Resurrection by Leo Nikoleyevich Tolstoy (i love reading .TXT) 📖
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to him in the night again raised its voice, trying to lead him
out of the realm of his inner into the realm of his outer life,
away from the question of what he should do to the question of
what the consequences would be, and what would he practical.
“You can do nothing with this woman,” said the voice; “you will
only tie a stone round your neck, which will help to drown you
and hinder you from being useful to others.
“Is it not better to give her all the money that is here, say
goodbye, and finish with her forever?” whispered the voice.
But here he felt that now, at this very moment, something most
important was taking place in his soul—that his inner life was,
as it were, wavering in the balance, so that the slightest effort
would make it sink to this side or the other. And he made this
effort by calling to his assistance that God whom he had felt in
his soul the day before, and that God instantly responded. He
resolved to tell her everything now—at once.
“Katusha, I have come to ask you to forgive me, and you have
given me no answer. Have you forgiven me? Will you ever forgive
me?” he asked.
She did not listen to him, but looked at his hand and at the
inspector, and when the latter turned she hastily stretched out
her hand, grasped the note, and hid it under her belt.
“That’s odd, what you are saying there,” she said, with a smile
of contempt, as it seemed to him.
Nekhludoff felt that there was in her soul one who was his enemy
and who was protecting her, such as she was now, and preventing
him from getting at her heart. But, strange to say, this did not
repel him, but drew him nearer to her by some fresh, peculiar
power. He knew that he must waken her soul, that this was
terribly difficult, but the very difficulty attracted him. He now
felt towards her as he had never felt towards her or any one else
before. There was nothing personal in this feeling: he wanted
nothing from her for himself, but only wished that she might not
remain as she now was, that she might awaken and become again
what she had been.
“Katusha, why do you speak like that? I know you; I remember
you—and the old days in Papovo.”
“What’s the use of recalling what’s past?” she remarked, drily.
“I am recalling it in order to put it right, to atone for my sin,
Katusha,” and he was going to say that he would marry her, but,
meeting her eyes, he read in them something so dreadful, so
coarse, so repellent, that he could not go on.
At this moment the visitors began to go. The inspector came up to
Nekhludoff and said that the time was up.
“Goodbye; I have still much to say to you, but you see it is
impossible to do so now,” said Nekhludoff, and held out his hand.
“I shall come again.”
“I think you have said all.”
She took his hand but did not press it.
“No; I shall try to see you again, somewhere where we can talk,
and then I shall tell you what I have to say-something very
important.”
“Well, then, come; why not?” she answered, and smiled with that
habitual, inviting, and promising smile which she gave to the men
whom she wished to please.
“You are more than a sister to me,” said Nekhludoff.
“That’s odd,” she said again, and went behind the grating.
CHAPTER XLIV.
MASLOVA’S VIEW OF LIFE.
Before the first interview, Nekhludoff thought that when she saw
him and knew of his intention to serve her, Katusha would be
pleased and touched, and would be Katusha again; but, to his
horror, he found that Katusha existed no more, and there was
Maslova in her place. This astonished and horrified him.
What astonished him most was that Katusha was not ashamed of her
position—not the position of a prisoner (she was ashamed of
that), but her position as a prostitute. She seemed satisfied,
even proud of it. And, yet, how could it be otherwise? Everybody,
in order to be able to act, has to consider his occupation
important and good. Therefore, in whatever position a person is,
he is certain to form such a view of the life of men in general
which will make his occupation seem important and good.
It is usually imagined that a thief, a murderer, a spy, a
prostitute, acknowledging his or her profession as evil, is
ashamed of it. But the contrary is true. People whom fate and
their sin-mistakes have placed in a certain position, however
false that position may be, form a view of life in general which
makes their position seem good and admissible. In order to keep
up their view of life, these people instinctively keep to the
circle of those people who share their views of life and their
own place in it. This surprises us, where the persons concerned
are thieves, bragging about their dexterity, prostitutes vaunting
their depravity, or murderers boasting of their cruelty. This
surprises us only because the circle, the atmosphere in which
these people live, is limited, and we are outside it. But can we
not observe the same phenomenon when the rich boast of their
wealth, i.e., robbery; the commanders in the army pride themselves
on victories, i.e., murder; and those in high places vaunt their
power, i.e., violence? We do not see the perversion in the views
of life held by these people, only because the circle formed by
them is more extensive, and we ourselves are moving inside of it.
And in this manner Maslova had formed her views of life and of
her own position. She was a prostitute condemned to Siberia, and
yet she had a conception of life which made it possible for her
to be satisfied with herself, and even to pride herself on her
position before others.
