Resurrection by Leo Nikoleyevich Tolstoy (i love reading .TXT) 📖

to their meaning, and felt an

awkwardness he had not in the least expected at the thought of

the impending interview. When, in the midst of a sentence he was

translating for the Englishman, he heard the sound of approaching

footsteps, and the office door opened, and, as had happened many

times before, a jailer came in, followed by Katusha, and he saw

her with a kerchief tied round her head, and in a prison jacket a

heavy sensation came over him. “I wish to live, I want a family,

children, I want a human life.” These thoughts flashed through

his mind as she entered the room with rapid steps and blinking

her eyes.

 

He rose and made a few steps to meet her, and her face appeared

hard and unpleasant to him. It was again as it had been at the

time when she reproached him. She flushed and turned pale, her

fingers nervously twisting a corner of her jacket. She looked up

at him, then cast down her eyes.

 

“You know that a mitigation has come?”

 

“Yes, the jailer told me.”

 

“So that as soon as the original document arrives you may come

away and settle where you like. We shall consider—”

 

She interrupted him hurriedly. “What have I to consider? Where

Valdemar Simonson goes, there I shall follow.” In spite of the

excitement she was in she raised her eyes to Nekhludoff’s and

pronounced these words quickly and distinctly, as if she had

prepared what she had to say.

 

“Indeed!”

 

“Well, Dmitri Ivanovitch, you see he wishes me to live with

him—” and she stopped, quite frightened, and corrected herself.

“He wishes me to be near him. What more can I desire? I must look

upon it as happiness. What else is there for me—”

 

“One of two things,” thought he. “Either she loves Simonson and

does not in the least require the sacrifice I imagined I was

bringing her, or she still loves me and refuses me for my own

sake, and is burning her ships by uniting her fate with

Simonson.” And Nekhludoff felt ashamed and knew that he was

blushing.

 

“And you yourself, do you love him?” he asked.

 

“Loving or not loving, what does it matter? I have given up all

that. And then Valdemar Simonson is quite an exceptional man.”

 

“Yes, of course,” Nekhludoff began. “He is a splendid man, and I

think—”

 

But she again interrupted him, as if afraid that he might say too

much or that she should not say all. “No, Dmitri Ivanovitch, you

must forgive me if I am not doing what you wish,” and she looked

at him with those unfathomable, squinting eyes of hers. “Yes, it

evidently must be so. You must live, too.”

 

She said just what he had been telling himself a few moments

before, but he no longer thought so now and felt very

differently. He was not only ashamed, but felt sorry to lose all

he was losing with her. “I did not expect this,” he said.

 

“Why should you live here and suffer? You have suffered enough.”

 

“I have not suffered. It was good for me, and I should like to go

on serving you if I could.”

 

“We do not want anything,” she said, and looked at him.

 

“You have done so much for me as it is. If it had not been for

you—” She wished to say more, but her voice trembled.

 

“You certainly have no reason to thank me,” Nekhludoff said.

 

“Where is the use of our reckoning? God will make up our

accounts,” she said, and her black eyes began to glisten with the

tears that filled them.

 

“What a good woman you are,” he said.

 

“I good?” she said through her tears, and a pathetic smile lit up

her face.

 

“Are you ready?” the Englishman asked.

 

“Directly,” replied Nekhludoff and asked her about Kryltzoff.

 

She got over her emotion and quietly told him all she knew.

Kryltzoff was very weak and had been sent into the infirmary.

Mary Pavlovna was very anxious, and had asked to be allowed to go

to the infirmary as a nurse, but could not get the permission.

 

“Am I to go?” she asked, noticing that the Englishman was

waiting.

 

“I will not say goodbye; I shall see you again,” said

Nekhludoff, holding out his hand.

 

“Forgive me,” she said so low that he could hardly hear her.

Their eyes met, and Nekhludoff knew by the strange look of her

squinting eyes and the pathetic smile with which she said not

“Goodbye” but “Forgive me,” that of the two reasons that might

have led to her resolution, the second was the real one. She

loved him, and thought that by uniting herself to him she would

be spoiling his life. By going with Simonson she thought she

would be setting Nekhludoff free, and felt glad that she had done

what she meant to do, and yet she suffered at parting from him.

 

She pressed his hand, turned quickly and left the room.

 

Nekhludoff was ready to go, but saw that the Englishman was

noting something down, and did not disturb him, but sat down on a

wooden seat by the wall, and suddenly a feeling of terrible

weariness came over him. It was not a sleepless night that had

tired him, not the journey, not the excitement, but he felt

terribly tired of living. He leaned against the back of the

bench, shut his eyes and in a moment fell into a deep, heavy

sleep.

 

“Well, would you like to look round the cells now?” the inspector

asked.

 

Nekhludoff looked up and was surprised to find himself where he

was. The Englishman had finished his notes and expressed a wish

to see the cells.

