It was late and the distance to the prison was long, so Nekhludoff hired a trap. On one of the streets the driver, who was a middle-aged man with an intelligent and good-natured face, turned to Nekhludoff and pointed to an immense building going up.
"What a huge building there is going up!" he said with pride, as if he had a part in the building of it.
It was really a huge structure, built in a complex, unusual style. A scaffolding of heavy pine logs surrounded the structure, which was fenced in by deal boards. It was as busy a scene as an ant hill.
Nekhludoff wondered that these people, while their wives were killing themselves with work at home, and their children starving, should think it necessary to build that foolish and unnecessary house for some foolish and unnecessary man.
"Yes, a foolish building," he spoke his thought aloud.
"How foolish?" retorted the offended driver. "Thanks to them, the people get work. It is not foolish."
"But the work is unnecessary."
"It must be necessary if they are building it," said the driver. "It gives the people food."
Nekhludoff became silent, the more so because it was too noisy to be heard. When they had reached the macadamized road near the prison the driver again turned to Nekhludoff.
"And what a lot of people are coming to the city—awful," he said, turning around on the box and pointing to a party of laborers with saws, axes, coats and sacks thrown over their shoulders, and coming from the opposite direction.
"More than in former years?" asked Nekhludoff.
"No comparison. The masters are kicking them about like shavings. The market places are glutted with them."
"What is the reason?"
"They have multiplied. They have no homes."
"And what if they have multiplied! Why do they not remain in the villages?"
"There is nothing to do there. There is no land."
Nekhludoff experienced that which happens with a sore place—it is struck oftener than any other part of the body. But it only seems so because it is more noticeable.
"Can it be possible that it is everywhere the same?" he thought, and asked the driver how much land there was in his village; how much he himself owned, and why he lived in the city.
"There is but an acre to every person. We are renting three acres. There is my father and brother. Another brother is in the army. They are managing it. But there is really nothing to manage, and my brother intended to go to Moskow."
"Is there no land for rent?"
"Where could one get land nowadays? The masters' children have squandered theirs. The merchants have it all in their hands. One cannot rent it from them; they cultivate it themselves. Our lands are held by a Frenchman who bought them of the former landlord. He won't rent any of it, and that is all."
"What Frenchman?"
"Dufar, the Frenchman—you may have heard. He is making wigs for the actors. He is now our master, and does what he pleases with us. He is a good man himself, but his wife is Russian—and what a cur! She is robbing the people—simply awful! But here is the prison. Shall I drive up to the front? I think they don't admit through the front."
With a faint heart and with horror at the thought that he might find Maslova in an inebriate condition and persistently antagonistic, and at the mystery which she was to him, Nekhludoff rang the bell and inquired of the inspector about Maslova. She was in the hospital.
A young physician, impregnated with carbolic acid, came out into the corridor and sternly asked Nekhludoffwhat he wanted. The physician indulged the prisoners' shortcomings and often relaxed the rules in their favor, for which he often ran afoul of the prison officials and even the head physician. Fearing that Nekhludoff might ask something not permitted by the rules, and, moreover, desiring to show that he made no exceptions in favor of anybody, he feigned anger.
"There are no women here; this is the children's ward," he said.
"I know it, but there is a nurse here who had been transferred from the prison."
"Yes, there are two. What do you wish, then?"
"I am closely related to one of them, Maslova," said Nekhludoff, "and would like to see her. I am going to St. Petersburg to enter an appeal in her case. I would like to hand her this; it is only a photograph," and he produced an envelope from his pocket.
"Yes, you may do that," said the softened physician, and turning to an old nurse in a white apron, told her to call Maslova. "Won't you take a seat, or come into the reception-room?"
"Thank you," said Nekhludoff, and taking advantage of the favorable change in the physician's demeanor, asked him what they thought of Maslova in the hospital.
"Her work is fair, considering the conditions amid which she had lived," answered the physician. "But there she comes."
The old nurse appeared at one of the doors, and behind her came Maslova. She wore a white apron over a striped skirt; a white cap on her head hid her hair. Seeing Nekhludoff she flushed, stopped waveringly, then frowned, and with downcast eyes approached him with quick step. Coming near him she stood for a moment without offering her hand, then she did offer her hand and became even more flushed. Nekhludoff had not seen her since the conversation in which she excused herself for her impetuosity, and he expected to find her in a similar mood. But she was entirely different to-day; there was something new in the expression of her face; something timid and reserved, and, as it seemed to him, malevolent toward him. He repeated the words he hadsaid to the physician and handed her the envelope with the photograph which he had brought from Panov.
