one recognize another when all have the same light?" he asked, and
again crossing his fingers with those of the artist, seated himself at
the table.
* * * * *
Nekhludoff's driver drove up to the gate.
"It is very dull here, sir," he said, turning to Nekhludoff. "It was
very tiresome, and I was about to drive away."
"Yes, tiresome," assented Nekhludoff with a deep sigh, resting his
eyes on the clouds and the Neva, dotted with variegated boats and
steamers.
CHAPTER XI.
With a note from Prince Ivan Michaelovitch, Nekhludoff went to Senator
Wolf--un homme très comme il faut, as the Prince had described him.
Wolf had just breakfasted and, as usual, was smoking a cigar, to aid
his digestion, when Nekhludoff arrived. Vladimir Vasilievitch Wolf was
really un homme très comme il faut, and this quality he placed above
all else; from the height of it he looked upon all other people, and
could not help valuing this quality, because, thanks to it, he had
gained a brilliant career--the same career he strove for; that is to
say, through marriage he obtained a fortune, which brought him a
yearly income of eighteen thousand rubles, and by his own efforts he
obtained a senatorship. He considered himself not only un homme très
comme il faut, but a man of chivalric honesty. By honesty he
understood the refusal to take bribes from private people. But to do
everything in his power to obtain all sorts of traveling expenses,
rents and disbursements he did not consider dishonest. Nor did he
consider it dishonest to rob his wife and sister-in-law of their
fortunes. On the contrary, he considered that a wise arrangement of
his family affairs.
The home circle of Vladimir Vasilievitch consisted of his
characterless wife, her sister, whose fortune he managed to get into
his own hands by selling her property and depositing the money in his
own name, and his gentle, scared, homely daughter, who was leading a
solitary, hard life, and whose only diversion consisted in visiting
the religious meetings at Aline's and Countess Catherine Ivanovna's.
The son of Vladimir Vasilievitch, a good-natured, bearded boy of
fifteen, who at that age had already commenced to drink and lead a
depraved life which lasted till he was twenty years old, was driven
from the house for the reason that he did not pass examinations in any
school, and keeping bad company, and, running into debt, he had
compromised his father. The father paid once for his son two hundred
and thirty rubles, and paid six hundred rubles a second time, but
declared that that was the last time, and if the son did not reform he
would drive him from the house and have nothing to do with him. Not
only did the son not reform, but contracted another debt of a thousand
rubles, and told his father that he did not care if he was driven from
the house, since life at home was torture to him. Then Vladimir
Vasilievitch told his son that he could go where he pleased; that he
was no longer his son. Since then no one in the house dared to speak
of his son to him. And Vladimir Vasilievitch was quite certain that he
had arranged his family affairs in the best possible manner.
Wolf, with a flattering and somewhat derisive smile--it was an
involuntary expression of his consciousness of his comme il faut
superiority--halted in his exercise long enough to greet Nekhludoff
and read the note.
"Please take a seat, but you must excuse me. If you have no objection
I will walk," he said, putting his hands in the pockets of his
jacket, and treading lightly up and down the diagonal of the large
cabinet, furnished in an austere style. "Very glad to make your
acquaintance, and, of course, to please the Count Ivan Michaelovitch,"
emitting the fragrant, blue smoke, and carefully removing the cigar
from his mouth so as not to lose the ashes.
"I would like to ask you to hasten the hearing of the appeal, because
if the prisoner is to go to Siberia, it would be desirable that she go
as soon as possible," said Nekhludoff.
"Yes, yes, with the first steamer from Nijhni; I know," said Wolf,
with his condescending smile, who always knew everything in advance,
whatever the subject mentioned to him. "What is the name of the
prisoner?"
"Maslova."
Wolf walked to the table and looked into the papers.
"That's right--Maslova. Very well; I will ask my associates. We will
hear the case Wednesday."
"May I wire my lawyer?"
"So you have a lawyer? What for? But if you wish it, all right."
"The grounds of appeal may be insufficient," said Nekhludoff, "but I
think it may be seen from the case that the sentence was the result of
a misunderstanding."
"Yes, yes; that may be so, but the Senate cannot enter into the merits
of the case," said Vladimir Vasilievitch, sternly, glancing at the
ashes of his cigar. "The Senate only looks after the proper
interpretation and application of the law."
"This, I think, is an exceptional case."
"I know; I know. All cases are exceptional. We will do what the law
requires. That is all." The ashes were still intact, but had already
cracked and were in danger of collapse. "And do you often visit St.
Petersburg?" asked Wolf, holding the cigar so that the ashes would not
fall. The ashes were unstable, however, and Wolf carefully carried
them to the ash-holder, into which they were finally precipitated.
"What an awful catastrophe Kamensky met with," said Wolf. "A fine
young man, and an only son. Especially the condition of the
mother"--he went on repeating almost word for word the story of a duel
of which all St. Petersburg was talking at the time. After a few more
words about Countess Catherine Ivanovna and her passion for the new
religious tendency which Vladimir Vasilievitch neither praised nor
condemned, but which, for un homme très comme il faut, was evidently
superfluous, he rang the bell.
Nekhludoff bowed himself out.
"If it is convenient for you, come to dinner," said Wolf, extending
his hand, "say on Wednesday. I will then give you a definite answer."
It was already late, and Nekhludoff drove home, that is, to his
aunt's.
CHAPTER XII.
Maslova's case was to be heard the following day, and Nekhludoff went
to the Senate. He met Fanirin at the entrance to the magnificent
Senate building, where several carriages were already waiting. Walking
up the grand, solemn staircase to the second floor, the lawyer, who
was familiar with all the passages, turned into a room to the left, on
the door of which was carved the year of the institution of the Code.
The lawyer removed his overcoat, remaining in his dress-coat and black
tie on a white bosom, and with cheerful self-confidence walked into
the next room. There were about fifteen spectators present, among whom
were a young woman in a pince-nez, and a gray-haired lady. A
gray-haired old man of patriarchal mien, wearing a box-coat and gray
trousers, and attended by two men, attracted particular attention. He
crossed the room and entered a wardrobe.
An usher, a handsome man with red cheeks and in a pompous uniform,
approached Fanirin with a piece of paper in his hand and asked him in
what case he appeared. Being told that in Maslova's case, the usher
made a note of something and went away. At that time the door of the
wardrobe opened and the patriarchal looking old man came forth, no
longer in the coat, but in a brilliant uniform which made him resemble
a bird. His uniform evidently embarrassed the old man, and he walked
into the room opposite the entrance with quicker than his ordinary
step.
Fanirin pointed him out to Nekhludoff as Bé, "a most honorable
gentleman." The spectators, including Fanirin, went into the next room
and seated themselves behind the grating on benches reserved for
spectators. Only the St. Petersburg lawyer took a seat behind a desk
on the other side of the grating.
The session room of the Senate was smaller than the room of the
Circuit Court, was furnished in simpler style, only the table behind
which the Senators sat was of crimson plush instead of green cloth,
bordered with gold lace.
There were four Senators. The President, Nikitin, with a closely
shaved, narrow face and steel-gray eyes; Wolf, with thin lips and
small white hands, with which he was turning over the papers before
him; then Skovorodnikoff, stout, massive and pock-marked, and a very
learned jurist, and finally, Bé, the same partriarchal old man, who
was the last to arrive. Immediately behind the Senators came the Chief
Secretary and Associate Attorney General. He was a young man of medium
height, shaved, lean, with a very dark face and black, sad eyes.
Nekhludoff recognized him, notwithstanding his strange uniform and the
fact that he had not seen him for about six years, as one of his best
friends during his student life.
"Is the associate's name Selenin?" he asked the lawyer.
"Yes, why?"
"I know him very well; he is an excellent man----"
"And a good associate of the Attorney General--very sensible. It would
have been well to see him," said Fanirin.
"At all events, he will follow the dictates of his conscience," said
Nekhludoff, remembering his close relations with and friendship for
Selenin, and the latter's charming qualities of purity, honesty and
good breeding, in the best sense of the word.
The first case before the Senate was an appeal from the decision of
the Circuit Court of Appeals affirming a judgment in favor of the
publisher of a newspaper in a libel suit brought against him.
Nekhludoff listened and tried to understand the arguments in the
case, but as in the Circuit Court, the chief difficulty in
understanding what was going on was found in the fact that the
discussion centered not on what appeared naturally to be the main
point, but on side issues.
The libel consisted in an article accusing the president of a stock
company of swindling. It seemed, then, that the main point to consider
was, whether or not the president was guilty of swindling the
stockholders, and what was to be done to stop his swindling. But this
was never mentioned. The questions discussed were: Had the publisher
the legal right to print the article of its reporter? What crime has
he committed by printing it--defamation or libel? And does defamation
include libel, or libel defamation? And a number of other things
unintelligible to ordinary people, including various laws and
decisions of some "General Department."
The only thing Nekhludoff did understand was that, though Wolf had
sternly suggested but yesterday that the Senate could not consider the
substance of a case, in the case at bar he argued with evident
partiality in favor of reversing the judgment, and that Selenin, in
spite of his characteristic reserve, argued in favor of affirming the
judgment with unexpected fervor. The cause of Selenin's ardor lay in
the fact that he knew the president of the stock company to be
dishonest in money affairs, while he accidentally learned that Wolf,
almost on the eve of the hearing of the case, had attended a sumptuous
dinner at the president's house. And now, when Wolf, though with great
caution, showed undoubted partiality, Selenin became excited and
expressed his opinion with more nervousness than an ordinary case
would justify. Wolf was evidently offended by the speech; he twitched
nervously, changed color, made silent gestures of wonder, and with an
haughty air of being offended he departed with the other Senators into
the deliberation-room.
