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

be of use to

elucidate some question at a judicial inquiry, safe in prison.

The fate of these persons, often innocent even from the

government point of view, depended on the whim, the humour of, or

the amount of leisure at the disposal of some police officer or

spy, or public prosecutor, or magistrate, or governor, or

minister. Some one of these officials feels dull, or inclined to

distinguish himself, and makes a number of arrests, and imprisons

or sets free, according to his own fancy or that of the higher

authorities. And the higher official, actuated by like motives,

according to whether he is inclined to distinguish himself, or to

what his relations to the minister are, exiles men to the other

side of the world or keeps them in solitary confinement, condemns

them to Siberia, to hard labour, to death, or sets them free at

the request of some lady.

 

They were dealt with as in war, and they naturally employed the

means that were used against them. And as the military men live

in an atmosphere of public opinion that not only conceals from

them the guilt of their actions, but sets these actions up as

feats of heroism, so these political offenders were also

constantly surrounded by an atmosphere of public opinion which

made the cruel actions they committed, in the face of danger and

at the risk of liberty and life, and all that is dear to men,

seem not wicked but glorious actions. Nekhludoff found in this

the explanation of the surprising phenomenon that men, with the

mildest characters, who seemed incapable of witnessing the

sufferings of any living creature, much less of inflicting pain,

quietly prepared to murder men, nearly all of them considering

murder lawful and just on certain occasions as a means for

self-defence, for the attainment of higher aims or for the

general welfare.

 

The importance they attribute to their cause, and consequently to

themselves, flowed naturally from the importance the government

attached to their actions, and the cruelty of the punishments it

inflicted on them. When Nekhludoff came to know them better he

became convinced that they were not the right-down villains that

some imagined them to be, nor the complete heroes that others

thought them, but ordinary people, just the same as others, among

whom there were some good and some bad, and some mediocre, as

there are everywhere.

 

There were some among them who had turned revolutionists because

they honestly considered it their duty to fight the existing

evils, but there were also those who chose this work for selfish,

ambitious motives; the majority, however, was attracted to the

revolutionary idea by the desire for danger, for risks, the

enjoyment of playing with one’s life, which, as Nekhludoff knew

from his military experiences, is quite common to the most

ordinary people while they are young and full of energy. But

wherein they differed from ordinary people was that their moral

standard was a higher one than that of ordinary men. They

considered not only self-control, hard living, truthfulness, but

also the readiness to sacrifice everything, even life, for the

common welfare as their duty. Therefore the best among them stood

on a moral level that is not often reached, while the worst were

far below the ordinary level, many of them being untruthful,

hypocritical and at the same time self-satisfied and proud. So

that Nekhludoff learned not only to respect but to love some of

his new acquaintances, while he remained more than indifferent to

others.

 

CHAPTER VI.

 

KRYLTZOFF’S STORY.

 

Nekhludoff grew especially fond of Kryltzoff, a consumptive young

man condemned to hard labour, who was going with the same gang as

Katusha. Nekhludoff had made his acquaintance already in

Ekaterinburg, and talked with him several times on the road after

that. Once, in summer, Nekhludoff spent nearly the whole of a day

with him at a halting station, and Kryltzoff, having once started

talking, told him his story and how he had become a

revolutionist. Up to the time of his imprisonment his story was

soon told. He lost his father, a rich landed proprietor in the

south of Russia, when still a child. He was the only son, and his

mother brought him up. He learned easily in the university, as

well as the gymnasium, and was first in the mathematical faculty

in his year. He was offered a choice of remaining in the

university or going abroad. He hesitated. He loved a girl and was

thinking of marriage, and taking part in the rural

administration. He did not like giving up either offer, and could

not make up his mind. At this time his fellow-students at the

university asked him for money for a common cause. He did not

know that this common cause was revolutionary, which he was not

interested in at that time, but gave the money from a sense of

comradeship and vanity, so that it should not be said that he was

afraid. Those who received the money were caught, a note was

found which proved that the money had been given by Kryltzoff. he

was arrested, and first kept at the police station, then

imprisoned.

 

“The prison where I was put,” Kryltzoff went on to relate (he was

sitting on the high shelf bedstead, his elbows on his knees, with

sunken chest, the beautiful, intelligent eyes with which he

looked at Nekhludoff glistening feverishly)—“they were not

specially strict in that prison. We managed to converse, not only

by tapping the wall, but could walk about the corridors, share

our provisions and our tobacco, and in the evenings we even sang

in chorus. I had a fine voice—yes, if it had not been for mother

it would have been all right, even pleasant and interesting. Here

I made the acquaintance of the famous Petroff—he afterwards

killed himself with a piece of glass at the fortress—and also

of others. But I was not yet a revolutionary. I also became

acquainted with my neighbours in the cells next to mine. They

were both caught with Polish proclamations and arrested in the

same cause, and were tried for an attempt to escape from the

convoy when they were being taken to the railway station. One was

a Pole, Lozinsky; the other a Jew, Rozovsky. Yes. Well, this

Rozovsky was quite a boy. He said he was seventeen, but he looked

fifteen—thin, small, active, with black, sparkling eyes, and,

like most Jews, very musical. His voice was still breaking, and

yet he sang beautifully. Yes. I saw them both taken to be tried.

