Resurrection by Leo Nikoleyevich Tolstoy (i love reading .TXT) 📖
- Author: Leo Nikoleyevich Tolstoy
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of the ferryman’s boots and the horses changing from foot to
foot.
CHAPTER XXI.
“JUST A WORTHLESS TRAMP.”
Nekhludoff stood on the edge of the raft looking at the broad
river. Two pictures kept rising up in his mind. One, that of
Kryltzoff, unprepared for death and dying, made a heavy,
sorrowful impression on him. The other, that of Katusha, full of
energy, having gained the love of such a man as Simonson, and
found a true and solid path towards righteousness, should have
been pleasant, yet it also created a heavy impression on
Nekhludoff’s mind, and he could not conquer this impression.
The vibrating sounds of a big brass bell reached them from the
town. Nekhludoff’s driver, who stood by his side, and the other
men on the raft raised their caps and crossed themselves, all
except a short, dishevelled old man, who stood close to the
railway and whom Nekhludoff had not noticed before. He did not
cross himself, but raised his head and looked at Nekhludoff. This
old man wore a patched coat, cloth trousers and worn and patched
shoes. He had a small wallet on his back, and a high fur cap with
the fur much rubbed on his head.
“Why don’t you pray, old chap?” asked Nekhludoff’s driver as he
replaced and straightened his cap. “Are you unbaptized?”
“Who’s one to pray to?” asked the old man quickly, in a
determinately aggressive tone.
“To whom? To God, of course,” said the driver sarcastically.
“And you just show me where he is, that god.” There was something
so serious and firm in the expression of the old man, that the
driver felt that he had to do with a strong-minded man, and was a
bit abashed. And trying not to show this, not to be silenced, and
not to be put to shame before the crowd that was observing them,
he answered quickly.
“Where? In heaven, of course.”
“And have you been up there?”
“Whether I’ve been or not, every one knows that you must pray to
God.”
“No one has ever seen God at any time. The only begotten Son who
is in the bosom of the Father he hath declared him,” said the old
man in the same rapid manner, and with a severe frown on his
brow.
“It’s clear you are not a Christian, but a hole worshipper. You
pray to a hole,” said the driver, shoving the handle of his whip
into his girdle, pulling straight the harness on one of the
horses.
Some one laughed.
“What is your faith, Dad?” asked a middleaged man, who stood by
his cart on the same side of the raft.
“I have no kind of faith, because I believe no one—no one but
myself,” said the old man as quickly and decidedly as before.
“How can you believe yourself?” Nekhludoff asked, entering into a
conversation with him. “You might make a mistake.”
“Never in your life,” the old man said decidedly, with a toss of
his head.
“Then why are there different faiths?” Nekhludoff asked.
“It’s just because men believe others and do not believe
themselves that there are different faiths. I also believed
others, and lost myself as in a swamp,—lost myself so that I had
no hope of finding my way out. Old believers and new believers
and Judaisers and Khlysty and Popovitzy, and Bespopovitzy and
Avstriaks and Molokans and Skoptzy—every faith praises itself
only, and so they all creep about like blind puppies. There are
many faiths, but the spirit is one—in me and in you and in him.
So that if every one believes himself all will he united. Every
one he himself, and all will be as one.”
The old man spoke loudly and often looked round, evidently
wishing that as many as possible should hear him.
“And have you long held this faith?”
“I? A long time. This is the twenty-third year that they
persecute me.”
“Persecute you? How?”
“As they persecuted Christ, so they persecute me. They seize me,
and take me before the courts and before the priests, the Scribes
and the Pharisees. Once they put me into a madhouse; but they can
do nothing because I am free. They say, ‘What is your name?’
thinking I shall name myself. But I do not give myself a name. I
have given up everything: I have no name, no place, no country,
nor anything. I am just myself. ‘What is your name?’ ‘Man.’ ‘How
old are you?’ I say, ‘I do not count my years and cannot count
them, because I always was, I always shall be.’ ‘Who are your
parents?’ ‘I have no parents except God and Mother Earth. God is
my father.’ ‘And the Tsar? Do you recognise the Tsar?’ they say.
I say, ‘Why not? He is his own Tsar, and I am my own Tsar.’
‘Where’s the good of talking to him,’ they say, and I say, ‘I do
not ask you to talk to me.’ And so they begin tormenting me.”
“And where are you going now?” asked Nekhludoff.
“Where God will lead me. I work when I can find work, and when I
can’t I beg.” The old man noticed that the raft was approaching
the bank and stopped, looking round at the bystanders with a look
of triumph.
Nekhludoff got out his purse and offered some money to the old
man, but he refused, saying:
“I do not accept this sort of thing—bread I do accept.”
“Well, then, excuse me.”
