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The Awakening

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Title: The Awakening

Author: graf Leo Tolstoy

Translator: William E. Smith


        
Release date: December 19, 2005 [eBook #17352]
                Most recently updated: October 16, 2021

Language: English

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THE AWAKENING

(The Resurrection)

by

COUNT LEO TOLSTOI

Author of

"War and Peace," "The Kreutzer Sonata,"
"Anna Karenina," Etc.

Translated by William E. Smith







[Illustration: COUNT LEO TOLSTOI.]




New York
Street & Smith, Publishers
238 William Street
Entered according to act of Congress in the year 1900
By Street & Smith
In the Office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington, D.C.





     "Then came Peter to Him, and said, Lord, how oft shall my
     brother sin against me, and I forgive him? till seven
     times?"--_Matthew, c. xviii.; v. 21._

     "Jesus saith unto him, I say not unto thee, Until seven
     times: but until seventy times seven."--_Idem, v. 22._

     "And why beholdest thou the mote that is in thy brother's
     eye, but considerest not the beam that is in thine own
     eye!"--_Idem, c. vii.; v. 3._

     "He that is without sin among you, let him first cast a
     stone at her."--_John, c. viii.; v. 7._

     "The disciple is not above his master: but every one that is
     perfect shall be as his master."--_Luke, c. vi.; v. 40._




THE AWAKENING.


PART FIRST.




CHAPTER I.


All the efforts of several hundred thousand people, crowded in a small
space, to disfigure the land on which they lived; all the stone they
covered it with to keep it barren; how so diligently every sprouting
blade of grass was removed; all the smoke of coal and naphtha; all the
cutting down of trees and driving off of cattle could not shut out the
spring, even from the city. The sun was shedding its light; the grass,
revivified, was blooming forth, where it was left uncut, not only on
the greenswards of the boulevard, but between the flag-stones, and the
birches, poplars and wild-berry trees were unfolding their viscous
leaves; the limes were unfolding their buds; the daws, sparrows and
pigeons were joyfully making their customary nests, and the flies were
buzzing on the sun-warmed walls. Plants, birds, insects and children
were equally joyful. Only men--grown-up men--continued cheating and
tormenting themselves and each other. People saw nothing holy in this
spring morning, in this beauty of God's world--a gift to all living
creatures--inclining to peace, good-will and love, but worshiped their
own inventions for imposing their will on each other.

The joy of spring felt by animals and men did not penetrate the office
of the county jail, but the one thing of supreme importance there was
a document received the previous evening, with title, number and seal,
which ordered the bringing into court for trial, this 28th day of
April, at nine o'clock in the morning, three prisoners--two women and
one man. One of the women, as the more dangerous criminal, was to be
brought separately. So, in pursuance of that order, on the 28th day of
April, at eight o'clock in the morning, the jail warden entered the
dingy corridor of the woman's ward. Immediately behind him came a
woman with weary countenance and disheveled gray hair, wearing a
crown-laced jacket, and girdled with a blue-edged sash. She was the
matron.

"You want Maslova?" she asked the warden, as they neared one of the
cells opening into the corridor.

The warden, with a loud clanking of iron, unlocked and opened the door
of the cell, releasing an even fouler odor than permeated the
corridor, and shouted:

"Maslova to the court!" and again closing the door he waited for her
appearance.

The fresh, vivifying air of the fields, carried to the city by the
wind, filled even the court-yard of the jail. But in the corridor the
oppressive air, laden with the smell of tar and putrescence, saddened
and dejected the spirit of every new-comer. The same feeling was
experienced by the jail matron, notwithstanding she was accustomed to
bad air. On entering the corridor she suddenly felt a weariness coming
over her that inclined her to slumber.

There was a bustling in the cell; women's voices and steps of bare
feet were heard.

"Hurry up, Maslova! Come on, I say!" shouted the warden into the
cell-door.

Presently at the cell-door appeared a middle-sized, full-breasted
young woman, dressed in a long, gray coat over a white waist and
skirt. She approached with firm step, and, facing about, stood before
the warden. Over her linen stockings she wore jail shoes; her head was
covered with a white 'kerchief, from under which black curls were
evidently purposely brushed over the forehead. The face of the woman
was of that whiteness peculiar to people who have been a long time in
confinement, and which reminds one of potato-sprouts in a cellar. Her
small, wide hands, her white, full neck, showing from under the large
collar of the coat, were of a similar hue. On the dull pallor of that
face the most striking feature was the black, sparkling eyes, somewhat
swollen, but very bright eyes, one of which slightly squinted. She
held herself erect, putting forth her full chest. Emerging into the
corridor, throwing her head back a little, she looked into the eyes of
the warden and stood ready to do his bidding. The warden was about to
shut the door, when a pale, severe, wrinkled face of an old woman with
disheveled hair was thrust out. The old woman began to say something
to Maslova. But the warden pressed the door against the head of the
woman, and she disappeared. In the cell a woman's voice burst into
laughter. Maslova also smiled, and turned to the grated little opening
in the door. The old woman pressed her forehead to the grating, and
said in a hoarse voice:

"Above all, don't speak too much; stick to one thing, and that is
all."

"Of course. It cannot be any worse," said Maslova.

"You certainly cannot stick to two things," said the chief warden,
with official assurance of his own wit. "Follow me, now! Forward!
March!"

The eye looking from behind the grating disappeared, and Maslova took
to the middle of the corridor, and with short, but rapid strides,
followed the warden. They descended the stone stairway, and as they
passed the men's ward, noisy and more noisome even than the woman's
ward, scores of eyes followed them from behind the gratings. They
entered the office, where an armed escort of two soldiers stood. The
clerk handed one of the soldiers a document, reeking of tobacco smoke,
and, pointing to the prisoner, said:

"Take her."

The soldier, a Nijhni peasant with a red and pock-marked face, placed
the paper into the cuff of his coat sleeve, and, smiling, winked to
his muscular comrade. The soldiers and prisoner descended the stairs
and went in the direction of the main entrance.

A small door in the gate opened, and, crossing the threshold, they
passed through the inclosure and took the middle of the paved street.

Drivers, shop-keepers, kitchen maids, laborers and officials halted
and gazed with curiosity at the prisoner. Some shook their heads and
thought: "There is the result of evil conduct--how unlike ours!"
Children looked with horror at the cut-throat, but the presence of the
soldiers reassured them, for she was now powerless to do harm. A
villager, returning from the mart, where he had disposed of his
charcoal and visited an inn, offered her a kopeck. The prisoner
blushed, drooped her head and murmured something.

Conscious of the attention that was shown her, without turning her
head she looked askance at the onlookers and rather enjoyed it. She
also enjoyed the comparatively pure spring air, but the walking on the
cobblestones was painful to her feet, unused as they were to walking,
and shod in clumsy prison shoes. She looked at her feet and endeavored
to step as lightly as possible. Passing by a food store, in front of
which some pigeons were picking grain, she came near striking with her
foot a dove-colored bird. It rose with a flutter of its wings, and
flew past the very ear of the prisoner, fanning her face with its
wings. She smiled, then sighed deeply, remembering her own condition.




CHAPTER II.


The history of the prisoner Maslova was a very common one. Maslova was
the daughter of an unmarried menial who lived with her mother, a
cowherd, on the estate of two spinsters. This unmarried woman gave
birth to a child every year, and, as is the custom in the villages,
baptized them; then neglected the troublesome newcomers, and they
finally starved to death.

Thus five children died. Every one of these was baptized, then it
starved and finally died. The sixth child, begotten of a passing
gypsy, was a girl, who would have shared the same fate, but it
happened that one of the two old maidens entered the cow-shed to
reprimand the milkmaids for carelessness in skimming the cream, and
there saw the mother with the healthy and beautiful child. The old
maiden chided them for the cream and for permitting the woman to lie
in the cow-shed, and was on the point of departing, but noticing the
child, was moved to pity, and afterward consented to stand godmother
to the child. She baptized the child, and in pity for her
god-daughter, furnished her with milk, gave the mother some money,
and the babe thrived. Wherefore the old maidens called it "the saved
one."

The child was three years old when the mother fell ill and died. She
was a great burden to her grandmother, so the old maidens adopted her.
The dark-eyed girl became unusually lively and pretty, and her
presence cheered them.

Of the two old maidens, the younger one--Sophia Ivanovna--was the
kindlier, while the older one--Maria Ivanovna--was of austere
disposition. Sophia Ivanovna kept the girl in decent clothes, taught
her to read and intended to give her an education. Maria Ivanovna said
that the girl ought to be taught to work that she might become a
useful servant, was exacting, punished, and even beat her when in bad
humor. Under such conditions the girl grew up half servant, half lady.
Her position was reflected even in her name, for she was not called by
the gentle Katinka, nor yet by the disdainful Katka, but Katiousha,
which stands sentimentally between the two. She sewed, cleaned the
rooms, cleaned the ikons with chalk, ground, cooked and served coffee,
washed, and sometimes she read for the ladies.

She was wooed, but would marry no one, feeling that life with any one
of her wooers would be hard, spoiled, as she was, more or less, by the
comparative ease she enjoyed in the manor.

She had just passed her sixteenth year when the ladies were visited by
their nephew, a rich student, and Katiousha, without daring to confess
it to him, or even to herself, fell in love with him. Two years
afterward, while on his way to the war, he again visited his aunts,
and during his four days' stay, consummated her ruin. Before his
departure he thrust a hundred ruble bill into her hand.

Thenceforward life ceased to have any charms for her, and her only
thought was to escape the shame which awaited her, and not only did
she become lax in her duties, but--and she did not know herself how it
happened--all of a sudden she gave vent to her ill temper. She said
some rude things to the ladies, of which she afterward repented, and
left them.

Dissatisfied with her behavior, they did not detain her. She then
obtained employment as servant in the house of the commissary of rural
police, but was obliged to give up the position at the end of the
third month, for the commissary, a fifty-year old man, pursued her
with his attentions, and when, on one occasion, he became too
persistent, she flared up, called him an old fool, and threw him to
the ground. Then she was driven from the house. She was now so far
advanced on the road to maternity that to look for a position was out
of the question. Hence she took lodgings with an old midwife, who was
also a wine dealer. The confinement came off painlessly. But the
midwife was attending a sick woman in the village, infected Katiousha
with puerperal fever, and the child, a boy, was taken to a foundling
asylum where, she was told, he died immediately after his arrival
there.

When Katiousha took lodgings with the midwife she had 127 rubles; 27
rubles of which she had earned, and 100 rubles which had been given
her by her seducer. When she left her she had but six rubles left. She
was not economical, and spent on herself as well as others. She paid
40 rubles to the midwife for two months' board; 25 rubles it cost her
to have the child taken away; 40 rubles the midwife borrowed of her to
buy a cow with; the balance was spent on dresses, presents, etc., so
that after the confinement she was practically penniless, and was
compelled to look for a position. She was soon installed in the house
of a forester who was married, and who, like the commissary, began to
pay court to her. His wife became aware of it, and when, on one
occasion, she found them both in the room, she fell on Katiousha and
began to beat her. The latter resented it, and the result was a
scrimmage, after which she was driven out of the house, without being
paid the wages due her. Katiousha went to the city, where she stopped
with her aunt. Her aunt's husband was a bookbinder. Formerly he used
to earn a competence, but had lost his customers, and was now given to
drink, spending everything that came into his hands.

With the aid of a small laundry she was keeping, her aunt supported
her children as well as her husband. She offered Maslova work as a
washerwoman, but seeing what a hard life the washerwomen at her
aunt's establishment were leading, she searched through the
intelligence offices for a position as servant. She found such a place
with a lady who was living with her two student boys. A week after she
had entered upon her duties, the oldest son neglected his studies and
made life miserable for Maslova. The mother threw all blame upon
Maslova and discharged her. She was some time without any occupation.
In one of these intelligence offices she once met a lady richly
dressed and adorned with diamonds. This lady, learning of the
condition of Maslova, who was looking for a position, gave her her
card and invited her to call. The lady received Maslova
affectionately, treated her to choice cakes and sweet wine, while she
dispatched her servant somewhere with a note. In the evening a tall
man with long hair just turning gray, and gray beard, came into the
room. The old man immediately seated himself beside Maslova and began
to jest. The hostess called him into an adjoining room, and Maslova
overheard her say: "As fresh as a rose; just from the country." Then
the hostess called in Maslova and told her that the man was an author,
very rich, _and will be very generous if he takes a liking to her_. He
did take a liking to her, gave her twenty-five rubles, and promised to
call on her often. The money was soon spent in settling for her board
at her aunt's, for a new dress, hat and ribbons. A few days afterward
the author sent for her a second time. She called. He gave her another
twenty-five ruble bill and offered to rent apartments for her where
she could reside separately.

While living in the apartments rented by the author, Maslova became
infatuated with a jolly clerk living in the same house. She herself
told the author of her infatuation, and moved into a smaller
apartment. The clerk, who had promised to marry her, without saying
anything, left for Nijhni, evidently casting her off, and Maslova
remained alone. She wished to remain in the apartment, but the
landlord would not permit a single woman to occupy it, and she
returned to her aunt. Her fashionable dress, cape and hat won her the
respect of her aunt, who no longer dared to offer her work as a
washerwoman, considering her present position far above it. The
question of working in the laundry did not even occur to Maslova now.
She looked with compassion on the life of drudgery led by these pale,
emaciated washerwomen, some of whom showed symptoms of consumption,
washing and ironing in a stifling, steam-laden atmosphere with the
windows open summer and winter, and she was horrified at the thought
that she, too, might be driven to such drudgery.

Maslova had for a long time been addicted to cigarette smoking, but of
late she had been getting more and more accustomed to drink. The wine
attracted her, not because of its taste, but because it enabled her to
forget her past life, to comfort herself with ease, and the confidence
of her own worth that it gave her. Without wine she was despondent and
abashed. There was the choice of two things before her; either the
humiliating occupation of a servant, with the certain unwelcome
attentions of the men, or a secure, quiet and legitimatized position
of everybody's mistress. She wished to revenge herself on her seducer,
as well as the clerk, and all those that brought misfortune upon her.
Besides, she could not withstand the temptation of having all the
dresses her heart desired--dresses made of velvet, gauze and
silk--ball dresses, with open neck and short sleeves. And when Maslova
imagined herself in a bright yellow silk dress, with velvet trimmings,
decolette, she made her choice.

From this day on Maslova began to lead a life to which hundreds of
thousands of women are driven, and which, in nine cases out of ten,
ends in painful disease, premature decrepitude and death.

After a night's orgies there would come a deep slumber till three or
four o'clock in the afternoon; then the weary rising from a dirty
couch; seltzer-water to remove the effect of excessive drinking,
coffee. Then came the sauntering through the rooms in dressing-gown,
looking through the windows; the languid quarrels; then the perfuming
of her body and hair, the trying on of dresses, and the quarrels with
the mistress which they occasioned; contemplating herself in the
mirror, rouging her face, darkening her eyebrows. Then came the sweet,
rich food, the bright silk dress, the entry into the brightly lighted
parlor, the arrival of the guests, music, dancing, confectionery, wine
and cigarettes.

Thus Maslova lived for seven years. On the eighth, when she had
reached her twenty-sixth year, there happened that for which she had
been jailed, and for which she was now led to the court, after six
months of confinement among thieves and murderers.




CHAPTER III.


At the time when Maslova, exhausted by the long walk, was approaching
with the armed convoy the building in which court was held, the same
nephew of the ladies that brought her up, Prince Dmitri Ivanovitch
Nekhludoff, who deceived her, lay on his high, soft, spring
feather-bed, in spotless Holland linen, smoking a cigarette. He was
gazing before him, contemplating the events of the previous day and
considering what he had before him for that day. As he thought of the
previous evening, spent at the Korchagins, a wealthy and influential
family, whose daughter, rumor had it, he was to marry, he sighed, and
throwing away the butt of his cigarette, he was on the point of taking
another from the silver cigarette holder, but changed his mind. Half
rising, he slipped his smooth, white feet into the slippers, threw a
silk morning gown over his broad shoulders, and with quick and heavy
stride, walked into the adjoining dressing-room, which was permeated
with the artificial odors of elixirs, perfumes, cosmetics. There he
washed his partly gold-filled teeth with a tooth-powder, rinsed them
with a perfumed mouth-wash, then began to sponge himself and dry his
body with Turkish towels. After washing his hands with perfumed soap,
carefully brushing his trimmed nails and washing his face and stout
neck in a marble basin, he walked into a third room, where a
shower-bath was ready. Here he received a cold-water douche, and after
rubbing his white and muscular body with coarse towels and donning his
white linen, he seated himself before the mirror and began to brush
his short, curly beard and the thinning curls of his forehead.

Everything used by him--the linen, clothing, shoes, scarfs,
scarf-pins, cuff-buttons, were of the very best quality, simple,
tasteful and expensive.

He then picked out the first of a dozen scarfs and pins that came into
his hand--it was no more novel and amusing, as it used to be--and he
was quite indifferent as to which he put on. He dressed himself in his
brushed clothes which lay on the chair and went out, though not quite
refreshed, yet clean and fragrant. In the oblong dining-room, the
inlaid floor of which had been polished by three of his men the day
before, and containing a massive oaken sideboard and a similar
extension table, the legs of which were carved in the shape of lion's
paws, giving it a pompous appearance, breakfast stood ready for him. A
fine, starched cloth with large monograms was spread on the table, on
which stood a silver coffee-pot, containing fragrant, steaming coffee,
a sugar bowl and cream pitcher to match, fresh rolls and various kinds
of biscuits. Beside them lay the last number of the "Revue des deux
Mondes," newspapers and his mail. Nekhludoff was about to open the
letters, when a middle-aged woman, with a lace head-gear over her
unevenly parted hair, glided into the room. This was Agrippina
Petrovna, servant of his mother, who died in this very house. She was
now stewardess to the son.

Agrippina Petrovna had traveled many years abroad with Nekhludoff's
mother, and had acquired the manners of a lady. She had lived in the
house of the Nekhludoffs since childhood, and knew Dmitri Ivanovitch
when he was called by the diminutive Mitenka.

"Good-morning, Dmitri Ivanovitch."

"How do you do, Agrippina Petrovna? What's the news?" asked
Nekhludoff, jesting.

"A letter from the old Princess, or the young one, perhaps. The maid
brought it long ago, and is now waiting in my room," said Agrippina
Petrovna, handing him the letter with a significant smile.

"Very well; I will attend to it immediately," said Nekhludoff, taking
the letter and then, noticing the smile on Agrippina's face, he
frowned.

The smile on Agrippina's face signified that the letter came from
Princess Korchagin, whom, according to Agrippina Petrovna, he was to
marry. And this supposition, expressed by her smile, displeased
Nekhludoff.

"Then I will bid her wait," and Agrippina Petrovna glided out of the
dining-room, first replacing the crumb-brush, which lay on the table,
in its holder.

Nekhludoff opened the perfumed letter and began to read:

     "In fulfillment of the duty I assumed of being your memory,"
     the letter ran, "I call to your mind that you have been
     summoned to serve as juror to-day, the 28th of April, and
     that, therefore, you cannot accompany us and Kolosoff to the
     art exhibition, as you promised yesterday in your customary
     forgetfulness; à moins que vous ne soyez disposé à payer à
     la cour d'assises les 300 rubles d'amende que vous vous
     refusez pour votre cheval, for your failure to appear in
     time. I remembered it yesterday, when you had left. So keep
     it in mind.

                                         "PRINCESS M. KORCHAGIN."

On the other side was a postscript:

     "Maman vous fait dire que votre couvert vous attendra jusqu'
     à la nuit. Venez absolument à quelle heure que cela soit. M. K."

Nekhludoff knit his brows. The note was the continuation of a skillful
strategem whereby the Princess sought, for the last two months, to
fasten him with invisible bonds. But Nekhludoff, besides the usual
irresoluteness before marriage of people of his age, and who are not
passionately in love, had an important reason for withholding his
offer of marriage for the time being. The reason was not that ten
years before he had ruined and abandoned Katiousha, which incident he
had entirely forgotten, but that at this very time he was sustaining
relations with a married woman, and though he now considered them at
an end, they were not so considered by her.

In the presence of women, Nekhludoff was very shy, but it was this
very shyness that determined the married woman to conquer him. This
woman was the wife of the commander of the district in which
Nekhludoff was one of the electors. She led him into relations with
her which held him fast, and at the same time grew more and more
repulsive to him. At first Nekhludoff could not resist her wiles,
then, feeling himself at fault, he could not break off the relations
against her will. This was the reason why Nekhludoff considered that
he had no right, even if he desired, to ask for the hand of Korchagin.
A letter from the husband of that woman happened to lay on the table.
Recognizing the handwriting and the stamp, Nekhludoff flushed and
immediately felt an influx of that energy which he always experienced
in the face of danger. But there was no cause for his agitation; the
husband, as commander of the district where Nekhludoff's estates were
situated, informed the latter of a special meeting of the local
governing body, and asked him to be present without fail, and donner
un coup d'épaule in the important measures to be submitted concerning
the schools and roads, and that the reactionary party was expected to
offer strong opposition.

