Resurrection by Leo Nikoleyevich Tolstoy (i love reading .TXT) đź“–
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of the head a firm, well-shaped car was visible.
One could see what possibilities of a higher life had been
destroyed in this man. The fine bones of his hands and shackled
feet, the strong muscles of all his well-proportioned limbs,
showed what a beautiful, strong, agile human animal this had
been. As an animal merely he had been a far more perfect one of
his kind than the bay stallion, about the laming of which the
fireman was so angry.
Yet he had been done to death, and no one was sorry for him as a
man, nor was any one sorry that so fine a working animal had
perished. The only feeling evinced was that of annoyance because
of the bother caused by the necessity of getting this body,
threatening putrefaction, out of the way. The doctor and his
assistant entered the hospital, accompanied by the inspector of
the police station. The doctor was a thick-set man, dressed in
pongee silk coat and trousers of the same material, closely
fitting his muscular thighs. The inspector was a little fat
fellow, with a red face, round as a ball, which he made still
broader by a habit he had of filling his cheeks with air, and
slowly letting it out again. The doctor sat down on the bed by
the side of the dead man, and touched the hands in the same way
as his assistant had done, put his ear to the heart, rose, and
pulled his trousers straight. “Could not be more dead,” he said.
The inspector filled his mouth with air and slowly blew it out
again.
“Which prison is he from?” he asked the convoy soldier.
The soldier told him, and reminded him of the chains on the dead
man’s feet.
“I’ll have them taken off; we have got a smith about, the Lord be
thanked,” said the inspector, and blew up his cheeks again; he
went towards the door, slowly letting out the air.
“Why has this happened?” Nekhludoff asked the doctor.
The doctor looked at him through his spectacles.
“Why has what happened? Why they die of sunstroke, you mean? This
is why: They sit all through the winter without exercise and
without light, and suddenly they are taken out into the sunshine,
and on a day like this, and they march in a crowd so that they
get no air, and sunstroke is the result.”
“Then why are they sent out?”
“Oh, as to that, go and ask those who send them. But may I ask
who are you?”
“I am a stranger.”
“Ah, well, good-afternoon; I have no time.” The doctor was vexed;
he gave his trousers a downward pull, and went towards the beds
of the sick.
“Well, how are you getting on?” he asked the pale man with the
crooked mouth and bandaged neck.
Meanwhile the madman sat on a bed, and having finished his
cigarette, kept spitting in the direction of the doctor.
Nekhludoff went down into the yard and out of the gate past the
firemen’s horses and the hens and the sentinel in his brass
helmet, and got into the trap, the driver of which had again
fallen asleep.
CHAPTER XXXVIII.
THE CONVICT TRAIN.
When Nekhludoff came to the station, the prisoners were all
seated in railway carriages with grated windows. Several persons,
come to see them off, stood on the platform, but were not allowed
to come up to the carriages.
The convoy was much troubled that day. On the way from the prison
to the station, besides the two Nekhludoff had seen, three other
prisoners had fallen and died of sunstroke. One was taken to the
nearest police station like the first two, and the other two died
at the railway station. [In Moscow, in the beginning of the eighth
decade of this century, five convicts died of sunstroke in one
day on their way from the Boutyrki prison to the Nijni railway
station.] The convoy men were not troubled because five men who
might have been alive died while in their charge. This did not
trouble them, but they were concerned lest anything that the law
required in such cases should be omitted. To convey the bodies to
the places appointed, to deliver up their papers, to take them
off the lists of those to be conveyed to Nijni—all this was very
troublesome, especially on so hot a day.
It was this that occupied the convoy men, and before it could all
be accomplished Nekhludoff and the others who asked for leave to
go up to the carriages were not allowed to do so. Nekhludoff,
however, was soon allowed to go up, because he tipped the convoy
sergeant. The sergeant let Nekhludoff pass, but asked him to be
quick and get his talk over before any of the authorities
noticed. There were 15 carriages in all, and except one carriage
for the officials, they were full of prisoners. As Nekhludoff
passed the carriages he listened to what was going on in them. In
all the carriages was heard the clanging of chains, the sound of
bustle, mixed with loud and senseless language, but not a word
was being said about their dead fellow-prisoners. The talk was
all about sacks, drinking water, and the choice of seats.
Looking into one of the carriages, Nekhludoff saw convoy soldiers
taking the manacles off the hands of the prisoners. The prisoners
held out their arms, and one of the soldiers unlocked the
manacles with a key and took them off; the other collected them.
After he had passed all the other carriages, Nekhludoff came up
to the women’s carriages. From the second of these he heard a
woman’s groans: “Oh, oh, oh! O God! Oh, oh! O God!”