“There is nothing to excuse, you have not offended me. And it is
not possible to offend me.” And the old man put the wallet he had
taken off again on his back. Meanwhile, the postcart had been
landed and the horses harnessed.
“I wonder you should care to talk to him, sir,” said the driver,
when Nekhludoff, having tipped the bowing ferryman, got into the
cart again. “He is just a worthless tramp.”
CHAPTER XXII.
NEKHLUDOFF SEES THE GENERAL.
When they got to the top of the hill bank the driver turned to
Nekhludoff.
“Which hotel am I to drive to?”
“Which is the best?”
“Nothing could be better than the Siberian, but Dukeoff’s is also
good.”
“Drive to whichever you like.”
The driver again seated himself sideways and drove faster. The
town was like all such towns. The same kind of houses with attic
windows and green roofs, the same kind of cathedral, the same
kind of shops and stores in the principal street, and even the
same kind of policemen. Only the houses were almost all of them
wooden, and the streets were not paved. In one of the chief
streets the driver stopped at the door of an hotel, but there was
no room to be had, so he drove to another. And here Nekhludoff,
after two months, found himself once again in surroundings such
as he had been accustomed to as far as comfort and cleanliness
went. Though the room he was shown to was simple enough, yet
Nekhludoff felt greatly relieved to be there after two months of
postcarts, country inns and halting stations. His first business
was to clean himself of the lice which he had never been able to
get thoroughly rid of after visiting a halting station. When he
had unpacked he went to the Russian bath, after which he made
himself fit to be seen in a town, put on a starched shirt,
trousers that had got rather creased along the seams, a
frock-coat and an overcoat, and drove to the Governor of the
district. The hotel-keeper called an isvostchik, whose well-fed
Kirghiz horse and vibrating trap soon brought Nekhludoff to the
large porch of a big building, in front of which stood sentinels
and a policeman. The house had a garden in front, and at the
back, among the naked branches of aspen and birch trees, there
grew thick and dark green pines and firs. The General was not
well, and did not receive; but Nekhludoff asked the footman to
hand in his card all the same, and the footman came back with a
favourable reply.
“You are asked to come in.”
The hall, the footman, the orderly, the staircase, the
dancing-room, with its well-polished floor, were very much the
same as in Petersburg, only more imposing and rather dirtier.
Nekhludoff was shown into the cabinet.
The General, a bloated, potato-nosed man, with a sanguine
disposition, large bumps on his forehead, bald head, and puffs
under his eyes, sat wrapped in a Tartar silk dressing-gown
smoking a cigarette and sipping his tea out of a tumbler in a
silver holder.
“How do you do, sir? Excuse my dressing-gown; it is better so
than if I had not received you at all,” he said, pulling up his
dressing-gown over his fat neck with its deep folds at the nape.
“I am not quite well, and do not go out. What has brought you to
our remote region?”
“I am accompanying a gang of prisoners, among whom there is a
person closely connected with me, said Nekhludoff, and now I have
come to see your Excellency partly in behalf of this person, and
partly about another business.” The General took a whiff and a
sip of tea, put his cigarette into a malachite ashpan, with his
narrow eyes fixed on Nekhludoff, listening seriously. He only
interrupted him once to offer him a cigarette.
The General belonged to the learned type of military men who
believed that liberal and humane views can be reconciled with
their profession. But being by nature a kind and intelligent man,
he soon felt the impossibility of such a reconciliation; so as
not to feel the inner discord in which he was living, he gave
himself up more and more to the habit of drinking, which is so
widely spread among military men, and was now suffering from what
doctors term alcoholism. He was imbued with alcohol, and if he
drank any kind of liquor it made him tipsy. Yet strong drink was
an absolute necessity to him, he could not live without it, so he
was quite drunk every evening; but had grown so used to this
state that he did not reel nor talk any special nonsense. And if
he did talk nonsense, it was accepted as words of wisdom because
of the important and high position which he occupied. Only in
the morning, just at the time Nekhludoff came to see him, he was
like a reasonable being, could understand what was said to him,
and fulfil more or less aptly a proverb he was fond of repeating:
“He’s tipsy, but he’s wise, so he’s pleasant in two ways.”
The higher authorities knew he was a drunkard, but he was more
educated than the rest, though his education had stopped at the
spot where drunkenness had got hold of him. He was bold, adroit,
of imposing appearance, and showed tact even when tipsy;
therefore, he was appointed, and was allowed to retain so public
and responsible an office.
Nekhludoff told him that the person he was interested in was a
woman, that she was sentenced, though innocent, and that a
petition had been sent to the Emperor in her behalf.
“Yes, well?” said the General.
“I was promised in Petersburg that the news concerning her fate
should be sent to me not later than this month and to this
place-”
The General stretched his hand with its stumpy fingers towards
the table, and rang a bell, still looking at Nekhludoff and
puffing at his cigarette.
“So I would like to ask you that this woman
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