The commander was a liberal-minded man, entirely absorbed with the
struggles, and knew nothing about his wretched family life.

Nekhludoff recalled all the tortures this man had occasioned him; how
on one occasion he thought that the husband had discovered all, and he
was preparing to fight a duel with him, intending to use a blank
cartridge, and the ensuing scene where she, in despair, ran to the
pond, intending to drown herself, while he ran to search for her. "I
cannot go now, and can undertake nothing until I have heard from her,"
thought Nekhludoff. The preceding week he had written to her a
decisive letter, acknowledging his guilt, and expressing his readiness
to redeem it in any manner she should suggest, but for her own good,
considered their relations ended. It is to this letter that he
expected a reply. He considered it a favorable sign that no reply
came. If she had not consented to a separation, she would have
answered long ago, or would have come personally, as she often did
before. Nekhludoff had heard that an army officer was courting her,
and while he was tormented by jealousy, he was at the same time
gladdened by the hope of release from the oppressive lie.

The other letter was from the steward in charge of his estates.
Nekhludoff was requested to return and establish his right to the
inheritance and also to decide on the future management of the
estates; whether the same system of letting out to the peasants, which
prevailed during the lifetime of his mother, was to be continued, or,
as the steward had strongly advised the deceased Princess, and now
advised the young Prince, to augment the stock and work all the land
himself. The steward wrote that the land could thus best be exploited.
He also apologized for his failure to send the three thousand rubles
due on the first of the month, which he would send by the next mail,
explaining it by the difficulty of collecting the rents from the
peasants whose bad faith had reached a point where it became necessary
to resort to the courts to collect them. This letter was partly
agreeable and partly disagreeable to Nekhludoff. It was agreeable to
feel the power of authority over so vast an estate, and it was
disagreeable, because in his youth he was an enthusiastic adherent of
Herbert Spencer, and being himself a large land owner, was struck by
the proposition in _Social Statics_ that private ownership of land is
contrary to the dictates of justice. With the frankness and boldness
of youth, he not only _then_ spoke of the injustice of private
ownership of land; not only did he compose theses in the university on
the subject, but he actually distributed among the peasants the few
hundred acres of land left him by his father, not desiring to own land
contrary to his convictions. Now that he found himself the owner of
vast estates, he was confronted by two alternatives: either to waive
his ownership in favor of the peasants, as he did ten years ago with
the two hundred acres, or, by tacit acquiescence, confess that all his
former ideas were erroneous and false.

He could not carry out the first, because he possessed no resources
outside of the land. He did not wish to go into service, and yet he
had luxurious habits of life which he thought he could not abandon.
Indeed, there was no necessity of abandoning these habits, since he
had lost the strength of conviction as well as the resolution, the
vanity and the desire to astonish people that he had possessed in his
youth. The other alternative--to reject all the arguments against
private ownership of land which he gathered from Spencer's _Social
Statics_, and of which he found confirmation in the works of Henry
George--he could follow even less.

For this reason the steward's letter was disagreeable to him.




CHAPTER IV.


Having breakfasted, Nekhludoff went to the cabinet to see for what
hour he was summoned to appear at court, and to answer the Princess'
note. In the work-room stood an easel with a half-finished painting
turned face downward, and on the wall hung studies in drawing. On
seeing that painting, on which he had worked two years, and those
drawings, he called to mind the feeling of impotence, which he
experienced of late with greatest force, to make further advance in
the art. He explained this feeling by the development of a fine
aesthetic taste, and yet this consciousness caused him unpleasant
sensations.

Seven years before he had retired from active service he decided that
his true vocation in life was painting, and from the height of his
artistic activity he looked down upon all other occupations. And now
it appeared that he had no right to do so, and every recollection of
it was disagreeable to him. He looked on all the luxurious
appointments of the work-room with heavy heart, and walked into the
cabinet in ill humor. The cabinet was a high room, profusely
ornamented, and containing every imaginable device of comfort and
necessity.

He produced from one of the drawers of a large table the summons, and,
ascertaining that he must appear at eleven o'clock, he sat down and
wrote to the Princess, thanking her for the invitation, and saying
that he should try to call for dinner. The tone of the note seemed to
him too intimate, and he tore it up; he wrote another, but that was
too formal, almost offensive. Again he tore it up, and touched a
button on the wall. A servant, morose, with flowing side-whiskers and
in a gray apron, entered.

"Please send for a carriage."

"Yes, sir."

"And tell the Korchagins' maid that I thank them; I will try to call."

"Yes, sir."

"It is impolite, but I cannot write. But I will see her to-day,"
thought Nekhludoff, and started to dress himself.

When he emerged from the house a carriage with rubber tires awaited
him.

"You had scarcely left Prince Korchagin's house yesterday when I
called for you," said the driver, half-turning his stout, sun-burned
neck in the white collar of his shirt, "and the footman said that you
had just gone."

"Even the drivers know of my relations to the Korchagins," thought
Nekhludoff, and the unsolved question which continually occupied his
mind of late--whether or not he ought to marry Princess
Korchagin--again occurred to him, and, like most questions that he was
called upon to decide at that time, it remained unsolved.

He had many reasons for, and as many against, marriage. There was the
pleasure of domestic life, which made it possible to lead a moral
life, as he called married life; then, and principally, the family and
children would infuse his present aimless life with a purpose. This
was for marriage generally. On the other hand there was, first, the
loss of freedom which all elderly bachelors fear so much; and, second,
an unconscious awe of that mysterious creature, woman.

However, in favor of marrying Missy in particular (Korchagin's name
was Maria, but, as usual in families of the higher classes, she
received a nickname) there was, first, the fact that she came of good
stock, and was in everything, from her dress to her manner of
speaking, walking and laughing, distinguished not by any exceptional
qualities, but by "good breeding"--he knew no other expression for the
quality which he prized very highly. Second, she valued him above all
other men, hence, he thought she understood him. And this appreciation
of him, that is, acknowledging his high qualities, was proof to
Nekhludoff of her intelligence and correct judgment. Finally, against
marrying Missy in particular, was, first, the extreme probability of
his finding a girl of much better qualities than Missy, and,
consequently, more worthy of him; and, second, Missy was twenty-seven
years old and had probably loved other men before him. This thought
tormented him. His pride could not reconcile itself to the thought
that she could love some one else, even in the past. Of course, she
could not be expected to know that she would meet him, but the very
thought that she could have loved some one else before offended him.

So that there were as many reasons for as there were against marriage
in general and marrying Missy in particular. At all events the
arguments were equally strong on both sides, and Nekhludoff laughed as
he compared himself to the ass in the fable who, while deciding which
of the two bales of hay before him he should have his meal from,
starved himself.

"However, until I have heard from Maria Vasilieona, the wife of the
commander, and have done with her for good, I can do nothing," he said
to himself.

And the consciousness that he could and must defer his decision
pleased him.

"Ah, but I will consider it all later," he said to himself, as his
cabriolet silently approached the asphalt pavement of the court-house.

"And now I must do my duty to the community conscientiously, as I
always do, and think it one's duty to do. Besides, it is often
interesting," he said, and went past the door-keeper into the
vestibule of the court.




CHAPTER V.


There was great commotion in the corridors of the court when
Nekhludoff entered.

The attendants flitted to and fro breathlessly, delivering orders and
documents. Police captains, lawyers and clerks passed now one way, now
the other; complainants and defendants under bail leaned sadly against
the walls, or were sitting and waiting.

"Where is the Circuit Court?" asked Nekhludoff of one of the
attendants.

"Which one? There is a civil division and a criminal one."

"I am a juror."

"Criminal division. You should have said so. This way, to the right,
then turn to your left. The second door."

Nekhludoff went as directed.

At the door two men stood waiting. One was a tall, stout merchant, a
good-natured man, who had evidently partaken of some liquor and was in
very high spirits; the other was a clerk of Jewish extraction. They
were talking about the price of wool when Nekhludoff approached them
and asked if that was the jury's room.

"Here, sir, here. Are you also one of the jurymen?" mirthfully winking
his eyes, the good-natured merchant asked.

"Well, we will drudge together, I suppose," he continued in response
to Nekhludoff's affirmative answer. "My name is Baklashoff, merchant
of the second guild," he introduced himself, extending his soft, broad
hand; "we must do our duty. Whom have I the honor of addressing?"

Nekhludoff gave his name and passed into the jury-room.

In the small jury-room there were about ten men of every description.
They had just arrived; some were sitting, others walked about, eyeing,
and making each other's acquaintance. One was a retired officer in
uniform; others were in short coats, and but one in peasant garb.

Notwithstanding that they were all complaining that the jury duty was
burdensome, and was taking them away from their business, they all
seemed to be pleased with the consciousness of performing an important
civic duty.

The jurymen talked among themselves of the weather, of the premature
spring, of the business before them. Those who were not acquainted
with Nekhludoff hastened to become so, evidently considering it an
honor. And Nekhludoff, as was usual with him among strangers, received
it as his due. If he were asked why he considered himself above the
majority of people he would not be able to answer, as there was
nothing in his life transcending the commonplace. The fact that he
spoke English, French and German fluently; that his linen, clothing,
scarf and cuff-buttons were of superior make would not be sufficient
reason for assuming his superiority, as he himself well understood.
And yet he doubtless acknowledged in himself this superiority, and
regarded the respect shown him as his due, and was offended when it
was not forthcoming. It just happened that in the jury-room Nekhludoff
experienced this disagreeable feeling of being treated with
disrespect. Among the jurymen there was an acquaintance of Nekhludoff.
This was Peter Gerasimovitch (Nekhludoff never knew, and even boasted
of the fact that he did not know his surname), who was at one time
tutor to his sister's children. Peter Gerasimovitch was now teacher in
a college. Nekhludoff could never bear his familiarity, his
self-satisfied laughter--in a word, his "communizing," as Nekhludoff's
sister used to put it.

"Ha, ha! So you are also trapped?" he greeted Nekhludoff with a loud
burst of laughter. "You did not escape it?"

"I never intended to evade my duty," sternly and gloomily said
Nekhludoff.

"That I call civic virtue. But wait till you are hungry and sleepy,
you will sing another tune," Peter Gerasimovitch said, laughing still
louder.

"This son of an archdeacon will soon begin to 'thou' me," thought
Nekhludoff, with an expression of sadness on his face, as though he
had just learned of a grievous loss in his family. He turned from the
ex-tutor and approached a group of people that had formed around a
clean-faced, tall man, of dignified carriage, who were holding a
spirited conversation. The man was speaking of a case that was being
tried in the civil division, showing his familiarity with the judges
and the famous lawyers by referring to them by name. He was telling
them of the remarkable turn given to the probable result of the case
by the dexterity of a famous lawyer, by which an old lady, who was in
the right, would be obliged to pay an enormous sum to the adverse
side.

"He is a most ingenious attorney," he said.

He was listened to with respect, and some attempted to interrupt him
with some remarks, but he cut them short as if he alone knew the true
facts.

Although Nekhludoff arrived late, there was a long wait before him,
which was caused by the failure of one of the judges to appear.




CHAPTER VI.


The presiding justice arrived early. He was a tall, stout man, with
long, grayish side-whiskers. He was married, but, like his wife, led a
very dissolute life. They did not interfere with each other. On the
morning in question he received a note from a Swiss governess, who had
lived in his house during the summer, and was now passing on her way
from the South to St. Petersburg. She wrote that she would be in town
between three and six o'clock p.m., and wait for him at the "Hotel
Italia." He was, therefore, anxious to end his day's sitting before
six o'clock, that he might meet the red-haired Clara Vasilievna.

Entering his private chamber, and locking the door behind him, he
produced from the lower shelf of a book-case two dumb-bells, made
twenty motions upward, forward, sidewise and downward, and three times
lowered himself, holding the bells above his head.

"Nothing so refreshes one as a cold-water bath and exercise," he
thought, feeling with his left hand, on the fourth finger of which was
a gold ring, the biceps of his right arm. He had to go through two
more movements (these exercises he went through every day before court
opened), when the door rattled. Some one was attempting to open it.
The judge quickly replaced the dumb-bells and opened the door.

"I beg your pardon," he said.

One of the members of the court, wearing gold eye-glasses, of medium
height, with high shoulders and frowning countenance, entered.

"Matvei Nikitich is late again," said the newcomer, with an air of
displeasure.

"Yes," said the presiding judge, donning his robes. "He is always
late."

"It is a shame," said the member, and sat down angrily, then lighted a
cigarette.

This member of the court, a very punctilious man, had this morning had
an unpleasant encounter with his wife, which was caused by her
spending her monthly allowance before the month was up. She asked for
a sum of money in advance, and he refused. The result was a quarrel.
She said that unless he gave her the money there would be no dinner
that night, and that he would have to dine outside. He departed in
fear that she would carry out her threat, as anything might be
expected from her.

"Is it worth while leading a good, moral life?" he thought, as he
looked at the beaming, healthy, joyful and good-natured presiding
justice, who, spreading his elbows, stroked his long, gray whiskers;
"he is always contented and cheerful, while I am suffering."

The secretary entered and handed the presiding justice a document.

"Thank you," he said, and lighted a cigarette. "Which case shall be
taken up first?"

"The poison case, I think," the secretary answered, with feigned
indifference.

"Very well; so let it be the poison case," said the justice,
considering that that case could be disposed of by four o'clock and
make it possible for him to keep the appointment. "Has Matvei Nikitich
arrived?"

"Not yet."

"Is Breae here?"

"Yes," answered the secretary.

"Then tell him that we shall try the poisoning case."

Breae was an assistant prosecuting attorney and was assigned to this
term of the court.

The secretary met Breae in the corridor. With uplifted shoulders, his
robe unbuttoned, and portfolio under his arm, he almost ran, his heels
clattering on the floor, and his disengaged hand outstretched in the
direction in which he was going.

"Michael Petrovich desires to know if you are ready," said the
secretary.

"Certainly; I am always ready," said the assistant prosecutor; "which
is the first case?"

"The poisoning case."

"Very well," said the assistant prosecutor, but he did not consider it
well at all--he had not slept all night. A send-off had been given to
a departing friend, and he drank and played till two in the morning,
so that he was entirely unfamiliar with this case, and now hastened to
glance over the indictment. The secretary had purposely suggested the
case, knowing that the prosecutor had not read it. The secretary was a
man of liberal, even radical, ideas. Breae was conservative, and the
secretary disliked him, and envied his position.

"And what about the Skoptzy?"[A]

"I have already said that I cannot prosecute them in the absence of
witnesses," said the assistant prosecutor, "and I will so declare to
the court."

"But you don't need----"

"I cannot," said the assistant prosecutor, and waving his hand, ran to
his office.

He was postponing the case against the Skoptzy, although the absent
witness was an entirely unnecessary one. The real reason of the
postponement was that the prosecutor feared that their trial before an
intelligent jury might end in their acquittal. By an understanding
with the presiding justice their case was to be transferred to the
session of the District Court, where the preponderance of peasants on
the jury would insure their conviction.

The commotion in the corridor increased. The greatest crowd was before
the Civil Court, where the case of which the portly gentleman was
telling the jurymen was being tried. During a recess the same old lady
from whom the ingenious attorney managed to win her property in favor
of his shrewd client, came out of the court-room. That he was not
entitled to the property was known to the judges as well as to the
claimant and his attorney, but the mode of their procedure was such
that it was impossible to dismiss their claim. The old lady was stout,
in smart attire, and with large flowers on her hat. As she passed
into the corridor she stopped, and turning to her lawyer, kept
repeating:

"How can it be? Great heavens! I don't understand it!"

The lawyer did not listen to her, but looked at the flowers on her
hat, making mental calculations.

Behind the old lady, beaming in his wide-open vest, and with a
self-sufficient smile on his face, came that same famous lawyer who so
managed the case that the lady with the large flowers lost all her
property, while his shrewd client, who paid him ten thousand rubles,
received over a hundred thousand. All eyes were directed toward him.
He was conscious of it and seemed to say by his demeanor:

"Never mind your expressions of devotion," and brushed past the crowd.

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote A: A sect of eunuchs.]




CHAPTER VII.


Finally Matvei Nikitich arrived, and the usher, a long-necked and lean
man, with a sideling gait and protruding lower lip, entered the
jury-room.

The usher was an honest man, with a university education, but he could
not hold any employment on account of his tippling habit. A countess,
his wife's patroness, had obtained him his present position three
months ago; he still retained it, and was exceedingly glad.

"Are you all here, gentlemen?" he asked, putting on his pince-nez and
looking through it.

"I think so," said the cheerful merchant.

"Let us see," said the usher, and drawing a sheet of paper from his
pocket, began to call the names of the jury, looking at those that
responded to their names now through his pince-nez, now over it.

"Counsilor of State E. M. Nikiforoff."

"Here," said the portly gentleman, who was familiar with all the
litigations.

"Retired Colonel Ivan Semionovich Ivanoff."

"Present," answered a lank man in the uniform of a retired officer.

"Merchant of the second guild, Peter Baklashoff."

"Here," said the good-natured merchant, smiling from ear to ear. "We
are ready."

"Lieutenant of the Guards, Prince Dmitri Nekhludoff."

"Here," answered Nekhludoff.

The usher, looking politely and pleasantly through his pince-nez,
bowed, thereby distinguishing him from the rest, as it were.

"Captain Uri Dmitrievich Danchenko; merchant Gregory Ephimovich
Kouleshoff," etc., etc., etc.

There were but two missing from the panel.

"You will now, gentlemen, walk into the court," said the usher,
pointing to the door with a polite sweep of the hand.

They all rose from their seats, and passing each other through the
door, made their way through the corridor to the court-room.

The court was held in a large, oblong room. At one end was a platform,
reached by three steps. In the middle of the platform stood a table,
covered with green cloth, which was fringed with a dark-green lace.
Behind the table stood three arm-chairs with high, carved backs. In an
image-case suspended in the right corner was a representation of
Christ with a crown of thorns, and beneath it a reading-desk, and on
the same side stood the prosecutor's desk. To the left, opposite this
desk, was the secretary's table, and dividing these from the seats
reserved for spectators was a carved railing, along which stood the
prisoners' bench, as yet unoccupied.

On an elevation to the right were two rows of chairs, also with high
backs, reserved for the jury; below these were tables for the
attorneys. All this was in the front part of the court-room, which was
divided in two by a railing. In the rear part of the room benches in
lines extended to the wall. In the front row sat four women, either
servants or factory employees, and two men, also workmen, who were
evidently awed by the grandeur of the ornamentations, and were timidly
whispering to each other.

Soon after the jurymen came the usher, who, walking sidewise to the
middle of the room, shouted, as if he meant to frighten those present:

"The court is coming!"

Everybody stood up, and the judges ascended the platform. First came
the presiding judge with his muscles and beautiful whiskers. Then came
the gold-spectacled, gloomy member of the court--now even more gloomy,
for before the opening of the session he met his brother-in-law, a
candidate for a judicial office, who told him that he had seen his
sister, and that she declared that there would be no dinner at home
this day.

"So that, it seems, we will have to dine at an inn," said the
brother-in-law, laughing.

"What is there droll about it?" said the gloomy member of the court,
and sank into a still deeper gloom.

And last of all came the third member of the court, that same Matvei
Nikitich, who was always late. He wore a long beard, and had large,
kindly eyes, with drooping eyelids. He suffered from catarrh of the
stomach, and by the advice of his physician had adopted a new regimen,
and this new regimen detained him this morning longer than usual. When
he ascended the platform he seemed to be wrapped in thought, but only
because he had the habit of making riddles of every question that
occurred to him. At this moment he was occupied with the following
enigmatical proposition:

If the number of steps in the distance between the cabinet-door and
the arm-chair will divide by three without a remainder, then the new
regimen will cure him; but if it does not so divide, then it will not.
There were twenty-six steps, but he made one short step and reached
the chair with the twenty-seventh.

As the judges ascended the elevation in their uniforms, with
gold-laced collars, they presented an imposing array. They themselves
felt it, and all three, as if confused by their own greatness,
modestly lowered their eyes, and hastily seated themselves behind the
table on which clean paper and freshly-pointed lead pencils of all
sizes had been placed. The prosecutor, who entered with the judges,
also hastily walked to his place near the window, his portfolio still
under his arm, and waving his hand he began to read the papers in the
case, utilizing every moment to prepare himself.

