Resurrection by Leo Nikoleyevich Tolstoy (i love reading .TXT) 📖
- Author: Leo Nikoleyevich Tolstoy
- Performer: -
Book online «Resurrection by Leo Nikoleyevich Tolstoy (i love reading .TXT) 📖». Author Leo Nikoleyevich Tolstoy
Nekhludoff had a strong antipathy towards him because of the
vulgarity of his feelings, his assurance and narrowness, but
chiefly because of Nathalie, who managed to love him in spite of
the narrowness of his nature, and loved him so selfishly, so
sensually, and stifled for his sake all the good that had been in
her.
It always hurt Nekhludoff to think of Nathalie as the wife of
that hairy, self-assured man with the shiny, bald patch on his
head. He could not even master a feeling of revulsion towards
their children, and when he heard that she was again going to
have a baby, he felt something like sorrow that she had once more
been infected with something bad by this man who was so foreign
to him. The Rogozhinskys had come to Moscow alone, having left
their two children—a boy and a girl—at home, and stopped in the
best rooms of the best hotel. Nathalie at once went to her
mother’s old house, but hearing from Agraphena Petrovna that her
brother had left, and was living in a lodging-house, she drove
there. The dirty servant met her in the stuffy passage, dark but
for a lamp which burnt there all day. He told her that the Prince
was not in.
Nathalie asked to be shown into his rooms, as she wished to leave
a note for him, and the man took her up.
Nathalie carefully examined her brother’s two little rooms. She
noticed in everything the love of cleanliness and order she knew
so well in him, and was struck by the novel simplicity of the
surroundings. On his writing-table she saw the paper-weight with
the bronze dog on the top which she remembered; the tidy way in
which his different portfolios and writing utensils were placed
on the table was also familiar, and so was the large, crooked
ivory paper knife which marked the place in a French book by
Tard, which lay with other volumes on punishment and a book in
English by Henry George. She sat down at the table and wrote a
note asking him to be sure to come that same day, and shaking her
head in surprise at what she saw, she returned to her hotel.
Two questions regarding her brother now interested Nathalie: his
marriage with Katusha, which she had heard spoken about in their
town—for everybody was speaking about it—and his giving away
the land to the peasants, which was also known, and struck many
as something of a political nature, and dangerous. The Carriage
with Katusha pleased her in a way. She admired that resoluteness
which was so like him and herself as they used to be in those
happy times before her marriage. And yet she was horrified when
she thought her brother was going to marry such a dreadful woman.
The latter was the stronger feeling of the two, and she decided
to use all her influence to prevent him from doing it, though she
knew how difficult this would be.
The other matter, the giving up of the land to the peasants, did
not touch her so nearly, but her husband was very indignant about
it, and expected her to influence her brother against it.
Rogozhinsky said that such an action was the height of
inconsistency, flightiness, and pride, the only possible
explanation of which was the desire to appear original, to brag,
to make one’s self talked about.
“What sense could there be in letting the land to the peasants,
on condition that they pay the rent to themselves?” he said. “If
he was resolved to do such a thing, why not sell the land to them
through the Peasants’ Bank? There might have been some sense in
that. In fact, this act verges on insanity.”
And Rogozhinsky began seriously thinking about putting Nekhludoff
under guardianship, and demanded of his wife that she should
speak seriously to her brother about his curious intention.
CHAPTER XXXII.
NEKHLUDOFF’S ANARCHISM.
As soon as Nekhludoff returned that evening and saw his sister’s
note on the table he started to go and see her. He found Nathalie
alone, her husband having gone to take a rest in the next room.
She wore a tightly-fitting black silk dress, with a red bow in
front. Her black hair was crimped and arranged according to the
latest fashion.
The pains she took to appear young, for the sake of her husband,
whose equal she was in years, were very obvious.
When she saw her brother she jumped up and hurried towards him,
with her silk dress rustling. They kissed, and looked smilingly
at each other. There passed between them that mysterious exchange
of looks, full of meaning, in which all was true, and which
cannot be expressed in words. Then came words which were not
true. They had not met since their mother’s death.
“You have grown stouter and younger,” he said, and her lips
puckered up with pleasure.
“And you have grown thinner.”
“Well, and how is your husband?” Nekhludoff asked.
“He is taking a rest; he did not sleep all night.” There was much
to say, but it was not said in words; only their looks expressed
what their words failed to say.
“I went to see you.”
“Yes, I know. I moved because the house is too big for me. I was
lonely there, and dull. I want nothing of all that is there, so
that you had better take it all—the furniture, I mean, and
things.”
“Yes, Agraphena Petrovna told me. I went there. Thanks, very
much. But—”
At this moment the hotel waiter brought in a silver tea-set.
While he set the table they were silent. Then Nathalie sat down
at the table and made the tea, still in silence. Nekhludoff also
said nothing.
At last Nathalie began resolutely. “Well, Dmitri, I know all
about it.” And she looked at him.