 

Nekhludoff, tired and indifferent, followed him.

 

CHAPTER XXVI.

 

THE ENGLISH VISITOR.

 

When they had passed the anteroom and the sickening, stinking

corridor, the Englishman and Nekhludoff, accompanied by the

inspector, entered the first cell, where those sentenced to hard

labour were confined. The beds took up the middle of the cell and

the prisoners were all in bed. There were about 70 of them. When

the visitors entered all the prisoners jumped up and stood beside

the beds, excepting two, a young man who was in a state of high

fever, and an old man who did nothing but groan.

 

The Englishman asked if the young man had long been ill. The

inspector said that he was taken ill in the morning, but that the

old man had long been suffering with pains in the stomach, but

could not be removed, as the infirmary had been overfilled for a

long time. The Englishman shook his head disapprovingly, said he

would like to say a few words to these people, asking Nekhludoff

to interpret. It turned out that besides studying the places of

exile and the prisons of Siberia, the Englishman had another

object in view, that of preaching salvation through faith and by

the redemption.

 

“Tell them,” he said, “that Christ died for them. If they believe

in this they shall be saved.” While he spoke, all the prisoners

stood silent with their arms at their sides. “This book, tell

them,” he continued, “says all about it. Can any of them read?”

 

There were more than 20 who could.

 

The Englishman took several bound Testaments out of a hang-bag,

and many strong hands with their hard, black nails stretched out

from beneath the coarse shirt-sleeves towards him. He gave away

two Testaments in this cell.

 

The same thing happened in the second cell. There was the same

foul air, the same icon hanging between the windows, the same tub

to the left of the door, and they were all lying side by side

close to one another, and jumped up in the same manner and stood

stretched full length with their arms by their sides, all but

three, two of whom sat up and one remained lying, and did not

even look at the newcomers; these three were also ill. The

Englishman made the same speech and again gave away two books.

 

In the third room four were ill. When the Englishman asked why

the sick were not put all together into one cell, the inspector

said that they did not wish it themselves, that their diseases

were not infectious, and that the medical assistant watched them

and attended to them.

 

“He has not set foot here for a fortnight,” muttered a voice.

 

The inspector did not say anything and led the way to the next

cell. Again the door was unlocked, and all got up and stood

silent. Again the Englishman gave away Testaments. It was the

same in the fifth and sixth cells, in those to the right and

those to the left.

 

From those sentenced to hard labour they went on to the exiles.

 

From the exiles to those evicted by the Commune and those who

followed of their own free will.

 

Everywhere men, cold, hungry, idle, infected, degraded,

imprisoned, were shown off like wild beasts.

 

The Englishman, having given away the appointed number of

Testaments, stopped giving any more, and made no speeches. The

oppressing sight, and especially the stifling atmosphere, quelled

even his energy, and he went from cell to cell, saying nothing

but “All right” to the inspector’s remarks about what prisoners

there were in each cell.

 

Nekhludoff followed as in a dream, unable either to refuse to go

on or to go away, and with the same feelings of weariness and

hopelessness.

 

CHAPTER XXVII.

 

KRYLTZOFF AT REST.

 

In one of the exiles’ cells Nekhludoff, to his surprise,

recognised the strange old man he had seen crossing the ferry

that morning. This old man was sitting on the floor by the beds,

barefooted, with only a dirty cinder-coloured shirt on, torn on

one shoulder, and similar trousers. He looked severely and

enquiringly at the newcomers. His emaciated body, visible through

the holes of his shirt, looked miserably weak, but in his face

was even more concentrated seriousness and animation than when

Nekhludoff saw him crossing the ferry. As in all the other cells,

so here also the prisoners jumped up and stood erect when the

official entered, but the old man remained sitting. His eyes

glittered and his brows frowned with wrath.

 

“Get up,” the inspector called out to him.

 

The old man did not rise and only smiled contemptuously.

 

“Thy servants are standing before thee. I am not thy servant.

Thou bearest the seal—” The old man pointed to the inspector’s

forehead.

 

“Wha-a-t?” said the inspector threateningly, and made a step

towards him.

 

“I know this man,” Nekhludoff hastened to say; “what is he

imprisoned for?”

 

“The police have sent him here because he has no passport. We ask

them not to send such, but they will do it,” said the inspector,

casting an angry side look at the old man.

 

“And so it seems thou, too, art one of Antichrist’s army?” the

old man said to Nekhludoff.

 

“No, I am a visitor,” said Nekhludoff.

 

“What, hast thou come to see how Antichrist tortures men? There,

look, he has locked them up in a cage, a whole army of them. Men

should cat bread in the sweat of their brow. And he has locked

them up with no work to do, and feeds them like swine, so that

they should turn into beasts.”

 

“What is he saying?” asked the Englishman.

 

Nekhludoff told him the old man was blaming the inspector for

keeping men imprisoned.

 

“Ask him how he thinks one should treat those who do not