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This etext was prepared by Jim Tinsley
RESURRECTION
BY LEO TOLSTOY
Translated by
MRS. LOUISE MAUDE
TRANSLATOR'S PREFACE
Opinions about Tolstoy and his work differ, but on one point
there surely might be unanimity. A writer of world-wide
reputation should be at least allowed to know how to spell his
own name. Why should any one insist on spelling it "Tolstoi"
(with one, two or three dots over the "i"), when he himself
writes it "Tolstoy"? The only reason I have ever heard suggested
is, that in England and America such outlandish views are
attributed to him, that an outlandish spelling is desirable to
match those views.
This novel, written in the rough by Tolstoy some years ago and
founded upon an actual occurrence, was completely rewritten by
him during the last year and a half, and all the proceeds have
been devoted by him to aiding the Doukhobors, a sect who were
persecuted in the Caucasus (especially from 1895 to 1898) for
refusing to learn war. About seven thousand three hundred of them
are settled in Canada, and about a hundred of the leaders are
exiled to the remote parts of Siberia.
Anything I may receive for my work in translating the book will
go to the same cause. "Prevention is better than cure," and I
would rather help people to abstain from killing and wounding
each other than devote the money to patch up their wounds after
the battle.
LOUISE MAUDE
RESURRECTION
CHAPTER I.
MASLOVA IN PRISON.
Though hundreds of thousands had done their very best to
disfigure the small piece of land on which they were crowded
together, by paying the ground with stones, scraping away every
vestige of vegetation, cutting down the trees, turning away birds
and beasts, and filling the air with the smoke of naphtha and
coal, still spring was spring, even in the town.
The sun shone warm, the air was balmy; everywhere, where it did
not get scraped away, the grass revived and sprang up between the
paving-stones as well as on the narrow strips of lawn on the
boulevards. The birches, the poplars, and the wild cherry
unfolded their gummy and fragrant leaves, the limes were
expanding their opening buds; crows, sparrows, and pigeons,
filled with the joy of spring, were getting their nests ready;
the flies were buzzing along the walls, warmed by the sunshine.
All were glad, the plants, the birds, the insects, and the
children. But men, grown-up men and women, did not leave off
cheating and tormenting themselves and each other. It was not
this spring morning men thought sacred and worthy of
consideration not the beauty of God's world, given for a joy to
all creatures, this beauty which inclines the heart to peace, to
harmony, and to love, but only their own devices for enslaving
one another.
Thus, in the prison office of the Government town, it was not the
fact that men and animals had received the grace and gladness of
spring that was considered sacred and important, but that a
notice, numbered and with a superscription, had come the day
before, ordering that on this 28th day of April, at 9 a.m., three
prisoners at present detained in the prison, a man and two women
(one of these women, as the chief criminal, to be conducted
separately), had to appear at Court. So now, on the 28th of
April, at 8 o'clock, a jailer and soon after him a woman warder
with curly grey hair, dressed in a jacket with sleeves trimmed
with gold, with a blue-edged belt round her waist, and having a
look of suffering on her face, came into the corridor.
"You want Maslova?" she asked, coming up to the cell with the
jailer who was on duty.
The jailer, rattling the iron padlock, opened the door of the
cell, from which there came a whiff of air fouler even than that
in the corridor, and called out, "Maslova! to the Court," and
closed the door again.
Even into the prison yard the breeze had brought the fresh
vivifying air from the fields. But in the corridor the air was
laden with the germs of typhoid, the smell of sewage,
putrefaction, and tar; every newcomer felt sad and dejected in
it. The woman warder felt this, though she was used to bad air.
She had just come in from outside, and entering the corridor, she
at once became sleepy.
From inside the cell came the sound of bustle and women's voices,
and the patter of bare feet on the floor.
"Now, then, hurry up, Maslova, I say!" called out the jailer, and
in a minute or two a small young woman with a very full bust came
briskly out of the door and went up to the jailer. She had on a
grey cloak over a white jacket and petticoat. On her feet she
wore linen stockings and prison shoes, and round her head was
tied a white kerchief, from under which a few locks of black hair
were brushed over the forehead with evident intent. The face of
the woman was of that whiteness peculiar to people who have lived
long in confinement, and which puts one in mind of shoots of
potatoes that spring up in a cellar. Her small broad hands and
full neck, which showed from under the broad collar of her cloak,
were of the same hue. Her black, sparkling eyes, one with a
slight squint, appeared in striking contrast to the dull pallor
of her face.
