When Nekhludoff reached the railroad station the prisoners were already seated in the cars, behind grated windows. There were a few people on the platform, come to see their departing relatives, but they were not allowed to come near the cars. The guards were greatly troubled this day. On the way from the prison to the station five men had died from sunstroke. Three of them had been taken to the nearest police station from the street, while two were stricken at the railroad station.[F]They were troubled not because five men had died while under their guard. That did not bother them; but they were chiefly concerned with doing all that the law required them to do under the circumstances—to make proper transfer of the dead, their papers and belongings, and to exclude them from the list of those that were to be transferred to Nijhni, which was very troublesome, especially on such a warm day.
This it was that occupied the convoy, and this was the reason why Nekhludoff and others were not permitted to approach the cars while the formalities were unfinished. However, upon bribing one of the sergeants, Nekhludoff was permitted to come near the cars, the sergeant asking him to do his errand so that the captain would not see him. There were eighteen cars, and all, except the one reserved for the authorities, were literally packed with prisoners. Passing by the windows, Nekhludoff listened to the sounds within. Everywhere he heard the rattlingof chains, bustle, and the hum of conversation, interspersed with stupid profanity; but nowhere did he hear, as he expected, any reference to the dead comrades. Their conversation related more to sacks, drinking-water, and the choice of seats. Looking into the window of one of the cars, Nekhludoff saw some guardsmen removing the handcuffs from the wrists of the prisoners. The prisoners stretched out their hands, while one of the guards with a key opened the locks of the handcuffs, which were collected by another. When Nekhludoff reached the second car occupied by the women he heard a woman's moan, "Oh, heavens! Oh, heavens!"
Nekhludoff passed by and approached one of the windows of the third car, pointed out to him by one of the guards. Overheated air, impregnated with a thick odor of perspiration, assailed his nostrils, and shrill women's voices were distinctly heard. All the benches were occupied by flushed, perspiring women in waists and coats, loudly conversing. His approach attracted their attention. Those sitting nearest to the grated window became silent. Maslova, in a waist and without headgear, was sitting near the opposite window. The smiling Theodosia, who was sitting near Maslova, seeing Nekhludoff, pushed her with her elbow and pointed to Nekhludoff. Maslova hurriedly rose, threw a 'kerchief over her black hair, and, with an animated, red, perspiring and smiling face, came near the window and placed her hands on the grating.
"But how warm it is!" she said, smiling joyously.
"Did you get the things?"
"I did, thank you."
"Do you need anything?" asked Nekhludoff, feeling the heat issuing from the window as from a steam bath.
"I do not need anything. Thank you."
"If we could only get some water," said Theodosia.
"Yes, some water," repeated Maslova.
"I will ask one of the guards," said Nekhludoff. "We will not meet now until we reach Nijhni."
"Why, are you going there?" she said, as if she did not know it, but joyously glancing at Nekhludoff.
"I am going on the next train."
Maslova was silent for a few moments; then sighed deeply.
"Is it true, master, that twelve people have died from the heat?" said a churlish old woman in a hoarse voice.
It was Korableva.
"I don't know that twelve have died. I have seen two," said Nekhludoff.
"They say twelve. They ought to be punished for it, the devils!"
"How is it with the women?" asked Nekhludoff.
"Women are stronger," said another prisoner, smiling. "Only there is one who has taken it into her head to give birth to a child. Listen to her wailing," she said, pointing to the adjacent car, from which the moaning proceeded.
"You asked if anything was needed," said Maslova, endeavoring to restrain a happy smile. "Could not that woman be taken off the train? She suffers so. Won't you tell the authorities?"
"Yes, I will."
"Another thing—could you not get her to see her husband, Tarass?" she added, pointing to the smiling Theodosia. "He is going with you, isn't he?"
At this point the voice of a sergeant was heard reminding Nekhludoff that talking with the prisoners was prohibited. It was not the sergeant who passed Nekhludoff.
Nekhludoff walked off to find the captain, intending to see him about the sick woman and Tarass, but for a long time could not find him, the guards being too busy to answer his inquiries. Some were leading away one of the convicts; others were hurrying away to buy their provisions; still others were attending a lady who was traveling with the captain of the convoy.
Nekhludoff found the captain after the second bell. The captain, wiping his thick moustache with his short hand and raising his shoulders, was reprimanding one of the sergeants.
"What is it you want?" he asked Nekhludoff.
"There is a woman giving birth to a child, so I thought it would be well——"
"Well, let her. When the child is born we will see to it," said the captain, passing to his car.
The conductor came with a whistle in his hand. The third bell sounded, and a loud wailing rose among the female prisoners and their friends and relatives on the platform. Nekhludoff was standing beside Tarass, and watched the cars passing before him, with the grated windows and the shaved heads seen through them. As the one in which Maslova was passed, he saw her standing with others at the window, looking at him and smiling piteously.
FOOTNOTES:[F]Early in the eighties five prisoners died from sunstroke while being transferred from the Boutyr prison to the Nijhni railroad station.—L. T.
[F]Early in the eighties five prisoners died from sunstroke while being transferred from the Boutyr prison to the Nijhni railroad station.—L. T.
[F]Early in the eighties five prisoners died from sunstroke while being transferred from the Boutyr prison to the Nijhni railroad station.—L. T.
The passenger train which was to carry away Nekhludoff was to start in two hours. Nekhludoff at first thought of utilizing these two hours in visiting his sister, but after the impressions of the morning he felt so excited and exhausted that he seated himself on a sofa in the saloon for first-class passengers. But he unexpectedly felt so drowsy that he turned on his side, placed his palm under his cheek, and immediately fell asleep.
He was awakened by a servant in dress-coat holding a napkin in his hand.
"Mister, mister, are you not Prince Nekhludoff? A lady is looking for you."
Nekhludoff quickly raised himself, rubbing his eyes, and the incidents of the morning passed before his mind's eye—the procession of the convicts, the men who had died from the heat, the grated windows of the cars, and the women huddled behind them, one of whom was laboring in child-birth without aid, and another piteously smiling to him from behind the iron grating. But in reality he saw a table covered with bottles, vases, chandeliers, and fruit stands; nimble servants bustling around the table, and in the depth of the saloon, before the lunch-counter, loaded with viands and fruits, the backs of passengers leisurely eating their luncheon.