"It is an old picture which I came across in Panov. It may please you to have it. Take it."
Raising her black eyebrows she looked at him with her squinting eyes, as though asking, "What is that for?" Then she silently took the envelope and tucked it under her apron.
"I saw your aunt there," said Nekhludoff.
"Did you?" she said, with indifference.
"How do you fare here?" asked Nekhludoff.
"Fairly well," she said.
"It is not very hard?"
"Not very. I am not used to it yet."
"I am very glad. At any rate, it is better than there."
"Than where?" she said, and her face became purple.
"There, in the prison," Nekhludoff hastened to say.
"Why better?" she asked.
"I think the people here are better. There are no such people here as there."
"There are many good people there."
"I did what I could for the Menshovs and hope they will be freed," said Nekhludoff.
"May God grant it. Such a wonderful little woman," she said, repeating her description of the old woman, and slightly smiled.
"I am going to-day to St. Petersburg. Your case will be heard soon, and, I hope, will be reversed."
"It is all the same now, whether they reverse it or not," she said.
"Why now?"
"So," she answered, and stealthily glanced at him inquiringly.
Nekhludoff understood this answer and this glance as a desire on her part to know if he were still holding to his decision, or had changed it since her refusal.
"I don't know why it is all the same to you," he said, "but to me it really is all the same whether you are acquitted or not. In either case, I am ready to do what I said," he said, with determination.
She raised her head, and her black, squinting eyes fixed themselves on his face and past it, and her whole facebecame radiant with joy. But her words were in an entirely different strain.
"Oh, you needn't talk that way," she said.
"I say it that you may know."
"Everything has been already said, and there is no use talking any more," she said, with difficulty repressing a smile.
There was some noise in the ward. A child was heard crying.
"I think I am called," she said, looking around with anxiety.
"Well, then, good-by," he said.
She pretended not to see his extended hand, turned round, and endeavoring to hide her elation, she walked away with quick step.
"What is taking place in her? What is she thinking? What are her feelings? Is she putting me to a test, or is she really unable to forgive me? Can she not say what she thinks and feels, or simply will not? Is she pacified or angered?" Nekhludoff asked himself, but could give no answer. One thing he knew, however, and that was that she had changed; that a spiritual transformation was taking place in her, and this transformation united him not only to her, but to Him in whose name it was taking place. And this union caused him joyful agitation.
Returning to the ward where eight children lay in their beds, Maslova began to remake one of the beds, by order of the Sister, and, leaning over too far with the sheet, slipped and nearly fell. The convalescing boy, wound in bandages to his neck, began to laugh. Maslova could restrain herself no longer, and seating herself on the bedstead she burst into loud laughter, infecting several children, who also began to laugh. The Sister angrily shouted:
"What are you roaring about? Think you this is like the place you came from? Go fetch the rations."
Maslova stopped laughing, and taking a dish went on her errand, but exchanging looks with the bandaged boy, who giggled again.
Several times during the day, when Maslova remained alone, she drew out a corner of the picture and looked at it with admiration, but in the evening, when she andanother nurse retired for the night, she removed the picture from the envelope and immovably looked with admiration at the faces; her own, his and the aunt's, their dresses, the stairs of the balcony, the bushes in the background, her eyes feasting especially on herself, her young, beautiful face with the hair hanging over her forehead. She was so absorbed that she failed to notice that the other nurse had entered.
"What is that? Did he give it you?" asked the stout, good-natured nurse, leaning over the photograph.
"Is it possible that that is you?"
"Who else?" Maslova said, smiling and looking into her companion's face.
"And who is that? He himself? And that is his mother?"
"His aunt. Couldn't you recognize me?" asked Maslova.
"Why, no. I could never recognize you. The face is entirely different. That must have been taken about ten years ago."
"Not years, but a lifetime," said Maslova, and suddenly her face became sullen and a wrinkle formed between her eyebrows.
"Yours was an easy life, wasn't it?"
"Yes, easy," Maslova repeated, closing her eyes and shaking her head. "Worse than penal servitude."
"Why so?"
"Because. From eight in the evening to four in the morning—every day the same."