"What case are you interested in?" the usher again asked Fanirin, as
soon as the Senators had left the room.
"I have already told you that I am here in behalf of Maslova."
"That is so. The case will be heard to-day. But----"
"What is that?" asked the lawyer.
"You see, the case was to be argued without counsel, so that the
Senators would hardly consider it in open session. But--I will
announce----" and he made a note on the piece of paper.
The Senators really intended, after announcing their decision in the
libel case, to consider the other cases, including Maslova's, while
drinking their tea and smoking cigarettes in the consultation-room.
CHAPTER XIII.
As soon as the Senators seated themselves at the table in the
consultation-room, Wolf began to set forth in an animated manner the
grounds upon which he thought the case ought to be reversed.
The President, always an ill-natured man, was in a particularly bad
humor to-day. While listening to the case during the session he formed
his opinion, and sat, absorbed in his thoughts, without listening to
Wolf. These thoughts consisted in a recollection of what note he had
made the other day in his memoirs anent the appointment of Velianoff
to an important post which he desired for himself. The President,
Nikitin, quite sincerely thought that the officials with whom his
duties brought him in contact were worthy of a place in history.
Having written an article the other day in which some of these
officials were vehemently denounced for interfering with his plan to
save Russia from ruin, as he put it, but in reality for interfering
with his getting a larger salary than he was now getting, he was now
thinking that posterity would give an entirely new interpretation to
that incident.
"Why, certainly," he said to Wolf, who was addressing him, although he
did not hear what Wolf said.
Bé listened to Wolf with a sad face, drawing garlands on a piece of
paper which lay before him. Bé was a liberal of the deepest dye. He
scarcely held to the traditions of the sixties, and if he ever
deviated from strict impartiality, it was invariably in favor of
liberality. Thus, in this case, besides the consideration that the
complaining president of the stock company was an unclean man, Bé was
in favor of affirming the judgment, also because this charge of libel
against a journalist was a restriction on the freedom of the press.
When Wolf had finished his argument, Bé, leaving the garland
unfinished, in a sad--it was sad for him to be obliged to prove such
truisms--soft, pleasant voice, convincingly proved in a few simple
words that the charge had no foundation, and, again drooping his hoary
head, continued to complete the garland.
Skovorodnikoff, who was sitting opposite Wolf, continually gathering
with his thick fingers his beard and mustache into his mouth, as soon
as Bé was through with his argument, stopped chewing his beard, and,
in a loud, rasping voice, said that although the president of the
stock company was a villain, he should favor a reversal if there were
legal grounds to sustain it, but as there were none, he joined in the
opinion of Ivan Semenovitch (Bé), and he invariably rejoiced at this
shot aimed at Wolf. The President supported Skovorodnikoff's opinion,
and the judgment was confirmed.
Wolf was dissatisfied, especially because by this judgment he seemed
to stand convicted of arguing in bad faith; but, feigning
indifference, he opened his papers in the next case, Maslova's, and
began to peruse it attentively. The other Senators in the meantime
called for tea, and began a talk about Kamensky's duel and his death,
which was then the subject of conversation throughout the city.
The usher entered and announced the desire of the lawyer and
Nekhludoff to be present at the hearing of the case.
"This case here," said Wolf, "is a whole romantic story," and he
related what he knew of Nekhludoff's relations to Maslova.
After talking awhile of the story, smoking cigarettes and finishing
their tea, the Senators returned to the session-room, announced their
decision in the preceding case, and began to consider Maslova's case.
Wolf very circumstantially set forth Maslova's appeal from the
sentence, and again not without partiality, but with the evident
desire to reverse the judgment.
"Have you anything to add?" the President asked Fanirin.
Fanirin rose, and, projecting his broad, starched front, with
remarkable precision of expression began to discuss the errors of the
court below in the application of the law on the six points raised,
and permitted himself, though briefly, to touch upon the merits of the
case and the crying injustice of the decision. By the tone of his
short but strong speech, he seemed to excuse himself, to insist that
the honorable Senators with their power of penetration and judicial
wisdom saw and understood better than he, but that he was speaking
only because his duties demanded it. After Fanirin's speech there
seemed to be no doubt left that the Senate had to reverse the
judgment. When he was through, Fanirin smiled triumphantly. Looking at
his lawyer and seeing that smile, Nekhludoff was convinced that the
case was won. But as he looked at the Senators Nekhludoff saw that
Fanirin alone was smiling and triumphant. The Senators and Associate
Attorney General were neither smiling nor triumphant, but wore the air
of people suffering from ennui and saying: "Oh, we know these cases!
You are wasting your time." They were all evidently relieved only when
the lawyer had finished, and they were no longer unnecessarily
detained. After the speech the President turned to Selenin, who
plainly, briefly and accurately expressed himself against a reversal.
Then the Senators arose and went to consult.
The Senators were divided. Wolf favored a reversal. Bé, who thoroughly
understood the case, warmly argued also in favor of a reversal, and in
glowing terms pictured the court scene and the misunderstanding of the
jury. Nikitin, who, as usual, stood for severity and for strict
formality, was against it. The whole case, then, depended on
Skovorodnikoff's vote. And his vote was thrown against a reversal,
principally for the reason that Nekhludoff's determination to marry
the girl on moral grounds was extremely repugnant to him.
Skovorodnikoff was a materialist, a Darwinist, and considered every
manifestation of abstract morality, or, worse still, piety, not only
as contemptible and absurd but as an affront to his person. All this
bustle about a fallen girl, and the presence there in the Senate of
her famous counsel and Nekhludoff himself, was to him simply
disgusting. And, stuffing his mouth with his beard, and making
grimaces, he in a very natural manner pretended to know nothing of the
entire affair, except that the grounds of appeal were insufficient,
and therefore agreed with the President to affirm the judgment.
The appeal was denied.
CHAPTER XIV.
"It is awful!" said Nekhludoff to the lawyer, as they entered the
waiting-room. "In the plainest possible case they cavil at idle forms.
It is awful!"
"The case was spoiled at the trial," said Fanirin.
"Selenin, too, was against reversal. It is awful, awful!" Nekhludoff
continued to repeat. "What is to be done now?"
"We will petition the Emperor. Head it yourself while you are here. I
will prepare the petition."
At that moment Wolf in his uniform and stars hung on his breast
entered the waiting-room and approached Nekhludoff.
"I am sorry, my dear Prince, but the grounds were insufficient," he
said, shrugging his narrow shoulders; and, closing his eyes, he
proceeded on his way.
After Wolf came Selenin, who had learned from the Senators that
Nekhludoff, his former friend, was present.
"I did not expect to meet you here," he said, approaching Nekhludoff
and smiling with his lips, while his eyes remained sad.
"And I did not know that you were the Attorney General."
"Associate," Selenin corrected him. "But what brought you to the
Senate?"
"I came here hoping to find justice, and to save an innocent woman."
"What woman?"
"The case that has just been decided."
"Oh, the Maslova case!" said Selenin. "An entirely groundless
appeal."
"The question is not of the appeal, but of the woman, who is innocent
and undergoing punishment."
Selenin sighed.
"Quite possible, but----"
"It is not merely possible, but certain."
"How do you know?"
"I know because I was on the jury. I know wherein we made the
mistake."
Selenin became thoughtful.
"It should have been declared on the trial," he said.
"I did so."
"It should have been made part of the record. If that had appeared in
the appeal----"
Selenin, who was always busy, and did not mingle in society, had
evidently not heard of Nekhludoff's romance. Nekhludoff, however,
decided not to speak to him of his relations to Maslova.
"But it is evident even now that the verdict was preposterous," he
said.
"The Senate has no right to say so. If the Senate attempted to
interfere with the verdicts of the courts upon its own view of the
justness of the verdicts themselves, there would be greater risks of
justice being miscarried than established," he said, recalling the
preceding case. "Besides, the verdicts of juries would lose their
significance."
"I only know one thing, and that is that the woman is entirely
innocent, and the last hope of saving her from an undeserved
punishment is gone. The highest judicial institution has affirmed what
was absolutely unjust."
"It has not affirmed because it has not and could not consider the
merits of the case," said Selenin, blinking his eyes. "You have
probably stopped at your aunts," he added, evidently wishing to change
the subject of conversation. "I learned yesterday that you were in St.
Petersburg. Countess Catherine Ivanovna had invited me and you to be
present at the meeting of the English preacher," said Selenin, smiling
only with his lips.
"Yes, I was present, but left with disgust," Nekhludoff said angrily,
vexed at Selenin's leading away from the conversation.
"Why should you be disgusted? At all events it is a manifestation of
religious feeling, although one-sided and sectarian," said Selenin.
"It is such strange nonsense," said Nekhludoff.
"Well, no. The only strange thing here is that we know so little of
the teachings of our church that we receive an exposition of its
fundamental dogmas as a new revelation," said Selenin, as though
hastening to tell his former friends his new views.
Nekhludoff gazed at Selenin with wonder. Selenin did not lower his
eyes, in which there was an expression not only of sadness, but of
ill-will.
"But we will discuss it later," said Selenin. "I am coming," he turned
to the usher who approached him deferentially. "We must meet again,"
he added, sighing; "but you can never be found. You will always find
me at home at seven. I live on Nadeghinskaia," and he mentioned the
number. "It is a long time since we met," he added, again smiling with
his lips.
