flushed.

Nekhludoff had not seen her since the conversation in which she

excused herself for her impetuosity, and he expected to find her in a

similar mood. But she was entirely different to-day; there was

something new in the expression of her face; something timid and

reserved, and, as it seemed to him, malevolent toward him. He repeated

the words he had said to the physician and handed her the envelope

with the photograph which he had brought from Panov.

"It is an old picture which I came across in Panov. It may please you

to have it. Take it."

Raising her black eyebrows she looked at him with her squinting eyes,

as though asking, "What is that for?" Then she silently took the

envelope and tucked it under her apron.

"I saw your aunt there," said Nekhludoff.

"Did you?" she said, with indifference.

"How do you fare here?" asked Nekhludoff.

"Fairly well," she said.

"It is not very hard?"

"Not very. I am not used to it yet."

"I am very glad. At any rate, it is better than there."

"Than where?" she said, and her face became purple.

"There, in the prison," Nekhludoff hastened to say.

"Why better?" she asked.

"I think the people here are better. There are no such people here as

there."

"There are many good people there."

"I did what I could for the Menshovs and hope they will be freed,"

said Nekhludoff.

"May God grant it. Such a wonderful little woman," she said, repeating

her description of the old woman, and slightly smiled.

"I am going to-day to St. Petersburg. Your case will be heard soon,

and, I hope, will be reversed."

"It is all the same now, whether they reverse it or not," she said.

"Why now?"

"So," she answered, and stealthily glanced at him inquiringly.

Nekhludoff understood this answer and this glance as a desire on her

part to know if he were still holding to his decision, or had changed

it since her refusal.

"I don't know why it is all the same to you," he said, "but to me it

really is all the same whether you are acquitted or not. In either

case, I am ready to do what I said," he said, with determination.

She raised her head, and her black, squinting eyes fixed themselves on

his face and past it, and her whole face became radiant with joy. But

her words were in an entirely different strain.

"Oh, you needn't talk that way," she said.

"I say it that you may know."

"Everything has been already said, and there is no use talking any

more," she said, with difficulty repressing a smile.

There was some noise in the ward. A child was heard crying.

"I think I am called," she said, looking around with anxiety.

"Well, then, good-by," he said.

She pretended not to see his extended hand, turned round, and

endeavoring to hide her elation, she walked away with quick step.

"What is taking place in her? What is she thinking? What are her

feelings? Is she putting me to a test, or is she really unable to

forgive me? Can she not say what she thinks and feels, or simply will

not? Is she pacified or angered?" Nekhludoff asked himself, but could

give no answer. One thing he knew, however, and that was that she had

changed; that a spiritual transformation was taking place in her, and

this transformation united him not only to her, but to Him in whose

name it was taking place. And this union caused him joyful agitation.

Returning to the ward where eight children lay in their beds, Maslova

began to remake one of the beds, by order of the Sister, and, leaning

over too far with the sheet, slipped and nearly fell. The convalescing

boy, wound in bandages to his neck, began to laugh. Maslova could

restrain herself no longer, and seating herself on the bedstead she

burst into loud laughter, infecting several children, who also began

to laugh. The Sister angrily shouted:

"What are you roaring about? Think you this is like the place you came

from? Go fetch the rations."

Maslova stopped laughing, and taking a dish went on her errand, but

exchanging looks with the bandaged boy, who giggled again.

Several times during the day, when Maslova remained alone, she drew

out a corner of the picture and looked at it with admiration, but in

the evening, when she and another nurse retired for the night, she

removed the picture from the envelope and immovably looked with

admiration at the faces; her own, his and the aunt's, their dresses,

the stairs of the balcony, the bushes in the background, her eyes

feasting especially on herself, her young, beautiful face with the

hair hanging over her forehead. She was so absorbed that she failed to

notice that the other nurse had entered.

"What is that? Did he give it you?" asked the stout, good-natured

nurse, leaning over the photograph.

"Is it possible that that is you?"

"Who else?" Maslova said, smiling and looking into her companion's

face.

"And who is that? He himself? And that is his mother?"

"His aunt. Couldn't you recognize me?" asked Maslova.

"Why, no. I could never recognize you. The face is entirely different.

That must have been taken about ten years ago."

"Not years, but a lifetime," said Maslova, and suddenly her face

became sullen and a wrinkle formed between her eyebrows.

"Yours was an easy life, wasn't it?"

"Yes, easy," Maslova repeated, closing her eyes and shaking her head.