She carried herself very straight, expanding her full bosom.
With her head slightly thrown back, she stood in the corridor,
looking straight into the eyes of the jailer, ready to comply
with any order.
The jailer was about to lock the door when a wrinkled and
severe-looking old woman put out her grey head and began speaking
to Maslova. But the jailer closed the door, pushing the old
woman's head with it. A woman's laughter was heard from the cell,
and Maslova smiled, turning to the little grated opening in the
cell door. The old woman pressed her face to the grating from the
other side, and said, in a hoarse voice:
"Now mind, and when they begin questioning you, just repeat over
the same thing, and stick to it; tell nothing that is not
wanted."
"Well, it could not be worse than it is now, anyhow; I only wish
it was settled one way or another."
"Of course, it will be settled one way or another," said the
jailer, with a superior's self-assured witticism. "Now, then, get
along! Take your places!"
The old woman's eyes vanished from the grating, and Maslova
stepped out into the middle of the corridor. The warder in front,
they descended the stone stairs, past the still fouler, noisy
cells of the men's ward, where they were followed by eyes looking
out of every one of the gratings in the doors, and entered the
office, where two soldiers were waiting to escort her. A clerk
who was sitting there gave one of the soldiers a paper reeking of
tobacco, and pointing to the prisoner, remarked, "Take her."
The soldier, a peasant from Nijni Novgorod, with a red,
pock-marked face, put the paper into the sleeve of his coat,
winked to his companion, a broad-shouldered Tchouvash, and then
the prisoner and the soldiers went to the front entrance, out of
the prison yard, and through the town up the middle of the
roughly-paved street.
Isvostchiks [cabmen], tradespeople, cooks, workmen,
and government clerks, stopped and looked curiously at the
prisoner; some shook their heads and thought, "This is what evil
conduct, conduct unlike ours, leads to." The children stopped and
gazed at the robber with frightened looks; but the thought that
the soldiers were preventing her from doing more harm quieted
their fears. A peasant, who had sold his charcoal, and had had
some tea in the town, came up, and, after crossing himself, gave
her a copeck. The prisoner blushed and muttered something; she
noticed that she was attracting everybody's attention, and that
pleased her. The comparatively fresh air also gladdened her, but
it was painful to step on the rough stones with the ill-made
prison shoes on her feet, which had become unused to walking.
Passing by a corn-dealer's shop, in front of which a few pigeons
were strutting about, unmolested by any one, the prisoner almost
touched a grey-blue bird with her foot; it fluttered up and flew
close to her car, fanning her with its wings. She smiled, then
sighed deeply as she remembered her present position.
CHAPTER II.
MASLOVA'S EARLY LIFE.
The story of the prisoner Maslova's life was a very common one.
Maslova's mother was the unmarried daughter of a village woman,
employed on a dairy farm, which belonged to two maiden ladies who
were landowners. This unmarried woman had a baby every year, and,
as often happens among the village people, each one of these
undesired babies, after it had been carefully baptised, was
neglected by its mother, whom it hindered at her work, and left
to starve. Five children had died in this way. They had all been
baptised and then not sufficiently fed, and just left to die.
The sixth baby, whose father was a gipsy tramp, would have shared
the same fate, had it not so happened that one of the maiden
ladies came into the farmyard to scold the dairymaids for sending
up cream that smelt of the cow. The young woman was lying in the
cowshed with a fine, healthy, new-born baby. The old maiden lady
scolded the maids again for allowing the woman (who had just been
confined) to lie in the cowshed, and was about to go away, but
seeing the baby her heart was touched, and she offered to stand
godmother to the little girl, and pity for her little
god-daughter induced her to give milk and a little money to the
mother, so that she should feed the baby; and the little girl
lived. The old ladies spoke of her as "the saved one." When the
child was three years old, her mother fell ill and died, and the
maiden ladies took the child from her old grandmother, to whom
she was nothing but a burden.