"I will come if I have the time," said Nekhludoff, feeling that the
man whom he had once loved was made strange and incomprehensible to
him, if not hostile, by this short conversation.
* * * * *
As student Nekhludoff knew Selenin as a dutiful son, a true friend,
and, for his years, an educated, worldly man, with great tact, always
elegant and handsome, and uncommonly truthful and honest withal. He
studied diligently, without any difficulty and without the slightest
ostentation, receiving gold medals for his compositions.
He had made it the aim of his young life, not merely by word, but in
reality, to serve others, and thought he saw his chance of doing so in
government service. Systematically looking over the various activities
to which he might devote his energies, he decided that he could be
most useful in the legislative department, and entered it. But
notwithstanding his most accurate and conscientious attention to his
duties, he found nothing in them to satisfy his desire to be useful.
His discontent, due to the pettiness and vanity of his immediate
superiors, grew until an opportunity offered to enter the Senate. He
was better off in the Senate, but the same feeling of dissatisfaction
pursued him. He constantly felt that things were not what he expected
them to be, and what they should be. During his service in the Senate,
his relations obtained for him the post of gentleman of the Emperor's
bed-chamber, and he was obliged to drive around in gorgeous uniform to
thank various people. In this post he felt even more than before out
of place. At the same time, on the one hand, he could not refuse the
appointment, because he would not disappoint those who thought they
were pleasing him by it, and, on the other hand, the appointment
flattered his vanity. It pleased him to see himself in a looking-glass
in a gold embroidered uniform, and to receive the tokens of respect
shown him by some people on his appointment.
The same thing happened with respect to his marriage. A brilliant
match was arranged for him, as it is regarded from the world's
standpoint. And he married principally because to refuse would have
been to offend and cause pain to the bride and those who had arranged
the match. Hence the marriage to a young, pretty, distinguished girl
flattered his vanity and gave him pleasure. But the marriage soon
turned out to be "not the thing, you know," more so even than Court
service. After her first child, his wife did not wish to have any
more, and plunged into luxurious social life, in which he was obliged
to participate nolens volens. Although this poisoned the life of her
husband, and brought her only exertion and fatigue, she nevertheless
diligently pursued it. All his efforts to change her mode of life
could not alter her confidence, supported by all her relatives and
acquaintances, that it was quite proper.
The child, a girl with long, golden curls, was an entire stranger to
her father, mainly because she was brought up not in accord with his
desires. The result was the customary misunderstanding between the
husband and wife, and even in a want of desire to understand each
other, and a quiet, silent struggle, hidden from strangers and
tempered by propriety, which made Selenin's life at home very
burdensome. So that his family life turned out to be "not the thing,
you know," in still greater degree than his service or the Court
appointment.
These were the reasons why his eyes were always sad. And this was why,
seeing Nekhludoff, whom he had known before all these lies had
fastened themselves upon him, he thought of himself as he had been
then, and more than ever felt the discord between his character and
his surroundings, and he became painfully sad. The same feeling came
over Nekhludoff, after the first impression of joy at meeting an old
friend.
That was why, having promised that they would meet each other, neither
sought that meeting, nor had they seen each other on this visit of
Nekhludoff to St. Petersburg.
CHAPTER XV.
On leaving the Senate, Nekhludoff and his lawyer walked along the
sidewalk. Fanirin told his driver to follow him, and he began to
relate to Nekhludoff how the mistress of so-and-so had made millions
on 'Change, how so-and-so had sold, and another had bought, his wife.
He also related some stories of swindling and all sorts of crimes
committed by well-known people who were not occupying cells in prison,
but presidents' chairs in various institutions. These stories, of
which he seemed to possess an inexhaustible source, afforded the
lawyer great pleasure, as showing most conclusively that the means
employed by him as a lawyer to make money were perfectly innocent in
comparison with those used by the more noted public men of St.
Petersburg. And the lawyer was greatly surprised when Nekhludoff, in
the middle of one of these stories, hailed a trap, took leave and
drove home. Nekhludoff was very sad. He was sad because the Senate's
judgment continued the unreasonable suffering of the innocent Maslova,
and also because it made it more difficult for him to carry out his
unalterable intention of joining his fate to hers. His sadness
increased as the lawyer related with so much pleasure the frightful
stories of the prevailing wickedness. Besides, the unkind, cold,
repelling gaze of the once charming, open-hearted and noble Selenin
constantly recurred to his mind. Nekhludoff, after the impressions of
his stay in St. Petersburg, was almost in despair of ever reaching any
results. All the plans he had laid out in Moskow seemed to him like
those youthful dreams which usually end in disappointment. However, he
considered it his duty, while in St. Petersburg, to exhaust his
resources in endeavoring to fulfill his mission.
Soon after he reached his room, a servant called him upstairs for tea.
Mariette, in a multi-colored dress, was sitting beside the Countess,
sipping tea. On Nekhludoff's entering the room, Mariette had just
dropped some funny, indecent joke. Nekhludoff noticed it by the
character of their laughter. The good-natured, mustached Countess
Catherine Ivanovna was shaking in all her stout body with laughter,
while Mariette, with a particularly mischievous expression, and her
energetic and cheerful face somewhat bent to one side, was silently
looking at her companion.
"You will be the death of me," said the Countess, in a fit of
coughing.
No sooner had Nekhludoff seated himself than Mariette, noticing the
serious and slightly displeased expression on his face, immediately
changed not only her expression, but her frame of mind. This was with
the intention she had in mind since she first saw him--to get him to
like her. She suddenly became grave, dissatisfied with her life,
seeking something, striving after something. She not merely feigned,
but actually induced in herself a state of mind similar to that in
which Nekhludoff was, although she would not be able to say what it
consisted of. In a sympathetic conversation about the injustice of the
strong, the poverty of the people, the awful condition of the
prisoners, she succeeded in rousing in him the least expected feeling
of physical attraction, and under the din of conversation their eyes
plainly queried, "Can you love me?" and they answered, "Yes, I can."
On leaving, she told him that she was always ready to be of service to
him, and asked him to visit her at the theatre the next day, if only
for a minute, saying that she wished to have a talk with him on a
matter of importance.
"When will I see you again?" she added, sighing, and carefully
putting the gloves on her ring-bedecked hand. "Tell me that you will
come."
Nekhludoff promised to come.
For a long time that night Nekhludoff could not fall asleep. When he
recalled Maslova, the decision of the Senate, and his determination to
follow her; when he recalled his relinquishment of his right to the
land, there suddenly appeared before him, as if in answer to these
questions, the face of Mariette; her sigh and glance when she said,
"When will I see you again?" and her smile--all so distinct that she
seemed to stand before him, and he smiled himself. "Would it be proper
for me to follow her to Siberia? And would it be proper to deprive
myself of my property?" he asked himself.
And the answers to these questions on that bright St. Petersburg night
were indefinite. His mind was all in confusion. He called forth his
former trend of thought, but those thoughts had lost their former
power of conviction.
"And what if all my ideas are due to an over-wrought imagination, and
I should be unable to live up to them? If I should repent of what I
have done?" he asked himself, and, being unable to find answers to
these questions, he was stricken with such sadness and despair as he
had rarely experienced before, and he fell into that deep slumber
which had been habitual with him after heavy losses at cards.
CHAPTER XVI.
Nekhludoff's first feeling on rising the following morning was that he
had committed something abominable the preceding evening.
He began to recall what had happened. There was nothing abominable; he
had done nothing wrong. He had only thought that all his present
intentions--that of marrying Katiousha, giving the land to the
peasants--artificial, unnatural, and that he must continue to live as
he had lived before.
He could recall no wrong act, but he remembered what was worse than a
wrong act--there were the bad thoughts in which all bad acts have
their origin. Bad acts may not be repeated; one may repent of them,
while bad thoughts give birth to bad acts.
A bad act only smooths the way to other bad acts, while bad thoughts
irresistibly lead toward them.
Recalling his thoughts of the day before, Nekhludoff wondered how he
could have believed them. How so novel and difficult might be that
which he intended to do, he knew that it was the only life possible to
him now, and that, however easy it might be for him to return to his
old mode of life, he knew that that was death, not life. This
temptation of the day before was similar to that of a man who, after a
night's sound sleep, feels like taking his ease on the soft mattress
for a while, although he knows that it is time to be up and away on an
important affair.
* * * * *
Nekhludoff would have left the same evening but for his promise to
Mariette to visit her at the theatre. Though he knew that it was wrong
to do it, he went there, contrary to the dictates of his own
conscience, considering himself bound to keep his word. Besides his
wish to see Mariette again, he also wished, as he thought, to measure
himself against that world lately so near, but now so strange to him.
"Could I withstand these temptations?" he thought, but not with entire
sincerity. "I will try it for the last time."
Attired in a dress-coat, he arrived in the theatre where the eternal
"Dame aux Camelias" was being played. A French actress was showing in
a novel way how consumptive women die.
Nekhludoff was shown to the box occupied by Mariette. In the corridor
a liveried servant bowed and opened the door for him.
All the spectators in the circle of boxes--sitting and standing,
gray-haired, bald and pomaded heads--were intently following the
movements of a slim actress making wry faces and in an unnatural voice
reading a monologue. Some one hissed when the door was opened, and
two streams of cold and warm air were wafted on Nekhludoff's face.