While Nekhludoff was raising himself and shaking off the slumber, he noticed that everybody in the saloon was curiously watching the entrance. He turned his eyes in the same direction, and saw a procession of people who bore an arm-chair in which was seated a lady, her headcovered with tulle. The first bearer was a lackey who seemed familiar to Nekhludoff. The one behind was also a familiar porter, with white crown lace around his cap. Behind the arm-chair came an elegantly dressed maid-servant with curly hair, carrying a round leather box and a sunshade. Further behind came the short-necked Prince Korchagin, his shoulders thrown back; then Missy, Misha, their cousin, and a diplomat Osten, unfamiliar to Nekhludoff, with his long neck and prominent Adam's apple and an ever cheerful appearance. He walked impressively, but evidently jestingly talking to the smiling Missy. Behind them came the doctor, angrily smoking a cigarette.
The Korchagins were moving from their estate to the Prince's sister, whose estate was situated on the Nijhni road.
The procession passed into the ladies' room. The old Prince, however, seating himself at the table, immediately called over a waiter and began to order something. Missy with Osten also stopped in the dining-room, and were about to sit down when they saw an acquaintance in the doorway and went to meet her. It was Natalia Ivanovna. She was escorted by Agrippina Petrovna, and as she entered the dining-room she looked around. At almost the same moment she noticed Missy and her brother. She first approached Missy, only nodding her head to Nekhludoff. But after kissing Missy she immediately turned to him.
"At last I have found you," she said.
After greeting his sister, Nekhludoff entered into conversation with Missy, who told him that their house had burned down, necessitating their removal to her aunt's. Osten began to relate a droll anecdote anent the fire. Nekhludoff, without listening to Osten, turned to his sister:
"How glad I am that you came!"
In the course of their conversation he told her how sorry he felt for having fallen out with her husband; that he had intended to return and confess that he was at fault, but that he knew not how her husband would take it.
"I spoke improperly to him, and it tortured me," he said.
"I knew it. I was sure you didn't intend it," said his sister. "Don't you know——"
The tears welled up in her eyes, and she touched her brother's hand. It was spoken tenderly; he understood her, and was affected. The meaning of her words was that, besides her love for her husband, her love for her brother was dear and important to her, and that any disagreement with him caused her suffering.
"Thank you, thank you. Oh, what I have seen to-day!" he said, suddenly recalling the two dead convicts. "Two convicts have been killed."
"How killed?"
"So, simply killed. They have been brought here in this heat, and two of them died from sunstroke."
"Impossible! How? To-day? Just now?"
"Yes, just now. I have seen their corpses."
"Why were they killed? Who killed them?" asked Natalia Ivanovna.
"Those who forcibly brought them here," said Nekhludoff excitedly, feeling that she took the same view of this as her husband.
"Oh, my God!" said Agrippina Petrovna, coming nearer to them.
"Yes, we have no conception of the life these unfortunates are leading, and it is necessary to know it," Nekhludoff added, looking at the old Prince, who, sitting at the table with a napkin tucked under his chin and a large glass before him, at that moment glanced at Nekhludoff.
"Nekhludoff," he shouted. "Won't you take sauce to cool off? It is excellent stuff."
Nekhludoff refused and turned away.
"But what will you do?" continued Natalia Ivanovna.
"I will do what I can. I do not know what, but I feel that I must do something. And I will do what I can."
"Yes, yes, I understand that. And what about him?" she said, smiling and nodding in the direction of Korchagin. "Is it really all over?"
"Yes, it is and I think without regret on either side."
"I am very sorry. I like her. But I suppose it must be so. But why should you bind yourself? Why are you following her?"
"Because it is proper that I should," Nekhludoff said dryly, as though desiring to change the subject.
But he immediately felt ashamed of his coldness to his sister. "Why should I not tell her what I think?" he thought; "and let Agrippina Petrovna also know it," he said to himself, looking at the old servant.
The presence of Agrippina Petrovna only encouraged him to repeat his decision to his sister.
"You are speaking of my intention to marry Katiusha. You see, I have decided to do it, but she firmly and decidedly refused me," he said, and his voice trembled, as it always did when he spoke of it. "She does not desire my sacrifice, and in her position she sacrifices very much, and I could not accept her sacrifice, even if it were only momentary. That is why I am following her, and I will be near her, and will endeavor to relieve her condition as far as I am able."
Natalia Ivanovna was silent. Agrippina Petrovna looked inquiringly at Natalia Ivanovna, shaking her head. At that moment the procession started again from the ladies' room. The same handsome Phillip and the porter were bearing the Princess. She stopped the bearers, beckoned Nekhludoff to her side, and in a piteously languid manner extended her white, ring-bedecked hand, with horror anticipating the hard pressure of his.
"Epouvantable!" she said of the heat. "It is unbearable.Ce climat me tue." And having said a few words of the horrors of the Russian climate, and invited Nekhludoff to visit them, she gave a sign to the bearers. "Don't fail to come, now," she added, turning her long face to Nekhludoff.
Nekhludoff went out on the platform. The procession turned to the right, toward the first-class coaches. Nekhludoff, with a porter who carried his baggage, and Tarass, with his bags, turned to the left.
"That is my comrade," Nekhludoff said to his sister, pointing to Tarass, whose story he had told her before.
"What, are you taking the third class?" asked Natalia Ivanovna, when Nekhludoff stopped before a third-class car and the porter, with Tarass, entered it.
"Yes, I will have it more convenient then. Tarass is with me. Another thing," he added. "I have not yetgiven theKusminskoie land to the peasants. So that, in case of my death, your children will inherit it."
"Dmitri, don't talk that way," said Natalia Ivanovna.
"And if I do give it away, then all I have to tell you is that the remainder will be theirs, for I shall hardly marry. And if I do, there will be no children—so that——"
"Dmitri, please stop it," said Natalia Ivanovna; but Nekhludoff saw that she was glad to hear what he was saying.
The time for parting had come. The conductors were closing the doors, inviting the passengers to take seats, others to leave the cars.
Nekhludoff entered the heated and ill-smelling car and immediately appeared on its platform. Natalia Ivanovna was standing opposite, and evidently wished to say something, but could not find words. She could not say "ecrivez," because they had long been ridiculing the customary phrase of parting friends. The conversation about financial affairs and the inheritance at once destroyed the tender relations they had resumed. They now felt themselves estranged from each other. So that Natalia Ivanovna was glad when the train began to move and she could say, with a smile: "Well, Dmitri, good-by!" As soon as the train left she began to think how to tell her husband of her conversation with her brother, and her face became grave and worried.
