Resurrection by Leo Nikoleyevich Tolstoy (i love reading .TXT) đź“–
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me straight to the police station. I was imprisoned and tried.
The commune gave me a good character, said that I was a good man,
and that nothing wrong had been noticed about me. The masters for
whom I worked also spoke well of me, but we had no money to
engage a lawyer, and so I was condemned to four years’ hard
labour.”
It was this man who, wishing to save a fellow-villager, knowing
that he was risking his life thereby, told Nekhludoff the
prisoner’s secret, for doing which (if found out) he should
certainly be throttled.
CHAPTER XI.
MASLOVA AND HER COMPANIONS.
The political prisoners were kept in two small rooms, the doors
of which opened into a part of the passage partitioned off from
the rest. The first person Nekhludoff saw on entering into this
part of the passage was Simonson in his rubber jacket and with a
log of pine wood in his hands, crouching in front of a stove, the
door of which trembled, drawn in by the heat inside.
When he saw Nekhludoff he looked up at him from under his
protruding brow, and gave him his hand without rising.
“I am glad you have come; I want to speak to you,” he said,
looking Nekhludoff straight in the eyes with an expression of
importance.
“Yes; what is it?” Nekhludoff asked.
“It will do later on; I am busy just now,” and Simonson turned
again towards the stove, which he was heating according to a
theory of his own, so as to lose as little heat energy as
possible.
Nekhludoff was going to enter in at the first door, when Maslova,
stooping and pushing a large heap of rubbish and dust towards the
stove with a handleless birch broom, came out of the other. She
had a white jacket on, her skirt was tucked up, and a kerchief,
drawn down to her eyebrows, protected her hair from the dust.
When she saw Nekhludoff, she drew herself up, flushing and
animated, put down the broom, wiped her hands on her skirt, and
stopped right in front of him. “You are tidying up the
apartments, I see,” said Nekhludoff, shaking hands.
“Yes; my old occupation,” and she smiled. “But the dirt! You
can’t imagine what it is. We have been cleaning and cleaning.
Well, is the plaid dry?” she asked, turning to Simonson.
“Almost,” Simonson answered, giving her a strange look, which
struck Nekhludoff.
“All right, I’ll come for it, and will bring the cloaks to dry.
Our people are all in here,” she said to Nekhludoff, pointing to
the first door as she went out of the second.
Nekhludoff opened the door and entered a small room dimly lit by
a little metal lamp, which was standing low down on the shelf
bedstead. It was cold in the room, and there was a smell of the
dust, which had not had time to settle, damp and tobacco smoke.
Only those who were close to the lamp were clearly visible, the
bedsteads were in the shade and wavering shadows glided over the
walls. Two men, appointed as caterers, who had gone to fetch
boiling water and provisions, were away; most of the political
prisoners were gathered together in the small room. There was
Nekhludoff’s old acquaintance, Vera Doukhova, with her large,
frightened eyes, and the swollen vein on her forehead, in a grey
jacket with short hair, and thinner and yellower than ever.. She
had a newspaper spread out in front of her, and sat rolling
cigarettes with a jerky movement of her hands.
Emily Rintzeva, whom Nekhludoff considered to be the pleasantest
of the political prisoners, was also here. She looked after the
housekeeping, and managed to spread a feeling of home comfort
even in the midst of the most trying surroundings. She sat beside
the lamp, with her sleeves rolled up, wiping cups and mugs, and
placing them, with her deft, red and sunburnt hands, on a cloth
that was spread on the bedstead. Rintzeva was a plain-looking
young woman, with a clever and mild expression of face, which,
when she smiled, had a way of suddenly becoming merry, animated
and captivating. It was with such a smile that she now welcomed
Nekhludoff.
“Why, we thought you had gone back to Russia,” she said.
Here in a dark corner was also Mary Pavlovna, busy with a little,
fair-haired girl, who kept prattling in her sweet, childish
accents.
“How nice that you have come,” she said to Nekhludoff.
“Have you seen Katusha? And we have a visitor here,” and she
pointed to the little girl.
Here was also Anatole Kryltzoff with felt boots on, sitting in a
far corner with his feet under him, doubled up and shivering, his
arms folded in the sleeves of his cloak, and looking at
Nekhludoff with feverish eyes. Nekhludoff was going up to him,
but to the right of the door a man with spectacles and reddish
curls, dressed in a rubber jacket, sat talking to the pretty,
smiling Grabetz. This was the celebrated revolutionist
Novodvoroff. Nekhludoff hastened to greet him. He was in a
particular hurry about it, because this man was the only one
among all the political prisoners whom he disliked. Novodvoroff’s
eyes glistened through his spectacles as he looked at Nekhludoff
and held his narrow hand out to him.
“Well, are you having a pleasant journey?” he asked, with
apparent irony.
“Yes, there is much that is interesting,” Nekhludoff answered, as
if he did not notice the irony, but took the question for
politeness, and passed on to Kryltzoff.
Though Nekhludoff appeared indifferent, he was really far from
indifferent, and these words of Novodvoroff, showing his evident
desire to say or do something unpleasant, interfered with the
state of kindness in which Nekhludoff found himself, and he felt
depressed and sad.