“What of that? l am glad you know.”
“How can you hope to reform her after the life she has led?” she
asked.
He sat quite straight on a small chair, and listened attentively,
trying to understand her and to answer rightly. The state of mind
called forth in him by his last interview with Maslova still
filled his soul with quiet joy and good will to all men.
“It is not her but myself I wish to reform,” he replied.
Nathalie sighed.
“There are other means besides marriage to do that.”
“But I think it is the best. Besides, it leads me into that world
in which I can be of use.”
“I cannot believe you will be happy,” said Nathalie.
“It’s not my happiness that is the point.”
“Of course, but if she has a heart she cannot be happy—cannot
even wish it.”
“She does not wish it.”
“I understand; but life—”
“Yes—life?”
“Demands something different.”
“It demands nothing but that we should do what is right,” said
Nekhludoff, looking into her face, still handsome, though
slightly wrinkled round eyes and mouth.
“I do not understand,” she said, and sighed.
“Poor darling; how could she change so?” he thought, calling back
to his mind Nathalie as she had been before her marriage, and
feeling towards her a tenderness woven out of innumerable
memories of childhood. At that moment Rogozhinsky entered the
room, with head thrown back and expanded chest, and stepping
lightly and softly in his usual manner, his spectacles, his bald
patch, and his black beard all glistening.
“How do you do? How do you do?” he said, laying an unnatural and
intentional stress on his words. (Though, soon after the
marriage, they had tried to be more familiar with each other,
they had never succeeded.)
They shook hands, and Rogozhinsky sank softly into an easy-chair.
“Am I not interrupting your conversation?”
“No, I do not wish to hide what I am saying or doing from any
one.”
As soon as Nekhludoff saw the hairy hands, and heard the
patronising, self-assured tones, his meekness left him in a
moment.
“Yes, we were talking about his intentions,” said Nathalie.
“Shall I give you a cup of tea?” she added, taking the teapot.
“Yes, please. What particular intentions do you mean?”
“That of going to Siberia with the gang of prisoners, among whom
is the woman I consider myself to have wronged,” uttered
Nekhludoff.
“I hear not only to accompany her, but more than that.”
“Yes, and to marry her if she wishes it.”
“Dear me! But if you do not object I should like to ask you to
explain your motives. I do not understand them.”
“My motives are that this woman—that this woman’s first step on
her way to degradation—” Nekhludoff got angry with himself, and
was unable to find the right expression. “My motives are that I
am the guilty one, and she gets the punishment.”
“If she is being punished she cannot be innocent, either.”
“She is quite innocent.” And Nekhludoff related the whole
incident with unnecessary warmth.
“Yes, that was a case of carelessness on the part of the
president, the result of which was a thoughtless answer on the
part of the jury; but there is the Senate for cases like that.”
“The Senate has rejected the appeal.”
“Well, if the Senate has rejected it, there cannot have been
sufficient reasons for an appeal,” said Rogozhinsky, evidently
sharing the prevailing opinion that truth is the product of
judicial decrees. “The Senate cannot enter into the question on
its merits. If there is a real mistake, the Emperor should be
petitioned.”
“That has been done, but there is no probability of success. They
will apply to the Department of the Ministry, the Department will
consult the Senate, the Senate will repeat its decision, and, as
usual, the innocent will get punished.”
“In the first place, the Department of the Ministry won’t consult
the Senate,” said Rogozhinsky, with a condescending smile; “it
will give orders for the original deeds to be sent from the Law
Court, and if it discovers a mistake it will decide accordingly.
And, secondly, the innocent are never punished, or at least in
very rare, exceptional cases. It is the guilty who are punished,”
Rogozhinsky said deliberately, and smiled self-complacently.
“And I have become fully convinced that most of those condemned
by law are innocent.”
“How’s that?”
“Innocent in the literal sense. Just as this woman is innocent of
poisoning any one; as innocent as a peasant I have just come to
know, of the murder he never committed; as a mother and son who
were on the point of being condemned for incendiarism, which was
committed by the owner of the house that was set on fire.”
“Well, of course there always have been and always will be
judicial errors. Human institutions cannot be perfect.”
“And, besides, there are a great many people convicted who are
innocent of doing anything considered wrong by the society they
have grown up in.”
“Excuse me, this is not so; every thief knows that stealing is
wrong, and that we should not steal; that it is immoral,” said
Rogozhinsky, with his quiet, self-assured, slightly contemptuous
smile, which specially irritated Nekhludoff.
“No, he does not know it; they say to him ‘don’t steal,’ and he
knows that the master of the factory steals his labour by keeping
back his wages; that the Government, with its officials, robs him
continually by taxation.”
“Why, this is anarchism,” Rogozhinsky said, quietly defining his
brother-in-law’s words.
“I don’t know what it is; I am only telling you the truth,”
Nekhludoff continued. “He
Comments (0)