"Then why don't they get out?"
"They like to, but cannot. But what is the use of talking!" cried Maslova, and she sprang to her feet, threw the photograph into the drawer of the table, and suppressing her angry tears, ran into the corridor, slamming the door. Looking on the photograph she imagined herself as she had been at the time the photograph was made, and dreamed how happy she had been and might still be with him. The words of her companion reminded her what she was now—reminded her of all the horror of that life which she then felt but confusedly, and would not allow herself to admit. Only now she vividly recalled all those terrible nights, particularly one Shrovetide night.She recalled how she, in a low-cut, wine-bespattered, red silk dress, with a red bow in her dishevelled hair, weak, jaded and tipsy, after dancing attendance upon the guest, had seated herself, at two in the morning, near the thin, bony, pimpled girl-pianist and complained of her hard life. The girl said that her life was also disagreeable to her, and that she wished to change her occupation. Afterward their friend Clara joined them, and all three suddenly decided to change their life. They were about to leave the place when the drunken guests became noisy, the fiddler struck up a lively song of the first figure of a Russian quadrille, the pianist began to thump in unison, a little drunken man in a white necktie and dress coat caught her up. Another man, stout and bearded, and also in a dress coat, seized Clara, and for a long time they whirled, danced, shouted and drank. Thus a year passed, a second and a third. How could she help changing! And the cause of it all was he. And suddenly her former wrath against him rose in her; and she felt like chiding and reproving him. She was sorry that she had missed the opportunity of telling him again that she knew him, and would not yield to him; that she would not allow him to take advantage of her spiritually as he had done corporeally; that she would not allow him to make her the subject of his magnanimity. And in order to deaden the painful feeling of pity for herself and the useless reprobation of him, she yearned for wine. And she would have broken her word and drunk some wine had she been in the prison. But here wine could only be obtained from the assistant surgeon, and she was afraid of him, because he pursued her with his attentions, and all relations with men were disgusting to her. For some time she sat on a bench in the corridor, and returning to her closet, without heeding her companion's questions, she wept for a long time over her ruined life.
Nekhludoff had four cases in hand: Maslova's appeal, the petition of Theodosia Birukova, the case of Shustova's release, by request of Vera Bogodukhovskaia, and the obtaining of permission for a mother to visit her son kept in a fortress, also by Bogodukhovskaia's request.
Since his visit to Maslenikoff, especially since his trip to the country, Nekhludoff felt an aversion for that sphere in which he had been living heretofore, and in which the sufferings borne by millions of people in order to secure the comforts and pleasures of a few, were so carefully concealed that the people of that sphere did not and could not see these sufferings, and consequently the cruelty and criminality of their own lives.
Nekhludoff could no longer keep up relations with these people without reproving himself. And yet the habits of his past life, the ties of friendship and kinship, and especially his one great aim of helping Maslova and the other unfortunates, drew him into that sphere against his will; and he was compelled to ask the aid and services of people whom he had not only ceased to respect but who called forth his indignation and contempt.
Arriving at St. Petersburg, and stopping at his aunt's, the wife of an ex-Minister of State, he found himself in the very heart of the aristocratic circle. It was unpleasant to him, but he could do no different. Not to stop at his aunt's was to offend her. Besides, through her connections she could be of great service to him in those affairs for the sake of which he came to St. Petersburg.
"What wonders I hear about you!" said Countess Catherine Ivanovna Charskaia, while Nekhludoff was drinking the coffee brought him immediately after his arrival. "Vous posez pour un Howard. You are helping the convicts; making the rounds of the prisons; reforming them."
"You are mistaken; I never had such intentions."
"Why, that is not bad. Only, I understand, there is some love affair—come, tell me."
Nekhludoff related the story of Maslova, exactly as it happened.
"Yes, yes, I remember. Poor Hellen told me at the time you lived at the old maids' house that, I believe, they wished you to marry their ward." Countess Catherine Ivanovna always hated Nekhludoff's aunts on his father's side. "So, that is she? Elle est encore jolie?"
Aunt Catherine Ivanovna was a sixty-year-old, healthy, jolly, energetic, talkative woman. She was tall, very stout, with a black, downy mustache on her upper lip. Nekhludoff loved her, and since childhood had been accustomed to get infected with her energy and cheerfulness.