“Well, how are you?” he asked, pressing Kryltzoff’s cold and
trembling hand.
“Pretty well, only I cannot get warm; I got wet through,”
Kryltzoff answered, quickly replacing his hands into the sleeves
of his cloak. “And here it is also beastly cold. There, look, the
window-panes are broken,” and he pointed to the broken panes
behind the iron bars. “And how are you? Why did you not come?”
“I was not allowed to, the authorities were so strict, but to-day
the officer is lenient.”
“Lenient indeed!” Kryltzoff remarked. “Ask Mary what she did this
morning.”
Mary Pavlovna from her place in the corner related what had
happened about the little girl that morning when they left the
halting station.
“I think it is absolutely necessary to make a collective
protest,” said Vera Doukhova, in a determined tone, and yet
looking now at one, now at another, with a frightened, undecided
look. “Valdemar Simonson did protest, but that is not
sufficient.”
“What protest!” muttered Kryltzoff, cross and frowning. Her want
of simplicity, artificial tone and nervousness had evidently been
irritating him for a long time.
“Are you looking for Katusha?” he asked, addressing Nekhludoff.
“She is working all the time. She has cleaned this, the men’s
room, and now she has gone to clean the women’s! Only it is not
possible to clean away the fleas. And what is Mary doing there?”
he asked, nodding towards the corner where Mary Pavlovna sat.
“She is combing out her adopted daughter’s hair,” replied
Rintzeva.
“But won’t she let the insects loose on us?” asked Kryltzoff.
“No, no; I am very careful. She is a clean little girl now. You
take her,” said Mary, turning to Rintzeva, “while I go and help
Katusha, and I will also bring him his plaid.”
Rintzeva took the little girl on her lap, pressing her plump,
bare, little arms to her bosom with a mother’s tenderness, and
gave her a bit of sugar. As Mary Pavlovna left the room, two men
came in with boiling water and provisions.
CHAPTER XII.
NABATOFF AND MARKEL.
One of the men who came in was a short, thin, young man, who had
a cloth-covered sheepskin coat on, and high top-boots. He stepped
lightly and quickly, carrying two steaming teapots, and holding a
loaf wrapped in a cloth under his arm.
“Well, so our prince has put in an appearance again,” he said, as
he placed the teapot beside the cups, and handed the bread to
Rintzeva. “We have bought wonderful things,” he continued, as he
took off his sheepskin, and flung it over the heads of the others
into the corner of the bedstead. “Markel has bought milk and
eggs. Why, we’ll have a regular ball to-day. And Rintzeva is
spreading out her aesthetic cleanliness,” he said, and looked
with a smile at Rintzeva, “and now she will make the tea.”
The whole presence of this man—his motion, his voice, his
look—seemed to breathe vigour and merriment. The other newcomer
was just the reverse of the first. He looked despondent and sad.
He was short, bony, had very prominent cheek bones, a sallow
complexion, thin lips and beautiful, greenish eyes, rather far
apart. He wore an old wadded coat, top-boots and goloshes, and
was carrying two pots of milk and two round boxes made of birch
bark, which he placed in front of Rintzeva. He bowed to
Nekhludoff, bending only his neck, and with his eyes fixed on
him. Then, having reluctantly given him his damp hand to shake,
he began to take out the provisions.
Both these political prisoners were of the people; the first was
Nabatoff, a peasant; the second, Markel Kondratieff, a factory
hand. Markel did not come among the revolutionists till he was
quite a man, Nabatoff only eighteen. After leaving the village
school, owing to his exceptional talents Nabatoff entered the
gymnasium, and maintained himself by giving lessons all the time
he studied there, and obtained the gold medal. He did not go to
the university because, while still in the seventh class of the
gymnasium, he made up his mind to go among the people and
enlighten his neglected brethren. This he did, first getting the
place of a Government clerk in a large village. He was soon
arrested because he read to the peasants and arranged a
co-operative industrial association among them. They kept him
imprisoned for eight months and then set him free, but he
remained under police supervision. As soon as he was liberated he
went to another village, got a place as schoolmaster, and did the
same as he had done in the first village. He was again taken up
and kept fourteen months in prison, where his convictions became
yet stronger. After that he was exiled to the Perm Government,
from where he escaped. Then he was put to prison for seven months
and after that exiled to Archangel. There he refused to take the
oath of allegiance that was required of them and was condemned to
be exiled to the Takoutsk Government, so that half his life since
he reached manhood was passed in prison and exile. All these
adventures did not embitter him nor weaken his energy, but rather
stimulated it. He was a lively young fellow, with a splendid
digestion, always active, gay and vigorous. He never repented of
anything, never looked far ahead, and used all his powers, his
cleverness, his practical knowledge to act in the present. When
free he worked towards the aim he had set himself, the
enlightening and the uniting of the working men, especially the
country labourers. When in prison he was just as energetic and
practical in finding means to come in contact with the outer
world, and in arranging his own life and the life of his group as
comfortably as
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