"Worse than penal servitude."

"Why so?"

"Because. From eight in the evening to four in the morning--every day

the same."

"Then why don't they get out?"

"They like to, but cannot. But what is the use of talking!" cried

Maslova, and she sprang to her feet, threw the photograph into the

drawer of the table, and suppressing her angry tears, ran into the

corridor, slamming the door. Looking on the photograph she imagined

herself as she had been at the time the photograph was made, and

dreamed how happy she had been and might still be with him. The words

of her companion reminded her what she was now--reminded her of all

the horror of that life which she then felt but confusedly, and would

not allow herself to admit. Only now she vividly recalled all those

terrible nights, particularly one Shrovetide night. She recalled how

she, in a low-cut, wine-bespattered, red silk dress, with a red bow in

her dishevelled hair, weak, jaded and tipsy, after dancing attendance

upon the guest, had seated herself, at two in the morning, near the

thin, bony, pimpled girl-pianist and complained of her hard life. The

girl said that her life was also disagreeable to her, and that she

wished to change her occupation. Afterward their friend Clara joined

them, and all three suddenly decided to change their life. They were

about to leave the place when the drunken guests became noisy, the

fiddler struck up a lively song of the first figure of a Russian

quadrille, the pianist began to thump in unison, a little drunken man

in a white necktie and dress coat caught her up. Another man, stout

and bearded, and also in a dress coat, seized Clara, and for a long

time they whirled, danced, shouted and drank. Thus a year passed, a

second and a third. How could she help changing! And the cause of it

all was he. And suddenly her former wrath against him rose in her; and

she felt like chiding and reproving him. She was sorry that she had

missed the opportunity of telling him again that she knew him, and

would not yield to him; that she would not allow him to take advantage

of her spiritually as he had done corporeally; that she would not

allow him to make her the subject of his magnanimity. And in order to

deaden the painful feeling of pity for herself and the useless

reprobation of him, she yearned for wine. And she would have broken

her word and drunk some wine had she been in the prison. But here wine

could only be obtained from the assistant surgeon, and she was afraid

of him, because he pursued her with his attentions, and all relations

with men were disgusting to her. For some time she sat on a bench in

the corridor, and returning to her closet, without heeding her

companion's questions, she wept for a long time over her ruined life.

CHAPTER IX.

Nekhludoff had four cases in hand: Maslova's appeal, the petition of

Theodosia Birukova, the case of Shustova's release, by request of Vera

Bogodukhovskaia, and the obtaining of permission for a mother to visit

her son kept in a fortress, also by Bogodukhovskaia's request.

Since his visit to Maslenikoff, especially since his trip to the

country, Nekhludoff felt an aversion for that sphere in which he had

been living heretofore, and in which the sufferings borne by millions

of people in order to secure the comforts and pleasures of a few, were

so carefully concealed that the people of that sphere did not and

could not see these sufferings, and consequently the cruelty and

criminality of their own lives.

Nekhludoff could no longer keep up relations with these people without

reproving himself. And yet the habits of his past life, the ties of

friendship and kinship, and especially his one great aim of helping

Maslova and the other unfortunates, drew him into that sphere against

his will; and he was compelled to ask the aid and services of people

whom he had not only ceased to respect but who called forth his

indignation and contempt.

Arriving at St. Petersburg, and stopping at his aunt's, the wife of an

ex-Minister of State, he found himself in the very heart of the

aristocratic circle. It was unpleasant to him, but he could do no

different. Not to stop at his aunt's was to offend her. Besides,

through her connections she could be of great service to him in those

affairs for the sake of which he came to St. Petersburg.

"What wonders I hear about you!" said Countess Catherine Ivanovna

Charskaia, while Nekhludoff was drinking the coffee brought him

immediately after his arrival. "Vous posez pour un Howard. You are

helping the convicts; making the rounds of the prisons; reforming

them."

"You are mistaken; I never had such intentions."

"Why, that is not bad. Only, I understand, there is some love

affair--come, tell me."

Nekhludoff related the story of Maslova, exactly as it happened.

"Yes, yes, I remember. Poor Hellen told me at the time you lived at

the old maids' house that, I believe, they wished you to marry their

ward." Countess Catherine Ivanovna always hated Nekhludoff's aunts on

his father's side. "So, that is she? Elle est encore jolie?"

Aunt Catherine Ivanovna was a sixty-year-old, healthy, jolly,

energetic, talkative woman. She was tall, very stout, with a black,

downy mustache on her upper lip. Nekhludoff loved her, and since

childhood had been accustomed to get infected with her energy and

cheerfulness.