This was his fifth case as prosecuting attorney. He was ambitious, and
was determined to make his career, and hence he endeavored to obtain
a conviction in every case he prosecuted. He knew the main points of
the poisoning case, and had already planned his speech; but he needed
to know some particulars of which he was now making extracts from the
papers.

The secretary sat on the opposite side of the elevation, and, having
prepared all the papers that might be necessary to produce on trial,
was glancing over a newspaper article, which he had obtained and read
the day before. He was anxious to talk to the member of the court with
the long beard, who shared his views, and before doing so wished to
better familiarize himself with it.




CHAPTER VIII.


The presiding justice looked over the papers, asked some questions of
the usher, and receiving affirmative answers, ordered that the
prisoners be brought into court. Immediately a door beyond the grating
opened, and two gendarmes with unsheathed swords and caps on their
heads, stepped into the court-room. Behind them came a freckled,
red-haired man and two women. The man was dressed in prisoner's garb
which was too long and too wide for him. As he entered the court-room
he held up with outspread fingers the sleeves which were too long.
Without looking at the judges or the spectators, his attention was
absorbed by the bench around which he was led. When he had passed
around he carefully seated himself on the edge, and making room for
the others, began to stare at the presiding justice, the muscles of
his cheeks moving as if he were whispering something. He was followed
by a middle-aged woman, also dressed in a prisoner's coat. A white
prison cap covered her head; her face was grayish, and her eyes were
devoid of either eye-lashes or eyebrows. She seemed quite composed. As
she was passing the railing to take her seat, her coat caught at
something; without haste, she carefully disengaged it, then smoothed
it and took her seat.

The third prisoner was Maslova.

No sooner did she enter than all the male spectators turned their
eyes toward her, attracted by her white face, lustrous black eyes and
high breast. Even the gendarme whom she passed gazed at her until she
seated herself; then, as if feeling himself guilty, he quickly turned
his head from her and straightening himself, he began to gaze into the
window directly in front of him.

The presiding justice waited until all the prisoners took their
places, and as soon as Maslova was seated, he turned to the secretary.

Then commenced the customary proceeding; calling of the jurymen,
fining the absent ones, listening to the claims of exemption from jury
duty and filling the panel from a number of reserves. Then the
presiding justice folded the slips of paper, placed them in a glass
vase, and turning up his gold-laced sleeve drew the slips one by one,
unrolled them and read them aloud. Then he straightened his sleeve and
called on the priest to swear in the jury.

An old little priest with a swollen, pale yellow face, in a brown
cassock and gold cross on his breast and some small badges pinned to
the cassock, slowly moving his swollen feet under the cassock,
approached the reading desk under the image.

The jury rose and, crowding each other, came forward.

"Come nearer, please," said the priest, touching with his swollen hand
the cross on his breast, and waiting until all the jury were near him.

While the jury were mounting the steps to the elevation where the desk
stood, the priest wriggled his bald, hoary head through the opening of
the stole, then rearranging his scanty hair, he turned to the jury:

"Raise your right hands and keep your fingers thus," he said, in a
slow, feeble voice, raising his bloated hand and pointing at his
forehead with the first three of its dimpled fingers. "Now repeat
after me: 'I promise and swear by the Almighty God, His Holy Gospel,
and by the life-giving cross of our Lord, that in the case'"--he
continued, resting after each phrase. "Don't drop your hand; hold it
thus," he turned to a young man who let his hand fall--"'that in the
case which----'"

The portly, whiskered gentleman, the colonel, merchant and others
held their hands as directed by the priest, and seemed to do so with
particular pleasure, holding their hands quite high, and their fingers
most proper; others seemed to do it against their will, and
carelessly. Some repeated the words too loudly, in a provoking manner,
with an expression on the face which seemed to say: "I will repeat as
I please;" others whispered, fell behind the priest and then, as if
frightened, hastened to catch up with him. Some held their fingers
tightly closed, as if challenging anyone to part them; others, again,
loosened them, now closed them again. After the jury was sworn, the
presiding justice directed them to choose a foreman. They arose and,
crowding each other, went into the consultation room, where almost
every one produced cigarettes and began to smoke. Some one proposed
the portly gentleman, who was immediately chosen, then they threw away
their cigarettes and returned to the court. The gentleman declared to
the presiding justice that he was chosen foreman, and stepping over
the feet of each other, the jury again seated themselves in the two
rows of high-backed chairs.

Everything proceeded smoothly, quickly and not without solemnity, and
the regularity, order and solemnity evidently pleased the
participants, confirming their sense of rendering important public
service. Nekhludoff also experienced this feeling.

As soon as the jury seated themselves the presiding justice instructed
them in their rights, duties and responsibilities. While speaking, he
was constantly changing his attitude; now he leaned on his right hand,
now on his left; then he reclined in his chair, or rested his hands on
the arms of the chair, smoothed the corners of the paper on the table,
polished the paper-knife or clutched the lead pencil.

Their rights, according to him, consisted in that they were allowed to
question prisoners, through the presiding justice; they might keep
pencils and paper, and might also view exhibits. Their duties
consisted in not giving a false verdict. And their responsibilities
consisted in that if they failed to keep secret their deliberations,
or spoke to outsiders, they would be liable to punishment.

They all listened with respectful attention. The merchant, from whom
the fumes of wine spread through the jury box, and who was suppressing
the noisy rising of gases in his stomach, approvingly nodded at every
sentence.




CHAPTER IX.


After he had finished the instructions, the presiding justice turned
to the prisoners.

"Simon Kartinkin, rise!" he said.

Simon sprang up nervously. The muscles of his cheeks began to twitch
still quicker.

"What is your name?"

"Simon Petroff Kartinkin," he said quickly, in a sharp voice,
evidently prepared for the question.

"What estate?"

"Peasant."

"What government, district?"

"Government of Tula, district of Krapivensk, Kupian township, village
of Borki."

"How old are you?"

"Thirty-four; born in eighteen hundred----"

"What faith?"

"Of the Russian orthodox faith."

"Are you married?"

"O, no!"

"What is your occupation?"

"I was employed in the Hotel Mauritania."

"Were you ever arrested before?"

"I was never arrested before, because where I lived----"

"You were not arrested?"

"God forbid! Never!"

"Have you received a copy of the indictment?"

"Yes."

"Sit down. Euphemia Ivanovna Bochkova!" The presiding justice turned
to the next prisoner.

But Simon remained standing in front of Bochkova.

"Kartinkin, sit down!"

Kartinkin still remained standing.

"Kartinkin, sit down!"

But Kartinkin stood still until the usher, his head leaning to the
side, and with wide-open eyes, whispered to him in a tragic tone:

"Sit down, sit down!"

Kartinkin sat down as quickly as he rose, and wrapping himself in his
coat began to move his cheeks.

"Your name?" With a sigh of weariness the presiding justice turned to
the next prisoner without looking at her, and consulted a paper before
him. He was so accustomed to the business that to expedite matters he
could try two cases at once.

Bochkova was forty-two years old, a burgess of the town of Koloma; by
occupation a servant--in the same Hotel Mauritania. Was never arrested
before, and had received a copy of the indictment. She gave the
answers very boldly and with an intonation which seemed to add to
every answer.

"Yes, Bochkova, Euphemia, have received a copy, and am proud of it,
and will permit no one to laugh at me."

Without waiting to be told to sit down, Bochkova sat down immediately
after the questioning ceased.

"Your name?" asked the presiding justice of the third prisoner. "You
must rise," he added, gently and courteously, seeing Maslova still in
her seat.

With quick movement Maslova rose with an air of submissiveness, and
throwing back her shoulders, looked into the face of the presiding
justice with her smiling, somewhat squinting black eyes.

"What are you called?"

"They used to call me Lubka," she answered, rapidly.

Meanwhile Nekhludoff put on his pince-nez and examined the prisoners
while they were questioned.

"It is impossible," he thought, looking intently at the prisoner. "But
her name is Lubka," he thought, as he heard her answer.

The presiding justice was about to continue his interrogation when the
member with the eye-glasses, angrily whispering something, stopped
him. The presiding justice nodded his assent and turned to the
prisoner.

"You say 'Lubka,' but a different name is entered here."

The prisoner was silent.

"I ask you what is your real name?"

"What name did you receive at baptism?" asked the angry member.

"Formerly I was called Katherine."

"It is impossible," Nekhludoff continued to repeat, although there was
no doubt in his mind now that it was she, that same servant ward with
whom he had been in love at one time--yes, in love, real love, and
whom in a moment of mental fever he led astray, then abandoned, and to
whom he never gave a second thought, because the recollection of it
was too painful, revealed too manifestly that he, who prided himself
of his good breeding, not only did not treat her decently, but basely
deceived her.

Yes, it was she. He saw plainly the mysterious peculiarity that
distinguishes every individual from every other individual.
Notwithstanding the unnatural whiteness and fullness of her face, this
pleasant peculiarity was in the face, in the lips, in the slightly
squinting eyes, and, principally, in the naive, smiling glance, and in
the expression of submissiveness not only in the face, but in the
whole figure.

"You should have said so," again very gently said the presiding
justice. "What is your patronymic?"

"I am illegitimate," said Maslova.

"But yet you were named after your godfather?"

"Michailova."

"What crime could she have committed?" Nekhludoff thought meanwhile,
his breath almost failing him.

"What is your surname--your family name?" continued the presiding
justice.

"Maslova--after my mother."

"Your estate?"

"Burgess."

"Of the orthodox faith?"

"Yes."

"Your occupation? What was your occupation?"

Maslova was silent.

"What was your occupation?" repeated the justiciary.

"You know!" said Maslova. She smiled and quickly glanced around, then
looked squarely at the justiciary.

There was something so unusual in the expression of her
face--something so terrible and piteous in the meaning of her words,
in that smile, that quick glance which she cast over the
court-room--that the justiciary hung his head, and for a moment there
was perfect silence.

A burst of laughter from some spectator interrupted the silence. Some
one hissed. The justiciary raised his head and continued the
interrogation.

"Were you ever arrested?"

"No." Maslova said in an undertone, sighing.

"Have you received a copy of the indictment?"

"Yes."

"Sit down."

The prisoner raised her skirt with the customary movement of a
fashionable lady, arranging her train, and sat down, folding her hands
in the sleeves of her coat, and still looking at the justiciary.

Then began the recounting of witnesses, their removal to a separate
room, the decision on the evidence of the medical expert. Then the
secretary arose and began to read the indictment, loud and with
distinctness, but so rapidly that his incorrect sounding of the
letters l and r turned his reading into one continuous, weary drone.
The judges leaned now on one side, now on the other side of their
arm-chairs, then on the table, and again on the backs of the chairs,
or closed their eyes, or opened them and whispered to each other. One
of the gendarmes several times stifled a yawn.

The convulsions of Kartinkin's cheeks did not cease. Bochkova sat
quietly and erect, now and then scratching with her finger under her
cap.

Maslova sat motionless, listening to the reading, and looking at the
clerk; at times she shuddered and made a movement as if desiring to
object, blushed, then sighed deeply, changed the position of her
hands, glanced around and again looked at the clerk.

Nekhludoff sat on the high-backed chair in the front row, second to
the aisle, and without removing his pince-nez looked at Maslova, while
his soul was being racked by a fierce and complicated struggle.




CHAPTER X.


The indictment read as follows:

"On the 17th of January, 18--, suddenly died in the Hotel Mauritania,
merchant of the second guild, Therapont Emelianovich Smelkoff.

"The local police physician certified that the cause of death of said
Smelkoff was rupture of the heart, caused by excessive use of liquor.

"The body of Smelkoff was interred.

"On the 21st day of January, a townsman and comrade of Smelkoff, on
returning from St. Petersburg, and hearing of the circumstances of his
death, declared his suspicion that Smelkoff was poisoned with a view
of robbing him of the money he carried about his person.

"This suspicion was confirmed at the preliminary inquest, by which it
was established: 1. That Smelkoff had drawn from the bank, some time
before his death, three thousand eight hundred rubles; that, after a
due and careful inventory of the money of the deceased, only three
hundred and twelve rubles and sixteen kopecks were found. 2. That the
entire day and evening preceding his death deceased passed in the
company of a girl named Lubka (Katherine Maslova) in the Hotel
Mauritania, whither said Maslova came at the request of Smelkoff for
money; that she obtained the money from Smelkoff's trunk, first
unlocking it with a key intrusted to her by Smelkoff; that the money
was thus taken in the presence of two servants of the said
hotel--Euphemia Bochkova and Simon Kartinkin; that at the opening of
said trunk by the said Maslova in the presence of the aforementioned
Bochkova and Kartinkin, there were rolls of hundred ruble bills. 3.
That on the return of said Smelkoff and Maslova to the said hotel, the
said Maslova, on the advice of the said servant Kartinkin,
administered to the deceased a glass of brandy, in which she put a
white powder given her by said Kartinkin. 4. That on the following
morning Lubka (Katherine Maslova) sold to her mistress, Rosanova, a
diamond ring belonging to Smelkoff, said ring she alleged to have
been presented to her by said Smelkoff. 5. That the servant of said
Hotel Mauritania, Euphemia Bochkova, deposited in her name in the
local Bank of Commerce the sum of eighteen hundred rubles.

"At the autopsy held on the body of Smelkoff, and after the removal of
the intestines, the presence of poison was readily discovered, leaving
no doubt that death was caused by poisoning.

"The prisoners, Maslova, Bochkova and Kartinkin pleaded not guilty.
Maslova declared that she did go to the Hotel Mauritania, as stated,
for the purpose of fetching some money for the merchant, and that
opening the trunk with the key given to her by the merchant, she took
only forty rubles, as she was directed, but took no more, which fact
can be substantiated by Bochkova and Kartinkin, in whose presence she
took the money and locked the trunk. She further testified that during
her second visit to the room of the merchant she gave him, at the
instigation of Kartinkin, several powders in a glass of brandy, which
she considered to be narcotic, in order that she might get away from
him. The ring was presented to her by Smelkoff when she cried and was
about to leave him after he had beaten her.

"Euphemia Bochkova testified that she knew nothing about the missing
money, never entered the merchant's room, which Lubka herself kept in
order, and that if anything was stolen from the merchant, it was done
by Lubka when she came to the room for the money."

At this point Maslova shuddered, and with open mouth looked at
Bochkova.

"And when Euphemia Bochkova was shown her bank account of eighteen
hundred rubles," continued the secretary, "and asked how she came by
the money, she testified that the money was saved from their earnings
by herself and Simon Kartinkin, whom she intended to marry.

"Simon Kartinkin, on his part, at the first examination, confessed
that, at the instigation of Maslova, who brought the key to the trunk,
he and Bochkova stole the money, which was afterwards divided between
the three."

At this Maslova shuddered again, sprang to her feet, turned red in
the face, and began to say something, but the usher bade her be quiet.

"Finally," continued the secretary, "Kartinkin also confessed to
giving Maslova the powders to put the merchant to sleep. On the second
examination, however, he denied having either stolen the money, or
given Maslova the powders, but charged Maslova with both. As to the
money placed by Bochkova in the bank, he declared, in accordance with
Bochkova's testimony, that they had saved it during their twelve
years' service in the hotel."

The indictment wound up as follows:

"In view of the aforesaid the defendants, Simon Kartinkin, peasant of
the village of Borkoff, thirty-three years of age; burgess Euphemia
Ivanova Bochkova, forty-two years of age, and burgess Katherine
Maslova, twenty-seven years of age, conspired on the 17th day of
January, 188-, to administer poison to merchant Smelkoff with intent
to kill and rob him, and did on said day administer to said Smelkoff
poison, from which poison the said Smelkoff died, and did thereafter
rob him of a diamond ring and twenty-five hundred rubles, contrary to
the laws in such cases made and provided. Chapter 1453, sections 4 and
5, Penal Code.

"Wherefore, in accordance with chapter 201 of the Code of Criminal
Procedure, the said peasant, Simon Kartinkin, burgess Euphemia
Bochkova and burgess Katherine Maslova are subject to trial by jury,
the case being within the jurisdiction of the Circuit Court."

The clerk having finished the reading of the long indictment, folded
the papers, seated himself at his desk and began to arrange his long
hair. Every one present gave a sigh of relief, and with the
consciousness that the trial had already begun, everything would be
cleared up and justice would finally be done, leaned back on their
chairs.

Nekhludoff alone did not experience this feeling. He was absorbed in
the horrible thought that the same Maslova, whom he knew as an
innocent and beautiful girl ten years ago, could be guilty of such a
crime.




CHAPTER XI.


When the reading of the indictment was finished, the justiciary,
having consulted with his associates, turned to Kartinkin with an
expression on his face which plainly betokened confidence in his
ability to bring forth all the truth.

"Simon Kartinkin," he called, leaning to the left.

Simon Kartinkin rose, put out his chest, incessantly moving his
cheeks.

"You are charged, together with Euphemia Bochkova and Katherine
Maslova, with stealing from the trunk of the merchant Smelkoff money
belonging to him, and subsequently brought arsenic and induced Maslova
to administer it to Smelkoff, by reason of which he came to his death.
Are you guilty or not guilty?" he said, leaning to the right.

"It is impossible, because our business is to attend the guests----"

"You will speak afterwards. Are you guilty or not?"

"No, indeed. I only----"

"You can speak later. Do you admit that you are guilty?" calmly but
firmly repeated the justiciary.

"I cannot do it because----"

Again the usher sprang toward Simon and with a tragic whisper stopped
him.

The justiciary, with an expression showing that the questioning was at
an end, moved the hand in which he held a document to another place,
and turned to Euphemia Bochkova.

"Euphemia Bochkova, you, with Kartinkin and Maslova, are charged with
stealing, on the 17th day of January, 188-, at the Hotel Mauritania,
from the trunk of the merchant Smelkoff, money and a ring, and
dividing the same among yourselves, and with a view of hiding your
crime, administered poison to him, from the effects of which he died.
Are you guilty?"

"I am not guilty of anything," boldly and firmly answered the
prisoner. "I never entered the room--and as that scurvy woman did go
into the room, she, then, did the business----"

"You will speak afterwards," again said the justiciary, with the same
gentleness and firmness. "So you are not guilty?"

"I did not take the money, did not give him the poison, did not go
into the room. If I were in the room I should have thrown her out."

"You are not guilty, then?"

"Never."

"Very well."

"Katherine Maslova," began the justiciary, turning to the third
prisoner. "The charge against you is that, having come to the Hotel
Mauritania with the key to Smelkoff's trunk, you stole therefrom money
and a ring," he said, like one repeating a lesson learned by rote, and
leaning his ear to the associate sitting on his left, who said that he
noticed that the phial mentioned in the list of exhibits was missing.
"Stole therefrom money and a ring," repeated the justiciary, "and
after dividing the money again returned with the merchant Smelkoff to
the Hotel Mauritania, and there administered to him poison, from the
effects of which he died. Are you guilty or not guilty?"

"I am not guilty of anything," she answered, quickly. "As I said
before, so I repeat now: I never, never, never took the money; I did
not take anything, and the ring he gave me himself."

"You do not plead guilty of stealing twenty-five hundred rubles?" said
the justiciary.

"I say I didn't take anything but forty rubles."

"And do you plead guilty to the charge of giving the merchant Smelkoff
powders in his wine?"

"To that I plead guilty. Only I thought, as I was told, that they
would put him to sleep, and that no harm could come from them. I did
not wish, nor thought of doing him any harm. Before God, I say that I
did not," she said.

"So you deny that you are guilty of stealing the money and ring from
the merchant Smelkoff," said the justiciary, "but you admit that you
gave him the powders?"

"Of course, I admit, only I thought that they were sleeping powders.
I only gave them to him that he might fall asleep--never wished, nor
thought----"

"Very well," said the justiciary, evidently satisfied with the results
of the examinations. "Now tell us how it happened," he said, leaning
his elbows on the arms of the chair and putting his hands on the
table. "Tell us everything. By confessing frankly you will improve
your present condition."

Maslova, still looking straight at the justiciary, was silent.

"Tell us what took place."

"What took place?" suddenly said Maslova. "I came to the hotel; I was
taken to the room; he was there, and was already very drunk." (She
pronounced the word "he" with a peculiar expression of horror and with
wide-open eyes.) "I wished to depart; he would not let me."

She became silent, as if she had lost the thread of the story, or
thought of something else.

"What then?"

"What then? Then I remained there awhile and went home."

At this point the assistant public prosecutor half rose from his seat,
uncomfortably resting on one elbow.

"Do you wish to question the prisoner?" asked the justiciary, and
receiving an affirmative answer, motioned his assent.

"I would like to put this question: Has the prisoner been acquainted
with Simon Kartinkin before?" asked the assistant prosecutor without
looking at Maslova.

And having asked the question he pressed his lips and frowned.

The justiciary repeated the question. Maslova looked with frightened
eyes at the prosecutor.

"With Simon? I was," she said.