The little black-eyed maiden grew to be extremely pretty, and so
full of spirits that the ladies found her very entertaining.
The younger of the ladies, Sophia Ivanovna, who had stood
godmother to the girl, had the kinder heart of the two sisters;
Maria Ivanovna, the elder, was rather hard. Sophia Ivanovna
dressed the little girl in nice clothes, and taught her to read
and write, meaning to educate her like a lady. Maria Ivanovna
thought the child should be brought up to work, and trained her
to be a good servant. She was exacting; she punished, and, when
in a bad temper, even struck the little girl. Growing up under
these two different influences, the girl turned out half servant,
half young lady. They called her Katusha, which sounds less
refined than Katinka, but is not quite so common as Katka. She
used to sew, tidy up the rooms, polish the metal cases of the
icons and do other light work, and sometimes she sat and read to
the ladies.
Though she had more than one offer, she would not marry. She felt
that life as the wife of any of the working men who were courting
her would be too hard; spoilt as she was by a life of case.
She lived in this manner till she was sixteen, when the nephew of
the old ladies, a rich young prince, and a university student,
came to stay with his aunts, and Katusha, not daring to
acknowledge it even to herself, fell in love with him.
Then two years later this same nephew stayed four days with his
aunts before proceeding to join his regiment, and the night
before he left he betrayed Katusha, and, after giving her a
100-rouble note, went away. Five months later she knew for
certain that she was to be a mother. After that everything seemed
repugnant to her, her only thought being how to escape from the
shame that awaited her. She began not only to serve the ladies in
a half-hearted and negligent way, but once, without knowing how
it happened, was very rude to them, and gave them notice, a thing
she repented of later, and the ladies let her go, noticing
something wrong and very dissatisfied with her. Then she got a
housemaid's place in a police-officer's house, but stayed there
only three months, for the police officer, a man of fifty, began
to torment her, and once, when he was in a specially enterprising
mood, she fired up, called him "a fool and old devil," and gave
him such a knock in the chest that he fell. She was turned out
for her rudeness. It was useless to look for another situation,
for the time of her confinement was drawing near, so she went to
the house of a village midwife, who also sold wine. The
confinement was easy; but the midwife, who had a case of fever in
the village, infected Katusha, and her baby boy had to be sent to
the foundlings' hospital, where, according to the words of the
old woman who took him there, he at once died. When Katusha went
to the midwife she had 127 roubles in all, 27 which she had
earned and 100 given her by her betrayer. When she left she had
but six roubles; she did not know how to keep money, but spent it
on herself, and gave to all who asked. The midwife took 40
roubles for two months' board and attendance, 25 went to get the
baby into the foundlings' hospital, and 40 the midwife borrowed
to buy a cow with. Twenty roubles went just for clothes and
dainties. Having nothing left to live on, Katusha had to look out
for a place again, and found one in the house of a forester. The
forester was a married man, but he, too, began to annoy her from
the first day. He disgusted her, and she tried to avoid him. But
he, more experienced and cunning, besides being her master, who
could send her wherever he liked, managed to accomplish his
object. His wife found it out, and, catching Katusha and her
husband in a room all by themselves, began beating her. Katusha
defended herself, and they had a fight, and Katusha got turned
out of the house without being paid her wages.
Then Katusha went to live with her aunt in town. The aunt's
husband, a bookbinder, had once been comfortably off, but had
lost all his customers, and had taken to drink, and spent all he
could lay hands on at the public-house. The aunt kept a little
laundry, and managed to support herself, her children, and her
wretched husband. She offered Katusha the place of an assistant
laundress; but seeing what a life of misery and hardship her
aunt's assistants led, Katusha hesitated, and applied to a
registry office for a place. One was found for her with a lady
who lived with her two sons, pupils at a public day school. A
week after Katusha had entered the house the elder, a big fellow
with moustaches, threw up his studies and made love to her,
continually following her about. His mother laid all the blame on
Katusha, and gave her notice.