According to this conception, the highest good for all men
without exception—old, young, schoolboys, generals, educated and
uneducated, was connected with the relation of the sexes;
therefore, all men, even when they pretended to be occupied with
other things, in reality took this view. She was an attractive
woman, and therefore she was an important and necessary person.
The whole of her former and present life was a confirmation of
the correctness of this conception.
With such a view of life, she was by no means the lowest, but a
very important person. And Maslova prized this view of life more
than anything; she could not but prize it, for, if she lost the
importance that such a view of life gave her among men, she would
lose the meaning of her life. And, in order not to lose the
meaning of her life, she instinctively clung to the set that
looked at life in the same way as she did. Feeling that
Nekhludoff wanted to lead her out into another world, she
resisted him, foreseeing that she would have to lose her place in
life, with the self-possession and self-respect it gave her. For
this reason she drove from her the recollections of her early
youth and her first relations with Nekhludoff. These
recollections did not correspond with her present conception of
the world, and were therefore quite rubbed out of her mind, or,
rather, lay somewhere buried and untouched, closed up and
plastered over so that they should not escape, as when bees, in
order to protect the result of their labour, will sometimes
plaster a nest of worms. Therefore, the present Nekhludoff was
not the man she had once loved with a pure love, but only a rich
gentleman whom she could, and must, make use of, and with whom
she could only have the same relations as with men in general.
“No, I could not tell her the chief thing,” thought Nekhludoff,
moving towards the front doors with the rest of the people. “I
did not tell her that I would marry her; I did not tell her so,
but I will,” he thought.
The two warders at the door let out the visitors, counting them
again, and touching each one with their hands, so that no extra
person should go out, and none remain within. The slap on his
shoulder did not offend Nekhludoff this time; he did not even
notice it.
CHAPTER XLV.
FANARIN, THE ADVOCATE—THE PETITION.
Nekhludoff meant to rearrange the whole of his external life, to
let his large house and move to an hotel, but Agraphena Petrovna
pointed out that it was useless to change anything before the
winter. No one would rent a town house for the summer; anyhow, he
would have to live and keep his things somewhere. And so all his
efforts to change his manner of life (he meant to live more
simply: as the students live) led to nothing. Not only did
everything remain as it was, but the house was suddenly filled
with new activity. All that was made of wool or fur was taken out
to be aired and beaten. The gate-keeper, the boy, the cook, and
Corney himself took part in this activity. All sorts of strange
furs, which no one ever used, and various uniforms were taken out
and hung on a line, then the carpets and furniture were brought
out, and the gate-keeper and the boy rolled their sleeves up
their muscular arms and stood beating these things, keeping
strict time, while the rooms were filled with the smell of
naphthaline.
When Nekhludoff crossed the yard or looked out of the window and
saw all this going on, he was surprised at the great number of
things there were, all quite useless. Their only use, Nekhludoff
thought, was the providing of exercise for Agraphena Petrovna,
Corney, the gate-keeper, the boy, and the cook.
“But it’s not worth while altering my manner of life now,” he
thought, “while Maslova’s case is not decided. Besides, it is too
difficult. It will alter of itself when she will be set free or
exiled, and I follow her.”
On the appointed day Nekhludoff drove up to the advocate
Fanarin’s own splendid house, which was decorated with huge palms
and other plants, and wonderful curtains, in fact, with all the
expensive luxury witnessing to the possession of much idle money,
i.e., money acquired without labour, which only those possess who
grow rich suddenly. In the waiting-room, just as in a doctor’s
waiting-room, he found many dejected-looking people sitting round
several tables, on which lay illustrated papers meant to amuse
them, awaiting their turns to be admitted to the advocate. The
advocate’s assistant sat in the room at a high desk, and having
recognised Nekhludoff, he came up to him and said he would go and
announce him at once. But the assistant had not reached the door
before it opened and the sounds of loud, animated voices were
heard; the voice of a middleaged, sturdy merchant, with a red
face and thick moustaches, and the voice of Fanarin himself.
Fanarin was also a middleaged man of medium height, with a worn
look on his face. Both faces bore the expression which you see on
the faces of those who have just concluded a profitable but not
quite honest transaction.
“Your own fault, you know, my dear sir,” Fanarin said, smiling.
“We’d all be in ‘eaven were it not for hour sins.”
“Oh. yes, yes; we all know that,” and both laughed unnaturally.
“Oh, Prince Nekhludoff! Please to step in,” said Fanarin, seeing
him, and, nodding once more to
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