"I would like to know now, what was the character of the acquaintance
that existed between them. Have they met often?"

"What acquaintance? He invited me to meet guests; there was no
acquaintance," answered Maslova, throwing restless glances now at the
prosecutor, now at the justiciary.

"I would like to know why did Kartinkin invite Maslova only, and not
other girls?" asked the prosecutor, with a Mephistophelian smile,
winking his eyes.

"I don't know. How can I tell?" answered Maslova, glancing around her,
frightened, and for a moment resting her eyes on Nekhludoff. "He
invited whomever he wished."

"Is it possible that she recognized me?" Nekhludoff thought, with
horror. He felt his blood rising to his head, but Maslova did not
recognize him. She turned away immediately, and with frightened eyes
gazed at the prosecutor.

"Then the prisoner denies that she had intimate relations with
Kartinkin? Very well. I have no more questions to ask."

He removed his elbow from the desk, and began to make notes. In
reality, instead of making notes, he merely drew lines across his
notes, having seen prosecutors and attorneys, after an adroit
question, making memoranda of questions which were to crush their
opponents.

The justiciary did not turn immediately to the prisoner, because he
was at the moment asking his associate in the eye-glasses whether he
consented to the questions previously outlined and committed to
writing.

"What followed?" the justiciary continued.

"I came home," Maslova continued, looking somewhat bolder, "and went
to sleep. As soon as I was asleep our girl, Bertha, came and woke me.
'Your merchant is here again. Wake up.' Then he"--again she pronounced
it with evident horror--"he wished to send for wine, but was short of
money. Then he sent me to the hotel, telling me where the money was
and how much to take, and I went."

The justiciary was whispering at the time to his associate on the
left, and did not listen to Maslova, but to make it appear that he had
heard everything he repeated her last words.

"And you went. Well, what else?" he asked.

"I came there and did as he told me. I went to his room. I did not
enter it alone, but called Simon Michaelovich and her," she said,
pointing to Bochkova.

"She lies; I never entered----" Bochkova began, but she was stopped.

"In their presence I took four ten ruble bills," she continued.

"And while taking this money, did the prisoner see how much money
there was?" asked the prosecutor.

Maslova shuddered as soon as the prosecutor began to speak. She could
not tell why, but she felt that he was her enemy.

"I did not count it, but I saw that it was all hundred ruble bills."

"The prisoner saw hundred ruble bills. I have no other questions."

"Well, did you bring back the money?" asked the justiciary, looking at
the clock.

"I did."

"Well, what then?"

"Then he again took me with him," said Maslova.

"And how did you give him the powder in the wine?" asked the
justiciary.

"How? Poured it into the wine and gave it to him."

"Why did you give it to him?"

Without answering, she sighed deeply. After a short silence she said:

"He would not let me go. He exhausted me. I went into the corridor and
said to Simon Michaelovich: 'If he would only let me go; I am so
tired.' And Simon Michaelovich said: 'We are also tired of him. We
intend to give him sleeping powders. When he is asleep you can go.'
'All right,' I said. I thought that it was a harmless powder. He gave
me a package. I entered. He lay behind the partition, and ordered me
to bring him some brandy. I took from the table a bottle of
feen-champagne, poured into two glasses--for myself and him--threw the
powder into his glass and handed it to him. I would not have given it
to him if I had known it."

"And how did you come by the ring?" asked the justiciary.

"He presented it to me."

"When did he present it to you?"

"When we reached his room. I wished to depart. Then he struck me on
the head and broke my comb. I was angered, and wished to go. Then he
took the ring from his finger and gave it to me, asking me to stay,"
she said.

Here the assistant prosecutor again rose, and with a dissimulating
naiveness asked permission to ask a few more questions, which was
granted, and leaning his head on his gold-embroidered collar, he
asked:

"I would like to know how long was the prisoner in the room with
Smelkoff?"

Maslova was again terror-stricken, and with her frightened eyes
wandering from the prosecutor to the justiciary, she answered,
hurriedly:

"I do not remember how long."

"And does the prisoner remember entering another part of the hotel
after she had left Smelkoff?"

Maslova was thinking.

"Into the next room--an empty one," she said.

"Why did you enter that room?" said the assistant prosecutor,
impulsively.

"To wait for a cabriolet."

"Was not Kartinkin in the room with the prisoner?"

"He also came in."

"Why did he come in?"

"There was the merchant's feen-champagne left, and we drank it
together."

"Oh, drank together. Very well."

"And did the prisoner have any conversation with Simon, and what was
the subject of the conversation?"

Maslova suddenly frowned, her face turned red, and she quickly
answered:

"What I said? I know nothing more. Do what you please with me. I am
innocent, and that is all. I did not say anything. I told everything
that happened."

"I have no more questions to ask," said the prosecutor to the court,
and uplifting his shoulders he began to add to the memorandums of his
speech that the prisoner herself confessed to entering an empty room
with Simon.

There was a short silence.

"Have you anything else to say?"

"I have told everything," she said, sighing, and took her seat.

The justiciary then made some notes, and after he had listened to a
suggestion whispered by the associate on the left, declared a recess
of ten minutes, and, hastily rising, walked out of the court-room.

After the judges had risen, the jury, lawyers and witness also rose,
and with the pleasant feeling of having already performed part of an
important work, began to move hither and thither.

Nekhludoff walked into the jury-room and took a seat near the window.




CHAPTER XII.


Yes, it was Katiousha.

The relations of Nekhludoff to Katiousha were the following:

Nekhludoff first met Katiousha when he went to stay one summer out at
the estate of his aunts in order that he might quietly prepare his
thesis on the private ownership of land. Ordinarily he lived on the
estate of his mother, near Moskow, with his mother and sister. But
that year his sister married, and his mother went abroad. Nekhludoff
had to write a composition in the course of his university studies,
and decided to pass the summer at his aunts'. There in the woods it
was quiet, and there was nothing to distract him from his studies.
Besides, the aunts loved their nephew and heir, and he loved them,
loved their old-fashioned way of living.

During that summer Nekhludoff experienced that exaltation which youth
comes to know not by the teaching of others, but when it naturally
begins to recognize the beauty and importance of life, and man's
serious place in it; when it sees the possibility of infinite
perfection of which the world is capable, and devotes itself to that
endeavor, not only with the hope, but with a full conviction of
reaching that perfection which it imagines possible. While in the
university he had that year read Spencer's Social Statics, and
Spencer's reasoning bearing on private ownership of land produced a
strong impression on him, especially because he was himself the son of
a landed proprietress. His father was not rich, but his mother
received as her marriage portion ten thousand acres of land. He then
for the first time understood all the injustice of private ownership
of land, and being one of those to whom any sacrifice in the name of
moral duty was a lofty spiritual enjoyment, he forthwith divided the
land he had inherited from his father among the peasants. On this
subject he was then composing a disquisition.

His life on the estate of his aunts was ordered in the following way:
He rose very early, some times at three o'clock, and till sunrise
bathed in the river under a hill, often in the morning mist, and
returned when the dew was yet on the grass and flowers. Some mornings
he would, after partaking of coffee, sit down to write his
composition, or read references bearing on the subject. But, above
all, he loved to ramble in the woods. Before dinner he would lie down
in the woods and sleep; then, at dinner, he made merry, jesting with
his aunts; then went out riding or rowing. In the evening he read
again, or joined his aunts, solving riddles for them. On moonlit
nights he seldom slept, because of the immense joy of life that
pervaded him, and instead of sleeping, he sometimes rambled in the
garden till daylight, absorbed in his thoughts and phantasies.

Thus he lived happily the first month under the roof of his aunts'
dwelling, paying no attention to the half-servant, half-ward, the
black-eyed, nimble-footed Katiousha.

Nekhludoff, raised under the protecting wing of his mother, was at
nineteen a perfectly innocent youth. He dreamed of woman, but only as
wife. All those women who, according to his view, could not be
considered as likely to become his wife, were to him not women, but
people. But it happened on Ascension Day that there was visiting his
aunts a lady from the neighborhood with her two young daughters, her
son and a local artist who was staying with them.

After tea had been served the entire company, as usual, repaired to
the meadow, where they played blind man's buff. Katiousha went with
them. After some exchanges came Nekhludoff's turn to run with
Katiousha. Nekhludoff always liked to see Katiousha, but it had never
occurred to him that their relations could ever be any but the most
formal.

"It will be difficult to catch them now," said the cheerful artist,
whose short and curved legs carried him very swiftly, "unless they
stumble."

"You could not catch them."

"One, two, three!"

They clapped their hands three times. Almost bursting into laughter,
Katiousha quickly changed places with Nekhludoff, and pressing with
her strong, rough little hand his large hand she ran to the left,
rustling her starched skirt.

Nekhludoff was a swift runner; he wished to out-distance the artist,
and ran with all his might. As he turned around he saw the artist
catching up with Katiousha, but with her supple limbs she gained on
him and ran to the left. In front of them was a patch of lilac bushes,
behind which no one ran, but Katiousha, turning toward Nekhludoff,
motioned him with her head to join her there. He understood her, and
ran behind the bushes. But here was a ditch overgrown with nettles,
whose presence was unknown to Nekhludoff. He stumbled and fell,
stinging and wetting his hands in the evening dew that was now
falling, but, laughing, he straightened himself and ran into the open.

Katiousha, her black eyes beaming with joy, ran toward him. They met
and caught each others' hands.

"You were stung by the nettles, I suppose," she said, arranging with
her free hand her loosened braid, breathing heavily, and looking up
into his eyes.

"I did not know there was a ditch," he said, also smiling, and still
keeping her hand in his.

She advanced a little, and he, without being able to account for it,
inclined his face toward hers. She did not draw back. He pressed her
hand and kissed her on the lips.

She uttered an exclamation, and with a swift movement, releasing her
hand, she ran in the direction of the crowd.

Plucking two lilac twigs from the lilac bush, fanning her flushed face
with them, and glancing around toward him, she ran to the players,
briskly waving her hands.

From this day on the relations between Nekhludoff and Katiousha were
changed, and there were established between them those peculiar
relations which are customary between two innocent young people who
are attached to each other.

As soon as Katiousha entered the room, or even when Nekhludoff saw her
white apron from afar, everything became immediately as if lit by the
sun; everything became more interesting, more cheerful, more
important; life became more joyful. She experienced the same feeling.
But not alone the presence and proximity of Katiousha had such effect
upon Nekhludoff; the very thought of her existence had the same power
upon him as that of his had upon her. Whether he received an
unpleasant letter from his mother, or was backward in his composition,
or felt the ceaseless sadness of youth, it would suffice for him to
see her and his spirit resumed its wonted good cheer.

Katiousha had to do all the housework, but she managed to do her duty
and found spare time for reading. He gave her the works of Dostoievsky
and Tourgenieff to read. Those descriptive of the beauties of nature
she liked best. Their conversations were but momentary, when they met
in the corridor, on the veranda, in the court-yard, or in the room of
the aunts' old servant, Matriena Pavlovna, with whom Katiousha roomed,
or in the servants' chamber, whither Nekhludoff sometimes went to
drink tea. And these conversations in the presence of Matriena
Pavlovna were the pleasantest. When they were alone their conversation
flagged. Then the eyes would speak something different, more
important, than the mouth; the lips were drawn up, they felt
uncomfortable, and quickly parted.

These relations continued during the time of his first visit to his
aunts. The aunts noticed them, were dismayed, and immediately wrote to
the Princess Elena Ivanovna, Nekhludoff's mother. But their anxiety
was unfounded; Nekhludoff, without knowing it, loved Katiousha, as
innocent people love, and this very love was the principal safeguard
against either his or her fall. Not only did he not desire to possess
her physically, but the very thought of such relation horrified him.
There was more reason in the poetical Sophia Ivanovna's fear that
Nekhludoff's having fallen in love with a girl, might take a notion to
marry her without regard to her birth or station.

If Nekhludoff were clearly conscious of his love for Katiousha;
especially if it were sought to persuade him that he could and must
not link his fate to that of the girl, he would very likely have
decided in his plumb-line mind that there was no reason why he should
not marry her, no matter who she was, provided he loved her. But the
aunts did not speak of their fears, and he departed without knowing
that he was enamored of Katiousha.

He was certain that his feeling toward Katiousha was but a
manifestation of that joy which pervaded his entire being, and which
was shared by that lovely, cheerful girl. However, when he was taking
leave, and Katiousha, standing on the veranda with the aunts, followed
him with her black, tearful and somewhat squinting eyes, he felt that
he was leaving behind him something beautiful, precious, which would
never recur. And he became very sad.

"Good-by, Katiousha. I thank you for everything," he said, over the
cap of Sophia Ivanovna, and seated himself in the cabriolet.

"Good-by, Dmitri Ivanovich," she said, in her pleasant, caressing
voice, and holding back the tears which filled her eyes, ran into her
room, where she could cry freely.




CHAPTER XIII.


For three years afterward Nekhludoff did not see Katiousha. But when,
as staff-officer, he was on his way to his army post, he paid a short
visit to his aunts, but an entirely different man. Three years ago he
was an honest, self-denying youth, ready to devote himself to every
good cause; now he was a corrupt and refined egotist, given over to
personal enjoyment. Then, the world appeared to him as a mystery which
he joyfully and enthusiastically tried to solve; now, everything in
this world was plain and simple, and was determined by those
conditions of life in which he found himself. Then, it was necessary
and important to hold communion with nature and with those people who
lived, thought and felt before him (philosophers, poets); now, human
institutions were the only things necessary and important, and
communion he held with his comrades. Woman, then, appeared to him a
mysterious and charming creature; now, he looked on woman, on every
woman, except nearest relations and wives of friends, as a means of
gratifying now tried pleasures. Then, he needed no money, and wanted
not a third part what his mother gave him, disclaimed title to his
father's land, distributing it among the peasants; now, the fifteen
hundred rubles' monthly allowance he received from his mother did not
suffice for his needs, and he often made it the cause of unpleasant
conversation with her. His true self he then considered his spiritual
being; now, his healthy, vigorous, animal self was his true ego.

And all this terrible transformation took place in him only because he
ceased to have faith in himself, and began to believe in others. To
live according to the faith that was in him was burdensome; every
question would have to be decided almost always against his animal
ego, which was seeking light pleasures; but reposing his faith in
others, there remained nothing to decide, everything having been
decided, and decided always against the spiritual and in favor of the
animal ego. Besides, following his inner faith, he was always subject
to the censure of people; in the other case he received the approval
of the people that surrounded him.

Thus, when Nekhludoff was thinking, reading, speaking of God, of
truth, of wealth, of poverty, everybody considered it out of place and
somewhat queer, while his mother and aunt, with good-natured irony,
called him notre cher philosophe. When, however, he was reading
novels, relating indecent anecdotes or seeing droll vaudevilles in the
French theatre, and afterward merrily repeated them, everybody praised
and encouraged him. When he considered it necessary to curtail his
needs, wore an old coat and gave up wine-drinking, everybody
considered it eccentric and vain originality; but when he spent large
sums in organizing a chase, or building an unusual, luxurious cabinet,
everybody praised his taste and sent him valuable gifts. When he was
chaste, and wished to preserve his chastity till marriage, his
relatives were anxious about his health, and his mother, so far from
being mortified, rather rejoiced when she learned that he had become a
real man, and had enticed the French mistress of some friend of his.
As to the Katiousha episode--that the thought might occur to him of
marrying her, she could not even think of without horror.

Similarly, when Nekhludoff, on reaching his majority, distributed the
estate he inherited from his father among the peasants, because he
considered the ownership of land unjust, this act of his horrified his
mother and relatives, who constantly reproached and ridiculed him for
it. He was told unceasingly that so far from enriching it only
impoverished the peasants, who opened three liquor stores and stopped
working entirely. When, however, Nekhludoff joined the Guards, and
spent and gambled away so much money that Elena Ivanovna had to draw
from her capital, she scarcely grieved, considering it quite natural
and even beneficial to be thus inoculated when young and in good
society.

Nekhludoff at first struggled, but the struggle was very hard, for
whatever he did, following the faith that was in him, was considered
wrong by others, and, contrariwise, whatever he considered wrong was
approved of by his relatives. The result was that Nekhludoff ceased to
have faith in himself and began to follow others. At first this
renunciation of self was unpleasant, but it was short lived, and
Nekhludoff, who now began to smoke and drink wine, soon ceased to
experience this unpleasant feeling, and was even greatly relieved.

Passionate by nature, Nekhludoff gave himself up entirely to this new
life, approved of by all those that surrounded him, and completely
stifled in himself that voice which demanded something different. It
commenced with his removal to St. Petersburg, and ended with his entry
upon active service.

During this period of his life Nekhludoff felt the ecstasy of freedom
from all those moral impediments which he had formerly placed before
himself, and continued in a chronic condition of insane egotism.

He was in this condition when, three years afterward, he visited his
aunts.




CHAPTER XIV.


Nekhludoff called at his aunts because their manor lay on the road
through which his regiment had preceded him, and also because they
requested him to do so, but principally in order that he might see
Katiousha. It may be that in the depth of his soul there was already a
mischievous intention toward Katiousha, prompted by his now unbridled
animal ego, but he was not aware of it, he merely desired to visit
those places in which he lived so happily, and see his somewhat queer,
but amiable and good-natured, aunts, who always surrounded the
atmosphere around him with love and admiration, and also to see the
lovely Katiousha, of whom he had such pleasant recollections.

He arrived toward the end of March, on Good Friday, in the season of
bad roads, when the rain was falling in torrents, and was wet all
through, and chilled to the marrow of his bones, but courageous and
excited, as he always felt at that time of the year.

"I wonder if she is still there?" he thought, as he drove into the
familiar court-yard of the old manor, which was covered with snow that
fell from the roofs, and was surrounded by a low brick wall. He
expected that the ringing of the bell would bring her running to meet
him, but on the perron of the servants' quarters appeared two
bare-footed women with tucked-up skirts, carrying buckets, who were
apparently scrubbing floors. She was not on the front perron, either;
only Timon, the lackey, came forth in an apron, also apparently
occupied with cleaning. Sophia Ivanovna came into the ante-chamber,
attired in a silk dress and cap.

"How glad I am that you came!" said Sophia Ivanovna. "Masheuka[B] is
somewhat ill. We were to church, receiving the sacrament. She is very
tired."

"I congratulate you, Aunt Sonia,"[C] said Nekhludoff, kissing the hand
of Sophia Ivanovna. "Pardon me, I have soiled you."

"Go to your room. You are wet all through. Oh, what a mustache!
Katiousha! Katiousha! Bring him some coffee quickly."

"All right!" responded a familiar, pleasant voice. Nekhludoff's heart
fluttered. "She is here!" To him it was like the sun rising from
behind the clouds, and he cheerfully went with Timon to his old room
to change his clothing.

Nekhludoff wished to ask Timon about Katiousha. Was she well? How did
she fare? Was she not engaged to be married? But Timon was so
respectful, and at the same time so rigid; he so strictly insisted on
himself pouring the water from the pitcher over Nekhludoff's hands,
that the latter could not decide to ask him about Katiousha, and only
inquired about his grand-children, about the old stallion, about the
watch-dog Polkan. They were all well, except Polkan, who had gone mad
the previous year.

After he had thrown off his wet clothes, and as he was about to dress
himself, Nekhludoff heard quick steps and a rapping at the door. He
recognized both the steps and the rapping. Only _she_ walked and
rapped thus.

It was Katiousha--the same Katiousha--only more lovely than before.
The naive, smiling, somewhat squinting black eyes still looked up; she
wore a clean white apron, as before. She brought a perfumed piece of
soap, just taken from the wrapper, and two towels--one Russian and the
other Turkish. The freshly unpacked soap, the towels and she herself,
were all equally clean, fresh, pure and pleasant. The lovely, firm,
red lips became creased from unrestrainable happiness at sight of him.

"How do you do, Dmitri Ivanovich?" she said, with difficulty, her face
becoming flushed.

"How art--how are you?" He did not know whether to "thou" her or not,
and became as red in the face as she was.[D] "Are you well?"

"Very well. Your aunt sent you your favorite soap, rose-scented," she
said, placing the soap on the table, and the towels on the arms of the
chair.

"The gentleman has his own," Timon stood up for the independence of
the guest, proudly pointing to the open traveling bag with silver
lids, containing a large number of bottles, brushes, perfumes and all
sorts of toilet articles.

"My thanks to auntie. But how glad I am that I came," said Nekhludoff,
feeling the old brightness and emotions recurring to his soul.

In answer to this she only smiled and left the room.

The aunts, who always loved Nekhludoff, received him this time with
greater joy than usual. Dmitri was going to active service, where he
might be wounded or killed. This affected the aunts.

Nekhludoff had arranged his trip so that he might spend twenty-four
hours with his aunts, but, seeing Katiousha, decided to remain over
Easter Sunday, which was two days later, and wired to his friend and
commander Shenbok, whom he was to meet at Odessa, to come to his
aunts.

