Resurrection by Leo Nikoleyevich Tolstoy (i love reading .TXT) đ
- Author: Leo Nikoleyevich Tolstoy
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Kolosoffâs opinion would decide all doubts, and each word of this
opinion be worthy of being immortalised. Kolosoff found fault
both with the play and its author, and that led him to express
his views on art. Princess Sophia Vasilievna, while trying at the
same time to defend the play, seemed impressed by the truth of
his arguments, either giving in at once, or at least modifying
her opinion. Nekhludoff looked and listened, but neither saw nor
heard what was going on before him.
Listening now to Sophia Vasilievna, now to Kolosoff, Nekhludoff
noticed that neither he nor she cared anything about the play or
each other, and that if they talked it was only to gratify the
physical desire to move the muscles of the throat and tongue
after having eaten; and that Kolosoff, having drunk vodka, wine
and liqueur, was a little tipsy. Not tipsy like the peasants who
drink seldom, but like people to whom drinking wine has become a
habit. He did not reel about or talk nonsense, but he was in a
state that was not normal; excited and self-satisfied.
Nekhludoff also noticed that during the conversation Princess
Sophia Vasilievna kept glancing uneasily at the window, through
which a slanting ray of sunshine, which might vividly light up
her aged face, was beginning to creep up.
âHow true,â she said in reference to some remark of Kolosoffâs,
touching the button of an electric bell by the side of her couch.
The doctor rose, and, like one who is at home, left the room
without saying anything. Sophia Vasilievna followed him with her
eyes and continued the conversation.
âPlease, Philip, draw these curtains,â she said, pointing to the
window, when the handsome footman came in answer to the bell.
âNo; whatever you may say, there is some mysticism in him;
without mysticism there can be no poetry,â she said, with one of
her black eyes angrily following the footmanâs movements as he
was drawing the curtains. âWithout poetry, mysticism is
superstition; without mysticism, poetry isâprose,â she
continued, with a sorrowful smile, still not losing sight of the
footman and the curtains. âPhilip, not that curtain; the one on
the large window,â she exclaimed, in a suffering tone. Sophia
Vasilievna was evidently pitying herself for having to make the
effort of saying these words; and, to soothe her feelings, she
raised to her lips a scented, smoking cigarette with her jewel-bedecked fingers.
The broad-chested, muscular, handsome Philip bowed slightly, as
if begging pardon; and stepping lightly across the carpet with
his broad-calved, strong, legs, obediently and silently went to
the other window, and, looking at the princess, carefully began
to arrange the curtain so that not a single ray dared fall on
her. But again he did not satisfy her, and again she had to
interrupt the conversation about mysticism, and correct in a
martyred tone the unintelligent Philip, who was tormenting her so
pitilessly. For a moment a light flashed in Philipâs eyes.
ââThe devil take you! What do you want?â was probably what he
said to himself,â thought Nekhludoff, who had been observing all
this scene. But the strong, handsome Philip at once managed to
conceal the signs of his impatience, and went on quietly carrying
out the orders of the worn, weak, false Sophia Vasilievna.
âOf course, there is a good deal of truth in Lombrosoâs
teaching,â said Kolosoff, lolling back in the low chair and
looking at Sophia Vasilievna with sleepy eyes; âbut he
overstepped the mark. Oh, yes.â
âAnd you? Do you believe in heredity?â asked Sophia Vasilievna,
turning to Nekhludoff, whose silence annoyed her. âIn heredity?â
he asked. âNo, I donât.â At this moment his whole mind was taken
up by strange images that in some unaccountable way rose up in
his imagination. By the side of this strong and handsome Philip
he seemed at this minute to see the nude figure of Kolosoff as an
artistâs model; with his stomach like a melon, his bald head, and
his arms without muscle, like pestles. In the same dim way the
limbs of Sophia Vasilievna, now covered with silks and velvets,
rose up in his mind as they must be in reality; but this mental
picture was too horrid and he tried to drive it away.
âWell, you know Missy is waiting for you,â she said. âGo and find
her. She wants to play a new piece by Grieg to you; it is most
interesting.â
âShe did not mean to play anything; the woman is simply lying,
for some reason or other,â thought Nekhludoff, rising and
pressing Sophia Vasilievnaâs transparent and bony, ringed hand.
Katerina Alexeevna met him in the drawing-room, and at once
began, in French, as usual:
âI see the duties of a juryman act depressingly upon you.â
âYes; pardon me, I am in low spirits to-day, and have no right to
weary others by my presence,â said Nekhludoff.
âWhy are you in low spirits?â
âAllow me not to speak about that,â he said, looking round for
his hat.
âDonât you remember how you used to say that we must always tell
the truth? And what cruel truths you used to tell us all! Why do
you not wish to speak out now? Donât you remember, Missy?â she
said, turning to Missy, who had just come in.