In the box he found Mariette and a strange lady with a red mantle over
her shoulders and high head-dress, and two men--a general, Mariette's
husband, a handsome, tall man with a high, artificial, military
breast, and a flaxen haired, bald-headed man with shaved chin and
solemn side-whiskers. Mariette, graceful, slim, elegant, decolette,
with her strong, muscular shoulders sloping down from the neck, at the
jointure of which was a darkening little mole, immediately turned
around, and, pointing with her fan to a chair behind her, greeted him
with a welcome, grateful, and, as it seemed to Nekhludoff, significant
smile. Her husband calmly, as was his wont, looked at Nekhludoff and
bowed his head. In the glance which he exchanged with his wife, as in
everything else, he looked the master, the owner, of a beautiful
woman.
There was a thunder of applause when the monologue ended. Mariette
rose, and, holding in one hand her rustling silk skirt, walked to the
rear of the box and introduced Nekhludoff to her husband. The general
incessantly smiled with his eyes, said he was glad, and remained calm
and mute.
"I had to leave to-day, but I promised you," said Nekhludoff, turning
to Mariette.
"If you don't wish to see me, you will see a remarkable actress,"
Mariette said, answering the meaning of his words. "Wasn't she great
in the last scene?" she turned to her husband.
The general bowed his head.
"That does not affect me," said Nekhludoff. "I have seen so much real
misfortune to-day that----"
"Sit down and tell us what you have seen."
The husband listened, and ironically smiled with his eyes.
"I went to see that woman who has been released. She is entirely
broken down."
"That is the woman of whom I have spoken to you," Mariette said to her
husband.
"Yes; I was very glad that she could be released," he calmly said,
nodding his head and smiling ironically, as it seemed to Nekhludoff,
under his mustache. "I will go to the smoking-room."
Nekhludoff waited, expecting that Mariette would tell him that
something which she said she had to tell him, but instead she only
jested and talked of the performance, which, she thought, ought to
affect him particularly.
Nekhludoff understood that the only purpose for which she had brought
him to the theatre was to display her evening toilet with her
shoulders and mole, and he was both pleased and disgusted. Now he saw
what was under the veil of the charm that at first attracted him.
Looking on Mariette, he admired her, but he knew that she was a
prevaricator who was living with her career-making husband; that what
she had said the other day was untrue, and that she only wished--and
neither knew why--to make him love her. And, as has been said, he was
both pleased and disgusted. Several times he attempted to leave, took
his hat but still remained. But finally, when the general, his thick
mustache reeking with tobacco, returned to the box and glanced at
Nekhludoff patronizingly disdainful, as if he did not recognize him,
Nekhludoff walked out before the door closed behind the general, and,
finding his overcoat, left the theatre.
On his way home he suddenly noticed before him a tall, well-built,
loudly-dressed woman. Every passer-by turned to look at her.
Nekhludoff walked quicker than the woman, and also involuntarily
looked her in the face. Her face, probably rouged, was pretty; her
eyes flashed at him, and she smiled. Nekhludoff involuntarily thought
of Mariette, for he experienced the same feeling of attraction and
disgust which took hold of him in the theatre. Passing her hastily,
Nekhludoff turned the corner of the street, and, to the surprise of
the policeman, began to walk up and down the water-front.
"That one in the theatre also smiled that way when I entered," he
thought, "and the smile of the former conveyed the same meaning as
that of the latter. The only difference between them is that this one
speaks openly and plainly, while the other pretends to be exercising
higher and refined feelings. But in reality they are alike. This one
is at least truthful, while the other is lying." Nekhludoff recalled
his relations with the wife of the district commander, and a flood of
shameful recollections came upon him. "There is a disgusting
bestiality in man," he thought; "but when it is in a primitive state,
one looks down upon and despises it, whether he is carried away with
or withstands it. But when this same bestiality hides itself under a
so-called aesthetic, poetic cover, and demands to be worshiped, then,
deifying the beast, one gives himself up to it, without distinguishing
between the good and the bad. Then it is horrible."
As there was no soothing, rest-giving darkness that night, but instead
there was a hazy, cheerless, unnatural light, so even was there no
rest-giving darkness--ignorance--for Nekhludoff's soul. Everything was
clear. It was plain that all that is considered important and useful
is really insignificant and wicked, and that all that splendor and
luxury were hiding old crimes, familiar to every one, and not only
stalking unpunished, but triumphing and adorned with all the
allurements man is capable of conceiving.
Nekhludoff wished to forget it, not to see it, but he could no longer
help seeing it. Although he did not see the source of the light which
revealed these things to him, as he did not see the source of the
light which spread over St. Petersburg, and though this light seemed
to him hazy, cheerless and unnatural, he could not help seeing that
which the light revealed to him, and he felt at the same time both joy
and alarm.
CHAPTER XVII.
Immediately upon his arrival in Moskow, Nekhludoff made his way to the
prison hospital, intending to make known to Maslova the Senate's
decision and to tell her to prepare for the journey to Siberia.
Of the petition which he brought for Maslova's signature, he had
little hope. And, strange to say, he no longer wished to succeed. He
had accustomed himself to the thought of going to Siberia, and living
among the exiles and convicts, and it was difficult for him to imagine
how he should order his life and that of Maslova if she were freed.
The door-keeper at the hospital, recognizing Nekhludoff, immediately
informed him that Maslova was no longer there.
"Where is she, then?"
"Why, again in the prison."
"Why was she transferred?" asked Nekhludoff.
"Your Excellency knows their kind," said the door-keeper, with a
contemptuous smile. "She was making love to the assistant, so the
chief physician sent her back."
Nekhludoff did not suspect that Maslova and her spiritual condition
were so close to him. This news stunned him. The feeling he
experienced was akin to that which people experience when hearing
suddenly of some great misfortune. He was deeply grieved. The first
feeling he experienced was that of shame. His joyful portraying of her
spiritual awakening now seemed to him ridiculous. Her reluctance to
accept his sacrifice, the reproaches and the tears, were the mere
cunning, he thought, of a dissolute woman who wished to make the most
use of him. It seemed to him now that at his last visit he had seen in
her the symptoms of incorrigibility which were now evident. All this
flashed through his mind at the time he instinctively donned his hat
and left the hospital.
"But what's to be done now?" he asked himself. "Am I bound to her? Am
I not released now by this, her act?"
But no sooner did he form the question than he understood that in
considering himself released and leaving her to her fate he would be
punishing not her, which he desired, but himself, and he was
terrified.
"No! That will not alter my decision--it will only strengthen it. Let
her do whatever her soul prompts her to do; if she would make love to
the assistant, let her do so. It is her business. It is my business to
do what my conscience demands," he said to himself. "And my conscience
demands that I sacrifice my liberty in expiation of my sin, and my
decision to marry her, although but fictitiously, and follow her
wherever she may be sent, remains unaltered," he said to himself, with
spiteful obstinacy, and, leaving the hospital, he made his way with
resolute step to the prison gate.
Coming to the gate, he asked the officer on duty to tell the
inspector that he wished to see Maslova. The officer knew Nekhludoff,
and told him an important piece of prison news. The captain had
resigned, and another man, who was very strict, had taken his place.
The inspector, who was in the prison at the time, soon made his
appearance. He was tall, bony, very slow in his movements, and gloomy.
"Visitors are allowed only on certain days," he said, without looking
at Nekhludoff.
"But I have a petition here which she must sign."
"You may give it to me."
"I must see the prisoner myself. I was always permitted to see her
before."
"That was before," said the inspector, glancing at Nekhludoff.
"I have a pass from the Governor," Nekhludoff insisted, producing his
pocket-book.
"Let me see it," said the inspector, without looking in Nekhludoff's
eyes, and taking the document with his skinny, long, white hand, on
the index finger of which there was a gold ring, he slowly read it.
"Walk into the office, please," he said.
On this occasion there was no one in the office. The inspector seated
himself at the table, looking through the papers that lay on it,
evidently intending to stay through the meeting. When Nekhludoff asked
him if Bogodukhovskaia could be seen, he answered: "Visiting the
politicals is not allowed," and again buried his head in the papers.
When Maslova entered the room, the inspector raised his eyes, and,
without looking either at Maslova or Nekhludoff, said: "You may go
ahead," and continued to busy himself with his papers.
Maslova was again dressed in a white skirt, waist and 'kerchief.
Coming near Nekhludoff and seeing his cold, angry face, her own turned
a purple color, and, with downcast eyes, she began to pick a corner of
her waist. Her confusion Nekhludoff considered as confirmation of the
hospital porter's words.
So abhorent was she to him now that he _could not_ extend his hand to
her, as he desired.
[Illustration: WARDEN AND MATRON.]
"I bring you bad news," he said in an even voice, without looking at
her. "The Senate affirmed the verdict."
"I knew it would be so," she said in a strange voice, as if choking.
If it had happened before, Nekhludoff would have asked her why she
knew it; now he only looked at her. Her eyes were filled with tears,
but this not only did not soften him, but made him even more inflamed
against her.
The inspector rose and began to walk up and down the room.
Notwithstanding the abhorence Nekhludoff felt for Maslova, he thought
it proper to express his regret at the Senate's action.
"Do not despair," he said. "This petition may be more successful, and
I hope that----"
"Oh, it is not that," she said, looking at him with the tearful and
squinting eyes.
"What, then?"
"You have been in the hospital, and they must have told you there
about me."
"What of it? That is your business," frowning, Nekhludoff said with
indifference. The cruel feeling of offended pride rose in him with
greater force at her mention of the hospital. "I, a man of the world,
whom any girl of the upper class would be only too happy to marry,
offered to become the husband of that woman, and she could not wait,
but made love to the assistant surgeon," he thought, looking at her
with hatred.