From the very first day Nekhludoff experienced the old feeling toward
Katiousha. Again he could not see without agitation the white apron of
Katiousha; he could not listen without joy to her steps, her voice,
her laugh; he could not, without emotion, look into her black eyes,
especially when she smiled; he could not, above all, see, without
confusion, how she blushed when they met. He felt that he was in love,
but not as formerly, when this love was to him a mystery, and he had
not the courage to confess it to himself; when he was convinced that
one can love only once. Now he loved knowingly, rejoiced at it, and
confusedly knowing, though he concealed it from himself, what it
consisted of, and what might come of it.

In Nekhludoff, as in all people, there were two beings; one spiritual,
who sought only such happiness for himself as also benefited others;
and the animal being, seeking his own happiness for the sake of which
he is willing to sacrifice that of the world. During this period of
his insane egotism, called forth by the life in the army and in St.
Petersburg, the animal man dominated him and completely suppressed the
spiritual man. But, seeing Katiousha, and being again imbued with the
feelings he formerly experienced toward her, the spiritual man raised
his head and began to assert his rights. And during the two days
preceding Easter an incessant struggle was going on within Nekhludoff
of which he was quite unconscious.

In the depth of his soul he knew that he had to depart; that his stay
at his aunts was unnecessary, that nothing good could come of it, but
it was so joyous and pleasant that he did not heed it, and remained.

On the eve of Easter Sunday, the priest and deacon who, as they
afterward related, with difficulty covered the three miles from the
church to the aunts' manor, arrived on a sleigh to perform the morning
services.

Nekhludoff, with his aunts and the servants, went through the motions,
without ceasing to look on Katiousha, who brought a censer and was
standing at the door; then, in the customary fashion, kissed the
priest and the aunts, and was about to retire to his room when he
heard Matriena Pavlovna, the old servant of Maria Ivanovna, making
preparations with Katiousha to go to church and witness the
consecration of the paschal bread. "I will go there, too," he thought.

There was no wagon or sleigh road to the church, so Nekhludoff gave
command, as he would in his own house, to have a horse saddled, and,
instead of going to bed, donned a brilliant uniform and tight
knee-breeches, threw on his military coat, and, mounting the snorting
and constantly neighing, heavy stallion, he drove off to the church in
the dark, over pools and snow mounds.

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote B: Diminutive of Maria.]

[Footnote C: Diminutive of Sophia.]

[Footnote D: The Russian thou cannot be rendered into English with any
degree of accuracy. The greeting to which the impulsive Nekhludoff was
about to give expression is that used toward a beloved person.]




CHAPTER XV.


That morning service formed the brightest and most impressive
reminiscence of Nekhludoff's after life.

The darkness of the night was only relieved here and there by white
patches of snow, and as the stallion, splashing through the mud-pools,
and his ears pricked up at the sight of the fire-pots surrounding the
church, entered its inclosure, the service had already begun.

The peasants, recognizing Maria Ivanovna's nephew, led his horse to
the driest spot, where he dismounted, then they escorted him to the
church filled with a holiday crowd.

To the right were the male peasants; old men in homespun coats and
bast shoes, and young men in new cloth caftans, bright-colored belts
and boots. To the left the women, with red silk 'kerchiefs on their
heads, shag caftans with bright red sleeves, and blue, green, red,
striped and dotted skirts and iron-heeled shoes. Behind them stood the
more modest women in white 'kerchiefs and gray caftans and ancient
skirts, in shoes or bast slippers. Among these and the others were
dressed-up children with oiled hair. The peasants made the sign of the
cross and bowed, disheveling their hair; the women, especially the old
women, gazing with their lustreless eyes on one image, before which
candles burned, pressed hard with the tips of their fingers on the
'kerchief of the forehead, the shoulders and the abdomen, and,
mumbling something, bent forward standing, or fell on their knees. The
children, imitating their elders, prayed fervently when they were
looked at. The gold iconostasis was aflame with innumerable candles,
which surrounded a large one in the centre wound in a narrow strip of
gilt paper. The church lustre was dotted with candles, joyful melodies
of volunteer singers with roaring bass and piercing contralto mingled
with the chant of the choir.

Nekhludoff went forward. In the middle of the church stood the
aristocracy; a country squire with his wife and son in a sailor
blouse, the commissary of the rural police, a telegraph operator, a
merchant in high boots, the local syndic with a medal on his breast,
and to the right of the tribune, behind the squire's wife, Matriena
Pavlovna, in a lilac-colored chatoyant dress and white shawl with
colored border, and beside her was Katiousha in a white dress,
gathered in folds at the waist, a blue belt, and a red bow in her
black hair.

Everything was solemn, joyous and beautiful; the priest in his bright,
silver chasuble, dotted with gilt crosses, the deacon, the chanters in
holiday surplice of gold and silver, the spruce volunteer singers with
oiled hair, the joyous melodies of holiday songs, the ceaseless
blessing of the throng by the priests with flower-bedecked tern
candles with the constantly repeated exclamations: "Christ has risen!
Christ has risen!" Everything was beautiful, but more beautiful than
all was Katiousha, in her white dress, blue belt and red bow in her
hair, and her eyes radiant with delight.

Nekhludoff felt that she saw him without turning round. He saw it
while passing near her to the altar. He had nothing to tell her, but
tried to think of something, and said, when passing her:

"Auntie said that she would receive the sacrament after mass."

Her young blood, as it always happened when she looked at him, rose to
her cheeks, and her black eyes, naively looking up, fixed themselves
on Nekhludoff.

"I know it," she said, smiling.

At that moment a chanter with a copper coffee-pot in his hand passed
close to Katiousha, and, without looking at her, grazed her with the
skirt of the surplice. The chanter, evidently out of respect for
Nekhludoff, wished to sweep around him, and thus it happened that he
grazed Katiousha.

Nekhludoff, however, was surprised that that chanter did not
understand that everything in the church, and in the whole world, for
that matter, existed only for Katiousha, and that one might spurn the
entire world, but must not slight her, because she was the centre of
it. It was for her that the gold iconostasis shone brightly, and these
candles in the church-lustre burned; for her were the joyful chants:
"Be happy, man; it is the Lord's Easter." All the good in the world
was for her. And it seemed to him that Katiousha understood that all
this was for her. It seemed to Nekhludoff, when he looked at her erect
figure in the white dress with little folds at the waist, and by the
expression of her happy face, that the very thing that filled his soul
with song, also filled hers.

In the interval between early and late mass Nekhludoff left the
church. The people made way for him and bowed. Some recognized him;
others asked: "Who is he?" He stopped at the porch. Beggars surrounded
him, and, distributing such change as he had in his pocket, he
descended the stairs.

The day began to break, but the sun was yet beyond the horizon. The
people seated themselves on the grass around the church-yard, but
Katiousha remained in the church, and Nekhludoff waited on the porch
for her appearance.

The crowd was still pouring out of the church, their hob-nailed shoes
clattering against the stone pavement, and spread about the cemetery.

An old man, confectioner to Maria Ivanovna, stopped Nekhludoff and
kissed him, and his wife, an old woman with a wrinkled Adam's apple
under a silk 'kerchief, unrolled a yellow saffron egg from her
handkerchief and gave it to him. At the same time a young, smiling and
muscular peasant, in a new caftan, approached.

"Christ has risen!" he said, with smiling eyes and, nearing
Nekhludoff, spread around him a peculiar, pleasant, peasant odor, and,
tickling him with his curly beard, three times kissed him on the lips.

While Nekhludoff was thus exchanging the customary kisses with the
peasant and taking from him a dark-brown egg, he noticed the chatoyant
dress of Matriena Pavlovna and the lovely head with the red bow.

No sooner did she catch sight of him over the heads of those in front
of her, than her face brightened up.

On reaching the porch they also stopped, distributing alms. One of the
beggars, with a red, cicatrized slough instead of a nose, approached
Katiousha. She produced some coins from her handkerchief, gave them to
him, and without the slightest expression of disgust, but, on the
contrary, her eyes beaming with delight, kissed him three times. While
she was thus kissing with the beggar, her eyes met those of
Nekhludoff, and she seemed to ask him: "Is it not right? Is it not
proper?"

"Yes, yes, darling; it is right; everything is beautiful. I love you."

As they descended the stairs he came near her. He did not wish to kiss
her, but merely wished to be by her side.

"Christ has risen!" said Matriena Pavlovna, leaning her head forward
and smiling. By the intonation of her voice she seemed to say, "All
are equal to-day," and wiping her mouth with a bandana handkerchief
which she kept under her arm-pit, she extended her lips.

"He has risen, indeed," answered Nekhludoff, and they kissed each
other.

He turned to look at Katiousha. She flushed and at the same moment
approached him.

"Christ has risen, Dmitri Ivanovich."

"He has risen, indeed," he said. They kissed each other twice, and
seemed to be reflecting whether or not it was necessary to kiss a
third time, and having decided, as it were, that it was necessary,
they kissed again.

"Will you go to the priest?" asked Nekhludoff.

"No, we will stay here, Dmitri Ivanovich," answered Katiousha,
laboriously, as though after hard, pleasant exertion, breathing with
her full breast and looking straight in his eyes, with her submissive,
chaste, loving and slightly squinting eyes.

There is a point in the love between man and woman when that love
reaches its zenith; when it is free from consciousness, reason and
sensuality. Such a moment arrived for Nekhludoff that Easter morn.

Now, whenever he thought of Katiousha, her appearance at that moment
obscured every other recollection of her. The dark, smooth,
resplendent head; the white dress with folds clinging to her graceful
bust and undulating breast; those vermilion cheeks, those brilliant
black eyes, and two main traits in all her being: the virgin purity of
her love, not only for himself, but for everything and everybody--he
knew it--not only the good and beautiful, but even that beggar whom
she had kissed.

He knew that she possessed that love, because that night and that
morning he felt it within him, and felt that in that love his soul
mingled into one with hers.

Ah, if that feeling had continued unchanged! "Yes, that awful affair
occurred after that notable commemoration of Christ's resurrection!"
he thought now, sitting at the window of the jury-room.




CHAPTER XVI.


Returning from the church, Nekhludoff broke his fast with the aunts,
and to repair his strength, drank some brandy and wine--a habit he
acquired in the army--and going to his room immediately fell asleep
with his clothes on. He was awakened by a rap at the door. By the rap
he knew that it was she, so he rose, rubbing his eyes and stretching
himself.

"Is it you, Katiousha? Come in," he said, rising.

She opened the door.

"You are wanted to breakfast," she said. She was in the same white
dress, but without the bow in her hair.

As she looked in his eyes she brightened up, as if she had announced
something unusually pleasant.

"I shall come immediately," he answered, taking a comb to rearrange
his hair.

She lingered for a moment. He noticed it, and putting down the comb,
he moved toward her. But at the same moment she quickly turned and
walked off with her customary light and agile step along the narrow
mat of the corridor.

"What a fool I am!" Nekhludoff said to himself. "Why did I not detain
her?" And he ran after her.

He did not know himself what he wished of her, but it seemed to him
that when she entered his room he ought to have done something that
any one in his place would have done, but which he failed to do.

"Wait, Katiousha," he said.

She looked around.

"What is it?" she said, stopping.

"Nothing. I only----"

With some effort he overcame his shyness, and remembering how people
generally act in such a case, he put his arm about Katiousha's waist.

She stopped and looked in his eyes.

"Don't, Ivanovich, don't," she said, blushing until her eyes filled
with tears. Then with her rough, strong hands she removed his arm.

Nekhludoff released her, and for a moment felt not only awkward and
ashamed, but seemed odious to himself. He should have believed in
himself, but he failed to understand that this awkwardness and shame
were the noblest feelings of his soul begging for recognition, and, on
the contrary, it seemed to him that it was his foolishness that was
speaking within him, that he ought to have done as everybody does in a
similar case.

He overtook her again, again embraced her and kissed her on the neck.
This kiss was entirely unlike the other two kisses. The first was
given unconsciously, behind the lilac bush; the second, in the morning
in church. The last one was terrible, and she felt it.

"But what are you doing?" she exclaimed in such a voice, as if he had
irrecoverably destroyed something infinitely precious, and ran away
from him.

He went to the dining-room. His aunts in holiday attire, the doctor
and a neighbor were taking lunch standing. Everything was as usual,
but a storm raged in Nekhludoff's soul. He did not understand what was
said to him, his answers were inappropriate, and he was thinking only
of Katiousha, recalling the sensation of the last kiss he gave her
when he overtook her in the corridor. He could think of nothing else.
When she entered the room, without looking at her, he felt her
presence with all his being, and had to make an effort not to look at
her.

After lunch he went immediately to his room, and in great agitation
walked to and fro, listening to the sounds in the house and waiting to
hear her steps. The animal man that dwelled in him not only raised his
head, but crushed under foot the spiritual man that he was when he
first arrived at the manor, and was even this very morning in church,
and that terrible animal man now held sway in his soul. Although
Nekhludoff was watching an opportunity to meet Katiousha that day, he
did not succeed in seeing her face to face even once. She was probably
avoiding him. But in the evening it happened that she had to enter a
room adjoining his. The physician was to remain over night, and
Katiousha had to make the bed for him. Hearing her steps, Nekhludoff,
stepping on tip-toe and holding his breath, as though preparing to
commit a crime, followed her into the room.

Thrusting both her hands into a white pillow-case, and taking hold of
two corners of the pillow, she turned her head and looked at him
smiling, but it was not the old, cheerful, happy smile, but a
frightened, piteous smile. The smile seemed to tell him that what he
was doing was wrong. For a moment he stood still. There was still the
possibility of a struggle. Though weak, the voice of his true love to
her was still heard; it spoke of her, of her feelings, of her life.
The other voice reminded him of his enjoyment, his happiness. And this
second voice stifled the first. He approached her with determination.
And the terrible, irresistible animal feeling mastered him.

Without releasing her from his embrace, Nekhludoff seated her on the
bed, and feeling that something else ought to be done, seated himself
beside her.

"Dmitri Ivanovich, darling, please let me go," she said in a piteous
voice. "Matriena Pavlovna is coming!" she suddenly exclaimed, tearing
herself away.

Matriena Pavlovna was really approaching the door. She entered the
room, holding a quilt on her arm, and, looking reproachfully at
Nekhludoff, angrily rebuked Katiousha for taking the wrong quilt.

Nekhludoff went out in silence. He was not even ashamed. By the
expression of Matriena Pavlovna's face he saw that she condemned him,
and justly so; he knew that what he was doing was wrong, but the
animal feeling, which succeeded his former feeling of pure love to
her, seized him and held sole sway over him; recognizing no other
feeling. He knew now what was necessary to do in order to satisfy that
feeling, and was looking for means to that end.

He was out of sorts all that night. Now he would go to his aunts; now
he returned to his room, or went to the perron, thinking but of one
thing: how to meet her alone. But she avoided him, and Matriena
Pavlovna strove not to lose sight of her.




CHAPTER XVII.


Thus the entire evening passed, and when night came the doctor went to
bed. The aunts were also preparing to retire. Nekhludoff knew that
Matriena Pavlovna was in the aunts' dormitory, and that Katiousha was
in the servants' quarters--alone. He again went out on the perron. It
was dark, damp and warm, and that white mist which in the spring thaws
the last snow, filled the air. Strange noises came from the river,
which was a hundred feet from the house. It was the breaking up of the
ice.

Nekhludoff came down from the perron, and stepping over pools and the
thin ice-covering formed on the snow, walked toward the window of the
servants' quarters. His heart beat so violently that he could hear it;
his breathing at times stopped, at others it escaped in a heavy sigh.
A small lamp was burning in the maid-servants' room.

Katiousha was sitting at the table alone, musing and looking at the
wall before her. Without moving Nekhludoff for some time stood gazing
at her, wishing to know what she would do while thinking herself
unobserved. For about two minutes she sat motionless, then raised her
eyes, smiled, reproachfully shook her head, at herself apparently,
and, changing her position, with a start placed both hands on the
table and fixed her eyes before her.

He remained looking at her, and involuntarily listened to the beating
of his heart and the strange sounds coming from the river. There, on
the misty river some incessant, slow work was going on. Now something
snuffled, then it crackled, and again the thin layer of ice resounded
like a mass of crushed glass.

He stood looking at the thoughtful face of Katiousha, tormented by an
internal struggle, and he pitied her. But, strange to say, this pity
only increased his longing for her.

He rapped at the window. She trembled from head to foot, as if an
electric current had passed through her, and terror was reflected on
her face. Then she sprang up, and, going to the window, placed her
face against the window-pane. The expression of terror did not leave
her even when, shading her eyes with the palms of her hands, she
recognized him. Her face was unusually grave--he had never seen such
an expression on it. When he smiled she smiled also--she smiled as if
only in submission to him, but in her soul, instead of a smile, there
was terror. He motioned her with his hand to come out. But she shook
her head and remained at the window. Again he leaned toward the window
and was about to speak when she turned toward the door. Some one had
apparently called her. Nekhludoff moved away from the window. The fog
was so dense that when five feet away he saw only a darkening mass
from which a red, seemingly large, light of the lamp was reflected.
From the river came the same strange sounds of snuffling, crackling
and grinding of the ice. In the court-yard a cock crowed, others near
by responded; then from the village, first singly, interrupting each
other, then mingling into one chorus, was heard the crowing of all the
cocks. Except for the noise of the river, it was perfectly quiet all
around.

After walking twice around the corner of the house, and stepping
several times into mud-pools, Nekhludoff returned to the window of the
maid-servants' quarters. The lamp was still burning, and Katiousha sat
alone at the table as if in indecision. As soon as he came near the
window she looked at him. He rapped. Without stopping to see who had
rapped, she immediately ran from the room, and he heard the opening
and closing of the door. He was already waiting for her in the
passage, and immediately silently embraced her. She pressed against
his bosom, lifted her head, and with her lips met his kiss.

       *       *       *       *       *

When Nekhludoff returned to his room it was getting brighter. Below,
the noises on the river increased, and a buzzing was added to the
other sounds. The mist began to settle, and from behind the wall of
mist the waning moon appeared, gloomily, lighting up something dark
and terrible.

"Is it good fortune or a great misfortune that has happened to me?" he
asked himself. "It is always thus; they all act in that way," and he
returned to his room.

[Illustration: PRINCE NEKHLUDOFF.]




CHAPTER XVIII.


On the following day the brilliant and jovial Shenbok called at the
aunts for Nekhludoff, and completely charmed them with his elegance,
amiability, cheerfulness, liberality, and his love for Dmitri. Though
his liberality pleased the aunts, they were somewhat perplexed by the
excess to which he carried it. He gave a ruble to a blind beggar; the
servants received as tips fifteen rubles, and when Sophia Ivanovna's
lap-dog, Suzette, hurt her leg so that it bled, he volunteered to
bandage it, and without a moment's consideration tore his fine linen
handkerchief (Sophia Ivanovna knew that those handkerchiefs were worth
fifteen rubles a dozen) and made bandages of it for the dog. The aunts
had never seen such men, nor did they know that his debts ran up to
two hundred thousand rubles, which--he knew--would never be paid, and
that therefore twenty-five rubles more or less made no appreciable
difference in his accounts.

Shenbok remained but one day, and the following evening departed with
Nekhludoff. They could remain no longer, for the time for joining
their regiment had arrived.

On this last day spent at the aunts, when the events of the preceding
evening were fresh in his memory, two antagonistic feelings struggled
in Nekhludoff's soul; one was the burning, sensual recollection of
love, although it failed to fulfill its promises, and some
satisfaction of having gained his ends; the other, a consciousness of
having committed a wrong, and that that wrong must be righted--not for
her sake, but for his own sake.

In that condition of insane egotism Nekhludoff thought only of
himself--whether he would be condemned, and how far, if his act should
be discovered, but never gave a thought to the question, "How does she
feel about it, and what will become of her?"

He thought that Shenbok divined his relations to Katiousha, and his
ambition was flattered.

"That's why you so suddenly began to like your aunts," Shenbok said
to him when he saw Katiousha. "In your place I should stay here even
longer. She is charming!"

He also thought that while it was a pity to leave now, without
enjoying his love in its fullness, the necessity of going was
advantageous in that he was able to break the relations which it were
difficult to keep up. He further thought it was necessary to give her
money, not because she might need it, but because it was customary to
do so. So he gave as much money as he thought was proper, considering
their respective positions.

On the day of his departure, after dinner he waited in the passage
until she came by. She flushed as she saw him, and wished to pass on,
pointing with her eyes to the door of her room, but he detained her.

"I came to bid you farewell," he said, crumpling an envelope
containing a hundred ruble bill. "How is----"

She suspected it, frowned, shook her head and thrust aside his hand.