"No, ma tante, all that belongs to the past. I only wish to help her, because she is innocent, and it is my fault that she was condemned, her whole wrecked life is upon my conscience. I feel it to be my duty to do for her what I can."
"But how is it? I was told that you wish to marry her."
"I do wish it, it is true; but she doesn't."
Catherine Ivanovna raised her eyebrows and silently looked at Nekhludoff in surprise. Suddenly her face changed and assumed a pleased expression.
"Well, she is wiser than you are. Ah! what a fool you are! And you would marry her?"
"Certainly."
"After what she has been?"
"The more so—is it not all my fault?"
"Well, you are simply a crank," said the aunt, suppressing a smile. "You are an awful crank, but I love you for the very reason that you are such an awful crank," she repeated, the word evidently well describing, according to her view, the mental and moral condition of her nephew. "And how opportune. You know, Aline has organized a wonderful asylum for Magdalens. I visited it once. How disgusting they are! I afterward washed myself from head to foot. But Aline is corps et ame in this affair. So we will send her, your Magdalen, to her. If any one will reform her, it is Aline."
"But she was sentenced to penal servitude. I camehere for the express purpose of obtaining a reversal of her sentence. That is my first business to you."
"Is that so? Where is the case now?"
"In the Senate."
"In the Senate? Why, my dear cousin Levoushka is in the Senate. However, he is in the Heraldry Department. Let me see. No, of the real ones I do not know any. Heaven knows what a mixture they are: either Germans, such as Ge, Fe, De—tout l'alphabet—or all sorts of Ivanvas, Semenovs, Nikitins, or Ivaneukos, Semeneukos, Nikitenkas pour varier. Des gens de l'autre monde. However, I will tell my husband. He knows all sorts of people. I will tell him. You explain it to him, for he never understands me. No matter what I may say, he always says that he cannot understand me. C'est un parti pris. Everybody understands, only he does not understand."
At that moment a servant in knee-breeches entered with a letter on a silver tray.
"Ah, that is from Aline. Now you will have an opportunity to hear Kisiweather."
"Who is that Kisiweather?"
"Kisiweather? Come around to-day and you will find out who he is. He speaks so that the most hardened criminals fall on their knees and weep, and repent."
Countess Catherine Ivanovna, however strange it might be, and how so little it agreed with her character, was a follower of that teaching which held that essence of Christianity consisted in a belief in redemption. She visited the meetings where sermons were delivered on this teaching then in vogue, and invited the adherents to her own house. Although this teaching rejected all rites, images and even the sacraments, the Princess had images hanging in all her rooms, even over her bedstead, and she complied with all the ritual requirements of the church, seeing nothing contradictory in that.
"Your Magdalen ought to hear him; she would become converted," said the Countess. "Don't fail to come to-night. You will hear him then. He is a remarkable man."
"It is not interesting to me, ma tante."
"I tell you it is interesting. You must come to-night.Now, what else do you want me to do? Videz votre sac."
"There is the man in the fortress."
"In the fortress? Well, I can give you a note to Baron Kriegmuth. C'est un très-brave homme. But you know him yourself. He was your father's comrade. Il donnedans le spiritisme. But that is nothing. He is a kind man. What do you want there?"
"It is necessary to obtain permission for a mother to visit her son who is incarcerated there. But I was told that Cherviansky and not Kriegmuth is the person to be applied to."
"I do not like Cherviansky, but he is Mariette's husband. I will ask her; she will do it for me. Elle est tres gentille."
"There is another woman I wish you would speak to her about. She has been in prison for several months, and no one knows for what."
"Oh, no; she herself surely knows for what. They know very well. And it serves them right, those short-haired ones."
"I do not know whether it serves them right or not. But they are suffering. You are a Christian, and believe in the Gospel, and yet are so pitiless."
"That has nothing to do with it. The Gospel is one thing; what I dislike is another thing. It would be worse if I pretended to like the Nihilists, especially the female Nihilists, when as a matter of fact I hate them."
"Why do you hate them?"
"Why do they meddle in other people's affairs? It is not a woman's business."
"But you have nothing against Mariette occupying herself with business," said Nekhludoff.
"Mariette? Mariette is Mariette, but who is she? A conceited ignoramus who wants to teach everybody."
"They do not wish to teach; they only wish to help the people."
"We know without them who should and who should not be helped."
"But the people are impoverished. I have just been in the country. Is it proper that peasants should overworkthemselves without getting enough to eat, while we are living in such wasteful luxury?"