"Sign this petition," he said, and, taking from his pocket a large
envelope, placed it on the table. She wiped her tears with a corner of
her 'kerchief, seated herself at the table, and asked him where to
sign.
He showed her where, and she, seating herself, smoothed with her left
hand the sleeve of the right. He stood over her, silently looking at
her back bent over the table, and now and then shaking from the sobs
she tried to suppress, and his soul was convulsed by a struggle
between good and evil, between offended pride and pity for her
sufferings. The feeling of pity conquered.
Whether it was the feeling of pity that first asserted itself, or the
recollection of his own deeds of the same character for which he
reproached her, he scarcely knew, but suddenly he felt himself guilty
and pitied her.
Having signed the petition and wiped her soiled fingers on her skirt,
she rose and glanced at him.
"Whatever the result, and no matter what happens, I shall keep my
word," said Nekhludoff.
The thought that he was forgiving her strengthened in him the feeling
of pity and tenderness for her, and he wished to console her.
"I will do what I said. I will be with you wherever you may be."
"That's no use," she hastened to say, and her face became radiant.
"Make note of what you need for the road."
"Nothing particular, I think. Thank you."
The inspector approached them, and Nekhludoff, without waiting to be
told that the time was up, took leave of her, experiencing a new
feeling of quiet happiness, calmness and love for all mankind. It was
the consciousness that no act of Maslova could alter his love for her
that raised his spirit and made him feel happy. Let her make love to
the assistant--that was her business. He loved her not for himself,
but for her and for God.
* * * * *
The love-making for which Maslova was expelled from the hospital, and
to which Nekhludoff gave credence, consisted only in that, when
Maslova, coming to the drug department for some pectoral herbs,
prescribed by her superior, she found there an assistant, named
Ustinoff. This Ustinoff had been pursuing her with his attentions for
a long time, and as he tried to embrace her she pushed him away with
such force that he struck the shelving, and two bottles came crashing
to the floor.
The chief physician was passing at the time, and, hearing the sound of
the breaking glass, and seeing Maslova running out, all flushed, he
angrily shouted to her:
"Well, girl, if you begin to flirt here, I will send you back. What is
the matter?" he turned to the assistant, sternly looking over his
spectacles.
The assistant, smiling, began to apologize. The doctor, without
hearing him to the last, raised his head so that he began to look
through the glasses, and walked into the ward. On the same day he
asked the inspector to send a more sedate nurse in place of Maslova.
Maslova's expulsion from the hospital on the ground of flirting was
particularly painful to her by reason of the fact that, after her
meeting with Nekhludoff, all association with men, which had _been_ so
repugnant to her, became even more disgusting.
The fact that, judging her by her past and present condition,
everybody, including the pimpled assistant, thought that they had the
right to insult her, and were surprised when she refused their
attentions, was very painful to her and called forth her tears and
pity for herself. Now, coming out to see Nekhludoff, she wished to
explain the injustice of the charge which he had probably heard. But
as she attempted to do so, she felt that he would not believe her;
that her explanation would only tend to corroborate the suspicion, and
her tears welled up in her throat, and she became silent.
Maslova was still thinking, and continued to assure herself that, as
she had told him on his second visit, she had not forgiven him; that
she hated him, but, in reality, she had long since begun to love him
again, and loved him so that she involuntarily carried out his wishes.
She ceased to drink and smoke, she gave up flirting, and willingly
went as servant to the hospital. All this she did because she knew he
wished it. Her repeated refusal to accept his sacrifice was partly due
to the fact that she wished to repeat those proud words which she had
once told him, and mainly because she knew that their marriage would
make him unhappy. She was firmly resolved not to accept his sacrifice,
and yet it was painful for her to think that he despised her; that he
thought her to be the same as she had been, and did not see the change
she was undergoing. The fact that he was at that moment thinking that
she did something wrong in the hospital pained her more than the news
that she was finally sentenced to hard labor.
CHAPTER XVIII.
Maslova might be sent away with the first party of exiles; hence
Nekhludoff was preparing for departure. But he had so many things to
attend to that he felt that he could never get through with them, no
matter how much time there might be left for preparations. It was
different in former times. Then it was necessary to devise something
to do, and the interest in all his affairs centered in Dmitri
Ivanovich Nekhludoff. But though all interest in life centered in
Dmitri Ivanovich, he always suffered from ennui. Now, however, all his
affairs related to people other than Dmitri Ivanovich, and were all
interesting and attractive, as well as inexhaustible.
Besides, formerly the occupation with the affairs of Dmitri Ivanovich
always caused vexation and irritation; while these affairs of others
for the most part put him in a happy mood.
Nekhludoff's affairs were now divided into three parts. He himself, in
his habitual pedantism, thus divided them, and according placed them
in three different portfolios.
The first was that of Maslova. This consisted in efforts to obtain a
successful result in the pending petition, and preparations for
departure to Siberia.
The second part related to the settlement of his estates. The Panov
land was granted to the peasants on condition of their paying a rent
to be used for common necessities. But, in order to complete that
arrangement, it was necessary to sign an agreement and also make his
will. The arrangement made for the Kusminskoie estate was to remain in
force, only there remained to be determined what part of the rent he
was to appropriate to himself, and what was to be left for the benefit
of the peasants. Without knowing what his necessary disbursements
would be on his trip to Siberia, he could not make up his mind to
deprive himself of his income, although he reduced it by one-half.
The third part related to aid to prisoners, who were now applying to
him more and more frequently.
At first, when written to for aid, he proceeded immediately to
intercede for the applicants, endeavoring to relieve their condition,
but in the end their number became so great that he found it
impossible to help every one, and was involuntarily brought to a
fourth matter, which had of late occupied him more than either of the
others.
His fourth concern consisted in solving the question, Why, how and
whence came that remarkable institution called the Criminal Court, to
which was due the existence of that prison, with the inmates of which
he had become somewhat familiar, and all those places of confinement,
beginning with the fortress dedicated to two saints, Peter and Paul,
and ending with the island of Saghalin, where hundreds and thousands
of victims of that wonderful criminal law were languishing?
From personal contact with prisoners, and from information received
from the lawyer, the prison chaplain, the inspector, and from the
prison register, Nekhludoff came to the conclusion that the prisoners,
so-called criminals, could be divided into five classes. The first
class consisted of people entirely innocent, victims of judicial
mistakes, such as that would-be incendiary, Menshov, or Maslova, and
others. There were comparatively few people of this class, according
to the observations of the chaplain--about seven per cent.--but their
condition attracted particular attention. The second class consisted
of people convicted for offenses committed under exceptional
circumstances, such as anger, jealousy, drunkenness, etc.--offenses
which, under similar circumstances, would almost invariably have been
committed by all those who judged and punished them. This class made
up, according to Nekhludoff's observations, more than one-half of all
the prisoners. To the third class belonged those who committed,
according to their own ideas, the most indifferent or even good acts,
but which were considered criminal by people--entire strangers to
them--who were making the laws. To this class belonged all those who
carried on a secret trade in wine, or were bringing in contraband
goods, or were picking herbs, or gathering wood, in private or
government forests. To this class also belonged the predatory
mountaineers.
The fourth class consisted of people who, according to Nekhludoff,
were reckoned among the criminals only because they were morally above
the average level of society. Among these the percentage of those who
resisted interference with their affairs, or were sentenced for
resisting the authorities, was very large.
The fifth class, finally, was composed of people who were more sinned
against by society than they sinned themselves. These were the
helpless people, blunted by constant oppression and temptation, like
that boy with the mats, and hundreds of others whom Nekhludoff saw
both in and out of prison, and the conditions of those whose lives
systematically drove them to the necessity of committing those acts
which are called crimes. To these people belonged, according to
Nekhludoff's observations, many thieves and murderers, with some of
whom Nekhludoff had come in contact. Among these Nekhludoff found, on
close acquaintance, those spoiled and depraved people whom the new
school calls the criminal type, and the existence of which in society
is given as the reason for the necessity of criminal law and
punishment. These so-called depraved types, deviating from the normal,
were, according to Nekhludoff, none other than those very people who
have sinned less against society than society has sinned against them,
and against whom society has sinned, not directly, but through their
ancestors.
Nekhludoff's attention was attracted by a habitual thief, Okhotin, who
came under this head. He was the son of a fallen woman; had grown up
in lodging-houses, and till the age of thirty had never met a moral
man. In childhood he had fallen in with a gang of thieves, but he
possessed a humorous vein which attracted people to him. While asking
Nekhludoff for aid he jested at himself, the judges, the prison and
all the laws, not only criminal, but even divine. There was also a
fine-looking man, Fedorff, who, in company with a gang of which he was
the leader, had killed and robbed an old official. This one was a
peasant whose father's house had been illegally taken from him, and
who, while in the army, suffered for falling in love with an officer's
mistress. He was attractive and passionate. His sole desire in life
was to enjoy himself, and he had never met any people who, out of any
consideration, tempered their passions, nor had he ever heard that
there was any other aim in life than personal enjoyment. It was plain
to Nekhludoff that these two were richly endowed by nature, and were
only neglected and mutilated as plants are sometimes neglected and
mutilated. He also came across a vagabond, and a woman, whose
stupidity and apparent cruelty were repulsive, but he failed to find
in them that criminal type spoken of by the Italian school. He only
saw in them people who were disagreeable to him personally, like some
he had met in dress-coats, uniforms, and laces.
Thus the investigation of the question: Why are people of such great
variety of character confined in prisons, while others, no different
than those, enjoy freedom and even judge those people? was the fourth
concern of Nekhludoff.