And though Nekhludoff entertained the best sentiments toward his sister, and he concealed nothing from her, he now felt estranged from her, and was glad to be rid of her. He felt that the Natasha of old was no more; that there was only a slave of an unpleasant, dark, hairy man with whom he had nothing in common. He plainly saw this, because her face became illumined with peculiar animation only when he spoke of that which interested her husband—of the distribution of the land among the peasants, and of the inheritance. This made him sad.
The heat in the large car of the third class, due to its exposure to the scorching sun rays and the large crowd within, was so suffocating that Nekhludoff remained on the platform. But there was no relief even there, and he drew in long breaths when the train rolled out beyond the houses and the movement of the train created a draught. "Yes, killed," he repeated to himself. And to his imagination appeared with unusual vividness the beautiful face of the second dead convict, with a smile on his lips, the forbidding expression of his forehead, and the small, strong ear under the shaved, bluish scalp. "And the worst part of it is that he was killed, and no one knows who killed him. Yet he was killed. He was forwarded, like the others, at the order of Maslenikoff. Maslenikoff probably signed the usual order with his foolish flourish, on a printed letter-head, and, of course, does not consider himself guilty. The prison physician, who inspected the convicts, has still less reason for considering himself guilty. He carefully fulfilled his duties, separated the weak ones, and could not possibly foresee either the terrible heat, or that they would be taken away so late and in such a crowd. The inspector? But the inspector only carried out the order that on such a day so many men and women prisoners should be sent away. No more guilty was the officer of the convoy, whose duty consisted in receiving so many people at such a place and delivering them at another place. He led the party in the usual way, according to instructions, and could not possibly foresee that such strong men, like the two whom Nekhludoff had seen, would succumb and die. No one was guilty, and yet the men were killed by these very people who were innocent of their death.
"All this happened," thought Nekhludoff, "because all those people—the governor, inspector and the other officers—saw before them, not human beings and their duties toward them, but the service and its requirements. Therein lies the difficulty."
In his meditation Nekhludoff did not notice how the weather had changed. The sun had hidden behind a low strip of cloud, and from the southern sky a light-gray mass, from which a slanting rain was already pouring in the distance over the fields and forests, was coming on. Now and then a flash of lightning rent the clouds, and the rattle of the train mingled with the rattle of thunder. The clouds came nearer and nearer, the slanting drops of rain, driven by the wind, pattered on the platform of the car and stained Nekhludoff's overcoat. He moved to the other side, and drawing in the fresh, humid air and the odor of the wheat coming from the parched ground, he looked on the passing gardens, forests; the rye fields just turning yellow, the emerald streaks of oats, and the furrows of the dark-green, flowering potato. Everything looked as if covered with varnish: the green and yellow colors became brighter; the black became blacker.
"More, more," said Nekhludoff, rejoicing at the reviving fields and gardens under the abundant rain.
The heavy rain did not last long. The clouds partly dissipated, and the last fine shower fell straight on the wet ground. The sun came forth again, the earth brightened, and a low but brilliant violet tinged rainbow, broken at one end, appeared in the eastern horizon.
"What was I thinking of?" Nekhludoff asked himself, when all these changes of nature came to an end and the train descended into a vale. "Yes, I was thinking that all those people—the inspector, the guard and all those servants, for the most part gentle, kind people—have become wicked."
He recalled the indifference of Maslenikoff when he told the latter of what was going on in the prison, of the severity of the inspector, the cruelty of the sergeant who refused the use of the wagons to the weak convicts and paid no attention to the suffering of the woman in child-birth. All those people were evidently proof against the feeling of sympathy, "as is this paved ground against rain," he thought, looking at the incline paved with multi-colored stone, from which the water streamed off. "May be it is necessary to lay the stones on the incline, but it is sad to see the soil deprived of vegetation when it couldbe made to grow grain, grass, shrubs and trees like those seen on those heights. It is the same with people," thought Nekhludoff. "The whole trouble lies in that people think that there are conditions excluding the necessity of love in their intercourse with man, but such conditions do not exist. Things may be treated without love; one may chop wood, make bricks, forge iron without love, but one can no more deal with people without love than one can handle bees without care. The nature of bees is such that if you handle them carelessly you will harm them as well as yourself. It is the same with people. And it cannot be different, because mutual love is the basic law of human life. True, man cannot compel himself to love, as he can compel himself to work, but it does not follow from this that in his dealings with men he can leave love out of consideration, especially if he wants something from them. If you feel no love for people, then keep away from them," Nekhludoff said to himself. "Occupy yourself with things, yourself—anything; only keep away from people. As it is harmful to eat except when one is hungry, so is it harmful to have intercourse with people when one does not love them. If one permits himself to deal with people without having any love for them, as I did yesterday with my brother-in-law, there is no limit to the cruelty and brutality one is liable to display toward others, as I have seen to-day, and there is no limit to one's own suffering, as I have learned from all the experiences of my own life. Yes, yes, that is so," thought Nekhludoff, experiencing the double pleasure of a cool breeze after the intolerable heat, and the consciousness of having reached the highest degree of lucidity in the question which had so long occupied him.
The party of convicts to which Maslova belonged had gone about thirty-five hundred miles. It was not until Perm was reached that Nekhludoff succeeded in obtaining Maslova's transfer to the contingent of politicals, as he was advised to do by Bogodukhovskaia, who was among them.
The journey to Perm was very burdensome to Maslova, both physically and morally—physically because of the crowded condition of their quarters, the uncleanliness and disgusting insects, which gave her no rest; morally because of the equally loathsome men who, though they changed at every stopping place, were like the insects, always insolent, intrusive and gave her little rest. The cynicism prevailing among the convicts and their overseers was such that every woman, especially the young women, had to be on the alert. Maslova was particularly subject to these attacks because of her attractive looks and her well-known past. This condition of constant dread and struggle was very burdensome to her. The firm repulse with which she met the impertinent advances of the men was taken by them as an insult and exasperated them. Her condition in this respect was somewhat relieved by the presence of Theodosia andTarass, who, learning that his wife was subjected to these insults, had himself included among the prisoners, and riding as such from Nijhni, was able to protect her to some extent.
Maslova's transfer to the division of the politicals bettered her situation in every respect. Besides the improvement in the quarters, food and treatment, her condition was also made easier by the fact that the persecutionof the men ceased and she was no longer reminded of her past, which she was so anxious to forget now. The principal advantage of the transfer, however, lay in the acquaintance she made of some people who exerted a decisive influence over her.