"No, ma tante, all that belongs to the past. I only wish to help her,

because she is innocent, and it is my fault that she was condemned,

her whole wrecked life is upon my conscience. I feel it to be my duty

to do for her what I can."

"But how is it? I was told that you wish to marry her."

"I do wish it, it is true; but she doesn't."

Catherine Ivanovna raised her eyebrows and silently looked at

Nekhludoff in surprise. Suddenly her face changed and assumed a

pleased expression.

"Well, she is wiser than you are. Ah! what a fool you are! And you

would marry her?"

"Certainly."

"After what she has been?"

"The more so--is it not all my fault?"

"Well, you are simply a crank," said the aunt, suppressing a smile.

"You are an awful crank, but I love you for the very reason that you

are such an awful crank," she repeated, the word evidently well

describing, according to her view, the mental and moral condition of

her nephew. "And how opportune. You know, Aline has organized a

wonderful asylum for Magdalens. I visited it once. How disgusting they

are! I afterward washed myself from head to foot. But Aline is corps

et ame in this affair. So we will send her, your Magdalen, to her. If

any one will reform her, it is Aline."

"But she was sentenced to penal servitude. I came here for the

express purpose of obtaining a reversal of her sentence. That is my

first business to you."

"Is that so? Where is the case now?"

"In the Senate."

"In the Senate? Why, my dear cousin Levoushka is in the Senate.

However, he is in the Heraldry Department. Let me see. No, of the real

ones I do not know any. Heaven knows what a mixture they are: either

Germans, such as Ge, Fe, De--tout l'alphabet--or all sorts of Ivanvas,

Semenovs, Nikitins, or Ivaneukos, Semeneukos, Nikitenkas pour varier.

Des gens de l'autre monde. However, I will tell my husband. He knows

all sorts of people. I will tell him. You explain it to him, for he

never understands me. No matter what I may say, he always says that he

cannot understand me. C'est un parti pris. Everybody understands, only

he does not understand."

At that moment a servant in knee-breeches entered with a letter on a

silver tray.

"Ah, that is from Aline. Now you will have an opportunity to hear

Kisiweather."

"Who is that Kisiweather?"

"Kisiweather? Come around to-day and you will find out who he is. He

speaks so that the most hardened criminals fall on their knees and

weep, and repent."

Countess Catherine Ivanovna, however strange it might be, and how so

little it agreed with her character, was a follower of that teaching

which held that essence of Christianity consisted in a belief in

redemption. She visited the meetings where sermons were delivered on

this teaching then in vogue, and invited the adherents to her own

house. Although this teaching rejected all rites, images and even the

sacraments, the Princess had images hanging in all her rooms, even

over her bedstead, and she complied with all the ritual requirements

of the church, seeing nothing contradictory in that.

"Your Magdalen ought to hear him; she would become converted," said

the Countess. "Don't fail to come to-night. You will hear him then. He

is a remarkable man."

"It is not interesting to me, ma tante."

"I tell you it is interesting. You must come to-night. Now, what else

do you want me to do? Videz votre sac."

"There is the man in the fortress."

"In the fortress? Well, I can give you a note to Baron Kriegmuth.

C'est un très-brave homme. But you know him yourself. He was your

father's comrade. Il donne dans le spiritisme. But that is nothing. He

is a kind man. What do you want there?"

"It is necessary to obtain permission for a mother to visit her son

who is incarcerated there. But I was told that Cherviansky and not

Kriegmuth is the person to be applied to."

"I do not like Cherviansky, but he is Mariette's husband. I will ask

her; she will do it for me. Elle est très gentille."

"There is another woman I wish you would speak to her about. She has

been in prison for several months, and no one knows for what."

"Oh, no; she herself surely knows for what. They know very well. And

it serves them right, those short-haired ones."

"I do not know whether it serves them right or not. But they are

suffering. You are a Christian, and believe in the Gospel, and yet are

so pitiless."

"That has nothing to do with it. The Gospel is one thing; what I

dislike is another thing. It would be worse if I pretended to like the

Nihilists, especially the female Nihilists, when as a matter of fact I

hate them."

"Why do you hate them?"

"Why do they meddle in other people's affairs? It is not a woman's

business."

"But you have nothing against Mariette occupying herself with

business," said Nekhludoff.

"Mariette? Mariette is Mariette, but who is she? A conceited ignoramus

who wants to teach everybody."