âWe were playing a game then,â said Nekhludoff, seriously; âone
may tell the truth in a game, but in reality we are so badâI
mean I am so badâthat I, at least, cannot tell the truth.â
âOh, do not correct yourself, but rather tell us why we are
so bad,â said Katerina Alexeevna, playing with her words and
pretending not to notice how serious Nekhludoff was.
âNothing is worse than to confess to being in low spirits,â said
Missy. âI never do it, and therefore am always in good spirits.â
Nekhludoff felt as a horse must feel when it is being caressed to
make it submit to having the bit put in its mouth and be
harnessed, and to-day he felt less than ever inclined to draw.
âWell, are you coming into my room? We will try to cheer you up.â
He excused himself, saying he had to be at home, and began taking
leave. Missy kept his hand longer than usual.
âRemember that what is important to you is important to your
friends,â she said. âAre you coming tomorrow?â
âI hardly expect to,â said Nekhludoff; and feeling ashamed,
without knowing whether for her or for himself, he blushed and
went away.
âWhat is it? Comme cela mâintrigue,â said Katerina Alexeevna. âI
must find it out. I suppose it is some _affaire dâamour propre; il
est tres susceptible, notre cher Mitia_.â
âPlutot une affaire dâamour sale,â Missy was going to say, but
stopped and looked down with a face from which all the light had
goneâa very different face from the one with which she had
looked at him. She would not mention to Katerina Alexeevna even,
so vulgar a pun, but only said, âWe all have our good and our bad
days.â
âIs it possible that he, too, will deceive?â she thought; âafter
all that has happened it would be very bad of him.â
If Missy had had to explain what she meant by âafter all that has
happened,â she could have said nothing definite, and yet she knew
that he had not only excited her hopes but had almost given her a
promise. No definite words had passed between themâonly looks
and smiles and hints; and yet she considered him as her own, and
to lose him would be very hard.
CHAPTER XXVIII.
THE AWAKENING.
âShameful and stupid, horrid and shameful!â Nekhludoff kept
saying to himself, as he walked home along the familiar streets.
The depression he had felt whilst speaking to Missy would not
leave him. He felt that, looking at it externally, as it were, he
was in the right, for he had never said anything to her that
could be considered binding, never made her an offer; but he knew
that in reality he had bound himself to her, had promised to be
hers. And yet to-day he felt with his whole being that he could
not marry her.
âShameful and horrid, horrid and shameful!â he repeated to
himself, with reference not only to his relations with Missy but
also to the rest. âEverything is horrid and shameful,â he
muttered, as he stepped into the porch of his house. âI am not
going to have any supper,â he said to his manservant Corney, who
followed him into the dining-room, where the cloth was laid for
supper and tea. âYou may go.â
âYes, sir,â said Corney, yet he did not go, but began clearing
the supper off the table. Nekhludoff looked at Corney with a
feeling of ill-will. He wished to be left alone, and it seemed to
him that everybody was bothering him in order to spite him. When
Corney had gone away with the supper things, Nekhludoff moved to
the tea urn and was about to make himself some tea, but hearing
Agraphena Petrovnaâs footsteps, he went hurriedly into the
drawing-room, to avoid being seen by her, and shut the door after
him. In this drawing-room his mother had died three months
before. On entering the room, in which two lamps with reflectors
were burning, one lighting up his fatherâs and the other his
motherâs portrait, he remembered what his last relations with his
mother had been. And they also seemed shameful and horrid. He
remembered how, during the latter period of her illness, he had
simply wished her to die. He had said to himself that he wished
it for her sake, that she might be released from her suffering,
but in reality he wished to be released from the sight of her
sufferings for his own sake.
Trying to recall a pleasant image of her, he went up to look at
her portrait, painted by a celebrated artist for 800 roubles. She
was depicted in a very low-necked black velvet dress. There was
something very revolting and blasphemous in this representation
of his mother as a half-nude beauty. It was all the more
disgusting because three months ago, in this very room, lay this
same woman, dried up to a mummy. And he remembered how a few days
before her death she clasped his hand with her bony, discoloured
fingers, looked into his eyes, and said: âDo not judge me, Mitia,
if I have not done what I should,â and how the tears came into
her eyes, grown pale with suffering.
âAh, how horrid!â he said to himself, looking up once more at the
half-naked woman, with the splendid marble shoulders and arms,
and the triumphant smile on her lips. âOh, how horrid!â The bared
shoulders of the portrait reminded him of another, a young woman,
whom he had seen exposed in the same way a few days before. It
was Missy, who had devised an excuse for calling him into her
room just as she was ready to go to a ball, so that he should see
her in her ball dress. It was with disgust that he remembered her
fine shoulders and arms. âAnd that father of hers, with his
doubtful past and his cruelties, and the bel-esprit her mother,
with her doubtful reputation.â All this disgusted him, and also
made him feel ashamed. âShameful and horrid; horrid and shameful!â
âNo, no,â he thought; âfreedom from all these false relations
with the Korchagins and Mary Vasilievna and the inheritance and
from all the rest must be got. Oh, to breathe freely, to go
abroad, to Rome and work at my picture!â He
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