It so happened that, after many fruitless attempts to find a
situation, Katusha again went to the registry office, and there
met a woman with bracelets on her bare, plump arms and rings on
most of her fingers. Hearing that Katusha was badly in want of a
place, the woman gave her her address, and invited her to come to
her house. Katusha went. The woman received her very kindly, set
cake and sweet wine before her, then wrote a note and gave it to
a servant to take to somebody. In the evening a tall man, with
long, grey hair and a white beard, entered the room, and sat down
at once near Katusha, smiling and gazing at her with glistening
eyes. He began joking with her. The hostess called him away into
the next room, and Katusha heard her say, "A fresh one from the
country," Then the hostess called Katusha aside and told her that
the man was an author, and that he had a great deal of money, and
that if he liked her he would not grudge her anything. He did
like her, and gave her 25 roubles, promising to see her often.
The 25 roubles soon went; some she paid to her aunt for board and
lodging; the rest was spent on a hat, ribbons, and such like. A
few days later the author sent for her, and she went. He gave her
another 25 roubles, and offered her a separate lodging.
Next door to the lodging rented for her by the author there lived
a jolly young shopman, with whom Katusha soon fell in love. She
told the author, and moved to a little lodging of her own. The
shopman, who promised to marry her, went to Nijni on business
without mentioning it to her, having evidently thrown her up, and
Katusha remained alone. She meant to continue living in the
lodging by herself, but was informed by the police that in this
case she would have to get a license. She returned to her aunt.
Seeing her fine dress, her hat, and mantle, her aunt no longer
offered her laundry work. As she understood things, her niece had
risen above that sort of thing. The question as to whether she
was to become a laundress or not did not occur to Katusha,
either. She looked with pity at the thin, hard-worked
laundresses, some already in consumption, who stood washing or
ironing with their thin arms in the fearfully hot front room,
which was always full of soapy steam and draughts from the
windows, and thought with horror that she might have shared the
same fate.
Katusha had begun to smoke some time before, and since the young
shopman had thrown her up she was getting more and more into the
habit of drinking. It was not so much the flavour of wine that
tempted her as the fact that it gave her a chance of forgetting
the misery she suffered, making her feel more unrestrained and
more confident of her own worth, which she was not when quite
sober; without wine she felt sad and ashamed. Just at this time a
woman came along who offered to place her in one of the largest
establishments in the city, explaining all the advantages and
benefits of the situation. Katusha had the choice before her of
either going into service or accepting this offer - and she chose
the latter. Besides, it seemed to her as though, in this way, she
could revenge herself on her betrayer and the shopman and all
those who had injured her. One of the things that tempted her,
and was the cause of her decision, was the woman telling her she
might order her own dresses - velvet, silk, satin, low-necked ball
dresses, anything she liked. A mental picture of herself in a
bright yellow silk trimmed with black velvet with low neck and
short sleeves conquered her, and she gave up her passport. On the
same evening the procuress took an isvostchik and drove her to
the notorious house kept by Carolina Albertovna Kitaeva.
From that day a life of chronic sin against human and divine laws
commenced for Katusha Maslova, a life which is led by hundreds of
thousands of women, and which is not merely tolerated but
sanctioned by the Government, anxious for the welfare of its
subjects; a life which for nine women out of ten ends in painful
disease, premature decrepitude, and death.
Katusha Maslova lived this life for seven years. During these
years she twice changed houses, and had once been to the
hospital. In the seventh year of this life, when she was
twenty-six years old, happened that for which she was put in
prison and for which she was now being taken to be tried, after
more than three months of confinement with thieves and murderers
in the stifling air of a prison.
CHAPTER III.
NEKHLUDOFF.
When Maslova, wearied out by the long walk, reached the building,
accompanied by two soldiers, Prince Dmitri Ivanovitch Nekhludoff,
who had seduced her, was still lying on his high bedstead, with a
feather bed on the top of the spring mattress, in a fine, clean,
well-ironed linen night shirt, smoking a cigarette, and
considering what he had to do to-day, and what had happened
yesterday.