At stopping places she was permitted to mingle with the politicals, but, being a strong woman, she was compelled to walk with the other prisoners. She thus walked from Tomsk. There were two politicals who traveled on foot with her—Maria Pablovna Stchetinina, the same pretty girl with the sheepish eyes who had attracted Nekhludoff's attention when visiting Bogodukhovskaia, and one Simonson, banished to Yakoutsk—that same shaggy man with deep-set eyes whom Nekhludoff had noticed on the same occasion. Maria Pablovna walked, because she yielded her place on the wagon to a pregnant woman; Simonson, because he would not profit by class advantages. These three started on foot with the other convicts in the early morning, the politicals following them later in wagons. It was at the last stopping place, near a large city, where the party was handed over to another convoy officer.
It was a chill September morning. Snow and rain fell alternately between cold blasts of wind. All the prisoners—400 men and 50 women—were already in the court-yard, some crowding around the chief officer of the convoy, who was paying out money to the overseers for the day's rations; others were buying food of the hucksters who had been admitted into the court-yard. There were a din of prisoners' voices counting money and the shrill conversation of the hucksters.
Katiousha and Maria Pablovna, both in boots and short fur coats and girdled with 'kerchiefs, came into the court-yard from the house and walked toward the hucksters, who were sitting under the northern wall and calling out their wares—fresh meat-pies, fish, boiled shred paste, buckwheat mush, meat, eggs, milk; one woman even offered roasted pig.
Simonson, in rubber jacket and similar galoshes, bound with whip-cord over woolen socks (he was a vegetarian and did not use the skin of animals), was also awaiting the departure of the party. He stood near the entranceof the house, writing down in a note-book a thought that occurred to him. "If," he wrote, "a bacterium were to observe and analyze the nail of a man, it would declare him an inorganic being. Similarly, from an observation of the earth's surface, we declare it to be inorganic. That is wrong."
Having bought eggs, buns, fish and fresh wheat bread, Maslova packed them away in a bag while Maria Pablovna settled for the food, when among the prisoners there arose a commotion. Every one became silent, and the prisoners began to form into ranks. An officer came forth and gave final orders.
Everything proceeded as usual—the prisoners were counted over, the chains were examined and men were handcuffed in pairs.
After six years of luxurious and pampered life in the city and two months in prison among the politicals, her present life, notwithstanding the hard conditions, seemed to Katiousha very satisfactory. The journeys of fifteen or twenty miles on foot between stopping places, the food and day's rest after two days' tramp, strengthened her physically, while her association with her new comrades opened up to her new phases of life of which she had formerly no conception.
She was charmed with all her new comrades. But above all, with Maria Pablovna—nay, she even came to love her with a respectful and exulting love. She was struck by the fact that a beautiful girl of a rich and noble family, and speaking three languages, should conduct herself like a common workingwoman, distribute everything sent her by her rich brother, dress herself not only simply, but poorly, and pay no attention to her appearance. This entire absence of coquetry surprised and completely captivated Maslova. She saw that Maria Pablovna knew, and that it even pleased her to know, that she was pretty, but that so far from rejoicing at the impression she was making on the men, she only feared it, and rather looked at love with disgust and dread. If her male comrades, whoknew her, felt any attraction toward her they never showed it. But strangers often attempted familiarities with her, and in such cases her great physical strength stood her in good stead. "Once," she laughingly related, "I was approached by a stranger on the street, whom I could not get rid of. I then gave him such a shaking up that he ran away in fright."
She also said that from childhood she had felt an aversion for the life of the gentry, but loved the common folks, and was often chidden for staying in the servants' quarters, the kitchen and the stable, instead of the parlor.
"But among the cooks and drivers I was always cheerful, while our ladies and gentlemen used to worry me. Afterward, when I began to understand, I saw that we were leading a wicked life. I had no mother, and I did not like my father. At nineteen I left the house with a girl friend and went to work in a factory," she said.
From the factory she went to the country, then returned to the city, where she was arrested and sentenced to hard labor. Maria Pablovna never related it herself, but Katiousha learned from others that she was sentenced to hard labor because she assumed the guilt of another.
Since Katiousha came to know her she saw that Maria Pablovna, everywhere and under all circumstances, never thought of herself, but was always occupied in helping some one else. One of her present comrades, jesting, said of her that she had given herself up to the sport of charity. And that was true. Like a sportsman looking for game, her entire activity consisted in finding occasion for serving others. And this sport became a habit with her, her life's aim. And she did it so naturally that all those that knew her ceased to appreciate it, and demanded it as by right.
When Maslova entered their ranks, Maria Pablovna felt a disgust and loathing for her. Katiousha noticed it. But she also noticed afterward that Maria Pablovna, making some effort, became particularly kind and gentle toward her. The kindness and gentleness of such an uncommon person so affected Maslova that she gave herself up to her with her whole soul, unconsciously acquired her glance and involuntarily imitated her in everything.
They were also drawn together by that disgust whichboth felt toward physical love. The one hated it, because she had experienced all the horror of it; the other, because not having experienced it, she looked upon it as something strange and at the same time disgusting and offensive to human dignity.
The influence exerted by Maria Pablovna over Katiousha was due to the fact that Katiousha loved Maria Pablovna. There was another influence—that of Simonson, and that was due to the fact that Simonson loved Katiousha.
Simonson decided everything by the light of his reason, and having once decided upon a thing, he never swerved. While yet a student he made up his mind that the wealth of his father, who was an officer of the Commissary Department, was dishonestly accumulated. He then declared to him that his wealth ought to be returned to the people. And when he was reprimanded he left the house and refused to avail himself of his father's means. Having come to the conclusion that all evil can be traced to the people's ignorance, he joined the Democrats, on leaving the university, and obtaining the position of village teacher, he boldly preached before his pupils and the peasants that which he considered to be just, and denounced that which he considered unjust and false.
He was arrested and prosecuted.
During the trial he decided that the court had no right to judge him, and said so. The judges disagreeing with him and proceeding with the trial, he concluded not to answer their questions and remained silent. He was sentenced to exile in the Government of Archangel. There he formulated a religious creed defining all his actions. According to this religious teaching nothing in the world is dead, there is life in everything; all those things which we consider dead, inorganic, are but parts of a huge organic body which we cannot embrace, and that, as a part of a huge organism, man's aim should be to conserve the life of that organism and the lives of all its parts. He therefore considered it a crime to destroy life; wasagainst war, executions, the killing in any manner not only of human beings, but of animals. He also had his theory of marriage, according to which the breeding of people was man's lower function, his higher function consisting in conserving life already existing. He found confirmation of this idea in the existence of phagocites in the blood. Bachelors, according to him, were the same phagocites whose function was to help the weak, sickly parts of the organism. And true to his convictions, he had been performing this function since he became convinced of the truth of the theory, although as a youth he had led a different life. He called himself, as well as Maria Pablovna, a phagocite of the world.