"Yes, take it," he murmured, thrusting the envelope in the bosom of
her waist, and, as if it had burned his fingers, he ran to his room.

For a long time he paced his room to and fro, frowning, and even
jumping, and moaning aloud as if from physical pain, as he thought of
the scene.

But what is to be done? It is always thus. Thus it was with Shenbok
and the governess whom he had told about; it was thus with Uncle
Gregory; with his father, when he lived in the country, and the
illegitimate son Miteuka, who is still living, was born to him. And if
everybody acts thus, consequently it ought to be so. Thus he was
consoling himself, but he could not be consoled. The recollection of
it stung his conscience.

In the depth of his soul he knew that his action was so base,
abominable and cruel that, with that action upon his conscience, not
only would he have no right to condemn others but he should not be
able to look others in the face, to say nothing of considering himself
the good, noble, magnanimous man he esteemed himself. And he had to
esteem himself as such in order to be able to continue to lead a
valiant and joyous life. And there was but one way of doing so, and
that was not to think of it. This he endeavored to do.

The life into which he had just entered--new scenes, comrades, and
active service--helped him on. The more he lived, the less he thought
of it, and in the end really forgot it entirely.

Only once, on his return from active service, when, in the hope of
seeing her, he paid a visit to his aunts, he was told that Katiousha,
soon after his departure, had left them; that she had given birth to a
child, and, as the aunts were informed, had gone to the bad. As he
heard it his heart was oppressed with grief. From the statement of the
time when she gave birth to the child it might be his, and it might
not be his. The aunts said that she was vicious and of a depraved
nature, just like her mother. And this opinion of the aunts pleased
him, because it exculpated him, as it were. At first he intended to
find her and the child, but as it pained him very much, and he was
ashamed to think of it, he did not make the necessary efforts, and
gradually ceased to think of his sin.

But now, this fortuitous meeting brought everything to his mind, and
compelled the acknowledgment of his heartlessness, cruelty and
baseness which made it possible for him to live undisturbed by the sin
which lay on his conscience. He was yet far from such acknowledgment,
and at this moment was only thinking how to avoid disclosure which
might be made by her, or her attorney, and thus disgrace him before
everybody.




CHAPTER XIX.


Nekhludoff was in this state of mind when he left the court-room and
entered the jury-room. He sat near the window, listening to the
conversations of his fellow jurymen, and smoked incessantly.

The cheerful merchant evidently sympathized with Merchant Smelkoff's
manner of passing his time.

"Well, well! He went on his spree just like a Siberian! Seems to have
known a good thing when he saw it. What a beauty!"

The foreman expressed the opinion that the whole case depended on the
expert evidence. Peter Gerasimovich was jesting with the Jewish clerk,
and both of them burst out laughing. Nekhludoff answered all questions
in monosyllables, and only wished to be left in peace.

When the usher with the sidling gait called the jury into court
Nekhludoff was seized with fear, as if judgment was to be passed on
him, and not he to pass judgment on others.

In the depth of his soul he already felt that he was a rascal, who
ought to be ashamed to look people in the face, and yet, by force of
habit, he walked to the elevation with his customary air of
self-confidence, and took his seat next to the foreman, crossed his
legs and began to play with his pince-nez.

The prisoners, who had also been removed from the court, were brought
in again.

The new faces of witnesses were now seen in the court-room, and
Nekhludoff noticed Maslova constantly turning her head in the
direction of a smartly attired, stout woman in silk and plush, with an
elegant reticule hanging on her half-bare arm. This was, as Nekhludoff
afterward learned, Maslova's mistress and a witness against her.

The examination of the witnesses began as to their names, age,
religion, et cetera. After being questioned as to whether they
preferred to testify under oath, the same old priest, with difficulty
moving his legs, came, and again arranging the gold cross on his
silk-covered breast, with the same calmness and confidence, began to
administer the oath to the witnesses and the expert. When the swearing
in was over, the witnesses were removed to an adjoining room, leaving
only Kitaeva, Maslova's mistress. She was asked what she knew of the
affair. Kitaeva, with a feigned smile, a German accent, and
straightening her hat at every sentence, fluently and circumstantially
related the following:

Simon came first to her house for Liubasha.[E] In a little while
Liubasha returned with the merchant. "The merchant was already in
ecstasy," slightly smiling, said Kitaeva, "and he continued to drink
and treat himself, but as he was short of money he sent to his room
this same Liubasha, for whom he acquired a predilection," she said,
looking at Maslova.

It seemed to Nekhludoff that Maslova smiled at this, and the smile
seemed to him disgusting. A strange feeling of squeamishness mingled
with compassion rose in his breast.

"What opinion did you entertain of Maslova?" timidly and blushingly
asked the attorney assigned by the court to defend Maslova.

"Very excellent," answered Kitaeva. "The girl is very well educated
and elegant in her manners. She was raised in a very good family, and
could read French. She sometimes drank a little too much, but she
never forgot herself. She is a very good girl."

Katiousha looked at her mistress, then suddenly turned her eyes on the
jury and rested them on Nekhludoff, her face becoming serious and even
stern. One of the stern eyes squinted. These strangely gazing eyes
were turned on Nekhludoff for a considerable time. Notwithstanding the
terror that seized him, he could not remove his own gaze from those
squinting eyes with their shining whites. He recalled that awful night
with the breaking ice, the fog, and especially that waning, upturned
moon which rose in the morning and lit up something dark and terrible.
These two black eyes which looked at and at the same time by him
reminded him of something dark and terrible.

"She recognized me!" he thought. And Nekhludoff shrank, as it were,
waiting for the blow. But she did not recognize him. She sighed calmly
and again fixed her eyes on the justiciary. Nekhludoff also sighed.
"Ah, if they would only hasten it through," he thought. He felt now as
he did once when out game shooting, when he was obliged to kill a
wounded bird--he was filled with disgust, pity and vexation. The
wounded bird is struggling in the game bag; he feels disgust and pity,
and wishes to kill it quickly and forget it.

Such mingled feelings filled Nekhludoff's breast as he sat listening
to the examination of the witnesses.

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote E: A contemptuous diminutive of Liuba. Tr.]




CHAPTER XX.


As if to spite him, the case dragged out to a weary length. After the
examination of the witnesses and the expert, and after all the
unnecessary questions by the prosecutor and the attorneys, usually
made with an important air, the justiciary told the jury to look at
the exhibits, which consisted of an enormous ring with a diamond
rosette, evidently made for the forefinger, and a glass tube
containing the poison. These were sealed and labeled.

The jury were preparing to view these things, when the prosecutor rose
again and demanded that before the exhibits were examined the medical
report of the condition of the body be read.

The justiciary was hurrying the case, and though he knew that the
reading of the report would only bring ennui and delay the dinner, and
that the prosecutor demanded it only because he had the right to do
so, he could not refuse the request and gave his consent. The
secretary produced the report, and, lisping the letters l and r, began
to read in a sad voice.

The external examination disclosed:

1. The height of Therapout Smelkoff was six feet five inches.

"But what a huge fellow," the merchant whispered in Nekhludoff's ear
with solicitude.

2. From external appearances he seemed to be about forty years of age.

3. The body had a swollen appearance.

4. The color of the pall was green, streaked with dark spots.

5. The skin on the surface of the body rose in bubbles of various
sizes, and in places hung in patches.

6. The hair was dark and thick, and fell off at a slight touch.

7. The eyes came out of their orbits, and the pupils were dull.

8. A frothy, serous fluid flowed continuously from the cavity of the
mouth, the nostrils and ears. The mouth was half open.

9. The neck almost disappeared in the swelling of the face and breast,
et cetera, et cetera.

Thus, over four pages and twenty-seven clauses, ran the description of
the external appearance of the terrible, large, stout, swollen and
decomposing body of the merchant who amused himself in the city. The
loathing which Nekhludoff felt increased with the reading of the
description. Katiousha's life, the sanies running from the nostrils,
the eyes that came out of their sockets, and his conduct toward
her--all seemed to him to belong to the same order, and he was
surrounded and swallowed up by these things. When the reading was
finally over, the justiciary sighed deeply and raised his head in the
hope that it was all over, but the secretary immediately began to read
the report on the internal condition of the body.

The justiciary again bent his head, and, leaning on his hand, closed
his eyes. The merchant, who sat near Nekhludoff, barely kept awake,
and from time to time swayed his body. The prisoners as well as the
gendarmes behind them sat motionless.

The internal examination disclosed:

1. The skin covering of the skull easily detached, and no hemorrhage
was noticeable. 2. The skull bones were of average thickness and
uninjured. 3. On the hard membrane of the skull there were two small
discolored spots of about the size of four centimetres, the membrane
itself being of a dull gray color, et cetera, et cetera, to the end of
thirteen more clauses.

Then came the names of the witnesses, the signature and deduction of
the physician, from which it appeared that the changes found in the
stomach, intestines and kidneys justified the conclusion "to a large
degree probable" that the death of Smelkoff was due to poison taken
into the stomach with a quantity of wine. That it was impossible to
tell by the changes in the stomach and intestines the name of the
poison; and that the poison came into the stomach mixed with wine
could be inferred from the fact that Smelkoff's stomach contained a
large quantity of wine.

"He must have drank like a fish," again whispered the awakened
merchant.

The reading of this official report, which lasted about two hours, did
not satisfy, however, the prosecutor. When it was over the justiciary
turned to him, saying:

"I suppose it is superfluous to read the record of the examination of
the intestines."

"I would ask that it be read," sternly said the prosecutor without
looking at the justiciary, sidewise raising himself, and impressing by
the tone of his voice that it was his right to demand it, that he
would insist on it, and that a refusal would be ground for appeal.

The associate with the long beard and kind, drooping eyes, who was
suffering from catarrh, feeling very weak, turned to the justiciary:

"What is the good of reading it? It will only drag the matter out.
These new brooms only take a longer time to sweep, but do not sweep
any cleaner."

The associate in the gold eye-glasses said nothing, and gloomily and
determinedly looked in front of him, expecting nothing good either
from his wife or from the world.

The report commenced thus: "February 15th, 188-. The undersigned, in
pursuance of an order, No. 638, of the Medical Department," began the
secretary with resolution, raising the pitch of his voice, as if to
dispel the drowsiness that seized upon every one present, "and in the
presence of the assistant medical director, examined the following
intestines:

"1. The right lung and heart (contained in a five-pound glass vial).

"2. The contents of the stomach (contained in a five-pound glass
vial).

"3. The stomach itself (contained in a five-pound glass vial).

"4. The kidneys, liver and spleen (contained in a two-and-a-half-pound
glass vial).

"5. The entrails (contained in a five-pound earthen jar)."

As the reading of this report began the justiciary leaned over to one
of his associates and whispered something, then to the other, and,
receiving affirmative answers, interrupted the reading at this point.

"The Court finds the reading of the report superfluous," he said.

The secretary closed reading and gathered up his papers, while the
prosecutor angrily began to make notes.

"The gentlemen of the jury may now view the exhibits," said the
justiciary.

The foreman and some of the jury rose from their seats, and, holding
their hands in awkward positions, approached the table and looked in
turn on the ring, vials and jars. The merchant even tried the ring on
his finger.

"What a finger he had," he said, returning to his seat. "It must have
been the size of a large cucumber," he added, evidently amused by the
giant figure of the merchant, as he imagined him.




CHAPTER XXI.


When the examination of the exhibits was over, the justiciary
announced the investigation closed, and, desiring to end the session,
gave the word to the prosecutor, in the hope that as he, too, was
mortal, he might also wish to smoke or dine, and would have pity on
the others. But the prosecutor pitied neither himself nor them. When
the word was given him, he rose slowly, displaying his elegant figure,
and, placing both hands on the desk, and slightly bending his head, he
cast a glance around the court-room, his eyes avoiding the prisoners.

"Gentlemen of the jury, the case which is now to be submitted to your
consideration," he began his speech, prepared while the indictment and
reports were being read, "is a characteristic crime, if I may so
express myself."

The speech of a prosecuting attorney, according to his idea, had to be
invested with a social significance, according to the manner of those
lawyers who became famous. True, among his hearers were three women; a
seamstress, a cook and Simon's sister, also a driver, but that made
no difference. Those celebrities also began on a small scale. The
prosecutor made it a rule to view the situation from the eminence of
his position, i. e., to penetrate into the profound psychological
meaning of crime, and bare the ulcers of society.

"Here is before you, gentlemen of the jury, a crime characteristic, if
I may so express myself, of the end of our century, bearing, as it
were, all the specific features of the first symptoms of
decomposition, to which those elements of our society, which are
exposed, as it were, to the more scorching rays of that process, are
subject."

The prosecutor spoke at great length, endeavoring on the one hand to
remember all those wise sayings which he had prepared for the
occasion, and on the other, most important, hand, not to stop for a
moment, but to make his speech flow uninterruptedly for an hour and a
quarter. He stopped only once, for a long time swallowing his saliva,
but he immediately mastered himself and made up for the lost time by a
greater flow of eloquence. He spoke in a gentle, insinuating voice,
resting now on one foot, now on the other, and looking at the jury;
then changed to a calm, business tone, consulting his note-book, and
again he thundered accusations, turning now to the spectators, now to
the jury. But he never looked at the prisoners, all three of whom
stared at him. He incorporated into his speech all the latest ideas
then in vogue in the circle of his acquaintances, and what was then
and is now received as the last word of scientific wisdom. He spoke of
heredity, of innate criminality, of Lombroso, of Charcot, of
evolution, of the struggle for existence, of hypnotism, of hypnotic
suggestion, and of decadence.

The merchant Smelkoff, according to the prosecutor, was a type of the
great, pure Russian, with his broad nature, who, in consequence of his
trusting nature and generosity, had become a victim of a gang of
corrupt people, into whose hands he had fallen.

Simon Kartinkin was the atavistic production of serfdom, stupid,
without education, and even without religion. Euphemia was his
mistress, and a victim of heredity. All the symptoms of degenerate
life were in her. But the ruling spirit in this crime was Maslova, who
was the mouthpiece of the lowest phenomenon of decadence. "This
woman," said the prosecutor without looking at her, "received an
education--you have heard here the evidence of her mistress. Not only
can she read and write, but she can speak French. She is an orphan,
and probably bears the germs of criminality in her. She was raised in
an intelligent, noble family, and could make her living by honest
toil, but she leaves them, yields to her passions, and displays an
intelligence, and especially, as you have heard here, gentlemen of the
jury, an ability to exert influence on people by that mysterious,
lately discovered by science, especially by the school of Charcot,
power known by the name of hypnotic suggestion. By the aid of this
power she gets control over this hero--a kind, trustful, rich guest,
and uses his confidence first to rob him, and then to pitilessly
murder him."

"But he is wandering away," said the justiciary, smiling and leaning
over to the stern associate.

"What an awful blockhead!" said the stern associate.

"Gentlemen of the jury!" the prosecutor continued meanwhile,
gracefully swaying his slim body. "The fate of these people is in your
hands, as is to some extent the fate of society, which is influenced
by your verdict. You must fathom the significance of this crime, the
danger to society that lurks in such pathological, as it were,
individuals as Maslova. You must guard it against infection; it is
your duty to guard the innocent, healthy elements of society against
contagion, if not destruction."

And as if himself impressed with the importance of the verdict, and
evidently greatly delighted with his speech, the prosecutor took his
seat.

The burden of his speech, if we eliminate the flights of eloquence,
was to the effect that Maslova, after gaining the merchant's
confidence, hypnotized him, and that, arriving at the inn with the key
to the merchant's trunk, she intended to steal the money herself, but,
being discovered by Simon and Euphemia, was obliged to divide with
them. That afterward, desiring to conceal the traces of her crime,
she returned with the merchant to the inn and administered poison to
him.

When the prosecutor had finished his speech, a middle-aged man, in a
dress coat and wide semi-circle of starched shirt front, rose from the
lawyer's bench, and boldly began to deliver a speech in defense of
Kartinkin and Bochkova. He was a lawyer hired by them for three
hundred rubles. He declared them both innocent, and threw all the
blame on Maslova.

He belittled the deposition of Maslova relating to the presence of
Bochkova and Kartinkin when she took the money, and insisted that, as
she had confessed to poisoning the merchant, her evidence could have
no weight. The twenty-five hundred rubles could have been earned by
two hard working and honest persons, who were receiving in tips three
to four rubles a day from guests. The merchant's money was stolen by
Maslova, who either gave it to some one for safe keeping, or lost it,
which was not unlikely, as she was not in a normal condition. The
poisoning was done by Maslova alone.

For these reasons he asked the jury to acquit Kartinkin and Bochkova
of stealing the money; or, if they found them guilty of stealing he
asked for a verdict of theft, but without participation in the
poisoning, and without conspiracy.

In conclusion, this lawyer made a thrust at the prosecuting attorney
by remarking that, although the splendid reasonings of the prosecutor
on heredity explain the scientific questions of heredity, they hardly
hold good in the case of Bochkova, since her parentage was unknown.

The prosecutor, growling, began to make notes, and shrugged his
shoulders in contemptuous surprise.

Next rose Maslova's lawyer, and timidly and falteringly began his
speech in her defense. Without denying that Maslova participated in
the theft, he insisted that she had no intention of poisoning
Smelkoff, but gave him the powder in order to make him sleep. When he
described Maslova's unfortunate life, telling how she had been drawn
into a life of vice by a man who went unpunished, while she was left
to bear the whole burden of her fall, he attempted to become eloquent,
but his excursion into the domain of psychology failed, so that
everybody felt awkward. When he began to mutter about man's cruelty
and woman's helplessness, the justiciary, desiring to help him, asked
him to confine himself to the facts of the case.

After this lawyer had finished the prosecutor rose again and defended
his position on the question of heredity against the first lawyer,
stating that the fact that Bochkova's parentage was unknown did not
invalidate the truth of the theory of heredity; that the law of
heredity is so well established by science that not only can one
deduce the crime from heredity, but heredity from the crime. As to the
statement of the defense that Maslova was drawn into a vicious life by
an imaginary (he pronounced the word imaginary with particular
virulence) man, he could say that all facts rather pointed to her
being the seducer of many victims who were unfortunate enough to fall
into her hands. Saying which he sat down in triumph.

The prisoners were then allowed to make any statements they wished in
their behalf.

Euphemia Bochkova repeated her statement that she knew nothing, had
not taken part in anything, and persistently pointed at Maslova as the
only guilty person. Simon only repeated several times:

"Do what you please with me, only it is all for nothing."

Maslova was silent. When asked what she had to say in her defense, she
only lifted her eyes on the justiciary, looked around like a hunted
animal, and immediately lowering them began to sob aloud.

"What is the matter?" asked the merchant of Nekhludoff, hearing a
strange sound escaping the latter's lips. It was a suppressed sob.

Nekhludoff did not yet realize the significance of his present
position, and the scarcely suppressed sob and the tears that welled up
in his eyes he ascribed to the weakness of his nerves. He put on his
pince-nez to hide them, and, drawing a handkerchief from his pocket,
began to blow his nose.

His fear of the disgrace that would fall upon him if everybody in the
court-room were to find out his conduct toward her stifled the
struggle that was going on within him. At this time fear outweighed
in him every other feeling.




CHAPTER XXII.


After the last words of the prisoners had been heard, and the lengthy
arguments over the form in which the questions were to be put to the
jury were over, the questions were finally agreed upon, and the
justiciary began to deliver his instructions to the jury.

Although he was anxious to finish the case, he was so carried away
that when he started to speak he could not stop himself. He told the
jury at great length that if they found the prisoners guilty, they had
the right to return a verdict of guilty, and if they found them not
guilty, they had the right to return a verdict of not guilty. If,
however they found them guilty of one charge, and not guilty of the
other, they might bring in a verdict of guilty of the one and not
guilty of the other. He further explained to them that they must
exercise this power intelligently. He also intended to explain to them
that if they gave an affirmative answer to a question, they would
thereby affirm everything involved in the question, and that if they
did not desire to affirm everything involved in the question, they
must distinguish the part they affirmed from the part they
disaffirmed. But, seeing on the clock that it was five minutes of
three, he decided to pass over to a statement of the case.

"The facts of this case are the following," he began, repeating
everything that had been stated over and over again by the defendants'
attorneys, the prosecutor and the witnesses. While the justiciary was
charging the jury his associates thoughtfully listened, and now and
then glanced at the clock. They thought that although his charge was
sound, i. e., as it should be, it was too long. Of the same opinion was
the prosecutor, as well as all those connected with the court,
including the spectators. The justiciary concluded his charge.

It was thought he had finished. But the justiciary found it necessary
to add a few words concerning the importance of the power given to
the jury; that it should be used with care, and should not be abused;
that they had taken an oath; that they were the conscience of society,
and that the secrecy of the consultation room was sacred, etc., etc.