Recalling the evening he had spent with the Korchagins, a wealthy
and aristocratic family, whose daughter every one expected he
would marry, he sighed, and, throwing away the end of his
cigarette, was going to take another out of the silver case; but,
changing his mind, he resolutely raised his solid frame, and,
putting down his smooth, white legs, stepped into his slippers,
threw his silk dressing gown over his broad shoulders, and passed
into his dressing-room, walking heavily and quickly. There he
carefully cleaned his teeth, many of which were filled, with
tooth powder, and rinsed his mouth with scented elixir. After
that he washed his hands with perfumed soap, cleaned his long
nails with particular care, then, from a tap fixed to his marble
washstand, he let a spray of cold water run over his face and
stout neck. Having finished this part of the business, he went
into a third room, where a shower bath stood ready for him.
Having refreshed his full, white, muscular body, and dried it
with a rough bath sheet, he put on his fine undergarments and his
boots, and sat down before the glass to brush his black beard and
his curly hair, that had begun to get thin above the forehead.
Everything he used, everything belonging to his toilet, his
linen, his clothes, boots, necktie, pin, studs, was of the best
quality, very quiet, simple, durable and costly.
Nekhludoff dressed leisurely, and went into the dining-room. A
table, which looked very imposing with its four legs carved in
the shape of lions' paws, and a huge side-board to match, stood
in the oblong room, the floor of which had been polished by three
men the day before. On the table, which was covered with a fine,
starched cloth, stood a silver coffeepot full of aromatic coffee,
a sugar basin, a jug of fresh cream, and a bread basket filled
with fresh rolls, rusks, and biscuits; and beside the plate lay
the last number of the _Revue des Deux Mondes_, a newspaper, and
several letters.
Nekhludoff was just going to open his letters, when a stout,
middle-aged woman in mourning, a lace cap covering the widening
parting of her hair, glided into the room. This was Agraphena
Petrovna, formerly lady's maid to Nekhludoff's mother. Her
mistress had died quite recently in this very house, and she
remained with the son as his housekeeper. Agraphena Petrovna had
spent nearly ten years, at different times, abroad with
Nekhludoff's mother, and had the appearance and manners of a
lady. She had lived with the Nekhludoffs from the time she was a
child, and had known Dmitri Ivanovitch at the time when he was
still little Mitinka.
"Good-morning, Dmitri Ivanovitch."
"Good-morning, Agraphena Petrovna. What is it you want?"
Nekhludoff asked.
"A letter from the princess; either from the mother or the
daughter. The maid brought it some time ago, and is waiting in my
room," answered Agraphena Petrovna, handing him the letter with a
significant smile.
"All right! Directly!" said Nekhludoff, taking the letter and
frowning as he noticed Agraphena Petrovna's smile.
That smile meant that the letter was from the younger Princess
Korchagin, whom Agraphena Petrovna expected him to marry. This
supposition of hers annoyed Nekhludoff.
"Then I'll tell her to wait?" and Agraphena Petrovna took a crumb
brush which was not in its place, put it away, and sailed out of
the room.
Nekhludoff opened the perfumed note, and began reading it.
The note was written on a sheet of thick grey paper, with rough
edges; the writing looked English. It said:
Having assumed the task of acting as your memory, I take the
liberty of reminding you that on this the 28th day of April you
have to appear at the Law Courts, as juryman, and, in
consequence, can on no account accompany us and Kolosoff to the
picture gallery, as, with your habitual flightiness, you promised
yesterday; _a moins que vous ne soyez dispose a payer la cour
d'assise les 300 roubles d'amende que vous vous refusez pour
votre cheval,_ for not appearing in time. I remembered it last
night after you were gone, so do not forget.
Princess M. Korchagin.
On the other side was a postscript.
_Maman vous fait dire que votre convert vous attendra jusqu'a
la nuit. Venez absolument a quelle heure que cela soit._
M. K.
Nekhludoff made a grimace. This note was a continuation of that
skilful manoeuvring which the Princess Korchagin had already
practised for two months in order to bind him closer and closer
with invisible threads. And yet, beside the usual hesitation of
men past their youth to marry unless they are very much in love,
Nekhludoff had very good reasons why, even if he did make up his
mind to it, he could not propose at once. It was not that ten
years previously he had betrayed and forsaken Maslova; he had
quite forgotten that, and he would not have considered it a
reason for not marrying. No! The reason was that he had a liaison
with a married woman, and, though he considered it broken off,
she did not.