His love for Katiousha did not violate this theory, since it was purely platonic. He assumed that such love not only did not prevent his phagocite activity, but aided it.
And it was this man who, falling in love with Katiousha, had a decisive influence over her. With the instincts of a woman, Maslova soon discovered it, and the consciousness that she could arouse the feeling of love in such a remarkable man raised her in her own estimation. Nekhludoff offered to marry her out of magnanimity, and the obligation for the past, but Simonson loved her as she was now, and loved her simply because he loved her. She felt, besides, that he considered her an unusual woman, distinguished from all other women, and possessing high moral qualities. She did not know exactly what those qualities were, but, at all events, not to deceive him, she endeavored with all her power to call forth her best qualities and, necessarily, be as good as she could be.
Nekhludoff managed to see Maslova only twice between Nijhni and Perm—once in Nijhni while the prisoners were being placed on a net-covered lighter, and again in the office of the Perm prison. On both occasions he found her secretive and unkind. When he asked her about her prison conditions, or whether she wanted anything, she became confused and answered evasively and, as it seemed to him, with that hostile feeling of reproach which shehad manifested before. And this gloomy temper, due only to the persecutions to which she was being subjected by the men, tormented him.
But at their very first meeting in Tomsk she became again as she was before her departure. She no longer frowned or became confused when she saw him, but, on the contrary, met him cheerfully and simply, thanking him for what he had done for her, especially for bringing her in contact with her present company.
After two months of journey from prison to prison, this change also manifested itself in her appearance. She became thin, sun-burnt and apparently older; wrinkles appeared on her temples and around her mouth; she no longer curled her hair on her forehead, but wore a 'kerchief on her head, and neither in her dress, coiffure, nor in her conduct were there any signs of her former coquetry. And this change called forth in Nekhludoff a particularly joyous feeling. The feeling he now experienced toward her was unlike any he had experienced before. It had nothing in common with his first poetic impulse, nor with that sentimental love which he felt afterward, nor even with that consciousness of a duty performed, coupled with self-admiration, which impelled him, after the trial, to resolve on marrying her. It was that same simple feeling of pity and contrition which he experienced at their first meeting in the prison and afterward, with greater force, when he conquered his disgust and forgave her conduct with the physician's assistant in the hospital (the injustice he had done her had subsequently become plain). It was the same feeling with the difference that, while it was temporary then, now it was permanent.
During this period, because of Maslova's transfer to the politicals, Nekhludoff became acquainted with many political prisoners. On closer acquaintance he was convinced that they were not all villains, as many people imagined them to be, nor all heroes, as some of them considered the members of their party, but that they were ordinary people, among whom, as in other parties, some were good, some bad, the others indifferent.
He became particularly attached to a consumptive young man who was on his way to a life term at hard labor. The story of the young man was a very short one.His father, a rich Southern landlord, died while he was a child. He was the only son, and was brought up by his mother. He was the best scholar in the university, making his specialty mathematics. He was offered a chair in the university and a course abroad. But he hesitated. There was a girl of whom he became enamored, so he contemplated marriage and political activity. He wished everything, but resolved on nothing. At that time his college chums asked him for money for a common cause. He knew what that common cause was, and at the time took no interest in it whatever, but from a feeling of fellowship and egoism gave the money, that it might not be thought that he was afraid. Those who took the money were arrested; a note was found from which it was learned that the money had been given by Kryltzoff. He was arrested, taken to the police station, then to the prison.
After his discharge he traveled now South, now to St. Petersburg, then abroad, and again to Kieff and to Odessa. He was denounced by a man in whom he placed great faith. He was arrested, tried, kept in prison two years and finally death sentence was imposed on him, but was afterward commuted to hard labor for life.
He was stricken with consumption while in prison, and under the present circumstances had but a few months to live, and he knew it.
At last Nekhludoff succeeded in obtaining permission to visit Maslova in her cell among the politicals.
While passing the dimly-lighted court-yard from the officers' headquarters to "No. 5," escorted by a messenger, he heard a stir and buzzing of voices coming from the one-story dwelling occupied by the prisoners. And when he came nearer and the door was opened, the buzzing increased and turned into a Babel of shouting, cursing and laughing. A rattling of chains was heard, and a familiar noisome air was wafted from the doorway. The din of voices with the rattle of chains, and the dreadful odor always produced in Nekhludoff the tormenting feeling ofsome moral nausea, turning into physical nausea. These two impressions, mingling, strengthened each other.
The apartment occupied by the political prisoners consisted of two small cells, the doors of which opened into the corridor, partitioned off from the rest. As Nekhludoff got beyond the partition he noticed Simonson feeding a billet of pine wood into the oven.
Spying Nekhludoff he looked up without rising and extended his hand.
"I am glad you came; I want to see you!" he said, with a significant glance, looking Nekhludoff straight in the eyes.
"What is it?" asked Nekhludoff.
"I will tell you later; I am busy now."
And Simonson again occupied himself with making the fire, which he did according to his special theory of the greatest conservation of heat energy.
Nekhludoff was about to enter the first door when Maslova, broom in hand, and sweeping a heap of dirt and dust toward the oven, emerged from the second door. She wore a white waist and white stockings and her skirt was tucked up under the waist. A white 'kerchief covered her head to her very eyebrows. Seeing Nekhludoff, she unbent herself and, all red and animated, put aside the broom, and wiping her hands on her skirt, she stood still.
"You are putting things in order?" asked Nekhludoff, extending his hand.
"Yes, my old occupation," she answered and smiled. "There is such dirt here; there is no end to our cleaning."
"Well, is the plaid dry?" she turned to Simonson.
"Almost," said Simonson, glancing at her in a manner which struck Nekhludoff as very peculiar.
"Then I will fetch the furs to dry. All our people are there," she said to Nekhludoff, going to the further room and pointing to the nearest door.
Nekhludoff opened the door and walked into a small cell, dimly lighted by a little metallic lamp standing on a low bunk. The cell was cold and there was an odor of dust, dampness and tobacco. The tin lamp threw a bright light on those around it, but the bunks were in the shade and vacillating shadows moved along the walls. Inthe small room were all the prisoners, except two men who had gone for boiling water and provisions. There was an old acquaintance of Nekhludoff, the yellow-faced and thin Vera Efremovna, with her large, frightened eyes and a big vein on her forehead. She was sitting nervously rolling cigarettes from a heap of tobacco lying on a newspaper in front of her.