From the moment the justiciary began to speak, Maslova kept her eyes
on him, as if she feared to miss a word, so that Nekhludoff was not
afraid to meet her gaze, and constantly looked at her. And before his
imagination arose that common phenomenon of the appearance of a long
absent, beloved face, which, after the first shock produced by the
external changes which have taken place during the long absence,
gradually becomes the same as it was many years ago--all the past
changes disappear, and before the spiritual eyes stands forth the main
expression of the peculiar spiritual individuality. This happened with
Nekhludoff.

Yes, notwithstanding the prison garb, the bloated body and the high
breast; notwithstanding the distended lower part of the face, the
wrinkles on the forehead and the temples, and the swelling under the
eyes, it was undoubtedly that same Katiousha who on Easter Sunday
looked up to him, her beloved, with her enamored, smiling, happy,
lively eyes.

"What a remarkable coincidence! That this case should be tried during
my term! That, without seeing her for ten years, I should meet her
here in the prisoner's dock! And what will be the end? Ah, I wish it
were over!"

He would not yield to the feeling of repentance which spoke within
him. He considered it an incident which would soon pass away without
disturbing his life. He felt himself in the position of a puppy who
had misbehaved in his master's rooms, and whom his master, taking him
by the neck, thrust into the dirt he had made. The puppy squeals,
pulls back in his effort to escape the consequences of his deed, which
he wishes to forget, but the inexorable master holds him fast. Thus
Nekhludoff felt the foulness of his act, and he also felt the powerful
hand of the master, but did not yet understand the significance of his
act, did not recognize the master. He did not wish to believe that
what he saw before him was the result of his own deed. But the
inexorable, invisible hand held him fast, and he had a foreboding that
he should not escape. He summoned up his courage, crossed his legs, as
was his wont, and, negligently playing with his pince-nez, he sat with
an air of self-confidence on the second chair of the front row.
Meanwhile he already felt in the depth of his soul all the cruelty,
dastardliness and baseness not only of that act of his, but of his
whole idle, dissolute, cruel and wayward life. And the terrible veil,
which during these twelve years in such marvelous manner had hidden
from him that crime and all his subsequent life, already began to
stir, and now and then he caught a glimpse behind it.




CHAPTER XXIII.


The justiciary finally finished his speech and handed the list of
questions to the foreman. The jury rose from their seats, glad of an
opportunity to leave the court-room, and, not knowing what to do with
their hands, as if ashamed of something, they filed into the
consultation-room. As soon as the door closed behind them a gendarme,
with drawn sword resting on his shoulder, placed himself in front of
it. The judges rose and went out. The prisoners also were led away.

On entering the consultation-room the jury immediately produced
cigarettes and began to smoke. The sense of their unnatural and false
position, of which they were to a greater or less degree cognizant,
while sitting in the court-room, passed away as soon as they entered
their room and lighted their cigarettes, and, with a feeling of
relief, they seated themselves and immediately started an animated
conversation.

"The girl is not guilty, she was confused," said the kind-hearted
merchant.

"That is what we are going to consider," retorted the foreman. "We
must not yield to our personal impressions."

"The judge's summing up was good," said the colonel.

"Do you call it good? It nearly sent me to sleep."

"The important point is that the servants could not have known that
there was money in the room if Maslova had no understanding with
them," said the clerk with the Jewish face.

"So you think that she stole it?" asked one of the jury.

"I will never believe that," shouted the kind-hearted merchant. "It is
all the work of that red-eyed wench."

"They are all alike," said the colonel.

"But she said that she did not go into the room."

"Do you believe her more than the other? I should never believe that
worthless woman."

"That does not decide the question," said the clerk.

"She had the key."

"What if she had?" answered the merchant.

"And the ring?"

"She explained it," again shouted the merchant. "It is quite likely
that being drunk he struck her. Well, and then he was sorry, of
course. 'There, don't cry! Take this ring.' And what a big man! They
said he weighed about two hundred and fifty pounds, I believe."

"That is not the point," interrupted Peter Gerasimovich. "The question
is, Was she the instigator, or were the servants?"

"The servants could not have done it without her. She had the key."

This incoherent conversation lasted for a long time.

"Excuse me, gentlemen," said the foreman. "Let us sit down and
consider the matter. Take your seats," he added, seating himself in
the foreman's chair.

"These girls are rogues," said the clerk, and to sustain his opinion
that Maslova was the chief culprit, he related how one of those girls
once stole a watch from a friend of his.

As a case in point the colonel related the bolder theft of a silver
_samovar_.

"Gentlemen, let us take up the questions," said the foreman, rapping
on the table with a pencil.

They became silent. The questions submitted were:

1. Is the peasant of the village of Barkoff, district of Krapivensk,
Simon Petroff Kartinkin, thirty-three years of age, guilty of having,
with the design of taking the life of Smelkoff and robbing him,
administered to him poison in a glass of brandy, which caused the
death of Smelkoff, and of afterward robbing him of twenty-five hundred
rubles and a diamond ring?

2. Is the burgess Euphemia Ivanovna Bochkova, forty-seven years of
age, guilty of the crime mentioned in the first question?

3. Is the burgess Katherine Michaelovna Maslova, twenty-seven years of
age, guilty of the crime mentioned in the first question?

4. If the prisoner Euphemia Bochkova is not guilty of the crime set
forth in the first question, is she not guilty of secretly stealing,
while employed in the Hotel Mauritania, on the 17th day of January,
188-, twenty-five hundred rubles from the trunk of the merchant
Smelkoff, to which end she opened the trunk in the hotel with a key
brought and fitted by her?

The foreman read the first question.

"Well, gentlemen, what do you think?"

This question was quickly answered. They all agreed to answer
"Guilty." The only one that dissented was an old laborer, whose answer
to all questions was "Not guilty."

The foreman thought that he did not understand the questions and
proceeded to explain that from all the facts it was evident that
Kartinkin and Bochkova were guilty, but the laborer answered that he
did understand them, and that he thought that they ought to be
charitable. "We are not saints ourselves," he said, and did not change
his opinion.

The second question, relating to Bochkova, after many arguments and
elucidations, was answered "Not guilty," because there was no clear
proof that she participated in the poisoning--a fact on which her
lawyer put much stress.

The merchant, desiring to acquit Maslova, insisted that Bochkova was
the author of the conspiracy. Many of the jurymen agreed with him, but
the foreman, desiring to conform strictly to the law, said that there
was no foundation for the charge of poisoning against her. After a
lengthy argument the foreman's opinion triumphed.

The fourth question, relating to Bochkova, was answered "Guilty," but
at the insistence of the laborer, she was recommended to the mercy of
the court.

The third question called forth fierce argument. The foreman insisted
that she was guilty of both the poisoning and robbery; the merchant,
colonel, clerk and laborer opposed this view, while the others
hesitated, but the opinion of the foreman began to predominate,
principally because the jury were tired out, and they willingly joined
the side which promised to prevail the sooner, and consequently
release them quicker.

From all that occurred at the trial and his knowledge of Maslova,
Nekhludoff was convinced that she was innocent, and at first was
confident that the other jurors would so find her, but when he saw
that because of the merchant's bungling defense of Maslova, evidently
prompted by his undisguised liking for her, and the foreman's
resistance which it caused, but chiefly because of the weariness of
the jury, there was likely to be a verdict of guilty, he wished to
make objection, but feared to speak in her favor lest his relations
toward her should be disclosed. At the same time he felt that he could
not let things go on without making his objections. He blushed and
grew pale in turn, and was about to speak, when Peter Gerasimovich,
heretofore silent, evidently exasperated by the authoritative manner
of the foreman, suddenly began to make the very objections Nekhludoff
intended to make.

"Permit me to say a few words," he began. "You say that she stole the
money because she had the key; but the servants could have opened the
trunk with a false key after she was gone."

"Of course, of course," the merchant came to his support.

"She could not have taken the money because she would have nowhere to
hide it."

"That is what I said," the merchant encouraged him.

"It is more likely that her coming to the hotel for the money
suggested to the servants the idea of stealing it; that they stole it
and then threw it all upon her."

Peter Gerasimovich spoke provokingly, which communicated itself to the
foreman. As a result the latter began to defend his position more
persistently. But Peter Gerasimovich spoke so convincingly that he won
over the majority, and it was finally decided that she was not guilty
of the theft. When, however, they began to discuss the part she had
taken in the poisoning, her warm supporter, the merchant, argued that
this charge must also be dismissed, as she had no motive for poisoning
him. The foreman insisted that she could not be declared innocent on
that charge, because she herself confessed to giving him the powder.

"But she thought that it was opium," said the merchant.

"She could have killed him even with the opium," retorted the colonel,
who liked to make digressions, and he began to relate the case of his
brother-in-law's wife, who had been poisoned by opium and would have
died had not antidotes promptly been administered by a physician who
happened to be in the neighborhood. The colonel spoke so impressively
and with such self-confidence and dignity that no one dared to
interrupt him. Only the clerk, infected by the example set by the
colonel, thought of telling a story of his own.

"Some people get so accustomed to opium," he began, "that they can
take forty drops at a time. A relative of mine----"

But the colonel would brook no interruption, and went on to tell of
the effect of the opium on his brother-in-law's wife.

"It is five o'clock, gentlemen," said one of the jury.

"What do you say, gentlemen," said the foreman. "We find her guilty,
but without the intent to rob, and without stealing any property--is
that correct?"

Peter Gerasimovich, pleased with the victory he had gained, agreed to
the verdict.

"And we recommend her to the mercy of the court," added the merchant.

Every one agreed except the laborer, who insisted on a verdict of "Not
guilty."

"But that is the meaning of the verdict," explained the foreman.
"Without the intent to rob, and without stealing any property--hence
she is not guilty."

"Don't forget to throw in the recommendation to mercy. If there be
anything left that will wipe it out," joyfully said the merchant. They
were so tired and the arguments had so confused them that it did not
occur to any one to add "but without the intent to cause the death of
the merchant."

Nekhludoff was so excited that he did not notice it. The answers were
in this form taken to the court.

Rabelais relates the story of a jurist who was trying a case, and who,
after citing innumerable laws and reading twenty pages of
incomprehensible judicial Latin, made an offer to the litigants to
throw dice; if an even number fell then the plaintiff was right; if an
odd number the defendant was right.

It was the same here. The verdict was reached not because the majority
of the jury agreed to it, but first because the justiciary had so
drawn out his speech that he failed to properly instruct the jury;
second, because the colonel's story about his brother-in-law's wife
was tedious; third, because Nekhludoff was so excited that he did not
notice the omission of the clause limiting the intent in the answer,
and thought that the words "without intent to rob" negatively answered
the question; fourth, because Peter Gerasimovich was not in the room
when the foreman read the questions and answers, and chiefly because
the jury were tired out and were anxious to get away, and therefore
agreed to the verdict which it was easiest to reach.

They rang the bell. The gendarme sheathed his sword and stood aside.
The judges, one by one, took their seats and the jury filed out.

The foreman held the list with a solemn air. He approached the
justiciary and handed it to him. The justiciary read it, and, with
evident surprise, turned to consult with his associates. He was
surprised that the jury, in limiting the charge by the words, "without
intent to rob," should fail to add also "without intent to cause
death." It followed from the decision of the jury, that Maslova had
not stolen or robbed, but had poisoned a man without any apparent
reason.

"Just see what an absurd decision they have reached," he said to the
associate on his left. "This means hard labor for her, and she is not
guilty."

"Why not guilty?" said the stern associate.

"She is simply not guilty. I think that chapter 818 might properly be
applied to this case." (Chapter 818 gives the court the power to set
aside an unjust verdict.)

"What do you think?" he asked the kind associate.

"I agree with you."

"And you?" he asked the choleric associate.

"By no means," he answered, decidedly. "As it is, the papers say that
too many criminals are discharged by juries. What will they say, then,
if the court should discharge them? I will not agree under any
circumstances."

The justiciary looked at the clock.

"It is a pity, but what can I do?" and he handed the questions to the
foreman.

They all rose, and the foreman, standing now on one foot, now on the
other, cleared his throat and read the questions and answers. All the
officers of the court--the secretary, the lawyers and even the
prosecutor--expressed surprise.

The prisoners, who evidently did not understand the significance of
the answers, were serene. When the reading was over, the justiciary
asked the prosecutor what punishment he thought should be imposed on
the prisoners.

The prosecutor, elated by the successful verdict against Maslova,
which he ascribed to his eloquence, consulted some books, then rose
and said:

"Simon Kartinkin, I think, should be punished according to chapter
1,452, sec. 4, and chapter 1,453; Euphemia Bochkova according to
chapter 1,659, and Katherine Maslova according to chapter 1,454."

All these were the severest punishments that could be imposed for the
crimes.

"The court will retire to consider their decision," said the
justiciary, rising.

Everybody then rose, and, with a relieved and pleasant feeling of
having fulfilled an important duty, walked around the court-room.

"What a shameful mess we have made of it," said Peter Gerasimovitch,
approaching Nekhludoff, to whom the foreman was telling a story. "Why,
we have sentenced her to hard labor."

"Is it possible?" exclaimed Nekhludoff, taking no notice at all this
time of the unpleasant familiarity of the tutor.

"Why, of course," he said. "We have not inserted in the answer,
'Guilty, but without intent to cause death.' The secretary has just
told me that the law cited by the prosecutor provides fifteen years'
hard labor."

"But that was our verdict," said the foreman.

Peter Gerasimovitch began to argue that it was self-evident that as
she did not steal the money she could not have intended to take the
merchant's life.

"But I read the questions before we left the room," the foreman
justified himself, "and no one objected."

"I was leaving the room at the time," said Peter Gerasimovitch. "But
how did you come to miss it?"

"I did not think of it," answered Nekhludoff.

"You did not!"

"We can right it yet," said Nekhludoff.

"No, we cannot--it is all over now."

Nekhludoff looked at the prisoners. While their fate was being
decided, they sat motionless behind the grating in front of the
soldiers. Maslova was smiling.

Nekhludoff's soul was stirred by evil thoughts. When he thought that
she would be freed and remain in the city, he was undecided how he
should act toward her, and it was a difficult matter. But Siberia and
penal servitude at once destroyed the possibility of their meeting
again. The wounded bird would stop struggling in the game-bag, and
would no longer remind him of its existence.




CHAPTER XXIV.


The apprehensions of Peter Gerasimovitch were justified.

On returning from the consultation-room the justiciary produced a
document and read the following:

"By order of His Imperial Majesty, the Criminal Division of the ----
Circuit Court, in conformity with the finding of the jury, and in
accordance with ch. 771, s. 3, and ch. 776, s. 3, and ch. 777 of the
Code of Criminal Procedure, this 28th day of April, 188-, decrees
that Simon Kartinkin, thirty-three years of age, and Katherine
Maslova, twenty-seven years of age, be deprived of all civil rights,
and sent to penal servitude, Kartinkin for eight, Maslova for the term
of four years, under conditions prescribed by ch. 25 of the Code.
Euphemia Bochkova is deprived of all civil and special rights and
privileges, and is to be confined in jail for the period of three
years under conditions prescribed by ch. 49 of the Code, with the
costs of the trial to be borne by all three, and in case of their
inability to pay, to be paid out of the treasury.

"The exhibits are to be sold, the ring returned, and the vials
destroyed."

Kartinkin stood like a post, and with outstretched fingers held up the
sleeves of his coat, moving his jaws. Bochkova seemed to be calm. When
Maslova heard the decision, she turned red in the face.

"I am innocent, I am innocent!" she suddenly cried. "It is a sin. I am
innocent. I never wished; never thought. It is the truth." And sinking
to the bench, she began to cry aloud.

When Kartinkin and Bochkova left the court-room she was still standing
and crying, so that the gendarme had to touch the sleeve of her coat.

"She cannot be left to her fate," said Nekhludoff to himself, entirely
forgetting his evil thoughts, and, without knowing why, he ran into
the corridor to look at her again. He was detained at the door for a
few minutes by the jostling, animated crowd of jurors and lawyers, who
were glad that the case was over, so that when he reached the corridor
Maslova was some distance away. Without thinking of the attention he
was attracting, with quick step he overtook her, walked a little ahead
of her and stopped. She had ceased to cry, only a sob escaped her now
and then while she wiped her tears with a corner of her 'kerchief. She
passed him without turning to look at him. He then hastily returned to
see the justiciary. The latter had left his room, and Nekhludoff found
him in the porter's lodge.

"Judge," said Nekhludoff, approaching him at the moment when he was
putting on a light overcoat and taking a silver-handled cane which the
porter handed him, "may I speak to you about the case that has just
been tried? I am a juror."

"Why, of course, Prince Nekhludoff! I am delighted to see you. We have
met before," said the justiciary, pressing his hand, and recalling
with pleasure that he was the jolliest fellow and best dancer of all
the young men on the evening he had met him. "What can I do for you?"

"There was a mistake in the jury's finding against Maslova. She is not
guilty of poisoning, and yet she is sent to penal servitude," he said,
with a gloomy countenance.

"The court gave its decision in accordance with your own finding,"
answered the justiciary, moving toward the door, "although the answers
did not seem to suit the case."

He remembered that he intended to explain to the jury that an answer
of guilty without a denial of intent to kill involved an intent to
kill, but, as he was hastening to terminate the proceedings, he failed
to do so.

"But could not the mistake be rectified?"

"Cause for appeal can always be found. You must see a lawyer," said
the justiciary, putting on his hat a little on one side and continuing
to move toward the door.

"But this is terrible."

"You see, one of two things confronted Maslova," the justiciary said,
evidently desiring to be as pleasant and polite with Nekhludoff as
possible. Then, arranging his side-whiskers over his coat collar, and
taking Nekhludoff's arm, he led him toward the door. "You are also
going?" he continued.

"Yes," said Nekhludoff, hastily donning his overcoat and following
him.

They came out into the bright, cheerful sunlight, where the rattling
of wheels on the pavement made it necessary to raise their voices.

"The situation, you see, is a very curious one," continued the
justiciary. "Maslova was confronted by one of two things: either a
short term in jail, in which case her lengthy confinement would have
been taken into consideration, or penal servitude; no other sentence
was possible. Had you added the words, 'without intent to kill,' she
would have been discharged."

"It is unpardonable neglect on my part," said Nekhludoff.

"That is the whole trouble," the justiciary said, smiling and looking
at his watch.

There was only three-quarters of an hour left to the latest hour fixed
in Clara's appointment.

"You can apply to a lawyer, if you wish. It is necessary to find
grounds for appeal. But that can always be found. To the
Dvorianskaia," he said to the cab-driver. "Thirty kopecks--I never pay
more."

"All right, Your Excellency."

"Good-day. If I can be of any service to you, please let me know. You
will easily remember my address: Dvornikoff's house, on the
Dvorinskaia."

And, making a graceful bow, he rode off.




CHAPTER XXV.


The conversation with the justiciary and the pure air somewhat calmed
Nekhludoff. The feeling he experienced he now ascribed to the fact
that he had passed the day amid surroundings to which he was
unaccustomed.

"It is certainly a remarkable coincidence! I must do what is necessary
to alleviate her lot, and do it quickly. Yes, I must find out here
where Fanarin or Mikishin lives." Nekhludoff called to mind these two
well-known lawyers.

Nekhludoff returned to the court-house, took off his overcoat and
walked up the stairs. In the very first corridor he met Fanarin. He
stopped him and told him that he had some business with him. Fanarin
knew him by sight, and also his name. He told Nekhludoff that he would
be glad to do anything to please him.

"I am rather tired, but, if it won't take long, I will listen to your
case. Let us walk into that room."

And Fanarin led Nekhludoff into a room, probably the cabinet of some
judge. They seated themselves at a table.

"Well, state your case."

"First of all, I will ask you," said Nekhludoff, "not to disclose that
I am interesting myself in this case."

"That is understood. Well?"

"I was on a jury to-day, and we sent an innocent woman to Siberia. It
torments me."

To his own surprise, Nekhludoff blushed and hesitated. Fanarin glanced
at him, then lowered his eyes and listened.

"Well?"

"We condemned an innocent woman, and I would like to have the case
appealed to a higher court."

"To the Senate?" Fanarin corrected him.

"And I wish you to take the case."

Nekhludoff wanted to get through the most difficult part, and
therefore immediately added:

"I take all expenses on myself, whatever they may be," he said,
blushing.

"Well, we will arrange all that," said the lawyer, condescendingly
smiling at Nekhludoff's inexperience.

"What are the facts of the case?"

Nekhludoff related them.

"Very well; I will examine the record to-morrow. Call at my office the
day after--no, better on Thursday, at six o'clock in the evening, and
I will give you an answer. And now let us go; I must make some
inquiries here."

Nekhludoff bade him good-by, and departed.