Nekhludoff was rather shy with women, and his very shyness
awakened in this married woman, the unprincipled wife of the
marechal de noblesse of a district where Nekhludoff was present
at an election, the desire of vanquishing him. This woman drew
him into an intimacy which entangled him more and more, while it
daily became more distasteful to him. Having succumbed to the
temptation, Nekhludoff felt guilty, and had not the courage to
break the tie without her consent. And this was the reason he did
not feel at liberty to propose to Korchagin even if he had wished
to do so. Among the letters on the table was one from this
woman's husband. Seeing his writing and the postmark, Nekhludoff
flushed, and felt his energies awakening, as they always did when
he was facing any kind of danger.
But his excitement passed at once. The marechal do noblesse, of
the district in which his largest estate lay, wrote only to let
Nekhludoff know that there was to be a special meeting towards
the end of May, and that Nekhludoff was to be sure and come to
"_donner un coup d'epaule_," at the important debates concerning
the schools and the roads, as a strong opposition by the
reactionary party was expected.
The marechal was a liberal, and was quite engrossed in this
fight, not even noticing the misfortune that had befallen him.
Nekhludoff remembered the dreadful moments he had lived through;
once when he thought that the husband had found him out and was
going to challenge him, and he was making up his mind to fire
into the air; also the terrible scene he had with her when she
ran out into the park, and in her excitement tried to drown
herself in the pond.
"Well, I cannot go now, and can do nothing until I get a reply
from her," thought Nekhludoff. A week ago he had written her a
decisive letter, in which he acknowledged his guilt, and his
readiness to atone for it; but at the same time he pronounced
their relations to be at an end, for her own good, as he
expressed it. To this letter he had as yet received no answer.
This might prove a good sign, for if she did not agree to break
off their relations, she would have written at once, or even come
herself, as she had done before. Nekhludoff had heard that there
was some officer who was paying her marked attention, and this
tormented him by awakening jealousy, and at the same time
encouraged him with the hope of escape from the deception that
was oppressing him.
The other letter was from his steward. The steward wrote to tell
him that a visit to his estates was necessary in order to enter
into possession, and also to decide about the further management
of his lands; whether it was to continue in the same way as when
his mother was alive, or whether, as he had represented to the
late lamented princess, and now advised the young prince, they
had not better increase their stock and farm all the land now
rented by the peasants themselves. The steward wrote that this
would be a far more profitable way of managing the property; at
the same time, he apologised for not having forwarded the 3,000
roubles income due on the 1st. This money would be sent on by the
next mail. The reason for the delay was that he could not get the
money out of the peasants, who had grown so untrustworthy that he
had to appeal to the authorities. This letter was partly
disagreeable, and partly pleasant. It was pleasant to feel that
he had power over so large a property, and yet disagreeable,
because Nekhludoff had been an enthusiastic admirer of Henry
George and Herbert Spencer. Being himself heir to a large
property, he was especially struck by the position taken up by
Spencer in Social Statics, that justice forbids private
landholding, and with the straightforward resoluteness of his
age, had not merely spoken to prove that land could not be looked
upon as private property, and written essays on that subject at
the university, but had acted up to his convictions, and,
considering it wrong to hold landed property, had given the small
piece of land he had inherited from his father to the peasants.
Inheriting his mother's large estates, and thus becoming a landed
proprietor, he had to choose one of two things: either to give up
his property, as he had given up his father's land ten years
before, or silently to confess that all his former ideas were
mistaken and false.
He could not choose the former because he had no means but the
landed estates (he did not care to serve); moreover, he had
formed luxurious habits which he could not easily give up.
Besides, he had no longer the same inducements; his strong
convictions, the resoluteness of youth, and the ambitious desire
to do something unusual were gone. As to the second course, that
of denying those clear and unanswerable proofs of the injustice
of landholding, which he had drawn from Spencer's Social Statics,
and the brilliant corroboration of which he had at a later period
found in the works of Henry George, such a course was impossible
to him.
CHAPTER IV.
MISSY.