In the far corner there was also Maria Pablovna.
"How opportune your coming! How you seen Katia?" she asked Nekhludoff.
There was also Anatolie Kryltzoff. Pale and wasted, his legs crossed under him, bending forward and shivering, he sat in the far corner, his hands hidden in the sleeves of his fur jacket, and with feverish eyes looked at Nekhludoff. Nekhludoff was about to approach him, but to the right of the entrance, sorting something in a bag and talking to the pretty and smiling Grabetz, sat a man with curly red hair, in a rubber jacket and with spectacles. His name was Novodvoroff, and Nekhludoff hastened to greet him. Of all political prisoners, Nekhludoff liked him best. Novodvoroff glanced over his spectacles at Nekhludoff and, frowning, he extended his thin hand.
"Well, are you enjoying your journey?" he said, evidently in irony.
"Yes, there are many interesting things," answered Nekhludoff, pretending not to see the irony, and treating it as a civility. Then he went over to Kryltzoff. In appearance Nekhludoff seemed to be indifferent, but in reality he was far from being so to Novodvoroff. These words of Novodvoroff, and his evident desire to say something unpleasant, jarred upon his kindly sentiments, and he became gloomy and despondent.
"Well, how is your health?" he said, pressing Kryltzoff's cold and trembling hand.
"Pretty fair, only I cannot get warm; I am all wet," said Kryltzoff, hastily hiding his hand in the sleeve of his coat. "Those windows are broken." He pointed to the windows behind the iron gratings. "Why did you not come before?"
Expecting to have a private conversation with Katiousha, Nekhludoff sat conversing with Kryltzoff. Kryltzoff listened attentively, fixedly gazing at Nekhludoff.
"Yes," he said, suddenly, "I have often thought that we were going into exile with those very people on account of whom we were banished. And yet we not only do not know them, but do not wish to know them. And, worse of all, they hate us and consider us their enemies. This is dreadful."
"There is nothing dreadful about it," said Novodvoroff, overhearing the conversation. "The masses are always churlish and ignorant."
At that moment there was an outburst of curses behind the partition wall, followed by a jostling and banging against walls, a clatter of chains, screaming and shouting. Some one was being beaten; some one shouted "Help!"
"See those beasts! What have they in common with us?" calmly asked Novodvoroff.
"You call them beasts, but you should have heard Nekhludoff telling of the conduct of one of them," Kryltzoff said excitedly.
"You are sentimental!" Novodvoroff said, ironically. "It is hard for us to understand the emotions of these people and the motives of their acts. Where you see magnanimity, there may only be envy."
"Why is it you do not wish to see good in others?" said Maria Pablovna, suddenly becoming excited.
"I cannot see that which does not exist."
"How can you say it does not exist when a man risks a terrible death?"
"I think," said Novodvoroff, "that if we wish to serve our cause effectively it is necessary that we stop dreaming and look at things as they are. We must do everything for the masses, and expect nothing from them. The masses are the object of our activity, but they cannot be our collaborators while they are as inert as they are now. And it is, therefore, perfectly illusive to expect aid from them before they have gone through the process of development—that process of development for which we are preparing them."
"What process of development?" said Kryltzoff, becoming red in the face. "We say that we are against the use of force, but is this not force in its worst form?"
"There is no force here," calmly said Novodvoroff. "Ionly said that I know the path the people must follow, and can point it out."
"But how do you know that yours is the right path? Is it not the same despotism which gave rise to the Inquisition and the executions of the Great Revolution? They, too, knew the only scientific path."
"The fact that people erred does not prove that I am erring. Besides, there is a great difference between the ravings of ideologists and the data of positive economic science."
Novodvoroff's voice filled the entire cell. He alone was speaking; all the others were silent.
"Those eternal discussions!" said Maria Pablovna at a momentary lull.
"And what do you think of it?" Nekhludoff asked Maria Pablovna.
"I think that Anatolie is right—that we have no right to force our ideas on the people."
"That is a strange conception of our ideas," said Novodvoroff, and he began to smoke angrily.
"I cannot talk to them,"Kryltzoff said in a whisper, and became silent.
"And it is much better not to talk," said Nekhludoff.
An officer entered the cell and announced that the time for departing had arrived. He counted every prisoner, pointing at every one with his finger. When he reached Nekhludoff he said, familiarly:
"It is too late to remain now, Prince; it is time to go."
Nekhludoff, knowing what that meant, approached him and thrust three rubles into his hand.
"Nothing can be done with you—stay here a while longer."
Simonson, who was all the while silently sitting on his bunk, his hands clasped behind his head, firmly arose, and carefully making his way through those sitting around the bunk, went over to Nekhludoff.
"Can you hear me now?" asked Simonson.
"Certainly," said Nekhludoff, also rising to follow him.
Maslova saw Nekhludoff rising, and their eyes meeting, she turned red in the face and doubtfully, as it seemed, shook her head.
"My business with you is the following," began Simonson, when they reached the corridor. "Knowing your relations toward Catherine Michaelovna," and he looked straight into Nekhludoff's face, "I consider it my duty——" But at the very door two voices were shouting at the same time.
"I tell you, heathen, they are not mine," shouted one voice.
"Choke yourself, you devil!" the other said, hoarsely.
At that moment Maria Pablovna entered the corridor.
"You cannot talk here," she said. "Walk in here; only Verotchka is there." And she opened the door of a tiny cell, evidently intended for solitary confinement, and now at the disposal of the political prisoners. On one of the bunks lay Vera Efremovna, with her head covered.
"She is ill and asleep; she cannot hear you, and I will go," said Maria Pablovna.
"On the contrary, stay here," said Simonson. "I keep nothing secret, especially from you."
"Very well," said Maria Pablovna, and childishly moving her whole body from side to side, and thus getting into a snug corner of the bunks, she prepared to listen, at the same time looking somewhere in the distance with her beautiful, sheepish eyes.
"Well, then, knowing your relations toward Catherine Michaelovna, I consider it my duty to let you know my relations to her."
"Well, go on," said Nekhludoff, involuntarily admiring Simonson's simplicity and straightforwardness.
"I wished to tell you that I would like to marry Catherine Michaelovna——"
"Remarkable!" exclaimed Maria Pablovna, fixing her gaze on Simonson.
"And I have decided to ask her to be my wife," continued Simonson.
"What, then, can I do? It depends on her," said Nekhludoff.
