Resurrection, Leo Nikoleyevich Tolstoy [books to read this summer .txt] 📗

serve, saying that “honest noblemen,” counting

himself among the number, “were particularly needed by the Tsar

and—the country,” he added, evidently only to round off his

sentence. “I am old, yet I am serving still, as well as my

strength allows.”

 

The secretary, a dry, emaciated man, with restless, intelligent

eyes, came in and reported that Shoustova was imprisoned in some

queer, fortified place, and that he had received no orders

concerning her.

 

“When we get the order we shall let her out the same day. We do

not keep them; we do not value their visits much,” said the

General, with another attempt at a playful smile, which only

distorted his old face.

 

Nekhludoff rose, trying to keep from expressing the mixed

feelings of repugnance and pity which he felt towards this

terrible old man. The old man on his part considered that he

should not be too severe on the thoughtless and evidently

misguided son of his old comrade, and should not leave him

without advice.

 

“Goodbye, my dear fellow; do not take it amiss. It is my

affection that makes me say it. Do not keep company with such

people as we have at our place here. There are no innocent ones

among them. All these people are most immoral. We know them,” he

said, in a tone that admitted no possibility of doubt. And he did

not doubt, not because the thing was so, but because if it was

not so, he would have to admit himself to be not a noble hero

living out the last days of a good life, but a scoundrel, who

sold, and still continued in his old age to sell, his conscience.

 

“Best of all, go and serve,” he continued; “the Tsar needs honest

men—and the country,” he added. “Well, supposing I and the

others refused to serve, as you are doing? Who would be left?

Here we are, finding fault with the order of things, and yet not

wishing to help the Government.”

 

With a deep sigh Nekhludoff made a low bow, shook the large, bony

hand condescendingly stretched out to him and left the room.

 

The General shook his head reprovingly, and rubbing his back, he

again went into the drawing-room where the artist was waiting for

him. He had already written down the answer given by the soul of

Joan of Arc. The General put on his pince-nez and read, “Will

know one another by light emanating from their astral bodies.”

 

“Ah,” said the General, with approval, and closed his eyes. “But

how is one to know if the light of all is alike?” he asked, and

again crossed fingers with the artist on the saucer.

 

The isvostchik drove Nekhludoff out of the gate.

 

It is dull here, sir, he said, turning to Nekhludoff. “I almost

wished to drive off without waiting for you.”

 

Nekhludoff agreed. “Yes, it is dull,” and he took a deep breath,

and looked up with a sense of relief at the grey clouds that were

floating in the sky, and at the glistening ripples made by the

boats and steamers on the Neva.

 

CHAPTER XX.

 

MASLOVA’S APPEAL.

 

The next day Maslova’s case was to be examined at the Senate, and

Nekhludoff and the advocate met at the majestic portal of the

building, where several carriages were waiting. Ascending the

magnificent and imposing staircase to the first floor, the

advocate, who knew all the ins and outs of the place, turned to

the left and entered through a door which had the date of the

introduction of the Code of Laws above it.

 

After taking off his overcoat in the first narrow room, he found

out from the attendant that the Senators had all arrived, and

that the last had just come in. Fanarin, in his swallow-tail

coat, a white tie above the white shirt-front, and a

self-confident smile on his lips, passed into the next room. In

this room there were to the right a large cupboard and a table,

and to the left a winding staircase, which an elegant official in

uniform was descending with a portfolio under his arm. In this

room an old man with long, white hair and a patriarchal

appearance attracted every one’s attention. He wore a short coat

and grey trousers. Two attendants stood respectfully beside him.

The old man with white hair entered the cupboard and shut himself

in.

 

Fanarin noticed a fellow-advocate dressed in the same way as

himself, with a white tie and dress coat, and at once entered

into an animated conversation with him.

 

Nekhludoff was meanwhile examining the people in the room. The

public consisted of about 15 persons, of whom two were ladies—a

young one with a pince-nez, and an old, greyhaired one.

 

A case of libel was to be heard that day, and therefore the

public were more numerous than usual—chiefly persons belonging

to the journalistic world.

 

The usher, a red-cheeked, handsome man in a fine uniform, came up

to Fanarin and asked him what his business was. When he heard

that it was the case of Maslova, he noted something down and

walked away. Then the cupboard door opened and the old man with

the patriarchal appearance stepped out, no longer in a short coat

but in a gold-trimmed attire, which made him look like a bird,

and with metal plates on his breast. This funny costume seemed to

make the old man himself feel uncomfortable, and, walking faster

than his wont, he hurried out of the door opposite the entrance.

 

“That is Bay, a most estimable man,” Fanarin said to Nekhludoff,

and then having introduced him to his colleague, he explained the

case that was about to be heard, which he considered very

interesting.

 

The hearing of the case soon commenced, and Nekhludoff, with the

public, entered the left side of the Senate Chamber. They all,

including Fanarin, took their places behind a grating. Only the

Petersburg advocate went up to a desk in front of the grating.