When Nekhludoff had finished his coffee, he went to his study to
look at the summons, and find out what time he was to appear at
the court, before writing his answer to the princess. Passing
through his studio, where a few studies hung on the walls and,
facing the easel, stood an unfinished picture, a feeling of
inability to advance in art, a sense of his incapacity, came over
him. He had often had this feeling, of late, and explained it by
his too finely-developed aesthetic taste; still, the feeling was
a very unpleasant one. Seven years before this he had given up
military service, feeling sure that he had a talent for art, and
had looked down with some disdain at all other activity from the
height of his artistic standpoint. And now it turned out that he
had no right to do so, and therefore everything that reminded him
of all this was unpleasant. He looked at the luxurious fittings
of the studio with a heavy heart, and it was in no cheerful mood
that he entered his study, a large, lofty room fitted up with a
view to comfort, convenience, and elegant appearance. He found
the summons at once in a pigeon hole, labelled "immediate," of
his large writing table. He had to appear at the court at 11
o'clock.
Nekhludoff sat down to write a note in reply to the princess,
thanking her for the invitation, and promising to try and come to
dinner. Having written one note, he tore it up, as it seemed too
intimate. He wrote another, but it was too cold; he feared it
might give offence, so he tore it up, too. He pressed the button
of an electric bell, and his servant, an elderly, morose-looking
man, with whiskers and shaved chin and lip, wearing a grey cotton
apron, entered at the door.
"Send to fetch an isvostchik, please."
"Yes, sir."
"And tell the person who is waiting that I send thanks for the
invitation, and shall try to come."
"Yes, sir."
"It is not very polite, but I can't write; no matter, I shall see
her today," thought Nekhludoff, and went to get his overcoat.
When he came out of the house, an isvostchik he knew, with
india-rubber tires to his trap, was at the door waiting for him.
"You had hardly gone away from Prince Korchagin's yesterday," he
said, turning half round, "when I drove up, and the Swiss at the
door says, 'just gone.'" The isvostchik knew that Nekhludoff
visited at the Korchagins, and called there on the chance of
being engaged by him.
"Even the isvostchiks know of my relations with the Korchagins,"
thought Nekhludoff, and again the question whether he should not
marry Princess Korchagin presented itself to him, and he could
not decide it either way, any more than most of the questions
that arose in his mind at this time.
It was in favour of marriage in general, that besides the
comforts of hearth and home, it made a moral life possible, and
chiefly that a family would, so Nekhludoff thought, give an aim
to his now empty life.
Against marriage in general was the fear, common to bachelors
past their first youth, of losing freedom, and an unconscious awe
before this mysterious creature, a woman.
In this particular case, in favour of marrying Missy (her name
was Mary, but, as is usual among a certain set, a nickname had
been given her) was that she came of good family, and differed in
everything, manner of speaking, walking, laughing, from the
common people, not by anything exceptional, but by her "good
breeding" - he could find no other term for this quality, though
he prized it very highly - -and, besides, she thought more of him
than of anybody else, therefore evidently understood him. This
understanding of him, i.e., the recognition of his superior
merits, was to Nekhludoff a proof of her good sense and correct
judgment. Against marrying Missy in particular, was, that in all
likelihood, a girl with even higher qualities could be found,
that she was already 27, and that he was hardly her first love.
This last idea was painful to him. His pride would not reconcile
itself with the thought that she had loved some one else, even in
the past. Of course, she could not have known that she should
meet him, but the thought that she was capable of loving another
offended him. So that he had as many reasons for marrying as
against it; at any rate, they weighed equally with Nekhludoff,
who laughed at himself, and called himself the ass of the fable,
remaining like that animal undecided which haycock to turn to.
"At any rate, before I get an answer from Mary Vasilievna (the
marechal's wife), and finish completely with her, I can do
nothing," he said to himself. And the conviction that he might,
and was even obliged, to delay his decision, was comforting.
"Well, I shall consider all that later on," he said to himself,
as the trap drove silently along the asphalt pavement up to the
doors of the Court.
"Now I must fulfil my public duties conscientiously, as I am in
the habit of always doing, and as I consider it right to do.
Besides, they are often interesting." And he entered the hall of
the Law Courts, past the doorkeeper.
CHAPTER V.