"Yes; but she would not decide the matter without you."
"Why?"
"Because, while the question of your relations remains undecided, she cannot choose."
"On my part the question is definitely decided. I only wished to do that which I considered it my duty to do, and also to relieve her condition, but in no case did I intend to influence her choice."
"Yes; but she does not wish your sacrifice."
"There is no sacrifice."
"And I also know that her decision is irrevocable."
"Why, then, talk to me?" said Nekhludoff.
"It is necessary for her that you should also approve of it."
"I can only say that I am not free, but she is free to do what she wishes."
Simonson began to ponder.
"Very well, I will tell her so. Do not think that I am in love with her," he continued. "I admire her as a good, rare person who has suffered much. I wish nothing from her, but I would very much like to help her, to relieve her——"
Simonson's trembling voice surprised Nekhludoff.
"To relieve her condition," continued Simonson. "If she does not wish to accept your help, let her accept mine. If she consented, I would ask permission to join her in prison. Four years is not an eternity. I would live near her, and perhaps lighten her fate——" His emotion again compelled him to stop.
"What can I say?" said Nekhludoff. "I am glad that she has found such a protector."
"That is just what I wanted to know," continued Simonson. "I wished to know whether you, loving her and seeking her good, could approve of her marrying me?"
"Oh, yes," Nekhludoff answered, decisively.
"It is all for her; all I wish is that that woman, who had suffered so much, should have some rest," said Simonson, with a childlike gentleness that no one would expect from a man of such gloomy aspect.
Simonson rose, took Nekhludoff's hand, smiled bashfully and embraced him.
"Well, I will so tell her," he said, and left the room.
"What do you think of him?" said Maria Pablovna. "In love, and earnestly in love! I never thought that VladimirSimonson could fall in love in such a very stupid, childish fashion. It is remarkable, and to tell the truth, sad," she concluded, sighing.
"But Katia? How do you think she will take it?" asked Nekhludoff.
"She?" Maria Pablovna stopped, evidently desiring to give a precise answer. "She? You see, notwithstanding her past, she is naturally of a most moral character. And her feelings are so refined. She loves you—very much so—and is happy to be able to do you the negative good of not binding you to herself. Marriage with you would be a dreadful fall to her, worse than all her past. For this reason she would never consent to it. At the same time, your presence perplexes her."
"Ought I then to disappear?" asked Nekhludoff.
Maria Pablovna smiled in her pleasant, childish way.
"Yes, partly."
"How can I partly disappear?"
"I take it back. But I will tell you that she probably sees the absurdity of that exalted love of his (he has not spoken to her about it), is flattered by it, and fears it. You know that I am not competent in these matters, but I think that his love is that of the ordinary man, although it is masked. He says that it rouses his energy and that it is a platonic love; but it has nothing but nastiness for its basis."
"But what am I to do?" asked Nekhludoff.
"I think it is best that you have a talk with her. It is always better to make everything clear. Shall I call her?" said Maria Pablovna.
"If you please," answered Nekhludoff, and Maria Pablovna went out.
Nekhludoff was seized with a strange feeling when,alone in the small cell, he listened to the quiet breathing of Vera Efremovna, interrupted by an occasional moan, and the constant din coming from the cells of the convicts.
That which Simonson had told him freed him from his self-imposed obligation, which, in a moment of weakness, seemed to him burdensome and dreadful; and yet it was not only unpleasant, but painful. The offer of Simonson destroyed the exclusiveness of his act, minimized in his own and other people's eyes the value of the sacrifice he was making. If such a good man as Simonson, who was under no obligation to her, wished to join his fate to hers, then his own sacrifice was no longer so important. Maybe there was also the ordinary feeling of jealousy; he was so used to her love that he could not think that she was capable of loving any one else. Besides, his plans were now shattered, especially the plan of living near her while she served her sentence. If she married Simonson, his presence was no longer necessary, and that required a rearrangement of his projects. He could scarcely collect his thoughts, when Katiousha entered the cell.
With quick step she approached him.
"Maria Pablovna sent me," she said, stopping near him.
"Yes, I would like to talk with you. Take a seat. Vladimir Ivanovitch spoke to me."
She seated herself, crossed her hands on her knees, and seemed calm. But as soon as Nekhludoff pronounced Simonson's name, her face turned a purple color.
"What did he tell you?" she asked.
"He told me that he wishes to marry you."
Her face suddenly became wrinkled, evidencing suffering, but she remained silent, only looking at the floor.
"He asked my consent or advice. I told him that it all rests with you; that you must decide."
"Oh, what is it all for?" she said, and looked at Nekhludoff with that squinting glance that always peculiarly affected him. For a few seconds they looked silently at each other. That glance was significant to both.
"You must decide," repeated Nekhludoff.
"Decide what?" she said. "It has all been decided longago. It is you who must decide whether you will accept the offer of Vladimir Ivanovitch," she continued, frowning.
"But if a pardon should come?" said Nekhludoff.
"Oh, leave me alone. It is useless to talk any more," she answered, and, rising, left the cell.
Gaining the street, Nekhludoff stopped, and, expanding his chest, drew in the frosty air.
The following morning a soldier brought him a note from Maria Pablovna, in which she said that Kryltzoff's condition was worse than they thought it to be.
"At one time we intended to remain here with him, but they would not allow it. So we are taking him with us, but we fear the worst. Try to so arrange in town that if he is left behind some one of us shall remain with him. If it is necessary for that purpose that I should marry him, then, of course, I am ready to do it."
Nekhludoff obtained horses and hastened to catch up with the party of prisoners. He stopped his team near the wagon carrying Kryltzoff on a bed of hay and pillows. Beside Kryltzoff sat Maria Pablovna. Kryltzoff, in a fur coat and lambskin cap, seemed thinner and more pale than before. His beautiful eyes seemed particularly larger and sparkling. Weakly rolling from side to side from the jostling of the wagon, he steadily looked at Nekhludoff, and in answer to questions about his health, he only closed his eyes and angrily shook his head. It required all his energy to withstand the jostling of the wagon. Maria Pablovna exchanged glances with Nekhludoff, expressing apprehension concerning Kryltzoff's condition.
"The officer seems to have some shame in him," she shouted, so as to be heard above the rattling of the wheels. "He removed the handcuffs from Bouzovkin, who is now carrying his child. With him are Katia, Simonson and, in my place, Verotchka."