Nekhludoff passed this carriage and went up to a window of the
third carriage, which a soldier pointed out to him. When he
approached his face to the window, he felt the hot air, filled
with the smell of perspiration, coming out of it, and heard
distinctly the shrill sound of women’s voices. All the seats were
filled with red, perspiring, loudly-talking women, dressed in
prison cloaks and white jackets. Nekhludoff’s face at the window
attracted their attention. Those nearest ceased talking and drew
closer. Maslova, in her white jacket and her head uncovered, sat
by the opposite window. The white-skinned, smiling Theodosia sat
a little nearer. When she recognised Nekhludoff, she nudged
Maslova and pointed to the window. Maslova rose hurriedly, threw
her kerchief over her black hair, and with a smile on her hot,
red face came up to the window and took hold of one of the bars.
“Well, it is hot,” she said, with a glad smile.
“Did you get the things?”
“Yes, thank you.”
“Is there anything more you want?” asked Nekhludoff, while the
air came out of the hot carriage as out of an oven.
“I want nothing, thank you.”
“If we could get a drink?” said Theodosia.
“Yes, if we could get a drink,” repeated Maslova.
“Why, have you not got any water?”
“They put some in, but it is all gone.”
“Directly, I will ask one of the convoy men. Now we shall not see
each other till we get to Nijni.”
“Why? Are you going?” said Maslova, as if she did not know it,
and looked joyfully at Nekhludoff.
“I am going by the next train.”
Maslova said nothing, but only sighed deeply.
“Is it true, sir, that 12 convicts have been done to death?” said
a severe-looking old prisoner with a deep voice like a man’s.
It was Korableva.
“I did not hear of 12; I have seen two,” said Nekhludoff.
“They say there were 12 they killed. And will nothing be done to
them? Only think! The fiends!”
“And have none of the women fallen ill?” Nekhludoff asked.
“Women are stronger,” said another of the prisoners—a short
little woman, and laughed; “only there’s one that has taken it
into her head to be delivered. There she goes,” she said,
pointing to the next carriage, whence proceeded the groans.
“You ask if we want anything,” said Maslova, trying to keep the
smile of joy from her lips; “could not this woman be left behind.
suffering as she is? There, now, if you would tell the
authorities.”
“Yes, I will.”
“And one thing more; could she not see her husband, Taras?” she
added, pointing with her eyes to the smiling Theodosia.
“He is going with you, is he not?”
“Sir, you must not talk,” said a convoy sergeant, not the one who
had let Nekhludoff come up. Nekhludoff left the carriage and went
in search of an official to whom he might speak for the woman in
travail and about Taras, but could not find him, nor get an
answer from any of the convoy for a long time. They were all in a
bustle; some were leading a prisoner somewhere or other, others
running to get themselves provisions, some were placing their
things in the carriages or attending on a lady who was going to
accompany the convoy officer, and they answered Nekhludoff’s
questions unwillingly. Nekhludoff found the convoy officer only
after the second bell had been rung. The officer with his short
arm was wiping the moustaches that covered his mouth and
shrugging his shoulders, reproving the corporal for something or
other.
“What is it you want?” he asked Nekhludoff.
“You’ve got a woman there who is being confined, so I thought
best—”
“Well, let her be confined; we shall see later on,” and briskly
swinging his short arms, he ran up to his carriage. At the moment
the guard passed with a whistle in his hand, and from the people
on the platform and from the women’s carriages there arose a
sound of weeping and words of prayer.
Nekhludoff stood on the platform by the side of Taras, and looked
how, one after the other, the carriages glided past him, with the
shaved heads of the men at the grated windows. Then the first of
the women’s carriages came up, with women’s heads at the windows,
some covered with kerchiefs and some uncovered, then the second,
whence proceeded the same groans, then the carriage where Maslova
was. She stood with the others at the window, and looked at
Nekhludoff with a pathetic smile.
CHAPTER XXXIX.
BROTHER AND SISTER.
There were still two hours before the passenger train by which
Nekhludoff was going would start. He had thought of using this
interval to see his sister again; but after the impressions of
the morning he felt much excited and so done up that, sitting
down on a sofa in the first-class refreshment-room, he suddenly
grew so drowsy that he turned over on to his side, and, laying
his face on his hand, fell asleep at once. A waiter in a dress
coat with a napkin in his hand woke him.
“Sir, sir, are you not Prince Nekhludoff? There’s a lady looking
for you.”
Nekhludoff started up and recollected where he was and all that
had happened in the morning.
He saw in his imagination the procession of prisoners, the dead
bodies, the railway carriages with barred windows, and the women
locked up in them, one of whom was groaning in travail with no
one to help her, and another who was pathetically smiling at him
through the bars.
The reality before his eyes was very different, i.e., a table
with vases, candlesticks and crockery, and agile waiters moving
round the table, and in the background a cupboard and
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