At first he hoped to find an answer to this question in books, and
bought every book bearing on the subject. He bought the works of
Lombroso, Garofalo, Ferri, Mandsley and Tard, and read them carefully.
But the more he read them, the greater was his disappointment. The
same thing happened with him that happens with people who appeal to
science with direct, simple, vital questions, and not with a view of
playing the part of an expounder, writer or teacher in it. Science
solved a thousand and one various abstruse, complicated questions
bearing on criminal law, but failed to give an answer to the question
he had formed. His question was very simple: Why and by what right do
some people confine, torture, exile, flog and kill other people no
different than they are themselves? And in answer they argued the
questions: Whether or not man is a free agent? Can a criminal be
distinguished by the measurements of his cranium? To what extent is
crime due to heredity? What is morality? What is insanity? What is
degeneracy? What is temperament? How does climate, food, ignorance,
emulation, hypnotism, passion affect crime? What is society? What are
its duties? etc., etc.
These arguments reminded Nekhludoff of an answer he had once received
from a schoolboy. He asked the boy whether he had learned the
declension of nouns. "Yes," answered the boy. "Well, then decline
'Paw.'" "What paw? A dog's paw?" the boy answered, with a sly
expression on his face. Similar answers in the form of questions
Nekhludoff found in scientific books to his one basic question.
He found there many wise, learned and interesting things, but there
was no answer to his principal question: By what right do some people
punish others? Not only was there no answer, but all reasoning tended
to explain and justify punishment, the necessity of which was
considered an axiom. Nekhludoff read much, but only by fits and
starts, and the want of an answer he ascribed to such superficial
reading. He, therefore, refused to believe in the justice of the
answer which constantly occurred to him.
CHAPTER XIX.
The deportation of the party of convicts to which Maslova belonged was
set for the fifth of July, and Nekhludoff was prepared to follow her
on that day. The day before his departure his sister, with her
husband, arrived in town to see him.
Nekhludoff's sister, Natalie Ivanovna Ragojhinsky, was ten years his
senior. He had grown up partly under her influence. She loved him when
he was a boy, and before her marriage they treated each other as
equals; she was twenty-five and he was fifteen. She had been in love
then with his deceased friend, Nikolenka Irtenieff. They both loved
Nikolenka, and loved in him and in themselves the good that was in
them, and which unifies all people.
Since that time they had both became corrupted--he by the bad life he
was leading; she by her marriage to a man whom she loved sensually,
but who not only did not love all that which she and Dimitri at one
time considered most holy and precious, but did not even understand
it, and all those aspirations to moral perfection and to serving
others, to which she had once devoted herself, he ascribed to
selfishness and a desire to show off before people.
Ragojhinsky was a man without reputation or fortune, but a clever
fortune hunter, who, by skillful manoeuvering between liberalism and
conservatism, availing himself of that dominating tendency which
promised bitter results in life, but principally by something peculiar
which attracted women to him, he succeeded in making a relatively
brilliant judicial career. He was already past his youth when he met
Nekhludoff abroad, made Natalie, who was also not very young, to fall
in love with him, and married her almost against the wish of her
mother, who said that it would be a mésalliance. Nekhludoff, although
he concealed it from himself and struggled against the feeling, hated
his brother-in-law. He disliked his vulgar feelings, his
self-confident narrowness of mind, but, principally, because of his
sister, who should so passionately, egotistically and sensually love
such a poor nature, and to please whom she should stifle all her noble
sentiments. It was always painful to Nekhludoff to think of Natalie as
the wife of that hairy, self-confident man, with shining bald head. He
could not even suppress his aversion to his children. And whenever he
heard that she was about to become a mother, he experienced a feeling
of compassion for her being again infected with something bad by the
man who was so unlike all of them.
The Ragojhinskys arrived without their children, and engaged the best
suite in the best hotel. Natalie Ivanovna immediately went to the old
home of her mother, and learning there that her brother had moved to
furnished rooms, she went to his new home. The dirty servant, meeting
her in the dark, ill-smelling corridor, which was lit up by a lamp
during the day, announced that the Prince was away.
Desiring to leave a note, Natalie Ivanovna was shown into his
apartments. She closely examined the two small rooms. She noticed in
every corner the familiar cleanliness and order, and she was struck by
the modesty of the appointments. On the writing table she saw a
familiar paper-press, with the bronze figure of a dog, neatly arranged
portfolios, papers, volumes of the Criminal Code and an English book
of Henry George, and a French one by Tard, between the leaves of which
was an ivory paper knife.
She left a note asking him to call on her the same evening, and,
shaking her head in wonder at what she had seen, returned to her
hotel.
There were two questions relating to her brother that interested
Natalie Ivanovna--his marriage to Katiousha, of which she had heard in
her city, where it was a matter of common gossip, and the distribution
by him of his land to the peasants, upon which some people looked as
something political and dangerous. From one point of view, she rather
liked the idea of his marrying Katiousha. She admired his resolution,
seeing in it herself and him as they had been before her marriage. At
the same time, she was horror-stricken at the thought that her brother
was to marry such an awful woman. The latter feeling was the stronger,
and she decided to dissuade him from marrying her, although she knew
how hard that would be.
The other affair, that of his parting with his land, she did not take
so close to heart, but her husband was indignant at such folly, and
demanded that she influence her brother to abandon the attempt.
Ignatius Nikiforovitch said that it was the height of inconsistency,
foolhardiness and pride; that such an act could only be explained, if
at all, by a desire to be odd, to have something to brag about, and to
make people talk about one's self.
"What sense is there in giving the land to the peasants and making
them pay rent to themselves?" he said. "If his mind was set on doing
it, he could sell them the land through the bank. There would be some
sense in that. Taking all in all, his act is very eccentric," said
Ignatius Nikiforovitch, already considering the necessity of a
guardianship, and he demanded that his wife should seriously speak to
her brother of this, his strange intention.
CHAPTER XX.
In the evening Nekhludoff went to his sister. Ignatius Nikiforovitch
was resting in another room, and Natalie Ivanovna alone met him. She
wore a tight-fitting black silk dress, with a knot of red ribbon, and
her hair was done up according to the latest fashion. She was
evidently making herself look young for her husband. Seeing her
brother, she quickly rose from the divan, and, rustling with her silk
skirt, she went out to meet him. They kissed and, smiling, looked at
each other. There was an exchange of those mysterious, significant
glances in which everything was truth; then followed an exchange of
words in which that truth was lacking. They had not met since the
death of their mother.
"You have grown stout and young," he said.
Her lips contracted with pleasure.
"And you have grown thin."
"Well, how is Ignatius Nikiforovitch?" asked Nekhludoff.
"He is resting. He has not slept all night."
A great deal should have been said here, but their words said nothing,
and their glances said that that which interested them most was left
unsaid.
"I have been at your lodging."
"Yes, I know it. I have moved from the house. I am so lonely and
weary. I do not need any of those things, so you take them--the
furniture--everything."
"Yes, Agrippina Petrovna told me. I have been there. I thank you very
much. But----"
At that moment the servant brought in a silver tea service. Natalie
Ivanovna busied herself with making the tea. Nekhludoff was silent.
"Well, Dimitri, I know everything," Natalie said, resolutely, glancing
at him.
"I am very glad that you know."
"Do you think it possible to reform her after such a life?"
He was sitting erect on a small chair, attentively listening to her,
prepared to answer satisfactorily her every question. He was still in
that frame of mind which, after his last meeting with Maslova, filled
his soul with tranquil happiness and love for all mankind.
"It is not her that I intend to reform, but myself," he answered.
Natalie Ivanovna sighed.
"There are other means besides marriage."
"And I think that that is the best. Besides, that will bring me into
that world in which I can be useful."
"I do not think," said Natalie Ivanovna, "that you could be happy."
"It is not a question of my happiness."
"Of course; but if she possesses a heart, she cannot be happy--she
cannot even desire it."
"She does not."
"I understand, but life--demands something different."
"Life only demands that we do what is right," said Nekhludoff, looking
at her face, still beautiful, although covered with fine wrinkles
around the eyes and mouth.
"Poor dear! How she has changed!" thought Nekhludoff, recalling
Natalie as she had been before her marriage, and a tender feeling,
woven of countless recollections of their childhood, rose in his
breast toward her.
At that moment Ignatius Nikiforovitch, as usual holding his head high
and projecting his broad chest, entered the room, with shining
eye-glasses, bald head and black beard.
"How do you do? How do you do?" he greeted Nekhludoff, unnaturally
accentuating his words.
They pressed each other's hand, and Ignatius Nikiforovitch lowered
himself into an arm-chair.
"Am I disturbing you?"
"No, I do not conceal anything I say or do from anybody."
As soon as Nekhludoff saw that face, those hairy hands and heard that
patronizing tone, his gentle disposition immediately disappeared.
"Yes, we have been speaking about his intention," said Natalie
Ivanovna. "Shall I pour out some tea for you?" she added, taking the
tea-pot.
"Yes, if you please. What intention do you refer to?"
"My intention of going to Siberia with that party of convicts, among
whom there is a woman I have wronged," said Nekhludoff.
"I heard that you intended more than that."
"Yes, and marry her, if she only desires it."
"I see! And may I ask you to explain your motives, if it is not
unpleasant to you? I do not understand them."
"My motives are that that woman--that the first step on her downward
career----" Nekhludoff became angry because he could not find the proper
expression. "My motives are that I am guilty, while she is punished."
"If she is punished, then she is also, probably, guilty."