They were taken in the morning. They returned in the evening,

and said they were condemned to death. No one had expected it.

Their case was so unimportant; they only tried to get away from

the convoy, and had not even wounded any one. And then it was so

unnatural to execute such a child as Rozovsky. And we in prison

all came to the conclusion that it was only done to frighten

them, and would not be confirmed. At first we were excited, and

then we comforted ourselves, and life went on as before. Yes.

Well, one evening, a watchman comes to my door and mysteriously

announces to me that carpenters had arrived, and were putting up

the gallows. At first I did not understand. What’s that? What

gallows? But the watchman was so excited that I saw at once it

was for our two. I wished to tap and communicate with my

comrades, but was afraid those two would hear. The comrades were

also silent. Evidently everybody knew. In the corridors and in

the cells everything was as still as death all that evening. They

did not tap the wall nor sing. At ten the watchman came again and

announced that a hangman had arrived from Moscow. He said it and

went away. I began calling him back. Suddenly I hear Rozovsky

shouting to me across the corridor: ‘What’s the matter? Why do

you call him?’ I answered something about asking him to get me

some tobacco, but he seemed to guess, and asked me: ‘Why did we

not sing to-night, why did we not tap the walls?’ I do not

remember what I said, but I went away so as not to speak to him.

Yes. It was a terrible night. I listened to every sound all

night. Suddenly, towards morning, I hear doors opening and

somebody walking—many persons. I went up to my window. There

was a lamp burning in the corridor. The first to pass was the

inspector. He was stout, and seemed a resolute, self-satisfied

man, but he looked ghastly pale, downcast, and seemed frightened;

then his assistant, frowning but resolute; behind them the

watchman. They passed my door and stopped at the next, and I hear

the assistant calling out in a strange voice: ‘Lozinsky, get up

and put on clean linen.’ Yes. Then I hear the creaking of the

door; they entered into his cell. Then I hear Lozinsky’s steps

going to the opposite side of the corridor. I could only see the

inspector. He stood quite pale, and buttoned and unbuttoned his

coat, shrugging his shoulders. Yes. Then, as if frightened of

something, he moved out of the way. It was Lozinsky, who passed

him and came up to my door. A handsome young fellow he was, you

know, of that nice Polish type: broad shouldered, his head

covered with fine, fair, curly hair as with a cap, and with

beautiful blue eyes. So blooming, so fresh, so healthy. He

stopped in front of my window, so that I could see the whole of

his face. A dreadful, gaunt, livid face. ‘Kryltzoff, have you any

cigarettes?’ I wished to pass him some, but the assistant

hurriedly pulled out his cigarette case and passed it to him. He

took out one, the assistant struck a match, and he lit the

cigarette and began to smoke and seemed to be thinking. Then, as

if he had remembered something, he began to speak. ‘It is cruel

and unjust. I have committed no crime. I—’ I saw something

quiver in his white young throat, from which I could not take my

eyes, and he stopped. Yes. At that moment I hear Rozovsky

shouting in his fine, Jewish voice. Lozinsky threw away the

cigarette and stepped from the door. And Rozovsky appeared at the

window. His childish face, with the limpid black eyes, was red

and moist. He also had clean linen on, the trousers were too

wide, and he kept pulling them up and trembled all over. He

approached his pitiful face to my window. ‘Kryltzoff, it’s true

that the doctor has prescribed cough mixture for me, is it not? I

am not well. I’ll take some more of the mixture.’ No one

answered, and he looked inquiringly, now at me, now at the

inspector. What he meant to say I never made out. Yes. Suddenly

the assistant again put on a stern expression, and called out in

a kind of squeaking tone: ‘Now, then, no nonsense. Let us go.’

Rozovsky seemed incapable of understanding what awaited him, and

hurried, almost ran, in front of him all along the corridor. But

then he drew back, and I could hear his shrill voice and his

cries, then the trampling of feet, and general hubbub. He was

shrieking and sobbing. The sounds came fainter and fainter, and

at last the door rattled and all was quiet. Yes. And so they

hanged them. Throttled them both with a rope. A watchman, another

one, saw it done, and told me that Lozinsky did not resist, but

Rozovsky struggled for a long time, so that they had to pull him

up on to the scaffold and to force his head into the noose. Yes.

This watchman was a stupid fellow. He said: ‘They told me, sir,

that it would be frightful, but it was