His conversation with the lawyer, and the fact that he had already
taken steps to defend Maslova, still more calmed his spirit. The
weather was fine, and when Nekhludoff found himself on the street, he
gladly inhaled the spring air. Cab drivers offered their services, but
he preferred to walk, and a swarm of thoughts and recollections of
Katiousha and his conduct toward her immediately filled his head. He
became sad, and everything appeared to him gloomy. "No, I will
consider it later," he said to himself, "and now I must have some
diversion from these painful impressions."

The dinner at the Korchagin's came to his mind, and he looked at his
watch. It was not too late to reach there for dinner. A tram-car
passed by. He ran after it, and boarded it at a bound. On the square
he jumped off, took one of the best cabs, and ten minutes later he
alighted in front of Korchagin's large dwelling.




CHAPTER XXVI.


"Walk in, Your Excellency, you are expected," said the fat porter,
pushing open the swinging, oaken door of the entrance. "They are
dining, but I was told to admit you."

The porter walked to the stairway and rang the bell.

"Are there any guests?" Nekhludoff asked, while taking off his coat.

"Mr. Kolosoff, also Michael Sergeievich, besides the family," answered
the porter.

A fine-looking lackey in dress coat and white gloves looked down from
the top of the stairs.

"Please to walk in, Your Excellency," he said.

Nekhludoff mounted the stairs, and through the spacious and
magnificent parlor he entered the dining-room. Around the table were
seated the entire family, except Princess Sophia Vasilievna, who never
left her own apartments. At the head of the table sat old Korchagin,
on his left the physician; on his right, a visitor, Ivan Ivanovich
Kolosoff, an ex-district commander, and now a bank manager, who was a
friend of the family, and of liberal tendencies; further to the left
was Miss Rader, governess to Missy's four-year-old sister, with the
little girl herself; then to the right, Missy's only brother, Peter, a
high-school pupil, on account of whose forthcoming examinations the
entire family remained in the city, and his tutor, also a student;
then again to the left, Katherine Alexeievna, a forty-year-old girl
Slavophile; opposite to her was Michael Sergeievich, or Misha Telegin,
Missy's cousin, and at the foot of the table, Missy herself, and
beside her, on the table, lay an extra cover.

"Ah, very glad you came! Take a seat! We are still at the fish,"
chewing carefully with his false teeth old Korchagin said, lifting his
bloodshot eyes on Nekhludoff. "Stepan!" he turned with a full mouth to
the fat, majestic servant, pointing with his eyes to Nekhludoff's
plate. Although Nekhludoff had often dined with and knew Korchagin
well, this evening his old face, his sensual, smacking lips, the
napkin stuck under his vest, the fat neck, and especially the
well-fed, military figure made an unpleasant impression on him.

"It is all ready, Your Excellency," said Stepan, taking a soup ladle
from the sideboard and nodding to the fine-looking servant with the
side-whiskers, who immediately began to set the table beside Missy.

Nekhludoff went around the table shaking hands with every one. All,
except Korchagin and the ladies, rose from their seats when he
approached them. And this walking around the table and his
handshaking, although most of the people were comparative strangers to
him, this evening seemed to Nekhludoff particularly unpleasant and
ridiculous. He excused himself for his late coming, and was about to
seat himself at the end of the table between Missy and Katherine
Alexeievna, when old Korchagin demanded that, since he would not take
any brandy, he should first take a bite at the table, on which were
lobster, caviare, cheese and herring. Nekhludoff did not know he was
as hungry as he turned out to be, and when he tasted of some cheese
and bread he could not stop eating, and ate ravenously.

"Well? Have you been undermining the bases of society?" asked
Kolosoff, ironically, using an expression of a retrogressive
newspaper, which was attacking the jury system. "You have acquitted
the guilty and condemned the innocent? Have you?"

"Undermining the bases--undermining the bases"--smilingly repeated the
Prince, who had boundless confidence in the intelligence and honesty
of his liberal comrade and friend.

Nekhludoff, at the risk of being impolite, did not answer Kolosoff,
and, seating himself before the steaming soup, continued to eat.

"Do let him eat," said Missy, smiling. By the pronoun "him," she
meant to call attention to her intimacy with Nekhludoff.

Meanwhile Kolosoff was energetically and loudly discussing the article
against trial by jury which had roused his indignation. Michael
Sergeievich supported his contentions and quoted the contents of
another similar article.

Missy, as usual, was very _distingue_ and unobtrusively well dressed.
She waited until Nekhludoff had swallowed the mouthful he was chewing,
and then said: "You must be very tired and hungry."

"Not particularly. Are you? Have you been to the exhibition?" he
asked.

"No, we postponed it. But we went to play lawn tennis at the
Salamatoff's. Mister Crooks is really a remarkable player."

Nekhludoff had came here for recreation, and it was always pleasant to
him to be in this house, not only because of the elegant luxury, which
acted pleasantly on his senses, but because of the adulating
kindnesses with which they invisibly surrounded him. To-day,
however--it is wonderful to relate--everything in this house disgusted
him; the porter, the broad stairway, the flowers, the lackeys, the
table decorations, and even Missy herself, who, just now, seemed to
him unattractive and unnatural. He was disgusted with that
self-confident, vulgar, liberal tone of Kolosoff, the bull-like,
sensual, figure of old Korchagin, the French phrases of the Slavophile
maiden, the ceremonious faces of the governess and the tutor. But
above all, he was disgusted with the pronoun "him" that Missy had
used. Nekhludoff was always wavering between two different relations
he sustained toward Missy. Sometimes he looked at her as through
blinking eyes or by moonlight, and then she seemed to him beautiful,
fresh, pretty, clever and natural. At other times he looked at her as
if under a bright sun, and then he saw only her defects. To-day was
such a day. He saw the wrinkles on her face; saw the artificial
arrangement of her hair; the pointed elbows, and, above all, her large
thumb nail, resembling that of her father.

"It is the dullest game," Kolosoff said, speaking of tennis,
"baseball, as we played it when we were boys, is much more amusing."

"You have not tried it. It is awfully interesting," retorted Missy,
unnaturally accentuating the word "awfully," as it seemed to
Nekhludoff.

A discussion arose in which Michael Sergeievich and Katherine
Alexeievna took part. Only the governess, the tutor and the children
were silent, evidently from ennui.

"They are eternally disputing!" laughing aloud, said old Korchagin. He
pulled the napkin from his vest, and, noisily pushing back his chair,
which was immediately removed by a servant, rose from the table. They
all rose after him and went to a small table, on which stood figured
bowls filled with perfumed water; then they washed their finger-tips
and rinsed their mouths, and continued their conversation, in which no
one took any interest.

"Is it not true?" Missy said to Nekhludoff, desiring to receive
confirmation of her opinion that man's character can best be learned
in play. She noticed on his thoughtful face an expression of reproach,
which inspired her with fear, and she wished to know the cause of it.

"I really don't know. I never thought of it," answered Nekhludoff.

"Will you go to mamma?" asked Missy.

"Yes, yes," he said, producing a cigarette. The tone of his voice
plainly betrayed that he did not wish to go.

She looked at him inquiringly, but was silent. He felt ashamed. "It is
hardly proper for me to come here to put people out of temper," he
thought, and, in an effort to be pleasant, he said that he would go
with pleasure if the Princess were in a mood to receive him.

"Yes, yes; mamma will be glad. You can smoke there also. And Ivan
Ivanovich is with her."

The mistress of the house, Sophia Vasilievna, was an invalid. For
eight years she had reclined in laces and ribbons, amid velvet,
gilding, ivory, bronzes and flowers. She never drove out, and received
only her "friends," i. e., whoever, according to her view, in any way
distinguished himself from the crowd. Nekhludoff was one of these
friends, not only because he was considered a clever young man, but
also because his mother was a close friend of the family and he was a
desirable match for Missy.

Her room was beyond the small and large drawing-rooms. In the large
drawing-room Missy, who preceded Nekhludoff, suddenly stopped, and
placing her hands on the back of a gilt chair, looked at him.

Missy was very anxious to be married, and Nekhludoff was a desirable
party. Besides, she liked him, and had become accustomed to the
thought that he would belong to her, and not she to him, and, with the
unconscious but persistent craftiness of heart-sick persons, she
gained her end. She addressed him now with the intention of bringing
forth an explanation.

"I see that something has happened to you," she said. "What is the
matter with you?"

The meeting in the court came to his mind, and he frowned and blushed.

"Yes, something has happened," he said, desiring to be truthful. "It
was a strange, extraordinary and important event."

"What was it? Can't you tell me?"

"Not now. Don't press me for an answer. I have not had the time to
think over the matter," he said, blushing still more.

"And you will not tell me?" The muscles on her cheek quivered, and she
pushed away the chair.

"No, I cannot," he answered, feeling that answering her thus he
answered himself--admitted to himself that something very important
had really happened to him.

"Well, then, come!"

She shook her head as if desiring to drive away undesirable thoughts,
and walked forward with a quicker step than usual.

It seemed to him that she unnaturally compressed her lips in order to
suppress her tears. It was painful to him to grieve her, but he knew
that the slightest weakness would ruin him, i. e., bind him. And this
he feared more than anything else to-day, so he silently followed her
to the door of the Princess' apartments.




CHAPTER XXVII.


Princess Sophia Vasilievna had finished her meal of choice and
nourishing dishes, which she always took alone, that no one might see
her performing that unpoetical function. A cup of coffee stood on a
small table near her couch, and she was smoking a cigarette. Princess
Sophia Vasilievna was a lean and tall brunette, with long teeth and
large black eyes, who desired to pass for a young woman.

People were making unpleasant remarks about her relations with the
doctor. Formerly Nekhludoff had paid no attention to them. But to-day,
the sight of the doctor, with his oily, sleek head, which was parted
in the middle, sitting near her couch, was repulsive to him.

Beside the Princess sat Kolosoff, stirring the coffee. A glass of
liquor was on the table.

Missy entered, together with Nekhludoff, but she did not remain in the
room.

"When mamma gets tired of you and drives you away, come to my room,"
she said, turning to Nekhludoff, as if nothing had happened, and,
smiling cheerfully, she walked out of the room, her steps deadened by
the heavy carpet.

"Well, how do you do, my friend? Sit down and tell us the news," said
Sophia Vasilievna, with an artful, feigned, resembling a perfectly
natural, smile, which displayed her beautiful, long, skillfully made,
almost natural-looking teeth. "I am told that you returned from the
court in very gloomy spirits. It must be very painful to people with a
heart," she said in French.

"Yes, that is true," said Nekhludoff. "One often feels his--feels that
he has no right to judge others."

"Comme c'est vrai!" she exclaimed, as if struck by the truth of the
remark, and, as usual, artfully flattering her friend.

"And what about your picture? It interests me very much," she added.
"Were it not for my indisposition, I should have visited you long
ago."

"I have given up painting entirely," he answered dryly. Her unjust
flattery was as apparent to him to-day as was her age, which she
attempted to conceal. Try as he would, he could not force himself to
be pleasant.

"It is too bad! You know, Riepin himself told me that Nekhludoff
possesses undoubted talent," she said, turning to Kolosoff.

"What a shameless liar!" Nekhludoff thought, frowning.

Seeing that Nekhludoff was in ill humor, and could not be drawn into
pleasant and clear conversation, Sophia Vasilievna turned to Kolosoff
for his opinion of the new drama, with an air as if Kolosoff's opinion
would dispel all doubt and every word of his was destined to become
immortalized. Kolosoff condemned the drama and took occasion to state
his views on art. The correctness of his views seemed to impress her;
she attempted to defend the author of the drama, but immediately
yielded, or found a middle ground. Nekhludoff looked and listened and
yet saw and heard but little.

Listening now to Sophia Vasilievna, now to Kolosoff, Nekhludoff saw,
first, that neither of them cared either for the drama or for each
other, and that they were talking merely to satisfy a physiological
craving to exercise, after dinner, the muscles of the tongue and
throat. Secondly, he saw that Kolosoff, who had drunk brandy, wine and
liquors, was somewhat tipsy--not as drunk as a drinking peasant, but
like a man to whom wine-drinking has become a habit. He did not reel,
nor did he talk nonsense, but was in an abnormal, excited and
contented condition. Thirdly, Nekhludoff saw that Princess Sophia
Vasilievna, during the conversation, now and again anxiously glanced
at the window, through which a slanting ray of the sun was creeping
toward her, threatening to throw too much light on her aged face.

"How true it is," she said of some remark of Kolosoff, and pressed a
button on the wall near the couch.

At this moment the doctor rose with as little ceremony as one of the
family, and walked out of the room. Sophia Vasilievna followed him
with her eyes.

"Please, Phillip, let down that curtain," she said to the
fine-looking servant who responded to the bell, her eyes pointing to
the window.

"Say what you will, but there is something mystical about him, and
without mysticism there is no poetry," she said, with one black eye
angrily following the movements of the servant who was lowering the
curtain.

"Mysticism without poetry is superstition, and poetry without
mysticism is prose," she continued, smiling sadly, still keeping her
eye on the servant, who was smoothing down the curtain.

"Not that curtain, Phillip--the one at the large window," she said in
a sad voice, evidently pitying herself for the efforts she was
compelled to make to say these words, and to calm herself, with her
ring-bedecked hand, she lifted to her lips the fragrant, smoking
cigarette.

The broad-chested, muscular Phillip bowed slightly, as if excusing
himself, and submissively and silently stepped over to the next
window, and, carefully looking at the Princess, so arranged the
curtain that no stray ray should fall on her. It was again
unsatisfactory, and again the exhausted Princess was obliged to
interrupt her conversation about mysticism and correct the
unintelligent Phillip, who was pitilessly tormenting her. For a moment
Phillip's eyes flashed fire.

"'The devil knows what you want,' he is probably saying to himself,"
Nekhludoff thought, as he watched this play. But the handsome, strong
Phillip concealed his impatience, and calmly carried out the
instructions of the enervated, weak, artificial Princess Sophia
Vasilievna.

"Of course there is considerable truth in Darwin's theory," said the
returning Kolosoff, stretching himself on a low arm-chair and looking
through sleepy eyes at the Princess, "but he goes too far."

"And do you believe in heredity?" she asked Nekhludoff, oppressed by
his silence.

"In heredity?" repeated Nekhludoff. "No, I do not," he said, being
entirely absorbed at the moment by those strange forms which, for some
reason, appeared to his imagination. Alongside of the strong, handsome
Phillip, whom he looked upon as a model, he imagined Kolosoff, naked,
his abdomen like a water-melon, bald-headed, and his arms hanging
like two cords. He also dimly imagined what the silk-covered shoulders
of Sophia Vasilievna would appear like in reality, but the picture was
too terrible, and he drove it from his mind.

Sophia Vasilievna scanned him from head to foot.

"Missy is waiting for you," she said. "Go to her room; she wished to
play for you a new composition by Schuman. It is very interesting."

"It isn't true. Why should she lie so!" Nekhludoff thought, rising and
pressing her transparent, bony, ring-bedecked hand.

In the drawing-room he met Katherine Alexeievna, returning to her
mother's apartments. As usual, she greeted him in French.

"I see that the duties of juryman act depressingly upon you," she
said.

"Yes, pardon me. I am in low spirits to-day, and I have no right to
bore people," answered Nekhludoff.

"Why are you in low spirits?"

"Permit me not to speak of it," he said, looking for his hat as they
entered the Princess' cabinet.

"And do you remember telling us that one ought to tell the truth? And
what cruel truths you used to tell us! Why don't you tell us now? Do
you remember, Missy?" the Princess turned to Missy, who had just
entered.

"Because that was in play," answered Nekhludoff gravely. "In play it
is permissible, but in reality we are so bad, that is, I am so bad,
that I, at least, cannot tell the truth."

"Don't correct yourself, but rather say that we are so bad," said
Katherine Alexeievna, playing with the words, and pretending not to
see Nekhludoff's gravity.

"There is nothing worse than to confess being in low spirits," said
Missy. "I never confess it to myself, and that is why I am always
cheerful. Well, come to my room. We shall try to drive away your
mauvais humeur."

Nekhludoff experienced the feeling which a horse must feel when
brushed down before the bridle is put on and it is led to be harnessed
to the wagon. But to-day he was not at all disposed to draw. He
excused himself and began to take leave. Missy kept his hand longer
than usual.

"Remember that what is important to you is important to your friends,"
she said. "Will you come to-morrow?"

"I don't think I will," said Nekhludoff. And feeling ashamed, without
knowing himself whether for her or for himself, he blushed and hastily
departed.

"What does it mean? Comme cela m'intrigue," said Katherine Alexeievna,
when Nekhludoff had left. "I must find it out. Some affaire d'amour
propre; il est très susceptible notre cher Mitia."

"Plutôt une affaire d'amour sale," Missy was going to say. Her face
was now wan and pale. But she did not give expression to that passage,
and only said: "We all have our bright days and gloomy days."

"Is it possible that he, too, should deceive me?" she thought. "After
all that has happened, it would be very wrong of him."

If Missy had had to explain what she meant by the words, "After all
that has happened," she could have told nothing definite, and yet she
undoubtedly knew that not only had he given her cause to hope, but he
had almost made his promise--not in so many words, but by his glances,
his smiles, his innuendos, his silence. She considered him her own,
and to lose him would be very painful to her.




CHAPTER XXVIII.


"It is shameful and disgusting," Nekhludoff meditated, while returning
home on foot along the familiar streets. The oppressive feeling which
he had experienced while speaking to Missy clung to him. He understood
that nominally, if one may so express himself, he was in the right; he
had never said anything to bind himself to her; had made no offer, but
in reality he felt that he had bound himself to her, that he had
promised to be hers. Yet he felt in all his being that he could not
marry her.

"It is shameful and disgusting," he repeated, not only of his
relations to Missy, but of everything. "Everything is disgusting and
shameful," he repeated to himself, as he ascended the steps of his
house.

"I shall take no supper," he said to Kornei, who followed him into the
dining-room, where the table was set for his supper. "You may go."

"All right," said Kornei, but did not go, and began to clear the
table. Nekhludoff looked at Kornei and an ill feeling sprung up in his
heart toward him. He wished to be left in peace, and it seemed as if
everybody were spitefully worrying him. When Kornei had left,
Nekhludoff went over to the _samovar_, intending to make some tea,
but, hearing the footsteps of Agrippina Petrovna, he hastily walked
into the drawing-room, closing the door behind him. This was the room
in which, three months ago, his mother had died. Now, as he entered
this room, lighted by two lamps with reflectors--one near a portrait
of his father, the other near a portrait of his mother--he thought of
his relations toward his mother, and these relations seemed to him
unnatural and repulsive. These, too, were shameful and disgusting. He
remembered how, during her last sickness, he wished her to die. He
said to himself that he wished it so that she might be spared the
suffering, but in reality he wished to spare himself the sight of her
suffering.

Desiring to call forth pleasant recollections about her, he looked at
her portrait, painted by a famous artist for five thousand rubles. She
was represented in a black velvet dress with bared breast. The artist
had evidently drawn with particular care the breast and the beautiful
shoulders and neck. That was particularly shameful and disgusting.
There was something revolting and sacriligious to him in this
representation of his mother as a denuded beauty, the more so because
three months ago she lay in this very room shrunken like a mummy, and
filling the entire house with an oppressive odor. He thought he could
smell the odor now. He remembered how, on the day before she died, she
took his strong, white hand into her own emaciated, discolored one,
and, looking into his eyes, said: "Do not judge me, Mitia, if I have
not done as I should," and her faded eyes filled with tears.

"How disgusting!" he again repeated to himself, glancing at the
half-nude woman with splendid marble shoulders and arms and a
triumphant smile on her lips. The bared bosom of that portrait
reminded him of another young woman whom he had seen dressed in a
similar way a few days before. It was Missy, who had invited him to
the house under some pretext, in order to display before him her
ball-dress. He recalled with disgust her beautiful shoulders and arms;
and her coarse, brutal father, with his dark past, his cruelties, and
her mother with her doubtful reputation. All this was disgusting and
at the same time shameful.

"No, no; I must free myself from all these false relations with the
Korchagins, with Maria Vasilievna, with the inheritance and all the
rest," he thought. "Yes, to breathe freely; to go abroad--to Rome--and
continue to work on my picture." He remembered his doubts about his
talent. "Well, it is all the same; I will simply breathe freely.
First, I will go to Constantinople, then to Rome--away from this jury
duty. Yes, and to fix matters with the lawyer----"

And suddenly, before his imagination, appeared with uncommon vividness
the picture of the prisoner with the black, squinting eyes. And how
she wept when the last words of the prisoners were spoken! He hastily
crushed the cigarette he was smoking, lit another, and began pacing up
and down the room. One after another the scenes he had lived through
with her rose up in his mind. He recalled their last meeting, the
passion which seized him at the time, and

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