Kryltzoff, pointing at Maria Pablovna, said something which could not, however, be heard. Nekhludoff leaned over him in order to hear him. Then Kryltzoff removed the handkerchief, which was tied around his mouth, and whispered:
"Now I am better. If I could only keep from catching cold."
Nekhludoff nodded affirmatively and glanced at Maria Pablovna.
"Have you received my note, and will you do it?" asked Maria Pablovna.
"Without fail," said Nekhludoff, and seeing the dissatisfied face of Kryltzoff, went over to his own team, climbed into the wagon, and holding fast to the sides of it, drove along the line of gray-coated and fettered prisoners which stretched for almost a mile.
Nekhludoff crossed the river to a town, and his driver took him to a hotel, where, notwithstanding the poor appointments, he found a measure of comfort entirely wanting in the inns of his stopping places. He took a bath, dressed himself in city clothes and drove to the governor of the district. He alighted at a large, handsome building, in front of which stood a sentry and a policeman.
The general was ill, and did not receive. Nekhludoff, nevertheless, asked the porter to take his card to the general, and the porter returned with a favorable answer:
"You are asked to step in."
The vestibule, the porter, the messenger, the shining floor of the hall—everything reminded him of St. Petersburg, only it was somewhat dirtier and more majestic. Nekhludoff was admitted to the cabinet.
The general, bloated, with a potato nose and prominent bumps on his forehead, hairless pate and bags under his eyes, a man of sanguine temperament, was reclining in a silk morning gown, and with a cigarette in his hand, was drinking tea from a silver saucer.
"How do you do, sir? Excuse my receiving you in a morning gown; it is better than not receiving at all," he said, covering his stout, wrinkled neck with the collar of his gown. "I am not quite well, and do not go out. What brought you into these wilds?"
"I was following a party of convicts, among whom is a person near to me," said Nekhludoff. "And now I come to see Your Excellency about that person, and also another affair."
The general inhaled the smoke of his cigarette, took a sip of tea, placed his cigarette in a malachite ash-holder,and steadily gazing with his watery, shining eyes at Nekhludoff, listened gravely. He only interrupted Nekhludoff to ask him if he wished to smoke.
Nekhludoff told the general that the person in whom he was interested was a woman, that she was unjustly convicted, and that His Majesty's clemency had been appealed to.
"Yes. Well?" said the general.
"I was promised in St. Petersburg that the news of this woman's fate would be sent to this place not later than this month."
Looking steadily at Nekhludoff, the general asked:
"Anything else?"
"My second request would be concerning the political prisoner who is going to Siberia with this detachment."
"Is that so?" said the general.
"He is very sick—he is a dying man. And he will probably be left here in the hospital; for this reason one of the female prisoners would like to remain with him."
"Is she a relative of his?"
"No. But she wishes to marry him, if it will allow her to stay with him."
The general looked sharply at Nekhludoff from his shining eyes, and, smoking continually, he kept silence, as if wishing to confound his companion.
When Nekhludoff had finished he took a book from the table, and frequently wetting the fingers with which he turned the leaves, he lighted on the chapter treating of marriage and perused it.
"What's her sentence?" he asked, lifting his eyes from the book.
"Hers? Hard labor."
"If this is the case, the sentence cannot be changed by marriage."
"But——"
"I beg your pardon! If a free man would marry her she would have to serve her sentence all the same. Whose sentence is harder, his or hers?"
"Both are sentenced to hard labor."
"So they are quits," the general said, laughing. "An equal share for both of them. He may be left here on account of his sickness," he continued, "and, of course,everything will be done to ameliorate his condition, but she, even if she should marry him, cannot remain here. Anyhow, I will think it over. What are their names? Write them down here."
Nekhludoff did as he was asked.
"And this I cannot do either," said the general, concerning his request to see the patient. "Of course I don't suspect you, but you are interested in them and in others. You have money, and the people here are corrupt. How, then, is it possible for me to watch a person who is five thousand miles distant from me? There he is king, as I am here," and he began to laugh. "You have surely seen the political prisoners. You have surely given them money," he added, smiling. "Isn't it so?"
"Yes, it is true."
"I understand that you must act in this way. You want to see the political prisoner, and you all sorrow for him, and the soldier on guard will surely take money, because he has a family, and his salary amounts to something less than nothing; he cannot afford to refuse. I would do the same were I in yours or his place. But, being situated as I am now, I cannot permit myself to disobey one iota of the law, for the very reason that I, too, am no more than a man, and am liable to yield to pity. They confide in me under certain conditions, and I, by my actions, must prove that I am trustworthy. So this question is settled. Well, now tell me what is going on at the metropolis?"
Then the general put various questions, as if he would like to learn some news.
"Well, tell me now whom you are stopping with—at Duke's? It is unpleasant there. Come to us to dinner," he said, finally, dismissing Nekhludoff, "at five. Do you speak English?"
"Yes, sir."
"Well, that is good. You see, there is an English traveler here. He is studying the exile system, and the prisons in Siberia. So he will dine with us, and you come, too. We dine at five, and madam wants us to be punctual. I will let you know what will be done with that woman, and also with the patient. Maybe it will be possible to leave somebody with him."
Having taken leave of the general, Nekhludoff drove to the postoffice. Receiving his mail, he walked up to a wooden bench, on which a soldier was sitting, probably waiting for something; he sat down beside him, and started to look through the letters. Among them he found a registered letter in a beautiful, large envelope, with a large seal of red wax on it. He tore open the envelope, and, seeing a letter fromSelenin with some official document, he felt the blood mounting to his cheeks, and his heart grow weak. This document was the decision concerning Katiousha's trial. What was it? Was it possible that it contained a refusal? Nekhludoff hastily ran over the letter, written in small, hardly legible, broken handwriting, and breathed freely. The decision was a favorable one.
"Dear friend," wroteSelenin, "our last conversation made a strong impression upon me. You were right concerning Maslova. I have looked through the accusation. This could be corrected only through the Commission for Petitions, to which you sent your petition. They let me have a copy of the pardon, and here I send it to you, to the address which the Countess Catherine Ivanovna gave me. I press your hand in friendship."
The news was pleasant and important. All that Nekhludoff could wish for Katiousha and himself was realized. True, those changes in his life changed his relations to her. But now, he thought, all that was most important was to see her as quick as possible and bring her the good news of her freedom. He thought that the copy he had in his hand was sufficient for that. So he bade the cabman drive at once to the prison.
The superintendent of the prison told him that he could not admit him without a permit from the general. The copy of the petition from their majesty's bureau also did not prevail with the superintendent. He positively refused admittance. He also refused to admit him to see Kryltzoff.