"They do not wish to teach; they only wish to help the people."

"We know without them who should and who should not be helped."

"But the people are impoverished. I have just been in the country. Is

it proper that peasants should overwork themselves without getting

enough to eat, while we are living in such wasteful luxury?"

"What do you wish me to do? You would like to see me work and not eat

anything?"

"No, I do not wish you not to eat," smiling involuntarily, answered

Nekhludoff. "I only wish that we should all work, and all have enough

to eat."

The aunt again raised her eyebrows and gazed at him with curiosity.

"Mon cher, vous finirez mal," she said.

At that moment a tall, broad-shouldered general entered the room. It

was Countess Charskaia's husband, a retired Minister of State.

"Ah, Dmitri, how do you do?" he said, putting out his clean-shaven

cheek. "When did you get here?"

He silently kissed his wife on the forehead.

"Non, il est impayable." Countess Catherine Ivanovna turned to her

husband. "He wants me to do washing on the river and feast on

potatoes. He is an awful fool, but, nevertheless, do for him what he

asks. An awful crank," she corrected herself. "By the way, they say

that Kamenskaia is in a desperate condition; her life is despaired

of," she turned to her husband. "You ought to visit her."

"Yes, it is awful," said the husband.

"Go, now, and have a talk together; I must write some letters."

Nekhludoff had just reached the room next to the reception-room when

she shouted after him:

"Shall I write then to Mariette?"

"If you please, ma tante."

"I will learn that which you want to say about the short-haired en

blanc, and she will have her husband attend to it. Don't think that I

am angry. They are hateful, your protegees, but--je ne leur veux pas

de mal. But God forgive them. Now, go, and don't forget to come in the

evening; you will hear Kisiweather. We will also pray. And if you do

not resist, ca vous fera beaucoup de bien. I know that Hellen and all

of you are very backward in that respect. Now, au revoir."

CHAPTER X.

The man in whose power it was to lighten the condition of the

prisoners in St. Petersburg had earned a great number of medals,

which, except for a white cross in his button-hole, he did not wear,

however. The old general was of the German barons, and, as it was said

of him, had become childish. He had served in the Caucasus, where he

had received this cross; then in Poland and in some other place, and

now he held the office which gave him good quarters, maintenance and

honor. He always strictly carried out the orders of his superiors, and

considered their execution of great importance and significance, so

much so that while everything in the world could be changed, these

orders, according to him, were above the possibility of any

alteration.

As Nekhludoff was approaching the old general's house the tower clock

struck two. The general was at the time sitting with a young artist in

the darkened reception-room, at a table, the top of which was of

inlaid work, both of them turning a saucer on a sheet of paper.

Holding each others fingers over the saucer, placed face downward,

they pulled in different directions over the paper on which were

printed all the letters of the alphabet. The saucer was answering the

general's question. How would souls recognize each other after death?

At the moment one of the servants entered with Nekhludoff's card, the

soul of Jeanne D'Arc was speaking through the saucer. The soul had

already said, "They will recognize each other," which was duly entered

on a sheet of paper. When the servant entered, the saucer, stopping

first on the letter p, then on the letter o, reached the letter s and

began to jerk one way and another. That was because, as the general

thought, the next letter was to be l, that is to say, Jeanne D'Arc,

according to his idea, intended to say that souls would recognize each

other only after they had been purged of everything mundane, or

something to that effect, and that therefore the next letter ought to

be l (_posl, i. e._, after); the artist, on the other hand, thought

that the next letter would be v; that the soul intended to say that

souls would recognize each other by the light--_posv_ (_ietu_) that

would issue from the ethereal body of the souls. The general, gloomily

knitting his brow, gazed fixedly on the hands, and imagining that the

saucer moved itself, pulled it toward the letter l. The young, anaemic

artist, with his oily hair brushed behind his ears, looked into the

dark corner of the room, with his blue, dull eyes, and nervously

twitching his lips, pulled toward the letter v. The general frowned at

the interruption, and, after a moment's silence, took the card, put on

his pince-nez and, groaning from pain in his loins, rose to his full

height, rubbing his benumbed fingers.

"Show him into the cabinet."

"Permit me, Your Excellency, to finish it myself," said the artist,

rising. "I feel a presence."

"Very well; finish it," said the general with austerity, and went,

with firm, long strides, into the cabinet.

"Glad to see you," said the general in a rough voice to Nekhludoff,

pointing to an arm-chair near the desk. "How long have you been in St.