"What do you wish me to do? You would like to see me work and not eat anything?"
"No, I do not wish you not to eat," smiling involuntarily, answered Nekhludoff. "I only wish that we should all work, and all have enough to eat."
The aunt again raised her eyebrows and gazed at him with curiosity.
"Mon cher, vous finirez mal," she said.
At that moment a tall, broad-shouldered general entered the room. It was Countess Charskaia's husband, a retired Minister of State.
"Ah, Dmitri, how do you do?" he said, putting out his clean-shaven cheek. "When did you get here?"
He silently kissed his wife on the forehead.
"Non, il est impayable." Countess Catherine Ivanovna turned to her husband. "He wants me to do washing on the river and feast on potatoes. He is an awful fool, but, nevertheless, do for him what he asks. An awful crank," she corrected herself. "By the way, they say that Kamenskaia is in a desperate condition; her life is despaired of," she turned to her husband. "You ought to visit her."
"Yes, it is awful," said the husband.
"Go, now, and have a talk together; I must write some letters."
Nekhludoff had just reached the room next to the reception-room when she shouted after him:
"Shall I write then to Mariette?"
"If you please, ma tante."
"I will learn that which you want to say about the short-haired en blanc, and she will have her husband attend to it. Don't think that I am angry. They are hateful, your protegees, but—je ne leur veux pas de mal. But God forgive them. Now, go, and don't forget to come in the evening; you will hear Kisiweather. We will also pray. And if you do not resist, ca vous fera beaucoup de bien. I know that Hellen and all of you are very backward in that respect. Now, au revoir."
The man in whose power it was to lighten the condition of the prisoners in St. Petersburg had earned a great number of medals, which, except for a white cross in his button-hole, he did not wear, however. The old general was of the German barons, and, as it was said of him, had become childish. He had served in the Caucasus, where he had received this cross; then in Poland and in some other place, and now he held the office which gave him good quarters, maintenance and honor. He always strictly carried out the orders of his superiors, and considered their execution of great importance and significance, so much so that while everything in the world could be changed, these orders, according to him, were above the possibility of any alteration.
As Nekhludoff was approaching the old general's house the tower clock struck two. The general was at the time sitting with a young artist in the darkened reception-room, at a table, the top of which was of inlaid work, both of them turning a saucer on a sheet of paper. Holding each others fingers over the saucer, placed face downward, they pulled in different directions over the paper on which were printed all the letters of the alphabet. The saucer was answering the general's question. How would souls recognize each other after death?
At the moment one of the servants entered with Nekhludoff's card, the soul of Jeanne D'Arc was speaking through the saucer. The soul had already said, "They will recognize each other," which was duly entered on a sheet of paper. When the servant entered, the saucer, stopping first on the letter p, then on the letter o, reached the letter s and began to jerk one way and another. That was because, as the general thought, the next letter was to be l, that is to say, Jeanne D'Arc, according to his idea, intended to say that souls would recognize each other only after they had been purged of everything mundane, or something to that effect, and that therefore the next letter ought to be l (posl, i. e., after); the artist, on theother hand, thought that the next letter would be v; that the soul intended to say that souls would recognize each other by the light—posv(ietu) that would issue from the ethereal body of the souls. The general, gloomily knitting his brow, gazed fixedly on the hands, and imagining that the saucer moved itself, pulled it toward the letter l. The young, anaemic artist, with his oily hair brushed behind his ears, looked into the dark corner of the room, with his blue, dull eyes, and nervously twitching his lips, pulled toward the letter v. The general frowned at the interruption, and, after a moment's silence, took the card, put on his pince-nez and, groaning from pain in his loins, rose to his full height, rubbing his benumbed fingers.
"Show him into the cabinet."
"Permit me, Your Excellency, to finish it myself," said the artist, rising. "I feel a presence."
"Very well; finish it," said the general with austerity, and went, with firm, long strides, into the cabinet.
"Glad to see you," said the general in a rough voice to Nekhludoff, pointing to an arm-chair near the desk. "How long have you been in St. Petersburg?"
Nekhludoff said that he had but lately arrived.
"Is your mother, the Princess, well?"
"My mother is dead."
"Beg pardon; I was very sorry. My son told me that he had met you."
The general's son was making the same career as his father, and was very proud of the business with which he was entrusted.