 

The Senate Chamber was not so big as the Criminal Court; and was

more simply furnished, only the table in front of the senators

was covered with crimson, gold-trimmed velvet, instead of green

cloth; but the attributes of all places of judgment, i.e., the

mirror of justice, the icon, the emblem of hypocrisy, and the

Emperor’s portrait, the emblem of servility, were there.

 

The usher announced, in the same solemn manner: “The Court is

coming.” Every one rose in the same way, and the senators entered

in their uniforms and sat down on highbacked chairs and leant on

the table, trying to appear natural, just in the same way as the

judges in the Court of Law. There were four senators

present—Nikitin, who took the chair, a clean-shaved man with a

narrow face and steely eyes; Wolf, with significantly compressed

lips, and little white hands, with which he kept turning over the

pages of the business papers; Skovorodnikoff, a heavy, fat,

pockmarked man—the learned lawyer; and Bay, the

patriarchal-looking man who had arrived last.

 

With the advocates entered the chief secretary and public

prosecutor, a lean, clean-shaven young man of medium height, a

very dark complexion, and sad, black eyes. Nekhludoff knew him at

once, in spite of his curious uniform and the fact that he had

not seen him for six years. He had been one of his best friends

in Nekhludoff’s student days.

 

“The public prosecutor Selenin?” Nekhludoff asked, turning to the

advocate.

 

“Yes. Why?”

 

“I know him well. He is a fine fellow.”

 

“And a good public prosecutor; business-like. Now he is the man

you should have interested.”

 

“He will act according to his conscience in any case,” said

Nekhludoff, recalling the intimate relations and friendship

between himself and Selenin, and the attractive qualities of the

latter—purity, honesty, and good breeding in its best sense.

 

“Yes, there is no time now,” whispered Fanarin, who was

listening to the report of the case that had commenced.

 

The Court of Justice was accused of having left a decision of the

Court of Law unaltered.

 

Nekhludoff listened and tried to make out the meaning of what was

going on; but, just as in the Criminal Court, his chief

difficulty was that not the evidently chief point, but some side

issues, were being discussed. The case was that of a newspaper

which had published the account of a swindle arranged by a

director of a limited liability company. It seemed that the only

important question was whether the director of the company really

abused his trust, and how to stop him from doing it. But the

questions under consideration were whether the editor had a right

to publish this article of his contributor, and what he had been

guilty of in publishing it: slander or libel, and in what way

slander included libel, or libel included slander, and something

rather incomprehensible to ordinary people about all sorts of

statutes and resolutions passed by some General Department.

 

The only thing clear to Nekhludoff was that, in spite of what

Wolf had so strenuously insisted on, the day before, i.e., that

the Senate could not try a case on its merits, in this case he

was evidently strongly in favour of repealing the decision of the

Court of Justice, and that Selenin, in spite of his

characteristic reticence, stated the opposite opinion with quite

unexpected warmth. The warmth, which surprised Nekhludoff,

evinced by the usually self-controlled Selenin, was due to his

knowledge of the director’s shabbiness in money matters, and the

fact, which had accidentally come to his cars, that Wolf had been

to a swell dinner party at the swindler’s house only a few days

before.

 

Now that Wolf spoke on the case, guardedly enough, but with

evident bias, Selenin became excited, and expressed his opinion

with too much nervous irritation for an ordinary business

transaction.

 

It was clear that Selenin’s speech had offended Wolf. He grew

red, moved in his chair, made silent gestures of surprise, and at

last rose, with a very dignified and injured look, together with

the other senators, and went out into the debating-room.

 

“What particular case have you come about?” the usher asked

again, addressing Fanarin.

 

“I have already told you: Maslova’s case.”

 

“Yes, quite so. It is to be heard to-day, but—”

 

“But what?” the advocate asked.

 

“Well, you see, this case was to be examined without taking

sides, so that the senators will hardly come out again after

passing the resolution. But I will inform them.”

 

“What do you mean?”

 

“I’ll inform them; I’ll inform them.” And the usher again put

something down on his paper.

 

The Senators really meant to pronounce their decision concerning

the libel case, and then to finish the other business, Maslova’s

case among it, over their tea and cigarettes, without leaving the

debating-room.

 

CHAPTER XXI.

 

THE APPEAL DISMISSED.

 

As soon as the Senators were seated round the table in the

debating-room, Wolf began to bring forward with great animation

all the motives in favour of a repeal. The chairman, an

ill-natured man at best, was in a particularly bad humour that

day. His thoughts were concentrated on the words he had written

down in his memoranda on the occasion when not he but Viglanoff

was appointed to the important post he had long coveted. It was

the chairman, Nikitin’s, honest conviction that his opinions of

the officials of the two upper classes with which he was in

connection would furnish valuable material for the historians. He

had written a chapter the day before in which the officials of

the upper classes got it hot for preventing him, as he expressed

it, from averting the ruin towards which the present rulers of

Russia