Petersburg?"

Nekhludoff said that he had but lately arrived.

"Is your mother, the Princess, well?"

"My mother is dead."

"Beg pardon; I was very sorry. My son told me that he had met you."

The general's son was making the same career as his father, and was

very proud of the business with which he was entrusted.

"Why, I served with your father. We were friends, comrades. Are you in

service?"

"No, I am not."

The general disapprovingly shook his head.

"I have a request to make of you, general," said Nekhludoff.

"Very glad. What can I do for you?"

"If my request be out of season, please forgive me. But I must state

it."

"What is it?"

"There is a man, Gurkevitch, kept in prison under your jurisdiction.

His mother asks to be permitted to visit him, or, at least to send him

books."

The general expressed neither satisfaction nor dissatisfaction at

Nekhludoff's request, but, inclining his head to one side, seemed to

reflect. As a matter of fact he was not reflecting; Nekhludoff's

question did not even interest him, knowing very well that his answer

would be as the law requires. He was simply resting mentally without

thinking of anything.

"That is not in my discretion, you know," he said, having rested

awhile. "There is a law relating to visits, and whatever that law

permits, that is permitted. And as to books, there is a library, and

they are given such books as are allowed."

"Yes, but he wants scientific books; he wishes to study."

"Don't believe that." The general paused. "It is not for study that

they want them, but so, it is simply unrest."

"But their time must be occupied somehow?"

"They are always complaining," retorted the general. "We know them."

He spoke of them in general as of some peculiar race of people.

"They have such conveniences here as is seldom seen in a prison," he

continued.

And as though justifying himself, he began to recount all the

conveniences enjoyed by the prisoners in a manner to make one believe

that the chief aim of the institution consisted in making it a

pleasant place of abode.

"Formerly, it is true, the regulations were very harsh, but now their

condition is excellent. They get three dishes, one of which is always

of meat--chopped meat or cutlet. Sundays they get a fourth

dish--dessert. May God grant that every Russian could feed so well."

The general, like all old men, evidently having committed to memory

the oft-repeated words, proceeded to prove how exacting and ungrateful

the prisoners were by repeating what he had told many times before.

"They are furnished books on spiritual topics, also old journals. We

have a library of suitable books, but they seldom read them. At first

they appear to be interested, and then it is found that the pages of

all the new books are barely half cut, and of the old ones there is no

evidence of any thumb-marks at all. We even tried," with a remote

semblance of a smile the general continued, "to put a piece of paper

between the pages, and it remained untouched. Writing, too, is

allowed. A slate is given them, also a slate-pencil, so that they may

write for diversion. They can wipe it out and write again. And yet

they don't write. No, they become quiet very soon. At first they are

uneasy, but afterward they even grow stout and become very quiet."

Nekhludoff listened to the hoarse, feeble voice; looked on that

fleshless body, those faded eyes under the gray eyebrows, those

sunken, shaved cheeks, supported by a military collar, that white

cross, and understood that to argue and explain to him the meaning of

those words were futile. But, making another effort, he asked him

about the prisoner, Shustova, whose release, he had received

information, had been ordered, through the efforts of Mariette.

"Shustova? Shustova--I don't remember them all by name. There are so

many of them," he said, evidently reproving them for being so

numerous. He rang the bell and called for the secretary.

While a servant was going after the secretary he admonished Nekhludoff

to go into service, saying that the country was in need of honest,

noble men.

"I am old, and yet I am serving to the extent of my ability."

The secretary came and reported that there were no papers received

relating to Shustova, who was still in prison.

"As soon as we receive an order we release them the very same day. We

do not keep them; we do not particularly value their presence," said

the general, again with a waggish smile, which had the effect only of

making his face wry.

"Good-by, my dear," he continued. "Don't be offended for advising you,

for I do so only because I love you. Have nothing to do with the

prisoners. You will never find innocent people among them. They are

the most immoral set. We know them," he said, in a tone of voice which

did not permit the possibility of doubt. "You had better take an

office. The Emperor and the country need honest people. What if I and

such as you refused to serve? Who would be left? We are complaining

of conditions, but refuse to aid the government."

Nekhludoff sighed deeply, made a low bow, pressed the bony hand

condescendingly extended, and departed.

The general disapprovingly shook his head, and, rubbing his loins,

went to the reception-room, where the artist awaited him with the

answer of Jeanne D'Arc. The general put on his pince-nez and read:

"They will recognize each other by the light issuing from the ethereal

bodies."