THE JURYMEN.
The corridors of the Court were already full of activity. The
attendants hurried, out of breath, dragging their feet along the
ground without lifting them, backwards and forwards, with all
sorts of messages and papers. Ushers, advocates, and law officers
passed hither and thither. Plaintiffs, and those of the accused
who were not guarded, wandered sadly along the walls or sat
waiting.
"Where is the Law Court?" Nekhludoff asked of an attendant.
"Which? There is the Civil Court and the Criminal Court."
"I am on the jury."
"The Criminal Court you should have said. Here to the right, then
to the left - the second door."
Nekhludoff followed the direction.
Meanwhile some of the Criminal Court jurymen who were late had
hurriedly passed into a separate room. At the door mentioned two
men stood waiting.
One, a tall, fat merchant, a kind-hearted fellow, had evidently
partaken of some refreshments and a glass of something, and was
in most pleasant spirits. The other was a shopman of Jewish
extraction. They were talking about the price of wool when
Nekhludoff came up and asked them if this was the jurymen's room.
"Yes, my dear sir, this is it. One of us? On the jury, are you?"
asked the merchant, with a merry wink.
"Ah, well, we shall have a go at the work together," he
continued, after Nekhludoff had answered in the affirmative. "My
name is Baklasheff, merchant of the Second Guild," he said,
putting out his broad, soft, flexible hand.
"With whom have I the honour?"
Nekhludoff gave his name and passed into the jurymen's room.
Inside the room were about ten persons of all sorts. They had
come but a short while ago, and some were sitting, others walking
up and down, looking at each other, and making each other's
acquaintance. There was a retired colonel in uniform; some were
in frock coats, others in morning coats, and only one wore a
peasant's dress.
Their faces all had a certain look of satisfaction at the
prospect of fulfilling a public duty, although many of them had
had to leave their businesses, and most were complaining of it.
The jurymen talked among themselves about the weather, the early
spring, and the business before them, some having been
introduced, others just guessing who was who. Those who were not
acquainted with Nekhludoff made haste to get introduced,
evidently looking upon this as an honour, and he taking it as his
due, as he always did when among strangers. Had he been asked why
he considered himself above the majority of people, he could not
have given an answer; the life he had been living of late was not
particularly meritorious. The fact of his speaking English,
French, and German with a good accent, and of his wearing the
best linen, clothes, ties, and studs, bought from the most
expensive dealers in these goods, he quite knew would not serve
as a reason for claiming superiority. At the same time he did
claim superiority, and accepted the respect paid him as his due,
and was hurt if he did not get it. In the jurymen's room his
feelings were hurt by disrespectful treatment. Among the jury
there happened to be a man whom he knew, a former teacher of his
sister's children, Peter Gerasimovitch. Nekhludoff never knew his
surname, and even bragged a bit about this. This man was now a
master at a public school. Nekhludoff could not stand his
familiarity, his self-satisfied laughter, his vulgarity, in
short.
"Ah ha! You're also trapped." These were the words, accompanied
with boisterous laughter, with which Peter Gerasimovitch greeted
Nekhludoff. "Have you not managed to get out of it?"
"I never meant to get out of it," replied Nekhludoff, gloomily,
and in a tone of severity.
"Well, I call this being public spirited. But just wait until you
get hungry or sleepy; you'll sing to another tune then."
"This son of a priest will be saying 'thou' [in Russian, as in
many other languages, "thou" is used generally among people very
familiar with each other, or by superiors to inferiors] to me
next," thought Nekhludoff, and walked away, with such a look of
sadness on his face, as might have been natural if he had just
heard of the death of all his relations. He came up to a group
that had formed itself round a clean-shaven, tall, dignified man,
who was recounting something with great animation. This man was
talking about the trial going on in the Civil Court as of a case
well known to himself, mentioning the judges and a celebrated
advocate by name. He was saying that it seemed wonderful how the
celebrated advocate had managed to give such a clever turn to the
affair that an old lady, though she had the right on her side,
would have to pay a large sum to her opponent. "The advocate is a
genius," he said.
The listeners heard it all with respectful attention, and several
of them tried to put in a word, but the man interrupted them, as
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