"She is perfectly innocent."
And, with unnecessary agitation, Nekhludoff related the whole case.
"Yes, that was an omission by the presiding justice. But in such cases
there is the Senate."
"The Senate sustained the verdict."
"Ah, then there were no grounds of appeal," said Ignatius
Nikiforovitch, evidently sharing the well-known opinion that truth is
the product of court proceedings. "The Senate cannot go into the
merits of a case. But if there is really a judicial error, a petition
should be made to the Emperor."
"That was done, but there is no chance of success. Inquiries will be
made at the Ministry, which will refer them to the Senate, and the
Senate will repeat its decision, and, as usual, the innocent will be
punished."
"In the first place, the Ministry will not refer to the Senate," and
Ignatius Nikiforovitch smiled condescendingly, "but will call for all
the documents in the case, and, if it finds an error, will so decide.
In the second place, an innocent person is never, or, at least, very
seldom punished. Only the guilty is punished."
"And I am convinced that the contrary is true," said Nekhludoff, with
an unkind feeling toward his brother-in-law. "I am convinced that the
majority of the people convicted by courts are innocent."
"How so?"
"They are innocent in the ordinary sense of the word, as that woman
was innocent of poisoning; as that peasant is innocent of the murder
which he has not committed; as that mother and son are innocent of the
arson which was committed by the owner himself, and for which they
came near being convicted."
"Of course, there always have been and always will be judicial errors.
Human institutions cannot be perfect."
"And, then, a large part of the innocent, because they have been
brought up amid certain conditions, do not consider the acts committed
by them criminal."
"Pardon me; that is unfair. Every thief knows that stealing is wrong;
that theft is immoral," Ignatius Nikiforovitch said, with the calm,
self-confident, and, at the same time, somewhat contemptuous, smile
which particularly provoked Nekhludoff.
"No, he does not know. He is told not to steal, but he sees and knows
that the employers steal his labor, keep back his pay, and that the
officials are constantly robbing him."
"That is anarchism," Ignatius calmly defined the meaning of his
brother-in-law's words.
"I do not know what it is, but I am speaking of facts," Nekhludoff
continued. "He knows that the officials are robbing him. He knows that
we, the landlords, own the land which ought to be common property, and
when he gathers some twigs for his oven we send him to jail and try to
convince him that he is a thief."
"I do not understand, and if I do, I cannot agree with you. The land
cannot be nobody's property. If you divide it," Ignatius Nikiforovitch
began, being fully convinced that Nekhludoff was a socialist, and that
the theory of socialism demands that all the land should be divided
equally; that such division is foolish, and that he can easily refute
it. "If you should divide the land to-day, giving each inhabitant an
equal share, to-morrow it will again find its way into the hands of
the more industrious and able among them----"
"Nobody even thinks of dividing the land into equal shares. There
ought to be no property in land, and it ought not to be the subject of
purchase and sale or renting."
"The right of property is a natural right. Without property right
there would be no interest in cultivating the land. Destroy property
right and we will return to the condition of the savage,"
authoritatively said Ignatius Nikiforovitch.
"On the contrary, only then will land not lie idle, as it is now."
"But, Dimitri Ivanovich, it is perfect madness! Is it possible in our
time to destroy property in land? I know it is your old hobby. But
permit me to tell you plainly----" Ignatius Nikiforovitch turned pale
and his voice trembled. The question was evidently of particular
concern to him. "I would advise you to consider that question well
before attempting its practical solution."
"You are speaking of my personal affairs?"
"Yes. I assume that we are all placed in a certain position, and must
assume the duties that result from that position, must support those
conditions of existence into which we were born, which we have
inherited from our forefathers, and which we must hand over to our
posterity."
"I consider it my duty----"
"Excuse me," continued Ignatius Nikiforovitch, who would not be
interrupted. "I am not speaking of myself and my children. The fortune
of my children is secure, and I earn enough to live in easy
circumstances, and, therefore, my protest against your, permit me to
say, ill-considered actions is not based on personal interest, but on
principle. And I would advise you to give it a little more thought, to
read----"
"You had better let me decide my own affairs. I think I know what to
read and what not to read," said Nekhludoff, turning pale, and,
feeling that he could not control himself, became silent and began to
drink his tea.
CHAPTER XXI.
"Well, how are the children?" Nekhludoff asked his sister, having
calmed down.
Thus the unpleasant conversation was changed. Natalie became calm and
talked about her children. She would not speak, however, about those
things which only her brother understood in the presence of her
husband, and in order to continue the conversation she began to talk
of the latest news, the killing of Kanesky in the duel.
Ignatius Nikiforovitch expressed his disapproval of the condition of
things which excluded the killing in a duel from the category of
crimes.
His remark called forth Nekhludoff's reply, and a hot discussion
followed on the same subject, neither expressing fully his opinion,
and in the end they were again at loggerheads.
Ignatius Nikiforovitch felt that Nekhludoff condemned him, hating all
his activity, and he wished to prove the injustice of his reasoning.
Nekhludoff, on the other hand, to say nothing of the vexation caused
him by his brother-in-law's interference in his affairs (in the depth
of his soul he felt that his brother-in-law, his sister and their
children, as heirs, had the right to do so), was indignant at the calm
and confident manner of that narrow-minded man who continued to
consider legal and just that which to Nekhludoff was undoubtedly
foolish. This self-confidence irritated him.
"What should the court do?" asked Nekhludoff.
"Sentence one of the duelists, as it would a common murderer, to hard
labor."
Nekhludoff's hands again turned cold, and he continued with warmth:
"Well, what would be then?"
"Justice would be done."
"As if the aim of courts was to do justice!" said Nekhludoff.
"What else?"
"Their aim is to support class interests. Courts, according to my
idea, are only instruments for the perpetuation of conditions
profitable to our class."
"That is an entirely new view," said Ignatius Nikiforovitch, smiling
calmly. "Usually somewhat different aims are ascribed to courts."
"In theory, but not in practice, as I have learned. The only aim of
the courts is to preserve the existing state of things, and for this
reason they persecute and kill all those who are above the common
level and who wish to raise it as well as those who are below it."
"I cannot agree with the view that criminals are executed because they
are above the level of the average. For the most part they are the
excrescence of society, just as perverted, though in a different
manner, as are those criminal types whom you consider below the level
of the average."
"And I know people who are far above their judges."
But Ignatius Nikiforovitch, not accustomed to being interrupted when
speaking, did not listen to Nekhludoff, which was particularly
irritating to the latter, and continued to talk while Nekhludoff was
talking.
"I cannot agree with you that the aim of courts is to support the
existing order of things. The courts have their aims: either the
correction----"
"Prisons are great places for correction," Nekhludoff put in.
"Or the removal," persistently continued Ignatius Nikiforovitch, "of
those depraved and savage people who threaten the existence of
society."
"That is just where the trouble is. Courts can do neither the one nor
the other. Society has no means of doing it."
"How is that? I don't understand----" asked Ignatius Nikiforovitch, with
a forced smile.
"I mean to say that there are only two sensible modes of
punishment--those that have been used in olden times: corporal
punishment and capital punishment. But with the advance of
civilization they have gone out of existence."
"That is both new and surprising to hear from you."
"Yes, there is sense in inflicting pain on a man that he might not
repeat that for which the pain was inflicted; and it is perfectly
sensible to cut the head off a harmful and dangerous member of
society. But what sense is there in imprisoning a man, who is depraved
by idleness and bad example, and keeping him in secure and compulsory
idleness in the society of the most depraved people? Or to transport
him, for some reason, at an expense to the government of five hundred
roubles, from the District of Tula to the District of Irkutsk, or from
Kursk----"
"But people seem to fear these journeys at government expense. And
were it not for these journeys, we would not be sitting here as we are
sitting now."
"Prisons cannot secure our safety, because people are not imprisoned
for life, but are released. On the contrary, these institutions are
the greatest breeders of vice and corruption--_i. e._, they increase
the danger."
"You mean to say that the penitentiary system ought to be perfected?"
"It cannot be perfected. Perfected prisons would cost more than is
spent on popular education and would be a new burden on the populace."
"But the deficiencies of the penitentiary system do not invalidate the
judicial system," Ignatius Nikiforovitch again continued, without
listening to his brother-in-law.
"These deficiencies cannot be corrected," said Nekhludoff, raising
his voice.
"What then? Would you kill? Or, as a certain statesman suggested,
pluck out their eyes?" said Ignatius Nikiforovitch, smiling
triumphantly.
"Yes; that would be cruel, but expedient. What we are doing now is
both cruel and inexpedient."
"And I am taking part in it," said Ignatius Nikiforovitch, paling.
"That is your business. But I do not understand it."
"I think there are many things you do not understand," said Ignatius
Nikiforovitch, with a quiver in his voice.
"I saw a public prosecutor in court trying his utmost to convict an
unfortunate boy, who could only arouse compassion in any unperverted
man----"
"If I thought so, I should give up my position," said Ignatius
Nikiforovitch, rising.
Nekhludoff noticed a peculiar glitter under his brother-in-law's
eye-glasses. "Can it be tears?" thought Nekhludoff. They really were
tears. Ignatius Nikiforovitch was offended. Going toward the window,
he drew a handkerchief from his pocket, coughed, and began to wipe his
eye-glasses, and, removing them, he also wiped his eyes. Returning to
the couch, Ignatius Nikiforovitch lit a cigar and spoke no more.
Nekhludoff was pained and ashamed at the grief that he had caused his
brother-in-law and sister, especially as he was leaving the next day
and would not see them again. In great agitation he took leave of them
and departed.