"Why, I served with your father. We were friends, comrades. Are you in service?"
"No, I am not."
The general disapprovingly shook his head.
"I have a request to make of you, general," said Nekhludoff.
"Very glad. What can I do for you?"
"If my request be out of season, please forgive me. But I must state it."
"What is it?"
"There is a man, Gurkevitch, kept in prison under your jurisdiction. His mother asks to be permitted to visit him, or, at least to send him books."
The general expressed neither satisfaction nor dissatisfaction at Nekhludoff's request, but, inclining his head to one side, seemed to reflect. As a matter of fact he was not reflecting; Nekhludoff's question did not even interest him, knowing very well that his answer would be as the law requires. He was simply resting mentally without thinking of anything.
"That is not in my discretion, you know," he said, having rested awhile. "There is a law relating to visits, and whatever that law permits, that is permitted. And as to books, there is a library, and they are given such books as are allowed."
"Yes, but he wants scientific books; he wishes to study."
"Don't believe that." The general paused. "It is not for study that they want them, but so, it is simply unrest."
"But their time must be occupied somehow?"
"They are always complaining," retorted the general. "We know them."
He spoke of them in general as of some peculiar race of people.
"They have such conveniences here as is seldom seen in a prison," he continued.
And as though justifying himself, he began to recount all the conveniences enjoyed by the prisoners in a manner to make one believe that the chief aim of the institution consisted in making it a pleasant place of abode.
"Formerly, it is true, the regulations were very harsh, but now their condition is excellent. They get three dishes, one of which is always of meat—chopped meat or cutlet. Sundays they get a fourth dish—dessert. May God grant that every Russian could feed so well."
The general, like all old men, evidently having committed to memory the oft-repeated words, proceeded to prove how exacting and ungrateful the prisoners were by repeating what he had told many times before.
"They are furnished books on spiritual topics, also old journals. We have a library of suitable books, but they seldom read them. At first they appear to be interested, and then it is found that the pages of all the new books are barely half cut, and of the old ones there is no evidence of any thumb-marks at all. We even tried," with aremote semblance of a smile the general continued, "to put a piece of paper between the pages, and it remained untouched. Writing, too, is allowed. A slate is given them, also a slate-pencil, so that they may write for diversion. They can wipe it out and write again. And yet they don't write. No, they become quiet very soon. At first they are uneasy, but afterward they even grow stout and become very quiet."
Nekhludoff listened to the hoarse, feeble voice; looked on that fleshless body, those faded eyes under the gray eyebrows, those sunken, shaved cheeks, supported by a military collar, that white cross, and understood that to argue and explain to him the meaning of those words were futile. But, making another effort, he asked him about the prisoner, Shustova, whose release, he had received information, had been ordered, through the efforts of Mariette.
"Shustova? Shustova—I don't remember them all by name. There are so many of them," he said, evidently reproving them for being so numerous. He rang the bell and called for the secretary.
While a servant was going after the secretary he admonished Nekhludoff to go into service, saying that the country was in need of honest, noble men.
"I am old, and yet I am serving to the extent of my ability."
The secretary came and reported that there were no papers received relating to Shustova, who was still in prison.
"As soon as we receive an order we release them the very same day. We do not keep them; we do not particularly value their presence," said the general, again with a waggish smile, which had the effect only of making his face wry.
"Good-by, my dear," he continued. "Don't be offended for advising you, for I do so only because I love you. Have nothing to do with the prisoners. You will never find innocent people among them. They are the most immoral set. We know them," he said, in a tone of voice which did not permit the possibility of doubt. "You had better take an office. The Emperor and the country need honest people. What if I and such as you refused toserve? Who would be left? We are complaining of conditions, but refuse to aid the government."
Nekhludoff sighed deeply, made a low bow, pressed the bony hand condescendingly extended, and departed.
The general disapprovingly shook his head, and, rubbing his loins, went to the reception-room, where the artist awaited him with the answer of Jeanne D'Arc. The general put on his pince-nez and read: "They will recognize each other by the light issuing from the ethereal bodies."
"Ah!" said the general, approvingly, closing his eyes. "But how will 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.
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 hommetrès 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 handsin 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.
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 hewalked 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 nameSelenin?" 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.
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 thecomplaining 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 fallengirl, 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.
"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," Nekhludoffsaid 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 tothe 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 turnedout 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.