"It is quite possible that what I said was true. At any rate, he did
not refute me. But it was wrong to speak that way. Little have I
changed if I could insult him and grieve poor Natalie," he thought.
CHAPTER XXII.
The party of convicts, which included Maslova, was to leave on the
three o'clock train, and in order to see them coming out of the prison
and follow them to the railroad station Nekhludoff decided to get to
the prison before twelve.
While packing his clothes and papers, Nekhludoff came across his
diary and began to read the entry he had made before leaving for St.
Petersburg. "Katiusha does not desire my sacrifice, but is willing to
sacrifice herself," it ran. "She has conquered, and I have conquered.
I am rejoicing at that inner change which she seems to me to be
undergoing. I fear to believe it, but it appears to me that she is
awakening." Immediately after this was the following entry: "I have
lived through a very painful and very joyous experience. I was told
that she had misbehaved in the hospital. It was very painful to hear
it. Did not think it would so affect me. Have spoken to her with
contempt and hatred, but suddenly remembered how often I myself have
been guilty--am even now, although only in thought, of that for which
I hated her, and suddenly I was seized with disgust for myself and
pity for her, and I became very joyful. If we would only see in time
the beam in our own eye, how much kinder we would be." Then he made
the following entry for the day: "Have seen Katiusha, and, because of
my self-content, was unkind and angry, and departed with a feeling of
oppression. But what can I do? A new life begins to-morrow. Farewell
to the old life! My mind is filled with numberless impressions, but I
cannot yet reduce them to order."
On awakening the following morning, Nekhludoff's first feeling was one
of sorrow for the unpleasant incident with his brother-in-law.
"I must go to see them," he thought, "and smooth it over."
But, looking at the clock, he saw that there was no time left, and
that he must hasten to the prison to see the departure of the
convicts. Hastily packing up his things and sending them to the depot,
Nekhludoff hired a trap and drove to the prison.
* * * * *
The hot July days had set in. The stones of the street, the houses,
and the tins of the roofs, failing to cool off during the suffocating
night, exhaled their warmth into the hot, still air. There was no
breeze, and such as rose every now and then was laden with dust and
the stench of oil paint. The few people that were on the streets
sought shelter in the shade of the houses. Only sun-burnt
street-pavers in bast shoes were sitting in the middle of the street,
setting boulders into the hot sand; gloomy policemen in unstarched
blouses and carrying revolvers attached to yellow cords, were lazily
shuffling about, and tram-cars with drawn blinds on the sides exposed
to the sun, and drawn by white-hooded horses, were running up and down
the street.
When Nekhludoff arrived at the prison, the formal delivery and
acceptance of the departing convicts, which began at four in the
morning, were still going on. The party consisted of six hundred and
twenty-three men and sixty-four women; all had to be counted, the weak
and sick had to be separated, and they were to be delivered to the
convoy. The new inspector, two assistants, a physician, his assistant,
the officer of the convoy and a clerk were sitting in the shade around
a table with papers and documents, calling and examining each convict
and making entries in their books.
One-half of the table was already exposed to the sun. It was getting
warm and close from want of air, and from the breathing of the
convicts standing near by.
"Will there ever be an end?" said a tall, stout, red-faced captain of
the convoy, incessantly smoking a cigarette and blowing the smoke
through the moustache which covered his mouth. "I am exhausted. Where
have you taken so many? How many more are there?"
The clerk consulted the books.
"Twenty-four men and the women."
"Why are you standing there? Come forward!" shouted the captain to the
crowding convicts.
The convicts had already been standing three hours in a broiling sun,
waiting their turn.
All this was taking place in the court-yard of the prison, while
without the prison stood the usual armed soldier, about two dozen
trucks for the baggage, and the infirm convicts, and on the corner a
crowd of relatives and friends of the convicts, waiting for a chance
to see the exiles as they emerged from the prison, and, if possible,
to have a last few words with them, or deliver some things they had
brought for them. Nekhludoff joined this crowd.
He stood there about an hour. At the end of the hour, from behind the
gates came the clatter of chains, the tramping of feet, voices of
command, coughing and the low conversation of a large crowd. This
lasted about five minutes, during which time prison officers flitted
in and out through the wicket. Finally there was heard a sharp
command.
The gates were noisily flung open, the clatter of the chains became
more distinct, and a detachment of guardsmen in white blouses and
shouldering guns marched forth and arranged themselves, evidently as a
customary manoeuvre, in a large semi-circle before the gates. Again
a command was heard, and the hard-labor convicts, in pairs, began to
pour out. With pancake-shaped caps on their shaved heads, and sacks on
their shoulders, they dragged their fettered legs, holding up the
sacks with one hand and waving the other. First came the men convicts,
all in gray trousers and long coats with diamond aces on their backs.
All of them--young, old, slim, stout, pale, and red-faced,
dark-haired, moustached, bearded and beardless, Russians, Tartars,
Jews--came, clanging their chains and briskly waving their hands as
though going on a long journey; but after making about ten steps they
stopped and humbly arranged themselves in rows of four. Immediately
behind these came another contingent, also with shaved heads and
similarly dressed, without leg-fetters, but handcuffed to each other.
These were exiles. They walked as briskly as the others, stopped, and
formed in rows of four. Then came the women in the same order, in gray
coats and 'kerchiefs, those sentenced to hard labor coming first; then
the exiles, and finally those voluntarily following their husbands, in
their native costumes. Some of the women carried infants under the
skirts of their coats.
Children--boys and girls--followed them on foot, hanging on to the
skirts of their mothers. The men stood silently, coughing now and
then, or exchanging remarks, while the women carried on incessant
conversation. Nekhludoff thought that he saw Maslova as she was coming
out, but she was soon lost in the large crowd, and he only saw a lot
of gray creatures almost deprived of all womanly features, with their
children and sacks, grouping themselves behind the men.
Although the convicts had been counted within the walls of the prison,
the guard began to count them over again. This counting took a long
time, because the convicts, moving from one place to another, confused
the count of the officers. The officers cursed and pushed the humbly
but angrily compliant convicts and counted them again. When the
counting was finally over, the officer of the guard gave some command,
and suddenly all became confusion in the crowd. Infirm men, women and
children hastened to the trucks, on which they first placed their
sacks, then climbed in themselves, the infants crying in their
mothers' arms, the children quarreling about the places, the men
looking gloomy and despondent.
Some of the convicts, removing their caps, approached the officer and
made some request. As Nekhludoff afterward learned, they were asking
to be taken on the wagons. The guard officer, without looking at the
applicants, silently inhaled the smoke of his cigarette, then suddenly
swung his short hand at one of the convicts that approached him, who
dodged and sprang back.
"I will elevate you to the nobility with a rope! You can walk!"
shouted the officer.
Only a tall, staggering old man in irons was permitted to ride on a
wagon. The old man removed his cap, and making the sign of the cross,
dragged himself to the wagon; but his fettered legs prevented his
climbing up until an old woman, sitting on the wagon, took his hand
and helped him in.
When all the wagons were loaded with sacks and those that were
permitted to ride, the guard officer uncovered his bald head, wiped
with a handkerchief his pate, forehead and red, stout neck, made the
sign of the cross, and gave command to proceed.
There was a clatter of weapons; the convicts, removing their caps,
began to make the sign of the cross, some with their left hands; the
escorting crowd shouted something, the convicts shouted in answer; a
great wailing arose among the women, and the party, surrounded by
soldiers in white blouses moved forward, raising a cloud of dust with
their fettered feet. They marched in the order in which they formed at
the prison gates, in rows of four, preceded by a detachment of
soldiers. The rear was brought up by the wagons loaded with the sacks
and the infirm. On top of one of the wagons, above all the others, sat
a woman, wrapped up in her coat and sobbing incessantly.
CHAPTER XXIII.
When Nekhludoff reached the railroad station the prisoners were
already seated in the cars, behind grated windows. There were a few
people on the platform, come to see their departing relatives, but
they were not allowed to come near the cars. The guards were greatly
troubled this day. On the way from the prison to the station five men
had died from sunstroke. Three of them had been taken to the nearest
police station from the street, while two were stricken at the
railroad station.[F] They were troubled not because five men had died
while under their guard. That did not bother them; but they were
chiefly concerned with doing all that the law required them to do
under the circumstances--to make proper transfer of the dead, their
papers and belongings, and to exclude them from the list of those that
were to be transferred to Nijhni, which was very troublesome,
especially on such a warm day.
This it was that occupied the convoy, and this was the reason why
Nekhludoff and others were not permitted to approach the cars while
the formalities were unfinished. However, upon bribing one of the
sergeants, Nekhludoff was permitted to come near the cars, the
sergeant asking him to do his errand so that the captain would not see
him. There were eighteen cars, and all, except the one reserved for
the authorities, were literally packed with prisoners. Passing by the
windows, Nekhludoff listened to the sounds within. Everywhere he heard
the rattling of chains, bustle, and the hum of conversation,
interspersed with stupid profanity; but nowhere did he hear, as he
expected, any reference to the dead comrades. Their conversation
related more to sacks, drinking-water, and the choice of seats.
Looking into the window of one of the cars, Nekhludoff saw some
guardsmen removing the handcuffs from the wrists of the prisoners. The
prisoners stretched out their hands, while one of the guards with a
key opened the locks of the handcuffs, which were collected by
another. When Nekhludoff reached the second car occupied by the women
he heard a woman's moan, "Oh, heavens! Oh, heavens!"